Officer Elvis

by Gary Gusick

  “This woman, she is not a candidate for the Junior League,” said Stephen, whose patients included a number of the more socially prominent young women in metro Jackson.

  “I should mention Cill has Elvis’s face tattooed on her butt,” said Darla.

  “Left or right?” asked Stephen, smiling.

  “I didn’t actually see it. I heard about it from Conway Boudreaux, another unusual suspect.”

  “This would be Continental Conway?” said Stephen. Two of Conway’s strippers were patients at the clinic.

  The gumbo arrived and Darla continued with the story between mouthfuls.

  “Tommy and a couple of his religious zealot pals did a citizens’ raid on Conway’s gay strip joint, the Adonis Club. They closed the joint, but Conway got a small hunk of hush money for protecting the confidentiality of a few closeted senators who were getting lap dances.”

  “This does not strike me as that unusual by Jackson standards,” said Stephen.

  “Only it’s not enough money to pay for the oceanfront property Conway is buying in Hawaii,” said Darla.

  “I am guessing you heard some of this from Lulu Brister?”

  “Of course, and it starts with a man everybody calls Brother,” said Darla.

  “Someone from a monastic order?” asked Stephen.

  “I wish it were that easy. He’s Conway’s half brother. There are two other brothers. But everybody calls the half brother, Brother. I never did find out why.”

  “I can see how police work can be challenging,” said Stephen, “just keeping track of all the brothers.”

  “Then there’s Hardy Lang, the vegan meth dealer. Tommy helped put him out of business too, and now Hardy is blissfully running a wildlife sanctuary for catfish, out of a pond in his front yard on Highway 25.”

  “All of this in one day,” said Stephen. “No wonder you were late getting home.”

  “There’s more,” said Darla. “A mobbed-up talent agent named J. B. Caulder, who claims he represents only the finest Elvis impersonators in the county, was chasing after Tommy.”

  “Who may be the worst Elvis impersonator in Mississippi,” said Stephen.

  At Shelby’s request, Darla and Stephen had attended a concert Tommy did for the Policemen’s Benevolent League.

  They’d both finished their gumbo. “What should we have for dessert?” asked Darla.

  “Each other,” Stephen whispered in her ear. He signaled the waitress for the check and turned to Darla. “If there is more to your Elvis investigation, you must tell me now. I don’t think we’ll have time for it later.”

  “Well, did you know there’s something called the Elvis Community?” she asked.

  “You are talking about a commune, perhaps,” said Stephen, playing like he was baffled. “Where they all live together. Like the hippies?”

  “Very funny,” said Darla. “I mean there are all these people in Mississippi who imitate Elvis. Hundreds, thousands maybe.”

  “You did not know this? Two of my patients are married to men who impersonate Elvis as a hobby. One of the men drowned in a boating accident last week, poor fellow.”

  The waitress arrived with the check and Stephen paid her in cash, signaling that she needn’t bother with the change. “This nooner you speak of, it doesn’t have to end at one o’clock, does it?” he asked, checking his watch.

  “Let’s take my Prius,” Darla said. “Maybe I’ll turn the flasher on.”

  Halfway to the car, Darla’s cell chimed. The call was from Shelby and she knew she had to take it. Shelby never made calls during lunch hour. He was always too busy eating.

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” asked Shelby. “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “Everything but dessert,” said Darla, looking at her husband.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put the Officer Elvis murder on the back burner,” said Shelby. “I just got a call from Henry Jendlin at the FBI. I need for you to pedal your little Prius on over to the Jackson Convention Center. Looks like we got us an actual hate crime. I’d tell you the details, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

  “Can you give me a hint?” asked Darla.

  “It’s along the lines of somebody stuck their finger in a light socket,” said Shelby.

  “You sure you don’t need an electrician?”

  “Sorry about asking you to skip dessert,” said Shelby.

  “I’ll have it when I get home tonight,” said Darla, meeting her husband’s eyes.

  Chapter 11

  Awaiting Confirmation

  The man who called himself Bill Daniels took a seat in one of the rear booths in Petunia’s Café on Farish Street, at the western end of downtown Jackson. Back in the sixties and seventies, Farish Street had been home to Jackson’s lively blues scene. Then came three decades of urban flight. Today, like much of downtown Jackson, Farish Street is a collection of empty buildings. Jackson’s blues street, as it turned out, had a case of the blues. For the last ten years, one political wag after another spoke about the importance of the blues to Jackson. A committee of them had drawn up plans to revitalize the five-block-long Farish Street and return it to its former glory. A similar plan had worked for Beale Street in Memphis. Unfortunately, as with all of Jackson’s good ideas, there wasn’t enough money to carry it out. The city did manage to get the street repaved in cobblestone, added a few new curbs, redid sidewalks, and put up a row of fancy streetlights. But financing hit a snag and the revitalization effort was put on hold before a single blues club could move in. Farish Street remained a bunch of empty storefronts, except for Petunia’s Café, the funky barbecue joint that had been a tenant before all the hoopla got under way.

  It was one thirty in the afternoon and Petunia’s was three-quarters empty. The office workers who populated the various state agency buildings a few blocks away had gobbled down their fiery barbecue lunches, extinguished with sweet tea, and were back at their dreary cubicles, grinding out their good-enough-for-government-work tasks.

  Daniels peeked over the top of his menu at a creamy-legged redheaded waitress moving from table to table, restocking the condiments. Her satiny black skirt was short enough that when she bent over to refill the bottles of barbecue—sweet, smoky, and hot—he got to hoping that if he kept his eyes fixed on her he might just get a glimpse at the bottom of her nicely formed cheeks.

  Soon as she noticed him, she stopped filling the sauce bottles and came over. She wasn’t wearing a name tag, so in his mind he gave her the name Ginger, because of her ginger-colored hair. He thought for a second that he might call her that when he spoke to her. Something like, I’ll have the pulled pork special, with sweet slaw and sweet tea, Ginger. See if that got a smile from her, the kind that said, Stick around, my shift is over at three o’clock.

  No. He wasn’t going to be making any moves today, not here anyway. Too much going on. Better to wait. Instead of looking up and making eye contact, he pinned his eyes to the one-page menu and muttered his order.

  Maybe he’d come back and introduce himself tomorrow. She was certainly worth giving it a try, even if she rejected him. On the other hand, it would be a whole lot easier to hold off another week until he’d finished his business. Then he’d just saunter on through the door. Every eye in the place would be on him. She’d see his face, recognize him, and that would be the panty dropper.

  Truth was, he was tired of living in isolation from women and a week was a long time to wait. Besides which, given the opportunity, she might just want to be part of the plan. “Okay,” he said under his breath, “today is too risky. But tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.”

  The flat-screen TV behind the counter was on, tuned to WMIS—Everything Mississippi was their slogan—Jack meaning Jackson. A sign in big red letters flashed across the bottom of the screen. DOWNTOWN LOCKDOWN, it said. Some sawed-off, scrawny reporter was jabbering away, filling the air with a lot of nothing. He reminded Daniels of that movie director who married
some Japanese woman half his age after she’d been his stepdaughter.

  “This is Josh Klein coming to you live from Capitol Street in downtown Jackson,” the reporter said. “Two blocks to the rear of me stands the slippery sleek piece of modern architecture known as the Jackson Convention Center, which was to be, and may still be, the site of an election rally later this afternoon for popular incumbent U.S. senator Alan Brewsome. However, at this time, it would appear that the aforementioned rally might not take place. As you can see for yourself”—the reporter pointed to the barricade behind him—“at present the area around the convention center has been cordoned off, barring all public access.”

  The reporter stepped a few paces to the left so the viewers could see the façade of the center, in front of which stood a string of cop cars lined up in a row, like taxis waiting for fares. Most of the cops were standing outside, leaning against their patrol cars, gabbing with one another, wasting more taxpayer dollars.

  “Bunch of damn loafers,” Daniels said under his breath.

  “Normally I would be reporting from inside the center, but access is currently restricted,” Klein said into the microphone. “In fact, the Jackson Police Department has blocked every one of the streets leading into the two-block-long center.”

  Daniels frowned. The way that twerp is talking you’d think this was Iraq, he thought.

  The whiny reporter continued. “And I’m sorry to say that our view of the entrance is blocked so that we can’t see what’s going on. We do understand that several more Jackson Police Department vehicles have been called to the location and are parked behind the center. And just moments ago, an ambulance entered the area, suggesting the possibility of human injury.”

  That peckerwood is sure in love with the sound of his voice, thought Daniels.

  “Your pulled pork special, with sweet slaw and sweet tea,” Ginger said, standing over him, leaning down. He glanced at her rack, couldn’t help but do so, and hoped she didn’t notice, or if she did, that she’d be the kind who would take it as a compliment. “You got your choice of sauces,” she said.

  He listened to hear if there wasn’t an invitation in her voice. Yep. There it was. Not the words she was using, but that soft-cooing way she said them. He’d be back tomorrow.

  “Thank you. I’d like the smoky sauce,” he said, still not daring to look into her eyes. Thinking if he did, he wouldn’t be able to leave it at that.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Ginger asked, not at all flirty now. In fact, a little bit of a hurry in her attitude.

  Job pressure is all, he thought reaching for his fork. When he looked up, Ginger had already disappeared into the kitchen. Shit.

  He turned his attention back to the flat screen. Same bullshit report. Same damn reporter.

  Maybe next time Ginger walked past his booth he’d stop her and ask if her boss would mind if he took the remote and surfed the channels, thinking maybe one of the other stations might have more up-to-the-minute news or at least a less aggravating reporter. He decided against it. He didn’t want Ginger remembering how interested he was in the goings-on at the convention center. Anyway, all those TV news reporters had the same basic information. So despite this guy Klein’s irritating way of talking, it didn’t really matter what station was on.

  “No, ma’am, everything is fine,” he said when Ginger came to ask again if there would be anything else.

  “You enjoy,” she said.

  He lifted the top piece of white bread on his barbecue sandwich, doused it with the smoky sauce, and took his first bite, careful not to let the sauce drip down the side of his mouth, thinking how that would look if Ginger saw him.

  Daniels glanced up at the flat screen. “Stand by,” the reporter said, still holding his earpiece in place. “It’s this reporter’s understanding that an ambulance is now departing from the convention center, with a police escort.”

  He heard sirens screeching and they were getting louder, meaning the ambulance was coming down the street right past Petunia’s. Ginger rushed to the window and stood on her tiptoes, her round little butt tightening into muscle.

  “Obviously, this is a transport situation…” said Klein.

  Transport situation, thought Daniels. It’s a damn ambulance. What else would it be? Dispensing with the straw, he took a big gulp of sweet tea, remained fixed on the TV report. God damn it, he thought. Just say what the hell is going on.

  The reporter made a big show of putting his hand over his ear again. “All right, we’re getting another update. While we can’t provide the identity of the person in the ambulance, we are being told it’s a female, a woman believed to be a member of Senator Alan Brewsome’s campaign staff.”

  Hold on a minute, thought Daniels. That can’t be right.

  “I’ll fill you in when we know more,” the reporter continued. “In the meantime, the blockade remains in place.”

  “What’d he just say?” Daniels blurted out as Ginger walked up to his table.

  “A woman is injured. But they don’t know any more,” she said. “You want dessert?”

  “I can’t today. I need to get back to, ah, to work,” he said, standing up to leave. He fished in his pocket, retrieved a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to her. “Will this cover it?” he asked without looking at the tab, but knowing it was somewhere around seven bucks.

  “Let me get your change,” she said.

  “No. That’s good,” he said, looking Ginger in the eyes for the first time and seeing just what he was hoping for.

  “Come back soon,” she said. “We’re open every day.”

  He nodded, trying to make the nod special, and headed for the door, forcing himself not to look like he was in a hurry. As he reached the door, he heard Josh Klein’s whiny voice say, “I’m afraid we have some disturbing news. The young lady in the ambulance is dead.”

  Chapter 12

  A Shocker

  A half-mile perimeter had been set up around the Jackson Convention Center. It stretched from Capitol Street to South Street, from West Street to Mill Street. Teams of four uniformed officers from the Jackson PD were manning the front and rear entrances. Other first responders—Jackson firefighters and officers from the Hinds County Sheriff’s Department—were herding citizens out of the office buildings within the cordoned-off area.

  One of the officers from Jackson PD opened the Lamar Street barricade and directed Darla to the convention center parking lot. The lot was filled with dark-colored SUVs and sedans. Looks like Henry Jendlin brought his FBI posse with him, thought Darla. Three patrolmen from Jackson PD intercepted Darla on her way in. “I’m looking for Henry,” she said, and showed them her badge and ID. “Upstairs in the East Room,” one of the cops said.

  Darla took the escalator and rode to the second floor. A half-dozen well-built guys in Brooks Brothers suits watched her from the landing. The agent at the entrance of the East Room knew who she was. “Go right in, Detective Cavannah,” he said.

  The spacious meeting hall they called the East Room had been set up for a political rally. Huge posters lined the side and rear walls. A banner was draped across the front wall. I’LL HAVE A BREW, the posters and banner proclaimed—the campaign slogan of U.S. senator Alan Brewsome, who was running for his fourth term. Row after row of folding chairs had been arranged in a semicircle, with an upright microphone placed at the center. The microphone had its cord wrapped around it, with the whole thing covered in bubble wrap.

  Darla caught sight of FBI Special Agent Henry Jendlin. He was standing next to the far wall, holding a cup of coffee. Walking over to Jendlin, she became aware of a strong burnt odor.

  “Thanks for coming, Darla,” Jendlin said.

  “What’s this all about, Henry?” she asked.

  “This is what we’ve been able to piece together thus far: Senator Brewsome had scheduled a political rally, a kind of town hall format. It was supposed to take place here in the East Room at four thirty this afternoon. His advance lady
, Farley Ruskin, stopped by at twelve thirty. About an hour ago. Part of Ms. Ruskin’s job was to see to it that everything was good to go, that the posters were all in place, that all chairs were facing the right direction. That kind of stuff. She also did a sound check to make sure the equipment was working right, and that the volume was set correctly so there wouldn’t be any reverb.”

  Darla recognized what the burnt odor was. It was human flesh. “She was electrocuted, right?” asked Darla. “Doing the sound check?”

  Jendlin nodded his head. “Apparently, she grabbed the microphone and wasn’t able to let go. The smell we’re getting? Her hair caught fire before someone kicked the plug loose.”

  Jendlin looked down at his coffee, decided he didn’t want any more, crushed the cup, and threw it into the trash.

  “The funny thing is, the electrician tells me there’s nothing to it. A hundred and ten volts is all you need, as long as it isn’t grounded,” said Jendlin. “Run higher voltage and they won’t be able to hang on.”

  “She’s dead, I assume?” said Darla.

  “The paramedics worked on her, but it was too late,” said Jendlin.

  Darla heard a loud humming. Someone from maintenance had turned up the fans in an effort to clear the air.

  “Brewsome is a U.S. senator, so I suppose the FBI has some kind of jurisdiction here,” said Jendlin, “but I could use another set of eyes on this if you can spare the time.”

  She was swamped. But she and Henry had a fair amount of history, all of it positive. “Okay,” she said. “Can I ask some questions?”

  Jendlin nodded. “Ask away,” he said.

  Darla took out her recorder. “Whose job was it to set up the microphone for the rally?”

  “One of the maintenance men,” said Jendlin. “He put the microphone out and plugged it in yesterday, late in the afternoon, just before he went home for the day. We’re having him checked out to see if there’s anything in his background. Is he a political extremist? Does he have personal issues with the senator, or Ms. Ruskin?”