Officer Elvis (19 page)

The case had become federal when Riggins kidnapped Hailburn and took him across state lines from Mississippi to Tennessee. The decision about what to do now was Henry Jendlin's.

Jendlin had worked with Darla before. He knew she could keep her cool under pressure, but if she didn't play her hand just right, if she lost control of the situation, if Riggins saw through her, Hailburn was a goner. And what about Rita Gibbons? Jendlin knew Darla trusted her, but Rita was a relatively inexperienced officer who'd already overreacted in a life-and-death situation. “It's too risky,” Jendlin told Darla.

Darla wasn't going to be stopped. “What Riggins wants,” she said, “and he wants this more than anything in the world, is for Hailburn, who he is convinced is Elvis, to make a public apology. He's not going to settle for anything less.” She looked in Jendlin's eyes. “Really, Henry, there's no other way.”

“I need a minute alone,” said Jendlin. He walked outside the Rockabilly and breathed in the night air. The parking lot was filled with cop cars. More were arriving by the minute. He had all the backup he needed and the best negotiator in the Southeast on his way. But Darla was right. None of that would do him any good if Riggins didn't get the TV interview he was demanding. And how long would Riggins be willing to wait?

He looked through the café window, caught Darla's eye, and gave her the thumbs-up.

Tech support had set up a direct line to Riggins's cell. Jendlin had already used it once and established rapport with Riggins, calling him Carl. He got on the landline at the command center inside the Rockabilly, putting the call through on the speakerphone, so that Darla and Rita and others could listen.

“Carl, it's Agent Jendlin. I've got some good news.”

“I'm listening,” said Riggins.

“We're going to do this thing your way. We going to put you on camera with a top interviewer and let you tell your story.”

“It better not be the reporter from WMIS that was outside the convention center,” said Riggins. “The one that's been calling my act of retribution the ‘Elvis Atrocities.' ”

Jendlin chuckled. “Josh Klein? No. He took a pass.”

Riggins laughed. “I always figured that little peckerwood was a chickenshit at heart.”

“Besides,” Jendlin said, “UNN sees this as a national story. They're sending in one of their best reporters, a woman. Actually, they're sending in a team. There's a second woman who operates the camera. They just arrived. UNN wants to do a whole segment on you and your mission. That's what you want, right, Carl?”

The line went silent as Riggins weighed the offer. “When are they going to broadcast my story?” he asked.

“It's nearly three a.m. on the East Coast,” said Jendlin, “It will take a while to edit, but they're planning on doing a feature tomorrow morning on
This Week in America,
their Sunday newsmagazine.”

“You'll need to send me an iPad so I can watch it live,” said Riggins. “If I like what I see, maybe we can talk about Elvis's future, but not before then. Understood?”

Jendlin knew better. Riggins was planning to kill Hailburn on camera. “You're not giving me a lot of choices here, Carl.”

“And if either of the women comes up the stairs armed, Elvis is going night-night for good,” said Riggins.

“Okay, Carl. You got a deal. But if you do anything to harm these reporters, I'm sending the SWAT team in right away. Listen to what I'm saying. This is the only chance you're going to get to tell your story. So don't blow it.”

“When are they coming in?” asked Riggins. Jendlin could hear the excitement in his voice.

“Sit tight, Carl. It won't be long.” He turned to Darla with a sigh of relief. They'd made it over the first hurdle.

Darla was dressed in one of her usual designer pantsuits. She would have no trouble passing as a network reporter. She shed her jacket so that Riggins could see that she wasn't packing. Of course, the .380 Taurus remained strapped to her ankle, hidden under her pant leg, its snap unfastened.

Rita, who was wearing a jacket, silk top, and jeans, removed her jacket, too. By now all the TV stations had arrived on the scene. One of the women on the UNN crew had on a T-shirt that said
UNN
on the front. Rita swapped tops with her, stuffed her Glock in the back of her jeans, and mounted the small TV camera on her shoulder. A butterfly tat on her right arm completed the look.

“Good thing it's not Elvis,” said Darla, commenting on the tat.

“I thought about getting one,” said Rita. “But you know how men can be about seeing another man's name like that.”

Darla would be first in. Posing as the interviewer, she'd the carry a handheld microphone. Rita would follow, the camera pointing over Darla's shoulder.

“You think there's any chance you can talk Riggins into surrendering once he does the interview and Hailburn apologizes?” Jendlin asked Darla.

“I'm probably going to have to take him out.” She turned to Rita. “You sure you're up for this?”

“I ain't the one with a good-looking husband waiting for me at home,” Rita answered.

“Good point,” said Darla.

The two women stepped out of the command center in the Rockabilly Café, crossed Elvis Presley Boulevard, passed the gnarled wrought iron gates at the opening to the property, then walked up the driveway and through the front door. The steps to the second floor were directly in front of them.

“What do you think?” asked Rita.

“The house is a lot smaller than I thought,” said Darla.

“That's what everybody says.”

The staircase was covered in cream-colored plush carpet. At the top of the steps, the peacock-blue curtain barred the entrance to the bedrooms and bathrooms. Since Elvis Presley's death in 1977, with the exception of Priscilla, Lisa Marie Presley, and the Graceland curator, no one had set foot behind the blue curtain.

The four-man SWAT team was in place at the bottom of the stairs, out of view. Using rope ladders, a second two-man SWAT team had scaled the back of the house and was stationed outside the frosted master bathroom window, where Riggins was believed to be holding Hailburn.

The women climbed the stairs, Darla leading the way, Rita at her shoulder. At the top step, Darla paused. “Hello,” she called, making herself sound a little unsure. “I'm looking for Carl Perkins. It's Jacklin Towns from UNN.”

“Anybody with you?” Riggins's voice came back from somewhere behind the curtain.

“Just my camera lady, Judy,” said Darla.

“Let me hear her.”

“Howdy, Mr. Perkins, it's Judy Grossman.”

“Is Elvis still alive, Carl?” asked Darla.

“How do I know I can trust you?” asked Riggins.

“I need to hear Elvis, or we're not going any further. We'll only do the interview with the two of you. That's what you want anyway, isn't it?”

Twenty seconds passed. “I'm alive,” a second voice said.

“All right, we're coming in,” said Darla. “Just me and the camera lady.”

Darla pulled back the curtain. Directly ahead of them was a hallway with two doorways on each side.

“Which room are you in, Carl?” asked Darla. When she didn't get an answer, Darla said, “I'm not going to play hide-and-seek.”

“End of the hall, on the right,” Riggins said.

The door was ajar. Darla pushed it open and she and Rita entered what she took to be Elvis Presley's bedroom. Most of the room was taken up by a king-sized bed with a gold brocade coverlet. An oil portrait of Elvis's parents hung on the right wall. The left wall had a similar-sized oil painting of Lisa Marie. The two portraits looked as though they'd been painted by the same artist. At the far end of the left wall was a hallway that led to the master bath.

Rita was tucked in behind Darla, with camera already running, its red “on” light flashing. The network truck parked across the street was picking up video and audio.

As Darla approached the entrance to the hallway leading to the master bath, she caught a glimpse of Hailburn in profile. He sat naked, his midsection duct-taped to the commode. His ankles and his hands were similarly bound. Riggins stood behind his captive with the point of a loaded syringe an inch from Hailburn's neck.

Riggins had discarded the beard and mustache, but still wore a suit coat. His gun was holstered. His right hand rested on Hailburn's shoulder. Apparently he thought the syringe at Hailburn's neck was enough of a threat.

Another few steps and Darla saw the sweat dripping down Hailburn's face. He appeared ready to throw up, but he was careful not to budge. He looked up at Darla in a way that made her think maybe he had some notion about what she was up to.

“Here we are, Carl,” said Darla, businesslike. “You ready for your interview?”

“I've never seen you on television,” said Riggins. “How do I know you're not a cop?”

“Does she look like a cop to you?” said Rita. “She's network.”

Riggins seemed or be thinking things over. “Show me your hands,” said Riggins. “Both of you.”

Darla, the mic in her left hand, and Rita, with the camera strapped on her, held up their arms. “We're not armed,” Darla said.

“You got that thing turned on?” Riggins asked, indicating the camera.

“You see that flashing little red light?” said Rita. “We're recording right now.”

“Only I'll need to be a little closer or the mic won't pick up everything,” said Darla. Without waiting for his okay, Darla walked forward, Rita behind, until both women were at the edge of the bathroom, less than ten feet from Riggins and his hostage.

“That's far enough.” Riggins's left eye began to twitch. He moved his right hand to his Glock, like he was thinking about pulling it from the holster.

“We're not sticking around if you're going to try to shoot us, Carl,” said Darla. “So either take your hand away from the gun or Judy and I are out of here.” Darla stepped back.

Riggins pulled his hand away. “You don't leave until Elvis apologizes, you understand?”

“That's what were here for, Carl,” said Darla, her voice calm, just this side of soothing.

“I got something to say and you're going to record it,” said Riggins, still sounding threatened. “After that, Elvis is gonna apologize for what he done to me.”

I need to come across more relaxed, thought Darla, or he's going to come unglued. “No problem, Carl. We'll just take one step at a time. First, if you'd just give us your name.”

Riggins looked at her funny, like maybe she was making fun of him.

“For the millions of viewers all across the country,” she explained. “So they'll know who you are, your real identity. So there won't be any confusion.”

Riggins nodded, and ran his free hand through his hair. “Well, as you can see, I'm Carl Perkins, singer and songwriter,” he said, sounding like a shy country boy. “And this here is…” He looked down at Hailburn. “This is Elvis Pres—” He choked on the words, and let his hand fall toward the Glock.

“I think our viewers will all know who the other gentleman in the room is,” Darla said, her eyes catching Hailburn's. “Isn't that right, Elvis?”

Hailburn gave a small nod.

That's right,
thought Darla.
Just sit tight.
“Okay, Carl,” said Darla, her voice casual, as if she'd done interviews like this a thousand times. “Why don't you just look right in the camera and tell our audience what you've got to say?”

Riggins had doubtless prepared a speech and rehearsed it over and over again, but he stared at the camera lens like he was unsure where to begin. He didn't reach for his Glock this time, but his right thumb, the thumb poised on the syringe, began to tap up and down on the plunger.

“Don't worry about goofing up, Carl,” said Darla. “We can fix everything in post. Just take a deep breath or two and begin.”

Riggins nodded, almost like he was thanking her for her help. He took a couple of breaths and seemed to settle himself.

“Okay, then,” he said, and clearing his throat. “The individual that wrote and recorded the song ‘Blue Suede Shoes' is Carl Perkins, that is me. And this man here”—he looked down at Hailburn—“my onetime friend, Elvis Aaron Presley, was so jealous he went on the TV and sang ‘Blue Suede Shoes' like it was his own. He's not the King of Rock and Roll. I am, Carl Perkins. And now he's going to be punished for his crimes on national TV.”

Hailburn's eyes filled with panic.

“But first, he's going to admit his crime and apologize to me for the wrongs he did.”

Darla felt Rita leaning up against her back. She pushed her right elbow back against Rita's rib cage. This was their prearranged signal.

“Hold on, Mr. Perkins,” said Rita. “Not yet. The D2 is jammed.”

“What are you talking about?” said Riggins, his thumb on the head of the syringe.

“Stand by, Carl,” Darla said. This was the critical moment. She turned back to Rita like Riggins and Hailburn weren't there. “Jesus Christ, Judy, I told you to have Steve get that damn D2 fixed or replace it.”

“I forgot,” said Rita.

“What's going on here?” asked Riggins, his voice edgy, his thumb twitchy.

Hailburn's eyes bulged.

“I'm sorry, Carl.” Darla turned back to Riggins and shook her head. “This is the kind of help they give me.”

“It's okay, Mr. Perkins, really,” said Rita. “We just need to replace the tape. There's another pack in my bag. Could you get it for me, Miss Towns? I don't want to screw up the focus.”

Darla sighed. “You want me operate the camera, too?” she said sarcastically. Without hesitating, she bent down like she was reaching into Rita's bag. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Riggins take a deep breath, and ease his thumb an inch away from the plunger.