Officer Elvis (18 page)

90 SECONDS LATER

As soon as she turned the corner, Darla saw the downed trooper, blood pooling onto the cement floor under his head. She raced up to him and checked for a pulse, hoping he was still alive. Nothing.

Hailburn's dressing room door was open and Hailburn was gone.

“We have a code red, officer down,” Darla said into her headset. “Alan Hailburn, contestant ten, has been abducted, most likely by the suspect, Daniel Riggins. Secure all the auditorium exits. Tell the other contestants to lock themselves in. Use the building schematic you were given and get back to me each time a location is cleared. Riggins is armed. Follow hostage protocol. Keep this line open except when you're reporting in to me. Rita, notify the show's announcer in the booth. I'll set up a command station backstage. You can find me there.”

Rita placed a call to the announcer's booth. Unfortunately, he was introducing Hailburn and didn't pick up. “And now for our final performer,” he bellowed over the PA system, “contestant number ten, from Branson, Missouri, Alan Hailburn.”

The curtain opened, as it had nine times before, to a dark stage. The applause began and grew louder and louder as the seconds passed. Hailburn's fame preceded him. He was the performer everybody had been waiting for. Gradually, the applause died down and the lights came up on an empty stage.

Twenty seconds passed and the nervous coughs started. Then came whispers. Foot stomping. Catcalls. After thirty seconds, a video unexpectedly began playing, filling up the stage's white backdrop.

On the video, a man smiled and waved at the audience. He wore a pink 1950s-style rayon shirt, light gray slacks, with black pinstriping down the side of the legs, and of course, a pair of blue suede shoes. “My name is Carl Perkins,” he said, and indeed Riggins's resemblance to the singing star was remarkable.

There were boos and a few more catcalls, but for the most part the audience reacted with quiet shock, looking at each other, then back to the video, unsure of what was coming next.

“As you can see,” Riggins said, “I'm not a contestant tonight. I'm here 'cause I want this audience, this state, this country to know who wrote ‘Blue Suede Shoes' and made it into one of the most famous songs in rock history. The songwriter was the originator of rockabilly and that would be Carl Perkins.” Riggins cleared his throat. “Me,” he said, “Carl Perkins.” He took a bow.

A few people in the audience politely clapped their hands, as if out of respect for the real Carl Perkins.

Riggins continued. “What you might not know is, Elvis Presley stole that song from me. He was a fraud from the start.”

The booing started in earnest now and did not stop as the video continued.

“It's a fact,” Riggins started. “Look it up in the history books. I made ‘Blue Suede Shoes' famous. Elvis stole my song. He's a phony, a thief. I am the King of Rock and Roll.” Riggins began singing Perkins's version of “Blue Suede Shoes.”

Somebody threw a ball-like object at the stage. It ricocheted off the back wall.

By this time the security team had been alerted to the situation and moved to block the exits. Following protocol, they drew their nightsticks.

The video recording continued with Riggins dressed as Carl Perkins rocking his way through the song. Riggins had a decent voice, but nothing more. He did not sound like Carl Perkins.

“Take your seats. Please take your seats,” the announcer in the booth implored the audience, over the music and video he was powerless to stop. Some people followed the order and sat down. Most remained standing—unwilling to sit but not ready to rush the doors. For the moment, the sight of the guards blocking the exits was enough to keep them where they were.

One of the backstage crew finally located the source of the video: a rear screen projector behind the stage. He reached up and turned off the projector—but not before Riggins had finished the song, saluting the audience, taking a bow, and blowing kisses. The screen faded to black as though the whole fiasco were just part of the evening's entertainment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” another voice on the PA said, “this is Collins Duckworth, festival director. I'm sorry about the disruption. If you folks could kindly just sit tight. We're working to clear this matter up. Mr. Hailburn, our final contestant…We're hoping he'll be here in another few minutes.”

A chorus of boos followed. The audience yelled and shook fists at the guards.

“Let us out of here!”

“You don't have any right to keep us.”

“You're a moron, Duckworth!” yelled Kendall.

“Sorry, we're going to have to ask you to remain seated for the time being while we go through security procedures,” Duckworth said. “We're just being cautious. I promise you, you're safe. Just bear with us.”

“I'll sue their ass!” yelled an old lady in a tight dress. In her hand was a pair of panties she'd intended to throw at Hailburn.

Darla made her way backstage from Hailburn's dressing room. She had a schematic of the auditorium pulled up on her iPad and was marking off each area of the sweep as it was cleared.

The well-coordinated security operation took less than five minutes. Every inch of the auditorium, as well as a three-block perimeter, had been searched but to no avail: Hailburn and Riggins were gone.

Darla had Rita send out an APB, in the hopes that they'd catch Riggins before he got out of Tupelo. Darla doubted they'd be successful: Riggins had been two steps ahead of them from the beginning. She called Duckworth from a backstage phone. “Open the doors and let people out,” she said. “The threat to the audience is passed, if there ever was one.”

Duckworth immediately got on the PA. “I'm sorry,” he said, but “Mr. Hailburn will not be appearing tonight. He, ah…Something came up.”

“Is he dead?” someone from the audience yelled.

“Everything is just fine,” Duckworth said. “But, ah, we're going to take an hour intermission here and then we'll return with results…uh, later.”

There were more complaints and one or two threats as the audience headed to the exits and filed into the street, a few stopping to ask the guards how they could get a refund.

On his way out, Hardy Lang recognized one of the Tupelo officers guarding the doors. “How you doing, Jimmie boy? We ain't socialized since you testified against me in court.”

“Doing fine, Mr. Lang,” the officer said.

Hardy poked J. B. Caulder in the ribs. “If I had a dollar for every cop that testified against me in court, I'd be a rich man.”

“You already are a rich man,” said Caulder.

At another exit, a police officer held the door open for Kendall and her escort. She turned to the officer and said, “Tell that ding-dong, Collins Duckworth, he has shit for brains. Bless his heart.”

As the last of the audience was exiting, an ashen-faced Duckworth arrived at Darla's post backstage. “Have you checked everywhere?” he asked.

“Everywhere,” said Darla, nodding at Rita, standing at her side.

“You're sure, they're not hiding somewhere?” asked Duckworth. “There are all kinds of places, closets, storage areas.”

“The search was very thorough,” said Darla.

“This can't be,” said Duckworth. “It just can't be.”

Darla looked at her partner. “Tell him, Rita,” she said. “I know you want to be the one to say it.”

“Sorry, Mr. Duckworth,” Rita said. “Elvis has left the building.”

Darla knew. There was only one place Riggins would take his captive. Fortunately Graceland was under heavy guard and the drive from Tupelo would take him more than an hour and a half. Darla called the Mississippi Highway Patrol to set up a roadblock southeast of Holly Springs, on Highway 78, midway between Tupelo and Memphis. However, Riggins had at least a fifteen-minute head start and there were dozens of back roads and side streets that would get him to Graceland. If he made it there, he'd face a security detail now amassing around Elvis's estate.

Even though Uther had not identified Riggins on any Graceland security tapes, Darla was sure he had visited the site, studied the layout, and had his every move carefully planned out.

Darla put the cherry top on the Prius and she and Rita set out in pursuit. The highway patrol that set up the roadblock outside Holly Springs was under orders to contact Darla if they encountered Riggins. When a half hour went by and she hadn't heard from them, she knew that Riggins was carving out his own route to Graceland.

Entering the outskirts of Memphis, Darla got a call from Memphis police chief Willie Paulson, who was serving as the OIC for the combined task force that was guarding Graceland. She put the call on speakerphone so Rita could hear, too.

“The son of a bitch got in,” Chief Paulson said.

“Give me the elevator version of how this thing went down,” said Darla as she stepped on the gas, pushing the Prius up over 100.

“We're still piecing it together,” he said, “but from what we can tell he planted a series of explosive devices on the property and set them off from somewhere beyond the quarter-mile perimeter we'd set up around the main house. There was an initial explosion at the front entrance. The gate was blown open and ripped all to hell.”

Rita looked at Darla, stunned. Darla understood. To an Elvis fan like Rita, it was almost as if someone had bombed the White House.

“One of the guards out front was hit by debris,” said Paulson. “It looks like he's okay. The two guards outside the mansion at the front door came running down to see what had happened to the guard at the entrance. When they got down to the entrance, a second explosion occurred. This one was in the basement's entertainment room.”

“Where Elvis had all his TVs,” said Rita.

“The four first-floor guards ran downstairs. While they were assessing the damage and trying to find the source of the explosion, there were two more explosions that went off simultaneously, one on each of the staircases leading to the basement.”

“So all four of the first-floor guards were trapped in the basement,” said Rita, as though she were seeing the events unfolding in her head.

“Three officers stationed at the rear of the property saw the explosion in the basement, left their posts, and ran into the building to offer their assistance,” said Paulson.

“So the entrance to the back of the property and the entrance to the front door were unprotected, including the stairs leading to the second floor,” said Darla.

Up ahead, a billboard on the side of the road displayed a giant cutout of Elvis in his gold-sequined jumpsuit.
VISIT THE KING AT HIS CASTLE
.
GRACELAND EXIT, 5 MILES AHEAD,
it said.

“Riggins got on the grounds from the back of the property with the hostage in hand,” said Paulson. “He made his way to the main entrance, then waltzed through the front door and up the stairs to the second floor, before any of the officers could get to him. I hate to admit it, but he completely outfoxed us.”

“He's had a long time to plan things,” said Darla.

“At least there's only one officer injured,” said Paulson.

“Have you gone back in the main house yet?” asked Darla.

“We secured the main floor and the basement. I stationed a five-man SWAT team at the bottom of the first-floor stairs. Riggins spotted them. He says if they set foot on the stairs he'll take out Elvis. He means the hostage.”

“And no other way to get eyes on him?” asked Darla.

“He's knocked out the security monitors for the second floor,” Paulson said.

“That's his MO,” said Rita.

“Do you have access to klieg lights?” asked Darla, steering the Prius through the Memphis streets now, headed toward Elvis Presley Boulevard, hearing the sirens in the distance.

“What in God's name for?” asked Paulson.

“I have an idea,” said Darla.

“Hold on while I check,” said Paulson. He came back on the line a few seconds later. “They've got four in the storage area.”

“Set them around the perimeter of the Graceland property, front, back, and sides, aimed at the house.”

“I'm sorry, why are we doing this?” asked Paulson.

“Don't worry,” said Darla. “It won't intimidate Riggins that he can't see what's going on. He'll feel like he's on a giant stage, basking in the spotlight. That's exactly where he wants to be.”

“What do you think he has planned?” asked Paulson.

“A public execution,” said Darla.

When they arrived at Graceland, the stately-looking house was bathed in light.

Elvis's home was lit up like a Christmas tree except the parts that looked like something you'd see in a war zone after being hit by an IED.

The Memphis PD had set two perimeters, one around the house itself, and one that encompassed the Graceland property as well the annex across the street from the main house. There were close to fifty law enforcement types on hand, mostly uniformed: Memphis PD, but also a dozen or so from the sheriff's department, and a handful of suits that Darla recognized as FBI agents belonging to Henry Jendlin.

Darla and Rita made their way through the various barricades to the command center, set up in the Rockabilly Café in the center of the annex, directly across the street from the main house.

Chief Paulson, Henry Jendlin, and two plainclothes cops were staring at a set of blank computer screens as Darla and Rita entered. The two women joined the group in front of the screens.

“We've made cellphone contact with Riggins,” said Jendlin, “but he doesn't want to talk to anyone but the press. And once we let him do that I'm afraid he's going to kill the hostage.”

“What did you tell him about sending in the press?” asked Darla.

“I stalled,” said Jendlin. “I told him somebody from WMIS was on their way. Of course every TV station in Memphis is already here. As you might expect, Josh Klein has already requested to do the interview. Not going to happen.”

“At least we know what part of the mansion Riggins and the hostage are in,” said Chief Paulson.

“The bathroom,” said Rita. “He's in the second-floor bathroom, isn't he, Elvis's bathroom?”

The chief looked at her puzzled. “How'd you know?”

“That's where Elvis died,” said Darla.

“On the toilet,” said Rita.

“Riggins is planning a reenactment of Elvis's death. He wants the world to see Elvis slumped over on the commode,” said Darla. “The final humiliation. Elvis died of a heart attack and I expect that's what Riggins has in mind for Hailburn.”

“That dirty bastard is going to kill the King while he's sitting on the throne,” said Rita.

“You're an expert on these matters?” asked Chief Paulson, eyeballing Rita.

“She's an Elvis fan,” said Darla. “They're all experts on this kind of thing.”

“We have a negotiator on the way by jet helicopter from Atlanta,” said Jendlin. “He's our best man. Basically, all we do now is wait.”

“A negotiator won't do any good,” said Darla. “The media is the only one Riggins wants to talk to, and the longer we force him to wait, the more unstable he's going to become.”

“So what do we do?” asked Chief Paulson.

“Give him what he wants,” said Darla.

“We're not sending in a film crew,” said Jendlin. “It's too dangerous. Even if Klein and one of his camera crew are willing to risk their life, I'm not going for it.”

Darla looked Rita in the eye. “You know how to operate a video recorder?” she asked.

“I was the one that recorded all our family birthday parties,” said Rita. “Everybody said I did real good.”

“Close enough,” said Darla.