by Gary Gusick
“That almost did it, too.”
“Except for your husband going down to the legislature and testifying.”
“Probably,” said Darla. “Stephen is sure that if we leave Mississippi, the Jackson Women’s Health Clinic will be forced to close. And he won’t let that happen. He doesn’t want women in Mississippi to lose their reproductive rights.”
“Stubborn, ain’t he? I went out with a couple of men like that,” said Rita, looking over at her and winking.
They both laughed at the same time.
“There’s a lot of folks here in Jackson admire Dr. Nicoletti, what he’s doing,” said Rita.
“Some do,” said Darla, thinking of the hate mail, the threats they’d received, the attempt on her husband’s life and how it had almost succeeded. “What about you?” Darla asked, feeling the need now to move the conversation from the day-in, day-out danger she and Stephen lived with. “Have you got somebody in your life?”
“You mean other than Elvis?” said Rita, leaning over to jab Darla in the ribs.
“That’s usually a prerequisite to a relationship,” said Darla. “That it should be with an actual living person.” Darla found herself wishing she and Rita were at a bar having the conversation over a drink or two.
“You ever been on Match.com?” Rita asked out of nowhere.
“No,” said Darla. “I found my husband through the criminal justice system.” Darla laughed again, letting herself appreciate the irony of her courtship. Stephen had briefly been a suspect in the Aldridge murder.
“A girl on Match.com,” said Rita, “she can get a lot of first dates if she lets it be known she’s in law enforcement.”
“It’s the cuffs, isn’t it?” asked Darla.
“Sometimes we can’t even get through dinner,” said Rita. “I’m wanting my chocolate molten cake for dessert, you know that melts when you cut into the center, and he’s wanting to go home and play with the bracelets. But the relationship never lasts. I’m not really what you’d call a bondage babe. I’ll do it a couple of times just to be cooperative, but after that I get bored. Now the guys, they get hooked on it.”
“An occupational hazard,” said Darla.
“Some of the girls I run around with say I should read that Fifty Shades of Grey book,” said Rita. “But really I don’t think I’d be interested in more than three or four of them.”
“More information than I need,” said Darla.
“What really surprised me,” said Rita, “they all want to see my gun, every last one of them. That is before I had to give it up. My dates, they’d want to handle it, like it’s, well, a body part. Sorry, I don’t mean to be so unladylike. You wouldn’t think that owning a firearm would be such a big deal, this being Mississippi, everybody owning multiple weapons. But the guys would be all over me, with ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine,’ bunch of rednecks.”
“I’ve thought a lot about this and I don’t think it’s the gun itself,” said Darla. “It’s that our jobs authorize us to use lethal force when necessary.”
“They think it makes us feel powerful, that we can take a life,” said Rita, nodding her head. “That’s probably it.”
“And with some of them, it’s the fact that we could take them out if we had to,” said Darla. “The danger turns them on.”
“Me, I’m not so hepped up on the idea of taking a life,” said Rita. “I’m more interested in the figuring things out part of the job.” The women’s eyes met. “I probably shouldn’t tell you,” Rita continued, “but I ain’t never had to do it, discharge my weapon, I mean. I’ve had it out a couple of times, but never really thinking I’d need to pull the trigger.” When Darla didn’t immediately respond, Rita added, “Don’t you worry none. I’ll do it if I have to.”
“I know you will,” said Darla.
“Only I’m wondering how I’m going to feel about it at the time,” said Rita.
Darla remembered the three men she’d shot, all of them fatally. “At the time you’re doing it, you don’t feel anything,” said Darla. “A couple of hours later, you feel like shit. And you continue to feel that way for a long time.”
“One more question?” asked Rita. “Then I’ll shut up. I promise.”
“As long as it’s not about my .380 Taurus,” said Darla. “We’ve talked enough about guns.”
“You aren’t really that into Elvis, are you?” asked Rita.
“Fortunately, they didn’t ask that question on the job application. Stephen and I did go to one of Tommy’s concerts.”
“Right there’s the problem,” said Rita. “Listening to Tommy imitating Elvis, now that could sour a person for life. You need to give Elvis another try, Detective. How about if I get you a couple of CDs for the Prius?”
Darla rolled her eyes.
“You know, for when we ain’t exchanging witty and sparkling conversation,” said Rita.
“That’s what this is?” said Darla, smiling at her junior partner.
Silence for a few minutes, both women thinking about how much more they liked each other, more than they thought they were going to.
“I have a question,” said Darla.
“It’s about my demotion, ain’t it? About the totaling that state SUV?”
Darla didn’t say anything.
“I let my righteous indignation get the best of me,” said Rita. “I got a little overzealous with the gas pedal, chasing that church-burning SOB. I ran him off the road and tore out the passenger’s side of my vehicle. Shelby told me it forced MBI insurance rates up and Director Haverty was furious.”
“Anybody hurt?” asked Darla.
“No, ma’am.”
“The state convict the church burner?”
“He’s doing ten to twenty in Larchmont.”
“Fine,” said Darla. “You can drive back tonight.”
“You ain’t afraid of my—what did they call it on the report—reckless endangerment?”
Darla looked over at her. “Rita, this is a Prius.” She paused and added, “But no, I’m not afraid.”
A few more minutes and Darla looked down to check the GPS. “Keep an eye out for the turnoff. It’s just up ahead. County Road 365. Then another ten miles to Everson’s trailer. Uther says Everson should be home from work by the time we get there.”
“That Uther,” said Rita. “He’s a brainy one, ain’t he?”
“That would qualify as an understatement.”
“Is he from around here?” asked Rita.
“He grew up in Cleveland,” said Darla. “Cleveland, Mississippi.”
“Of course,” said Rita. “Down here, when we say Cleveland, we’re not thinking Ohio. The same goes for Columbus.” She looked at herself in the rearview mirror. “He’s got that nice-sounding voice, too. How’d he come by it?”
“DVDs,” said Darla. “His mother didn’t want him sounding like he was from the hood. She made him listen to DVDs of old Sidney Poitier movies.”
County Road 365 was upon them. Darla made a right turn and headed down a two-lane road flanked on both sides by row after row of tall skinny pine trees. A car approached from the opposite direction.
“I could tell that Uther had a proper upbringing,” said Rita, and added, “I’ll bet he’s kind of cute when he takes off his glasses.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Darla. “I’ve never seen him without them.”
Chapter 16
Banana & Peanut Butter Surprise
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON
Daniels arrived at Everson’s trailer more than an hour before Everson usually got home from his job as a logger. Daniels pulled his SUV around the backside of the land the trailer sat on, on a dirt side road, where it wouldn’t be seen from either the trailer or the main road.
Everson’s trailer had a picture window across the front that spanned the living room and dining area. The window looked out at a large grassy front yard and beyond that a dense forest of planted pines, all about twenty feet tall, spreading
out like a green wall across the landscape.
Getting out of his SUV, Daniels strapped the AK-47 over his shoulder and walked the hundred yards among the tall pines, back to the trailer, careful to stay hidden all the while.
As he approached the trailer, he pulled on a pair of rubber surgeon’s gloves. Popping the lock on the front door was nothing, thanks to the police lock-picking knife he’d ordered online. All he did was follow the instructions. Ten seconds and he was inside the tin can. He locked the door behind him, just to be on the safe side. If somebody stopped by to ask for directions, or a Jehovah’s Witness or some damn thing like that, he wouldn’t answer the door. If it were a neighbor or some snoop, the door would be locked. All he’d have to do is wait until they left. On the other hand, if Everson got home early, he’d hear him unlocking the door and have his AK-47 ready. Not as planned, but the result would be the same.
He was worried he might have to go through all the cabinets and the refrigerator before he found the makings he was looking for. Lucky for him, two bananas were sitting on the windowsill, ripening in the sun. Each one had a few little brown specks on it, so he knew they were ready. A loaf of bread was on the counter. He didn’t touch it. Same with the peanut butter he found on the middle shelf of the first cabinet he opened.
He’d read up on Everson just as he had the others. Everson bragged in an interview he’d given to the Jackson Crier that he had eaten Elvis’s favorite food, a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich, every day for the last five years. Everson had said he would eat the same thing every day for the rest of his life. Looked like Everson was going to be a man of his word.
Removing a small syringe from his pocket, he uncapped it. It was loaded and ready to go. He held it up to the light and tapped it a couple of times to make sure there were no air pockets. He inserted the syringe into the first banana, dispensing about the half the liquid, which was more than enough. Then he did the same with the second.
He was about to leave the trailer, and thought, I’ve got time, let me look around. He argued with himself over the matter, seeing as how he knew the sight of what he’d find would disgust him. But the urge was overpowering. He had to see them. Touch them. He even thought about trying one on, just to see how it felt. The feel of the silk on his skin, the weight of the rhinestones. “Shit,” he muttered. “I ain’t doing this. I ain’t no pervert.” But he went searching for them anyway.
He found them in back of the trailer, past all the trophies and Elvis memorabilia. In the bedroom, in the closet along the wall, each jumpsuit inside its own clear plastic bag.
There were three: the White Aloha suit, the powder blue, and the red suit. Not exactly original. He’d seen all three of them at Graceland and remembered that the red suit was called “The Burning Love Suit.” Any dope who wanted to could order one on the Internet for around two thousand dollars. The red suit had its own cape, studs, and a gold belt—not real gold, of course. He unzipped the plastic garment bag and ran his fingers over the material. Felt like some cheap polyester crap. Still he wondered what it would feel like on him. He reached inside the bag, and was going to take it out, but a sick feeling overtook him, like he was going to puke.
He zipped up the bag and ran down the hall to the bathroom. “I’m sorry,” he said aloud, looking at the image in the mirror. “I know it’s disgusting to you. It’s disgusting to me, too. I’ll never do anything like that again. I’m glad I stopped.” He gave the image in the mirror a big smile and the image smiled back. He said to the mirror, “If he had half the voice you have, he wouldn’t be parading around in some damned Las Vegas jumpsuit. Say the word and I’ll take the three of them and burn them. I’ll do it right now. How would that be?” The image looked back at him with a furrowed brow. “Okay, no fancy stuff. I’ll just do what we planned. No mistakes this time.” He nodded and the image nodded back.
Leaving the trailer, he found a spot for himself a few rows deep in the pines, where the land dipped and he could lie flat on the ground, out of sight, and use his binoculars to observe. He was being even more careful this time than last time. The man in the mirror wouldn’t tolerate another mistake—another innocent person the victim of his shortsightedness. Only the guilty should pay. Just as important, this time the authorities wouldn’t be left to guess about what had taken place.
He assumed his post, got comfortable, waiting with his binoculars and the AK-47, in case Everson decided to change his dinner plans.
It didn’t take long before he spied Everson pulling up to the trailer in an F-150 truck, a drawing of Everson as Elvis stenciled on the side. The conceited jerk hopped out of the cab, dragging his ass back to the trailer, looking so wiped out he could barely make it. Logging will do that to a person.
Daniels started wondering what position Everson’s body would be in when it was discovered. He assumed Everson would be somewhere inside the trailer when he keeled over. He hoped the body would end up faceup on the kitchen floor, clutching a half-eaten peanut butter and banana sandwich. Yeah, that would be the absolute best angle for the photos. He smiled thinking that some cop would film it on his smartphone and post it on YouTube. Then the thought came to him: Hell, I’ll just stage the body however I want it.
Everson disappeared behind the trailer door, and in a minute Daniels could hear music coming from the trailer; Elvis singing “All Shook Up.” Another minute and Everson came into view at the sink, looking out the window in Daniels’s direction. Everson’s head was bobbing up and down, his lips moving, singing along with Elvis. Then, right there at the window, Everson held up one of the bananas and peeled it like he was putting on a show.
Holy shit. Daniels’s heart raced. It was only one banana, but just one slice would be enough.
Everson set the banana down on the counter and moved out of view. A second or two later he was back in front of the kitchen window holding a skinny kitchen knife in his hand, the kind you use for boning fish.
Daniels focused his binoculars on Everson’s hands. Everson peeled the banana, cut four slices, and let them fall to the counter. He held up an open jar of peanut butter, cut through the peanut butter with that same skinny knife, and slathered it on a piece of the white bread. Now came the important part. He took all four slices of banana and placed them, careful like, at four different places on the bread.
Perfect. Take one good bite and you’ll be toes up.
Everson smeared a second piece of white bread with peanut butter, and made a sandwich with the two slices. He held the sandwich up to eye level and examined his work, like he was measuring it in his mind against every other peanut butter and banana sandwich he’d ever gobbled down. Satisfied, he nodded his head, turned his back to the window, headed over to the stove, bent down for a second, and came back up into view with a frying pan. He found a tub of something in the refrigerator that looked like butter, cut off a thick slice, and plopped it onto the pan.
The cooking seemed to take forever. Maybe four minutes a side.
Everson slid the sandwich onto a paper plate, didn’t bother to cut it—the redneck. Then he turned around facing the window and jammed the gooey fried mess into his mouth. Like a dog: one bite—barely chewing it—then another the same way. A third bite and the whole damn thing was gone. All four slices of the banana.
Daniels remembered a photo he’d seen of Elvis in his army uniform eating a fried banana and peanut butter sandwich in front of his mama. “So long, Private Presley,” he said under his breath.
Everson pulled a can of Bud out of the refrigerator, but he never got the tab popped. He dropped the can and bent over. Grabbing his stomach, he moved away from the window and out of view. Daniels figured he was headed to the bathroom, thinking he’d puke the stuff out of him.
Next thing, Everson surprised him by coming out the door, doubled over, his eyes like they were about to pop out of his head. He made it to the porch steps and fell to the ground, banging his head on the railing as he fell.
With the trailer door
open, the music was louder and clear.
Everson lay there on his back in front of the trailer for three or four seconds. He lifted his head and looked around, like he was hoping to see someone who might help him. Finally, he let out a big ole moan and his head dropped down. Stuff that was white and foamy, like soap suds, oozed out of his mouth. His body did a couple of quick spasms and stopped. After that, he just lay there motionless, faceup. Another few seconds and Everson’s body gave one more twitch, and then let a blow of air. For sure he was dead now.
As the song ended, Daniels said, “I guess you’re all shook up now.” He let the binoculars fall to his chest, stood up, and brushed the dirt off his clothes. Daniels thought he might run back into the trailer and get one of Everson’s guitars and position it so it would look like Everson had died playing and singing. That would make for one hell of a front-page photo. But no, it was better just the way it was.
He walked over to the body, gave it a military salute, then danced his way to his car. Jumping in, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the image smiling at him. He smiled back, slipped on his shades, and drove back on the gravel road in the direction that he’d come from. It was ten miles to the hard road.
Halfway there, unable to control his joy, he lifted his right arm in the air and did a fist pump. “Long live the real King!” he shouted.
Chapter 17
Nobody’s Cousin
THE NEXT AFTERNOON
MBI CONFERENCE ROOM
Darla called Shelby, Jendlin, Uther, and Rita together for a debriefing on the previous day’s events. “I believe Rita and I passed the killer on the road yesterday,” she began. “Right off Highway 25. When we were on our way to Everson’s trailer. But we didn’t get much of a visual. The male driver looked the other way as we drove by. Obviously we didn’t realize who it was at the time, but it had to be him. The timeline is perfect. We were ten minutes away from Everson’s trailer. The victim’s body was still warm when we arrived.”
