by Gary Gusick
Darla looked into Eap’s watery blue eyes and shook her head. Rita was right. “Call the Mistletoe chief of police and have him send over a deputy,” she told Rita. “Tell him Presleyville is going to need round-the-clock protection until we catch our perp.”
Darla looked at Eap and was sure he didn’t understand what was going on. “We’re going to station a patrol car outside Presleyville as a precaution,” she said.
“Military and members of law enforcement enter free,” said Eap, extending his arm and bowing at the waist. “Of course, Elvis was nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor after he made the movie G.I. Blues, by none other than John F. Kennedy, President of the United States. But Elvis said he shouldn’t get it because he was just doing his duty.”
Darla gave Eap a ten-dollar bill. “It’s been educational,” she said.
Eap looked at the ten as if he wasn’t sure what it was for. He poked Darla on the arm. “Juliet Prowse was Elvis’s leading lady,” he said. “She was a tall woman like you. It’s a historical fact that every leading lady Elvis had fell in love with him.”
“We better leave now before he kidnaps us,” Darla said to Rita, and turned for the door.
Chapter 21
The Beard
Daniels stretched out on his bed in the motel and flipped through the music channels on the free cable TV. No music videos; they just had the music. All you saw onscreen was the name of the song and a photo of the artist. You’d think they could do better than that.
He had in mind to find a channel that played vintage country, or oldies rock, and hear one of his own songs. Probably not. Usually when the country station played the old-timey stuff it was Hank Williams, or the Carter family, or George Jones. Or when the vintage rock stations went into the vaults, it would be Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and of course the thief and betrayer, Elvis. They played something from that phony every damn hour.
Flipping through the channels he stopped at the one called Good Ole Country. Patsy Cline was singing the last verse of “I Fall to Pieces.” Next they had her singing “Sweet Dreams,” another one of her hits. Hell, they could be doing Patsy Cline for the next hour. He clicked past the Blue Blues channel and stopped on a channel called Rock of Ages, where he patiently waited through Buddy Holly singing “Peggy Sue,” a song that would have sounded much more grown-up if he’d been the singer. Then came the Coasters doing “Charley Brown.” Damn, he could listen for days and never hear one of his own.
After clicking past the shopping channel and the sports channels—all ten of them—he gave up on music and switched to WMIS for the local news. And there he was again, that twerp with the microphone. Josh something or another.
“The Mississippi Bureau of Investigation and the FBI are seeking your assistance in locating this individual,” the runt was saying. They cut away to a photo. It was him.
“Say who it is,” he said aloud. “The real King of Rock and Roll.”
“His name is Daniel Riggins,” said the twerp. “But he may be going by the name of Bill Daniels.”
“My name is Carl Perkins,” he said aloud.
“Riggins or Daniels is believed by the authorities to be responsible for the bizarre series of murders and vandalism this reporter has dubbed ‘the Elvis Atrocities.’ ”
They had everything turned inside out. The atrocity is what Elvis did to me.
“Thus far, four people have been killed in this terrifying crime spree,” said the twerp, as they put up four photos on the screen.
Too bad about the woman, he thought—a hottie from her photo—but the other three got exactly what they deserved.
Then his photo on the screen and an older photo of King Carl next to it.
“Some of you,” said the twerp, “if you were around during the fifties or sixties, will notice the similarity of the suspect’s facial features to that of the late singer-songwriter Carl Perkins.”
It’s about fucking time. This was the first time in his life he’d ever seen a photo of King Carl on television.
“Perkins is generally regarded as one of the originators of an early form of rock and roll known as rockabilly,” said the TV twerp.
“What do they mean one of the originators? The originator,” he growled at the TV.
“And it was Perkins who made the first recording of ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ ” said the twerp. “One theory,” he continued, trying to sound educated, “and I want to emphasize that it is only a theory at this point, is that the suspect believes he is somehow channeling the late Carl Perkins and that the murders were retribution for Elvis Presley doing his own recording of ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ ” The dipshit did a phony pause for effect. “As I say, that’s only a theory. If you have seen or have any information regarding this man, please contact the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation at…”
He shut off the TV. “All right,” he said out loud. “I know what must be done.” He walked into the bathroom and stared at the mirror. “Your majesty, we’re going ahead as scheduled. However, until then, I’m afraid you’re going to have to go back into exile. Please, King Carl, for what I’m about to do, I need you to forgive me.” The image in the mirror, Carl Perkins’s image, looked back at him and nodded.
The man removed a box from under the sink. SHERLOCK’S LTD., it said on top. Removing the lid, he folded back three layers of tissue, where he found the mustache and beard that he had purchased in his stopover in London. It was a custom-designed piece that had required a four-day wait. He had even needed to furnish the makers a sample from a two-day growth from his face. They were that particular. It had cost plenty, too: four thousand American greenbacks.
He’d been taught how to adhere the piece, and provided with a special adhesive to ensure a seamless fit. It took more than a half hour for him to complete the fitting.
He looked at himself in the mirror. His high cheekbones, one of the strongest identifying features, were fully hidden. In addition, the beard built up his chin, giving his face an altogether different symmetry.
When the adhesive dried, he slipped on his Ole Miss baseball cap, covering his receding hairline. What could be better? Baseball caps were worn indoors these days, in all the places he’d need to go.
Now he could do what he needed to do. If they thought they knew his next move, they were surely dead wrong.
Chapter 22
The Search for the Tiptonville Kid
Uther Pendragon Johnson sat behind a small metal desk in the middle of his otherwise empty twenty-by-twenty corner office—staring at his computer screen.
Aside from the occasional thoughts about Detective Cavannah’s new partner, the blue-eyed stunner Rita Gibbons, for the last four days Uther’s attention had been focused on identifying the man behind the Elvis Atrocities. With Darla and Rita’s discovery and a set of fingerprints, all the bits of information were fitting into place.
Daniel W. Riggins, age twenty-seven, was born in Tiptonville, Tennessee, a tiny borough in the northwestern corner of the state. No surprise, Tiptonville was also the birthplace of Carl Perkins and the home of the Carl Perkins Visitors Center.
Riggins’s father, a welder, died a year after Daniel was born. Daniel was raised by his mother, a waitress in a local café, who never remarried. She passed away four years ago.
Uther located Riggins’s high school principal, Keenland Tompkins, and called him for a final confirmation of Darla’s theory. Tompkins had no trouble remembering Riggins. “Quietly intense is how I would describe him,” said Tompkins. “Not a particularly large muscular boy, not a bully, but the kinda person the other kids gave a wide berth to when they passed him in the halls.” Tompkins pulled up Riggins’s records. “A classic underachiever. Below-average grades, but tested off the charts. I remember one of the teachers saying he must have cheated, but that was never confirmed.”
“Any after-school activities?” asked Uther.
“Nothing in sports,” said Tompkins, still reading from Riggins’
s record. “Didn’t belong to any clubs. He was in the school orchestra for about a week, before he quit.”
“The orchestra?” said Uther.
“In his senior year he had a country rock band. I even remember the name. The Tiptonville Rockabillies. Daniel was the lead singer. They played at some of our school dances. Did a lot of those old Carl Perkins songs.”
“Would you say Mr. Riggins was particularly fond of Carl Perkins?”
“I guess you know Tiptonville is Carl’s hometown. We’ve got his museum here. Biggest thing in town, practically. But yes, Daniel was a big Carl Perkins fan. He used to dress like Carl—the pictures of him we have anyway. Unfortunately, Daniel didn’t look or sound much like Carl.”
“I understand,” said Uther. Tompkins was ticking off all the right boxes.
“I’ll tell you another thing about Daniel,” said Tompkins, his memory seeming to work better and better by the minute. “Daniel hated Elvis Presley almost as much as he loved Carl. He refused to let his band play any of Elvis’s songs.”
“Because Mr. Riggins believed Elvis took credit for ‘Blue Suede Shoes’?” Uther couldn’t help but ask.
“Exactly,” said Tompkins. “Look, Agent Johnson, this doesn’t have anything to do with those Elvis Atrocities over in Mississippi, does it?”
“Do you know what happened to Mr. Riggins after high school?” asked Uther, making a point of not answering Tompkins’s question.
“He joined the service. I’m not sure which one.”
Uther clicked on his computer and Riggins’s U.S. Army record appeared.
“Thank you for your time, Principal Tompkins,” said Uther.
“Well, I hope I’ve been helpful in whatever it is you’re doing,” said Tompkins.
“You have indeed,” said Uther, and he ended the call.
Uther’s review of Riggins’s army records proved equally revealing. His military service started off promising: He graduated near the top of his class in boot camp and was sent to munitions school for advanced training. However, six months into his school, he struck a superior officer. He was court-martialed, given a dishonorable discharge, and did a year in a military prison.
Riggins’s post-army career was much as expected. After he got out of the brig, he spent three years in Memphis working odd jobs—bartender, busing tables in restaurants, a delivery boy for a pizza parlor. He moved to Nashville and spent three years there doing more of the same. None of the employers Uther contacted had much of anything to say about him. Riggins kept to himself, rarely stayed in any job longer than three months, and usually left without notice.
When Riggins’s mother passed away she left him an insurance policy worth $75,000 and the family home, which was mortgage-free. He sold it for $288,000. He acquired a passport and told the real estate agent that he was going to Europe because that’s where all the best doctors were. He purchased a one-way ticket for a flight from Memphis to Amsterdam. After that, the trail went cold.
Uther arranged a conference call with Darla, Jendlin, Shelby, and Rita to present his findings. The short of it was that Daniel Riggins had a teenage preoccupation with his hometown hero, Carl Perkins, which developed into an obsession. Riggins went from paying homage to Carl Perkins to believing he was Perkins and was now seeking retribution on Elvis Presley for destroying his career by recording “Blue Suede Shoes.”
Everybody agreed with Uther’s findings. The only question that remained was what would Carl do next?
Chapter 23
We Got Your Back, Elvis
CIVIC AUDITORIUM, TUPELO, MISSISSIPPI
SUNDAY EVENING
ULTIMATE ELVIS FINALS
Everybody in Mississippi was up to speed on Josh Klein’s “Elvis Atrocities.” The stories had been broadcast and re-broadcast on every local and statewide media outlet. It had even been picked up by the national news and the Hello America morning show.
The Elvis-loving public was fully aware of the potential risks involved but they came anyway.
Urged on by the National Rifle Association, close to five hundred showed up at the auditorium entrance carrying everything from a tiny derringer to an AK-47. It’s legal in Mississippi to carry firearms in all sorts of public places as long as the individual can produce a valid gun license and carries the weapon where it can be seen. Dwayne Ribodeaux, a spokesman for the NRA, characterized the pistol-packing attendees waiting outside the entrance as a triumph of the Second Amendment. “The citizens of Mississippi have the lawful right to self-protection and if it should come down to it, the right to protect the memory of Elvis,” said Ribodeaux.
The festival director took a more pragmatic view. “This isn’t about the Second Amendment,” Collins Duckworth told reporters. “It’s about who gets caught in the crossfire.”
Fortunately, the festival’s lawyers had determined that the event was technically a private affair, being sponsored by the Main Street Association. A NO WEAPONS sign was posted outside the auditorium, advising everyone that ticket takers would turn back anyone carrying firearms.
“Lots of towns in the Old West prohibited firearms within city limits, and we can do it here,” said Duckworth.
The NRA requested that its members picket the affair rather than surrender their weapons. However, when faced with the choice, most people chose Elvis tribute artists over their AK-47s. They stowed their weapons back in their vehicles and got back in line.
—
Forty minutes before the doors were set to open, Darla held a final briefing backstage with her security team. The group was handpicked. Each member was highly experienced, highly decorated, but young and athletic enough to deal with any physical challenges they might have to face.
Looking them over, Darla felt confident they were up for the task. “Okay, let’s go over our assignments so everybody knows where everybody else is. We’ll have four officers from the Tupelo PD at each of the theater’s main entrance doors, plus an officer on each of the two side exits, and an officer on both left and right stairwells to the balcony, with two more officers doing a sweep of the building perimeter.
“We’ll have a Mississippi state trooper stationed outside the dressing room door of each of the ten finalists. It’ll be his or her job to guard the contestants while they’re in their dressing rooms and to escort them to and from the stage when it’s their turn to perform.”
She looked each trooper in the eye, waiting until he nodded that he understood. She pointed to a group of young men in suits sitting off to the side. “These six gentlemen are FBI agents. They’ll be seated in different sections of the auditorium. Finally, Detective Gibbons and I will be backstage at the right and left wings respectively.
“This is our man,” Darla continued, holding up the laser-created photo of Riggins, now a ringer for the late Carl Perkins. “He may or may not be here tonight. It’s possible that with all the media coverage, he may not want to risk it. Which would make our evening a whole lot simpler. On the other hand, our FBI profiler Bubba Abrahamson thinks Riggins will see the contest as his coming-out party and a chance to reveal himself. If he does, he’ll likely be dressed as a country-and-western entertainer or maybe even the way Carl Perkins dressed in his early days. If he moves around before that, we have to assume he’ll be using some sort of disguise. He’s killed four people without being spotted at the crime scene. Three of those four were in public settings. He plans carefully. Whatever he does tonight won’t be spur-of-the-moment or random. We need to proceed with the notion that he plans to kill again.”
“You want him alive?” an FBI agent asked.
“What I want is that nobody else gets hurt.”
She checked the time. Thirty minutes until curtain. “It’s time to let the audience in. So, everybody to their posts. You’ve each been given headsets. Be sure they’re on channel one, so you can hear me at all times.”
The security team fanned out as the stage manager and his crew began their final preparations. On the other side of the
curtain Darla heard the doors to the auditorium open and the audience members filing in. Standing in the left wing, she peeked out between the curtains. Bubba said that in all likelihood Riggins would not be part of the audience, but if he were, he’d be in disguise.
The audience was a mixed lot. The majority were white and older and female, some of them Elvis groupies, but there were also plenty of men of various ages, and a number of younger couples, mixed in with some teens. There were no families with young children. Duckworth had raised the age limit to eighteen this year, saying that some of the material performed might not be suitable to younger audiences. Everybody knew the real reason.
There was the usual milling around, talking and getting up and down, Mississippians doing what they do best: socializing. For the most part, despite the presence of uniformed officers, or maybe because of them, the audience, which continued to file in, seemed relaxed, ready to enjoy the show.
“Look up there in the balcony, center section, Detective,” Rita said in her headset. “Isn’t that your lady friend from the Beaumont?”
“That’s her,” said Darla. Kendall was seated next to a hunky-looking guy maybe ten years her junior, with his arm draped around her.
“How’d she end up with him?” said Rita. “What’s her trick?”
“I’ll tell you later, but it’s a good one,” said Darla.
“And look down front. Is that who I think it is?” asked Rita.
Sure enough, on the far right side, row two, sat Hardy Lang, dressed in a maroon silk jumpsuit with a cream-colored cape.
“Looks like the catfish coalition is going to be well represented,” said Darla.
“And there’s Mr. Conway next to him,” said Rita. “But who’s them other gentlemen on the other side of Conway? Them two tough-looking ones?”
“Say hello to the mobbed-up J. B. Caulder, or Jerry Bob as he was called in his formative years; agent to Elvis tribute artists everywhere. That thug to his left is his leg-breaker-in-charge-of-transportation. Marks, I think his name is. An unholy group if ever I saw one.”
