by Gary Gusick
“Y’all didn’t get the number on the plates?” asked Shelby.
“I looked at the rearview mirror as he passed, just out of habit,” said Darla, “but his SUV was kicking up too much dust from the gravel road for me to get a read. A silver SUV, with Mississippi tags was all I could tell.”
“Any prints at the scene?” Shelby asked.
“Another glove job,” said Darla.
Shelby checked his tobacco pouch, frowned, seeing it was empty. “You talked to Henry’s man Bubba yet?” he asked, referring to profiler Bubba Abrahamson in the FBI Atlanta office.
“I just got off the phone with him,” said Darla. “Bubba thinks the man we’re looking for is somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. He may be ex-military. He’s smart, probably self-educated. Bubba sees this guy as a zealot, but Bubba doesn’t think he’s connected to anything organized. The killer is not a joiner. He operates on what he thinks is a higher moral code. It might be part of a personal narrative for him. This guy sees himself as righteous and it may be important to him that the public sees him that way, too. According to Bubba, the killer will want to go public at some point. Let the world know who he is or thinks he is, and why he’s doing what he’s doing. Basically, it’s what Rita said. Everything points to Tupelo.”
“His coming-out party,” said Shelby.
“There are two concerts scheduled before Ultimate Elvis. Where do we stand on those?” asked Darla.
“I provided the benefit of my wise counsel to both Russell Hartford and Pastor Jumbo Peterson last night,” said Shelby. “Mr. Hartford, a man blessed with a healthy portion of common sense, said he would postpone his birthday party. He’s also got one of the corporate security people shadowing him. The Southern Church of the Holy Redeemer, on the other hand, said they trusted God to protect them. And Pastor Jumbo said if they canceled, he’d do his singing out on the sidewalk. He’s on a mission from God.”
“When is the pastor due in town?” asked Darla.
“Anytime now,” said Shelby. “The church always puts him up at the Beaumont Inn. They got that extra-king-sized bed with a steel-reinforced frame. The pastor is quite a large man and needs the support.”
“Call Jackson PD,” Darla said to Rita. “Explain the situation to the desk sergeant and tell him to send a couple of patrolmen over to the Beaumont. I want one at the front entrance and one at the rear.”
Rita turned her back to the group and made the call.
“I talked to the director of Ultimate Elvis, Collins Duckworth,” said Jendlin. “He’s unwilling to cancel, saying the city’s prestige—as well as a lot of revenue, I might add—is at stake. He told me he didn’t care if we had to call out the National Guard. I assured him that wouldn’t be necessary. He ended the call saying that nothing would stop the Elvis Express.”
Darla turned to Uther. “I’m hoping you can work some magic for us, Uther.”
Uther looked out over the top of his thick glasses. “It has been observed that any significantly advanced technology is for the most part indistinguishable from magic.”
“Okay, put it this way, Mr. Uther,” said Shelby, “what have you got?”
Rita had finished her call and seemed to be studying Uther, trying to look over the top of his glasses to see his eyes.
“Our facial identify recognition software found driver’s licenses or state identity cards for 267 of the 268 males who went in and out of the convention center the morning of the shooting,” said Uther.
“Ain’t no place to hide from the prying eyes,” said Shelby. “I’ll assign a team of agents to begin interviewing. See if I can borrow five or six sheriff’s department detectives to help.”
“What about the man whose face isn’t on any driver’s license or identity cards?” asked Darla. “I’d like to take a look at that guy.”
Uther clicked on his computer and projected a life-size headshot on the far wall. A dark-haired man in his early thirties, handsome but otherwise undistinguished except for his receding hairline. “We didn’t find any information regarding this individual,” said Uther. “He doesn’t appear to have a driver’s license, identity card, or a passport, or else his photos don’t match his appearance.”
“Anybody recognize this dude?” asked Shelby. “Is he any of y’all’s cousin?”
Silence.
“That’s a first for Mississippi,” said Darla. “Someone in Mississippi that nobody knows.”
“Make a copy of his picture, Uther, and pin it up on the board,” said Shelby. “Maybe one of us will run into him at the Wednesday night catfish fry over at the First Baptist Church.”
“I assume you were speaking figuratively, Major Mitchell,” said Uther.
“Ain’t he something?” said Shelby.
“I have yet another area of data collection which might prove helpful,” said Uther. “I have captured film footage of every Elvis tribute artist concert that took place within Mississippi in the last six months. In addition to footage of the performer, there is considerable footage of audience members. Our facial recognition program is in the process of capturing the images of the male audience members. I will shortly be able to let you know if there were any males who attended multiple events. We’ll do as we did before and run their photos against the state vehicle and driver’s license records. It might provide an additional suspect pool.”
“I’m interested in the mystery man at the convention center,” said Darla.
“As am I, Detective,” said Uther, removing his glasses to clean a speck of dust from the right lens.
“Last thing, we’re going have to figure out how to deal with my second least favorite group of individuals,” said Shelby. “Lawbreakers being the first.”
“He means the media, in case anyone here was wondering,” said Darla.
“As of this morning, they’ve figured out about the same things we’ve figured out,” said Shelby, “which ain’t much. They know that Tommy Reylander and this man Roger Everson were both Elvis”—he glanced at Rita—“Elvis tribute artists. Your old friend Josh Klein at WMIS is speculating that Dr. Quenzel was the intended target at the Jackson Convention Center. But so far, nobody in the media has checked the obits and found out about the other three deaths. Which is why I ain’t shared pillow talk with any members of the fourth estate. But one way or another I’m going to have to hold a press conference sometime today.”
Rita’s cell rang. She picked it up and listened. “We got to get over to the Beaumont,” she said. “There’s been another bombing. It’s Pastor Jumbo.”
“Is he dead?” asked Shelby.
“One of the patrolmen from Jackson PD just arrived,” Rita said, listening some more. “Yes, sir, Pastor Jumbo is dead. He’s the only one.”
“Can they tell where the explosive was set?” asked Shelby.
“Remember that big ole bed they had for Pastor Jumbo?” Rita said, shaking her head.
Chapter 18
Liftoff
The Beaumont Inn was by far the nicest bed-and-breakfast in Jackson. It was a large two-story, spanking-white antebellum mansion with four three-story Corinthian columns. A set of eight-foot-tall double doors led guests into a mahogany-paneled foyer, with a marble floor and a spiral staircase. The Beaumont was famous for its collection of Civil War memorabilia, its lavish bedding, and its slow-cooked grits—“heaven in a bowl,” said a New York food critic. Travel International had voted the Beaumont Inn America’s finest inn—the only thing in Jackson to be recognized as the finest anything. Now it would be famous for something besides grits and big beds.
Somewhere around fifty vehicles, a half dozen of them cop cars, had clogged up Beaumont Lane in the few minutes it took Darla and Rita to get there. The lush front lawn of the inn was cordoned off, but reporters, TV crews, and neighbors were lined up two deep, and pressing against the police tape like it was a rope line at a political rally and the Republican candidate for president was about to walk by.
A Jackson PD p
atrolman manning the barricade recognized Darla’s vehicle and waved her through. Darla parked her Prius in one of the side lots. She and Rita used the back entrance to avoid the mob out front and took the stairs to the third floor.
As they reached the second-floor landing, an auburn-haired woman in a scanty green kimono, carrying an empty ice bucket, met them.
“Kendall?” said Darla.
“Well, ah, hey there, tall girl,” said Kendall. She looked over at Rita. “And you must be Darla’s new partner. I’m Kendall Goodhew.”
“Detective Rita Gibbons,” Rita said.
This is weird, thought Darla. She turned to Rita. “You go on up. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“Right,” said Rita, looking thoroughly confused as she moved past Kendall and continued up the stairs.
“What are you doing here, Kendall?” asked Darla.
Kendall held up the empty ice bucket. “What does it look like I’m doing? The ice machine is out on the second floor. I was going to fill my bucket downstairs. What are you doing here?”
“You don’t know? There’s been a murder,” said Darla.
Kendall with a coy smile. “I guess I’ve been preoccupied. What murder?” Where?”
Darla looked at Kendall, incredulous. “The third floor. A bomb went off when Pastor Jumbo Peterson lay down on his bed, less than a half hour ago.”
“Well, I thought I felt the earth move, but I guess it was Pastor Jumbo.” Kendall started cracking up at her own joke, but quickly stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke about something like that.”
“Kendall, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. If this is just an afternoon screw, you need to fess up right now.”
Kendall hesitated. “Promise not to say anything to Lulu. She’ll be furious if she finds out I told you before I told her.”
Darla gave Kendall her cop look.
“All right,” said Kendall. “You know that website, Ashley Madison? Where married women go to cheat on their husbands? Well, I joined a couple months back. It was something I did for myself, like getting a spa treatment, or driving down to New Orleans for a weekend of nonstop eating.”
Darla shook her head in disbelief. “You’re not married, Kendall. You’ve been legally divorced for four years.”
“But see, that’s the great part. The men think I’m married. I mean, really Darla, these days, no man wants anything to do with a forty-year-old divorced woman, especially if she’d got kids. They’re terrified. The same woman, if she’s married and they can kind of sneak around, it’s irresistible to men.”
“How often do you do this?”
“Just once a week,” said Kendall. “Well, okay, twice a week. One week it was four times. But it’s only in the afternoons. So I have my nights and weekends and holidays free to be with my kids. If you look at it a certain way, it’s responsible parenting.”
“This is Mississippi, Kendall. Eventually, everybody will know what you’re doing.”
“No, see, I got it all worked out. I only see men who live out of state. They drive over from Alabama, Arkansas, or Louisiana. One of them flew down from Cincinnati. Anyway, they’re all single, or say they are.”
“Will wonders never cease?” said Darla.
“That’s the only reason I’m here, girl. Ask Mr. Watkins, the manager, if you don’t believe me. Here at the inn I go by the name of Mrs. Scarlett.” Kendall laughed. “Isn’t that the best?”
Darla looked at Kendall and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you’re not a suspect at this point, so don’t let me keep you.”
“Thanks. Lover boy told me not to be gone long. I think he’s wanting to have some fun with ice,” said Kendall as she headed down the back stairs, taking two at a time. Looking up over her shoulder at Darla, she added, “I really am sorry about that tub of lard, Pastor Jumbo. Bless his heart.”
And my friends back in Philadelphia think I make this stuff up, thought Darla.
—
Pastor Jumbo Peterson’s third-floor, two-room suite was at the end of the corridor. It was called “Let Them Eat Cake”—so named because in the early 1990s the room had been rented for a year by a fancy gentleman who produced papers proving that he was a distant relative of Marie Antoinette.
The medical examiner and a team of forensic people were already at work when Darla entered the suite. Looking shell-shocked, the hotel manager, Mears Watkins, leaned against the far wall, his head in his hands. Rita was patting him on the back, comforting him. She stopped when she caught sight of Darla and walked over to her senior officer. “Was that thing in the hallway something I need to know about, Detective?”
“No,” said Darla. “But if it was, I’m not sure I’d know where to start.”
Darla surveyed the scene. There was considerable damage. Amazingly, Pastor Jumbo’s bloodied body was still relatively intact. The force of the explosion had shattered his spinal column and catapulted the pastor upward. As a result, several pieces of the room’s crystal chandelier were embedded in his forehead.
Darla got the weepy manager’s attention. “When was this room reserved for Pastor Peterson, Mr. Watkins?”
“Nearly a month ago,” he said. “Pastor Jumbo always requests this room, even though it’s on the third floor and the pastor is required to walk up three flights of stairs. He is, was, of too large a proportion to fit into our tiny elevator. He said the suite’s décor was particularly appealing to him.”
“I’ll bet he liked the size of the bed, too,” said Rita, staring down at the body.
“That, too,” said Watkins, “A king-extra, the only one of its size in the city, I believe.”
“When was the last time the room was cleaned?” asked Darla, getting back to the investigation.
Watkins checked his iPad. “Three days ago. It hasn’t been occupied since then. Of course, the maid checked the room this morning in anticipation of Pastor Jumbo’s arrival. She found everything in order.”
“Bet she didn’t lay on the bed, did she?” said Rita.
“No, she did not,” said the manager.
“It might not have mattered,” said Darla. “Considering the killer’s foul-up at the convention center, he more than likely set the detonator so that the bomb would go off only when someone really heavy sat down on it. We’ll send the detonator back to the FBI in Atlanta for analysis.” She turned to Watkins. “I’ll need a copy of your registry for the last two days,” she said, “and any tapes from your security cameras. I didn’t see cameras in the hallway when I came up.”
“We only have them in the front, back, and side entrances,” said Watkins. “The owners considered installing them in the hallways but rejected the idea. They didn’t like the idea of spying on our guests. I must confess we don’t do a very good job of monitoring the security cameras that we do have. We haven’t had any need to.”
“Check the footage on the cameras, Rita,” said Darla. “But I’m going to guess that the camera on the back entrance isn’t functioning.”
Darla’s cell rang. It was Uther.
“I have news of the utmost importance, Detective,” he started. “Using the extensive concert footage I spoke of earlier, drawn from standard TV coverage, as well as YouTube postings and visual records from numerous social network outlets, I have discovered one individual who was in attendance at eight different Elvis tribute artist concerts, leading up to the concert at the senior center in Madison where Detective Reylander was murdered.”
“It’s the guy from the convention center, the mystery man, isn’t it?” said Darla.
“Quite right,” said Uther. “We have enough angles on his face and head to do a laser reproduction.”
“Email the picture to all the relevant law enforcement agencies with a request for a Priority One APB,” said Darla. “We’ll call him a person of interest, but this is our man.”
“As you wish, Detective,” said Uther.
“And by the way, I think you have a secret admirer.”
&nbs
p; “That sounds intriguing,” said Uther.
Darla disconnected.
Rita was back. “You got it right, Detective. Whoever it was froze the camera aimed at the rear entrance.”
Darla showed Rita the image of the mystery man on her phone. “Uther has a video of this guy at seven of the last eight concerts,” she said.
“I bet he didn’t attend Detective Reylander’s concert,” said Rita.
“Quite right. He was probably out in the parking lot wiring Tommy’s Caddy while Tommy was singing,” said Darla.
Rita smiled in satisfaction.
Darla took out her cell, phoned Shelby, and told him about Uther’s findings.
“You need to come clean to the media about where we are in the investigation, and I need you to release the mystery man’s laser image. We’ve got to get information out about this maniac, whoever he is.”
“The problem is,” said Shelby, “once his photo hits the television, he’ll go underground, which cuts down your chances of finding him.”
“Your call,” said Darla. “I understand. But someone must know him. Plus, we’ll need to develop a plan for securing Tupelo. Each one of the contestants in the Ultimate Elvis will need their own security officer.”
“That’s gonna require a lot of manpower,” complained Shelby. “The easiest way is to use highway patrol. I’ll call Director Haverty and ask him to issue a directive. This is going to cost me a significant chunk of my dwindling political capital. We pull Mississippi state troopers off the road and there ain’t gonna be a lot of speeding tickets given out in Mississippi. Not counting all the other mischief they keep from happening.”
“I suppose you could ask the governor to call in the National Guard,” said Darla.
“Federal troops in Mississippi?” said Shelby. “The governor wouldn’t agree to that if it was to escort Jesus into Jackson for the Second Coming. What are you and your protégé planning for the rest of the evening? Dinner and a movie?”
“I thought we’d stick around and see if the FBI’s forensic team comes up with anything,” said Darla. “We’ll head up to Tupelo tomorrow morning and work with the security forces there.”
