by Ben Adams
“Well, it’s something, ma’am. I’ll definitely say that. I thought places like this existed only on talk shows. I never woulda guessed we had something like this in our here town.”
“I’ve spent a lifetime collecting everything I can, but I think the picture I sold your newspaper is my new prize.”
“Not the painting?” the sheriff asked, pointing to the black velvet. “That seems like a prize to me.”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Morris said, smiling. “I do love that painting. Sometimes I stare at him for hours.”
“Sure,” John said. “All you do is stare.”
“So, I’m so excited. Tell me all about him. Is he a nice man? He seems like such a nice man,” Mrs. Morris said, carrying the tray into the living room.
“Well, Mrs. Morris,” John started.
“John,” she interrupted, “after everything we’ve been through? You know you can call me Elizabeth. You could even scream it if you’d like.”
“Well, Elizabeth,” John said with a perturbed wince.
The sheriff put his hand on his knee and squeezed it, trying not to laugh.
“About the picture,” John continued, like the sheriff wasn’t struggling with hysterics, “I’m sorry to say it wasn’t Elvis.”
She almost dropped the tray, spilling some of the lemonade.
“Oh, pooh. I’m so sorry to hear that. I was really hoping it was him.”
“I know you were. The good news is there was an Elvis connection.”
“Oh, do tell.” Her face beamed as her spirits were lifted again. She handed them two glasses of lemonade. The sheriff guzzled his. John sniffed his first, checking for roofies. He set it on the coffee table, pushed it away from him, the ice rattling against the side of the glass.
“Turns out the man you photographed was an Elvis impersonator,” John said.
“An impersonator? Well that explains everything. What exactly did he do? Did he tell you?”
“He didn’t say much, just that he ran a chapel in Vegas, officiating marriages.”
“Oh my, a religious man doing good works.” She held her hands over her heart.
“That’s Leadbelly, Patron Saint of Hasty Marriages.”
“So, is this man, this ‘impersonator’, around? I’d love to talk to him, maybe bake him some cookies.”
“Unfortunately, ma’am,” Sheriff Masters said, “it appears that Al Leadbelly, well, it appears that he met with some foul play.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”
“Ma’am, sometime last night this Leadbelly fella was murdered.”
“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Morris collapsed into her chair. An Elvis throw pillow fell to the ground. She dutifully picked it up, brushed some dust off, and clutched it to her chest. “This is shocking news. Do you think this had anything to do with my picture? I’d hate to think that my photo was responsible for that poor man’s death.”
“You don’t need to worry about that, ma’am. We believe this is unrelated to your photo.”
“You’ll have to forgive me. This type of thing doesn’t happen everyday. I’m sure you’re used to it in your line of work, Sheriff, but it’s new to me.”
“Fortunately, ma’am, it doesn’t happen to me everyday, either.”
“That’s actually why we came to see you,” John said.
“Is that the only reason?” Mrs. Morris asked, crossing her legs.
“We were hoping you could help us out.” John ignored her, determined not let her ruffle him, at least not in the way she wanted.
“I’d be happy to help, John, in any way I can. And I mean any way,” Mrs. Morris said, her finger rimming her glass.
The sheriff smirked at John.
“Uh, yeah,” John said. “So, this morning, after Sheriff Masters discovered Leadbelly’s trailer, he came and got me. When we went back, the Air Force and NASA had commandeered the crime scene, investigating as well. Now, can you think of any reason why the Air Force or NASA might be interested in an Elvis impersonator?”
“Well, of course I can. I can think of quite a few reasons.”
Mrs. Morris went into the next room. John leaned over, checking to see if she was bringing out another bowtie. Instead, she came back with a shoebox full of books.
“Each one of these books offers insights into the world of Elvis Presley and his dealings with the United States government, but this one…” she pulled out an old paperback with yellow pages and faded spine, “this is the only one that talks about the Air Force or NASA.”
Mrs. Morris handed John a tattered book, but wouldn’t let go, biting her upper lip. John quickly yanked the book away, making Mrs. Morris squeal quietly. He set it on her Elvis coffee table, illustrated with a scene from The Elvis Presley CBS Mystery Hour. Elvis is walking down a haunted mine shaft, flashlight in hand, leading a group of beach-goers in the search for buried treasure, unaware they are being followed by a ghost pirate. John slid the book over and showed the sheriff the title.
Elvis and the Extraterrestrials.
“In this book,” Mrs. Morris said, “the author talks about how Elvis is tracking extraterrestrials for the Air Force.”
“Extratawha?” Sheriff Masters asked.
“Extraterrestrials. Aliens from another world.”
“I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to be offensive, ma’am, but are you telling me that Elvis hunted aliens for the government?”
“That’s alright, sheriff.” Mrs. Morris grinned. “I honestly don’t expect you boys to believe me. I know I must seem a little eccentric, what with all my collectibles, but yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Whew,” the sheriff exhaled, crumpling into the couch.
“You were telling us about the book,” John said. He squinted at the sheriff, wondering if he really believed what Mrs. Morris was saying.
“It’s by an expert on extraterrestrials, Professor Zeke Gentry. I’m surprised you haven’t come across him in your line of work, John.”
“We probably haven’t crossed paths yet.” And John wondered if Mrs. Morris knew what he really did, climbed on trashcans to photograph a straying husband with a belt around his neck, tugging the belt with one hand, pleasuring himself with the other, while watching an eighties cartoon about an all-girl rock band, would she leave him alone or propose to him?
“Well, you really should meet him. He’s quite remarkable. Anyway, in his books, he reports that Elvis met with government officials in early 1960’s. They showed Elvis the Roswell spacecraft and recruited him into a top secret branch of the Air Force, where he was trained to defend the Earth against hostile aliens. And in 1970, President Nixon gave Elvis a special badge allowing him access to all levels of law enforcement. Sheriff Masters, I’m sure you received a memo about that.”
“That was a while ago. It’s hard to remember everything that crosses my desk.”
“Well, Elvis became the Air Force’s secret weapon in the fight against aliens.”
“Elizabeth, do you think there’re aliens in Las Vegas?” John asked.
“Of course I do.”
Sheriff Masters leaned in, putting his elbows on his knees, paying attention to every word Mrs. Morris said. John furrowed his eyebrows at the sheriff, questioning why a stoic cowboy, the embodiment of the American West, was so willing to believe in something so ungrounded.
“You see,” she continued, “the aliens have focused their attention on the American Southwest.”
“It is prime real estate,” John said.
“Roswell’s not too far from here. I’m sure Sheriff Masters can tell you all about that. Los Alamos Research Facility is not too far away, either. That’s where they take apart the alien spacecraft and see what makes them work. You know, John, Roswell holds a UFO festival every summer. You should attend this year. We could come together.”
“Uh, thanks for the invite. I’ll, uh, I’ll give it some thought,” John said.
“Believe me, I’ll be thinking
about it, too.”
“Anyway,” the sheriff said, clearing his throat, “you were saying, ma’am, about Elvis.”
“Yes,” she resumed, “it was the government’s idea for Elvis to be stationed in Las Vegas so he could keep an eye on things for them. The concerts were his cover. Professor Gentry believes the aliens found out Elvis was spying on him, so he faked his death. Now Elvis is collecting data on aliens for the government, but that’s really all I know. Professor Gentry hasn’t published a book in a while.”
“Ma’am, why do you think the Air Force was out here today, then?”
“I’m not really sure. Maybe the young man was working with Elvis. Oh, my.” She sat up quickly. “Do you think the person who killed this man wants to kill Elvis?”
“That’s very unlikely,” John said. “It was probably something totally unrelated.”
“I hope you’re right, but I think you should talk to Professor Gentry, anyway.”
“What do you mean, ma’am? ‘talk to Professor Gentry’?” the sheriff asked.
“Why, didn’t you know? He lives just outside of town. On a ranch. I can get you his address, if you’d like.”
“Yes, please,” the sheriff said, leaning forward, hands on both his knees.
Mrs. Morris came back with a small slip of paper.
“Here’s Professor Gentry’s address, and here’s a copy of his book to read.”
She slipped the address in like a bookmark and handed John the paperback with both hands. When he took it from her, Mrs. Morris stroked the back of his hand with her dried fingers. John yanked his hand away, like the friction from her fingers would light his skin on fire.
“You know where that is?” John asked the sheriff, giving him the slip of paper.
“Yup, it’s east of town. It’ll take little awhile to get there.”
“Good thing I brought a book,” John said.
“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, “thank you again for all your help.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m always glad to help, especially if it involves my Elvis. And John, come back anytime you’d like. We can continue our conversation from the other day.” She wiggled like a burlesque dancer with a plastic hip.
John shivered.
“Conversation?” the sheriff asked, walking outside.
“Yeah, she likes speaking in foreign tongues.”
They walked down the dirt driveway to the sheriff’s car. Mrs. Morris watched them from her picture window, curtains clutched.
“Sheriff,” John said, “I’m sorry for bringing you out here. This was a mistake. Mrs. Morris doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s just worried about aliens sneaking around doing God-knows-what to some farm animals.”
“Seems like you’re more worried about her doing God-knows-what to you.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Mrs. Morris stared at John through the window, smiling. “I mean, look at her, she’s so excited. She knows she’s just become part of Elvis folklore. She’s probably getting ready to blog about it.”
“Hell, she just might be checking out your ass,” the sheriff joked. “I don’t know about her not being helpful. She did tell us about this Gentry fella. Seems like a good lead to me. Besides, I gotta feeling this is gonna get real interesting.”
“Sheriff, be honest with me, do you believe what she said about aliens? Because inside…”
“Hell no!” He looked east, away from the mountains. “Well, maybe a little. You telling me you don’t?”
“You kidding? Of course not. It’s just something people buy into because they don’t want to admit that this is all there is.” John pointed to a pink house across the street, its collapsing car port, a light blue pick-up with a brown door parked on the street.
“You know, I got a lot a questions need answering. Hell, you should hear the calls we get. Strange stuff. People seeing floating lights, hearing children laughing in the middle of the night.”
“Kids out past their bedtimes, that is scary,” John said.
“Makes me wonder if everyone in town’s nuts or there really is something out there. Besides, if this Professor Gentry has an inkling as to what the Air Force is doing here, well, I think we should hear him out. He could blow this whole case wide open.”
They drove east, away from town, the slip of paper with Professor Gentry’s address propped on the dash between air conditioner vents blowing cool air in opposite directions. John skimmed through the journal, looking for something interesting, anything that could help him find a link between everything that he’d experienced since coming to Las Vegas. He was looking for clarification.
September 5, 1862
The most interesting thing happened in Lamar County, Texas. I was walking around the town of Paris when I came across an old Indian sitting in front of the trading post trading skins for dental work. I struck up a conversation with the man and offered to buy him a drink. I purchased a bottle of whiskey, and the old Indian, who went by the name Jonathon Deerfoot, and I sat behind the blacksmith stable drinking until the early hours of the morning. I eventually asked him if he’d heard any legends or tales of spirits walking the earth. He looked at me and said those people were dangerous and I would be wise to leave them be. I tried my best to convince him to tell me where to find the spirit-men, but, not being much of a drinker, I had become intoxicated, and my words stumbled over each other. Mr. Deerfoot looked at me gravely, as if peering into my soul. He took another liberal drink of whiskey and started laughing. He said I should head west into New Mexico Territory, to the town of Las Vegas, and search at the foot of the mountains.
Eventually, I passed out. When I awoke, I was in my bed at the inn were I was lodging. When I asked the innkeeper how I got there, his response puzzled me. He said I came in shortly after dinner and had been there all evening. I inquired about Jonathon Deerfoot. The innkeeper responded by saying I had returned alone. I searched the town for Mr. Deerfoot, but no one had heard of him, not even at the trading post.
John took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to grind aside the coincidence that both he and his great-great-great-grandfather had traveled to Las Vegas, New Mexico to investigate a legend that had its basis in blind obsession.
October 23, 1862
Yesterday, I arrived at a small town, at the foot of the mountains, called Las Vegas. I entered the saloon, seeking room and board. Even though I was in a US territory, the men in the saloon were mostly Mexican, and a few, Indian. Being the only English speaker, I attracted immediate attention.
I attempted to strike up a conversation with a Mexican gentleman standing at the bar. He gave me a peculiar look when I said that Jonathon Deerfoot suggested I visit this town. He informed me he’d never heard of him and walked away. Seated men whispered. They watched while I had a small dinner of potatoes and pork and went to bed.
That night I was awakened by the sound of footsteps outside my room. I rose and looked for my Remington Model 1858, but it was not in its holster. I heard the doorknob twist and saw the door open slowly. The barrel of a revolver peeked through a sliver of light from the hallway. Two shots were fired. I grabbed my chest, expecting wounds, but there were none. Instead, the man in the doorway fell dead. The shots originated from the corner of my room. I looked over and saw the Mexican gentleman from the bar. He tossed me my revolver and told me to pack my things. I thanked him, and then asked why I should trust him, even though he had apparently just saved my life.
He looked at me and said Jonathon Deerfoot had sent him. That was all I needed to hear. Jonathon Deerfoot had sent this man to protect me.
Although it did occur to me that I mentioned Jonathon Deerfoot’s name earlier that evening, I decided to go with him anyway. It was either that or attempt explaining the circumstances surrounding the man’s demise to the constable, if there was one.
I started for the door, but my new friend stopped me, motioning to the window. I crawled onto the roof. We walked to a ladder he had placed against t
he back of the saloon and climbed down. At its base was my wagon. My new friend had liberated my belongings from the stable. My horse was old, the wagon cumbersome, and I feared our escape would be brief. My colleague told me not to worry, that our exit was already secured. At the time, I did not know what he meant, but I quickly found out.
We headed northeast, out of town. In the rear, I heard horses chasing us. Gunshots exploded behind us. I ducked my head and grabbed my ankles, trying to become a small target. My new friend whipped my elderly horse, trying to compel it to move faster.
Suddenly, from behind us, I heard ghastly noises, like a menagerie had been loosed on our pursuers. Their horses neighed and snorted in fear. The riders shouted, trying to regain control of their horses.
My new friend told me not to worry anymore. He said that the horses had become so disoriented that it was impossible for the posse to chase us. I sat upright, thanked him again for his aid, and introduced myself.
He said his name was Oscar Ramirez. I asked him if he really knew Jonathon Deerfoot. He said everyone knew Jonathon Deerfoot. The Territorial government considered him an outlaw, and that’s why those men chased us. They thought I was a co-conspirator.
We traveled for several hours. The sun was rising over the desert to the east. Oscar Ramirez nudged me. I looked up and saw a small settlement by a little body of water. As we got closer, I could make out small houses. Tents surrounded the lake.
We dismounted from the wagon and walked through camp to a small building near the water. It was empty except for a man sitting behind the desk. I recognized him immediately. I had found Jonathon Deerfoot.
I introduced myself to Mr. Deerfoot, saying I had been sent by President Lincoln to implore him and his men to fight for the Union. I was about to deliver an impassioned speech, when Jonathon Deerfoot stood and walked over to me. He put an arm around me and started laughing. He said they wouldn’t be fighting any wars, but there was something I could do for them. I was confused. He said not to worry, that I would understand everything in due time. He invited me to stay and enjoy their hospitality.