Officer Elvis

by Gary Gusick

  “Was the room locked last night?”

  “The maintenance man secured the East Room when he left. Another one of the maintenance crew came by and unlocked the room this morning, around ten thirty. He didn’t touch the microphone, so we don’t know if it was hot. We’re having him checked out, too. But he’s nearly seventy. On his pickup he has one of these “I’ll have a brew” bumper stickers and he broke down in tears when he found out about the murder.”

  Jendlin’s cell chimed and he answered. “Okay,” he said, after a few seconds, “send them in.” He turned to Darla. “Brewsome’s campaign. They want to get the banners for the next rally.”

  “What do we know about the convention center security this morning?” asked Darla.

  “There was activity here on and off this morning,” said Jendlin. “The convention center was under level-one security. They had a uniformed guard at the main entrance, one at the information desk, and two uniformed guards at the entrance around back.

  “There was foot traffic back and forth at the rear entrance starting at about seven thirty a.m. The Central Mississippi High School Science Fair is being held in the second-floor West Room tomorrow morning. Parents and kids were coming and going all morning, dropping off and setting up their exhibits. It was mostly kids and parents together, but not in every case. Some parents came alone and dropped off their kid’s exhibits on their way to work.”

  A pair of college-aged kids, wearing Brewsome T-shirts and carrying ladders, hustled into the East Room and set about taking down the I’LL HAVE A BREW banner.

  “Don’t you just love politics?” said Darla.

  Jendlin frowned. “What was I supposed to say? Brewsome’s a U.S. senator.”

  “Did the security cameras record everything this morning?” asked Darla.

  “The security people had the video monitor fixed on the rear entrance,” said Jendlin. “They videoed everyone who came and went this morning. It’s a good bet we’ve got a video of the killer’s face. I’ve sent the tape over to the combined-forces data center. Our friend Uther has developed his own facial recognition software. He can compare the faces of everybody who was here with driver’s licenses, photo IDs, with everyone in the country. Within twenty-four hours we’ll have a complete personal history profile of everybody who was in this building this morning. Criminal backgrounds, extreme political activity, hate groups. We’ll start the interview process. In the meantime we’ll set up a media hotline.”

  “Good,” said Darla.

  “Unfortunately,” said Jendlin, “the convention center’s security cameras weren’t in operation in this room.”

  “Someone shut the camera down?”

  “It isn’t unusual. If a room is not in use, they shut the eye off. The security guy monitoring the system says it’s easier for him to stay on top of the activity in the rooms that are active if he doesn’t have too many cameras on.”

  “Also known as not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time excuse,” said Darla.

  “We’re checking him out,” said Jendlin, “seeing if we can find any connection to Ms. Ruskin or to Senator Brewsome, but I doubt it.”

  Having unfastened the banner, the two college kids jumped down off the ladder. They began folding the banner as carefully as if it were an American flag.

  “Were there any specific threats toward the candidate?” asked Darla.

  “None that we know of,” said Jendlin. “Alan Brewsome is probably the most popular political figure in the state. Even his opponents say he’s a nice guy.”

  “Thank you, sir, ma’am!” one of the kids yelled as he and his buddy left the room. Jendlin looked their way and waved, but didn’t say anything.

  “How sure are you that Ms. Ruskin was the intended vic?” asked Darla. “Was she specifically directed to do a sound check?”

  “I was just coming to that,” said Jendlin. “Her duties at the rally site weren’t spelled out, as such. She was an experienced advance person. One of the best, from what I hear. The campaign director trusted her to do whatever was necessary to get the rally site ready. He said she always did a sound check. For now, I’m assuming the killer knew that.”

  “But what if the killer didn’t know she was doing a check? Who would be the next person to speak into the microphone?”

  “Brewsome’s campaign manager, Scott Tidwell. He’d be the first person to speak at the rally. He’s like the emcee. He introduces all the other participants. If this thing was politically motivated, murdering him would make even more sense than Ms. Ruskin. Everybody in the audience, plus the media and TV audiences, would have seen him die. Expand that to national media, and millions of people would have witnessed Scott Tidwell’s death. So, maybe it was aimed at Tidwell. But like I said, Ms. Ruskin always came in before the speakers arrived to do sound checks.”

  “Something is just a little bit off here, isn’t it, Henry?”

  “You’re sensing it, too?” said Jendlin. “It’s something we’re not seeing.”

  “And obviously the campaign isn’t about to cancel any of its events,” said Darla.

  “The election is only two weeks away,” said Jendlin. “We’ve got a major mess on our hands. Mississippi is just one small town after another. Both campaigns have rallies planned all over the state. We’re going to beef up security as much as possible in the next few days and hope that we can catch the SOB. Then there’s the issue of the media. We’ve kept them at bay so far. They don’t really know what’s happened. But once we’re convinced this is a terror act, we have a responsibility to the public to let them know. We could end up with Homeland Security involved.”

  “Would it be possible for me to take a look at the security tape?” Darla asked. “I know Uther is going to be all over this thing but I’d still like to see the footage for myself.”

  “Take the elevator to the basement,” said Jendlin. “Turn right. The building’s video security office is the first door on your left.”

  Darla turned off the recorder and was on her way downstairs. As she reached the elevator, she turned and walked back to Jendlin. “Something else just occurred to me,” she said. “Did anybody print up programs for the rally?”

  “There’s a stack of them over there.” Jendlin pointed to one of the folding chairs.

  Darla picked up and read a copy of the one-page program. An item caught her eye. She took out her phone, placed a call, and talked for about two minutes, then hung up. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  Henry Jendlin was a few feet away, talking with one of his agents. “If you wouldn’t mind, Darla,” he said, looking over at her, “I’m a Christian. I don’t approve of taking our savior’s name in vain.”

  “Hopefully, it won’t be in vain,” said Darla.

  Chapter 13

  The Extractor

  MBI CONFERENCE ROOM

  LATER THAT DAY

  It took a couple of hours for Darla to check her theory out and then assemble all the players.

  Darla sat on one side of the MBI conference room table. Shelby, Henry Jendlin, Uther Pendragon Johnson, and Detective Rita Gibbons, currently serving as Shelby’s administrative assistant, sat across from her, facing the windowed wall, the white dome of the Beaux Arts state capitol looking back at them.

  I guess you call this diversity, thought Darla, surveying the room. There was Shelby, who always looked like a frontier sheriff no matter what he wore; Jendlin, the prototypical well-scrubbed FBI agent; Uther, a young African American in a black suit, bow tie, and thick glasses; and the petite Rita Gibbons, prettier and less flamboyantly dressed than Darla had remembered, but still with a big head of strawberry blond hair.

  “Okay, Miss Darla,” Shelby said, “the congregation is present. It’s time for the invocation.”

  Darla looked at each one. “Any of you hear of a Dr. Daryl Quenzel?”

  “I’ve seen the name somewhere,” said Shelby. “Let me think.”

  Uther Googled the name o
n his iPad and was about to present his findings when Rita raised her hand. “Elvis the Extractor is what he goes by,” she said.

  “He’s a dentist,” said Darla. “Like Tommy, he does Elvis impersonations on the side.”

  “He was fifth at the contest up in Tupelo last year,” said Rita. “But I had him fourth.”

  Darla passed around the flyer for Senator Alan Brewsome’s rally. “Dr. Quenzel was scheduled to perform at Senator Brewsome’s event this afternoon.”

  “If you’re saying he was the target like Tommy Reylander, it doesn’t make sense,” said Jendlin, looking at the flyer. “His performance wasn’t scheduled until later in the program, right before Senator Brewsome was going to speak. There were three other people ahead of this Elvis dentist guy.”

  “Elvis the Extractor,” Rita said, not raising her voice.

  “Okay,” said Jendlin, rolling his eyes. “Elvis the Extractor, if you will. But there were three people preceding him on the program who would have touched the microphone first.”

  “So it would seem,” said Darla. “I phoned Dr. Quenzel a half hour ago. He’s performed at the convention center over a dozen times in the last year. He always comes down to do a sound check the day of the performance. And it’s always during the noon hour, so it doesn’t interfere with his practice. But today he didn’t show. Elvis the Extractor had an extraction. It was an emergency, an abscessed tooth. The procedure took all morning and he had to push his other appointments back. He never made it to the sound check. I believe Dr. Quenzel was the target. If he had done his usual sound check at noon, he would have touched the mic before anyone else.”

  “If you’re trying to say this was connected to the Reylander murder, that’s a huge stretch,” said Jendlin, who was FBI-trained to be cautious in his analysis.

  “There’s more,” said Darla. “I checked the obituaries of all the newspapers in the state for the last month. Three different obits mentioned that the dearly departed was an amateur Elvis impersonator. All three of these men died in accidents. One when he fell off his fishing boat. Another died in a slip-and-fall in his home. The third drove off an overpass. All ruled accidental deaths.”

  Shelby took his feet off the table and sat up straight. “Is what you’re saying what I think you’re saying, Miss Darla?”

  “What I’m saying,” said Darla, “is…”

  Rita broke in, her blue eyes the size of saucers. “What the detective is saying is we’ve been thinking terrorist. We ought to be thinking serial killer.”

  “Incredible,” said Jendlin.

  “Indeed,” said Uther. “Indeed.”

  The room went quiet, the craziness of it sinking in. Shelby left the conference room for his office and he returned with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and a stack of Dixie cups. “I think it’s time we made a visit to the scotch stand,” he said. He turned to Rita and handed her the cups. “Pass these out, would you, please?”

  —

  Everybody in the office had a round, except Shelby, who had two.

  “Okay, let’s move on to the back nine,” said Shelby and wiped his hand across his face.

  “It looks like you’re right, Darla,” said Jendlin. “Five Elvis impersonators dead in the same month. It’s hard to believe it’s a coincidence.”

  Rita cleared her throat. “They prefer the term ‘tribute artists,’ ” she said.

  “The deaths are similar in other ways,” said Darla. “There was no collateral damage. They all required meticulous advance planning, even though today’s murder didn’t go as planned.”

  “Director Haverty ain’t going to be pleased to hear this,” said Shelby. “Neither is the governor.”

  “We have to assume the murderer is planning to strike again,” said Darla.

  “Right,” said Jendlin. “If your theory is true, judging from how carefully he’s executed these murders, he’s more than likely planned out his next move, and the one after that.”

  “The first three deaths, the ones I found in the obituaries, didn’t even look like murders,” said Darla. “But now, with both Tommy and the intended target, Dr. Quenzel, the killer has made his actions clear.”

  “It might help if we knew what he has against all these Elvis dudes?” said Shelby.

  “It ain’t about singing ability,” said Rita, looking around the room to see if it was all right to continue. Everybody including Darla looked at her and waited. “Elvis the Extractor, he’s got a voice like the real deal,” Rita said. “On the other hand, Detective Reylander—well, I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “The killer might be a tribute artist himself,” said Darla. “It could be that he’s jealous of the attention other performers are getting, deserved or undeserved. Or maybe he’s an Elvis fan and wants to punish the performers for imitating his idol. Or he hates Elvis and is trying to eradicate his memory.”

  “But why now? Why are the killings talking place this week?” asked Jendlin.

  “That’s easy,” said Rita. “Ultimate Elvis is coming up, a week from tomorrow, up in Tupelo.”

  “Right,” said Shelby. “The statewide Elvis impersonating contest. The one that Tommy used to enter every year and always come in last at. It’s one of the biggest events in the state. Maybe not as big as the Ole Miss versus State game, but way bigger than the monster truck pull at the Coliseum.”

  “This would fit the pattern,” said Darla. “Something public. To be on the safe side, I think we need to consider every Elvis entertainer that’s scheduled to perform between now and the Tupelo contest as a potential target.”

  Shelby cleared his throat and looked in Jendlin’s direction. “Before we get any further into this, we need to decide who’s going out to the fifty-yard line for the coin toss on this.”

  “This appears to be a Mississippi-based situation,” said Jendlin. “Since Darla is already involved with the Reylander murder, and since the FBI is supposed to be focusing its energies on terrorism, I’d like the MBI to pick up this one.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” said Shelby, chewing hard on his tobacco, “but there ain’t no way around it. This is a Mississippi hate crime and that’s part of our charter.”

  “If possible, I’d like Uther to stay on to help,” said Darla. “The facial recognition software he’s developed could be our best bet at identifying the killer.”

  Jendlin looked to Uther, who nodded. “A most interesting case,” said Uther. “I am at the detective’s disposal.”

  Darla stood, placed her hands on the conference room table, and leaned in. “As I see it, we have three tasks here. The first is to locate, inform, and protect the potential targets. The second is to identify the killer and apprehend him, hopefully before he strikes again. And the third is to keep a lid on this. If the media gets wind of what I think is happening, Elvis fans could form a posse and go after this guy themselves.”

  Shelby looked at Rita. “If that happens, you ain’t joining them, understand?”

  “I’m police first,” said Rita. “I give my word.”

  “That means no interviews,” said Darla. “No leaks, no answering any questions from any reporters. And no discussion of any sort about the case until we absolutely have to.”

  “What a damn mess,” said Shelby.

  “I’m going to need you to do something for me right away, Uther,” said Darla.

  Uther’s eyes were glued to his iPad. He peered over his thick glasses at Darla. “If I am anticipating correctly, Detective,” he said, “you are about to ask if I have identified the time, the venue, and performer at each Elvis event leading up to the Tupelo contest.”

  “Your voice sounds like somebody from the movies, but I can’t place it,” said Rita to Uther. “My daddy told me I have an ear for such things.”

  “It’s Sidney Poitier,” said Darla.

  “That’s the one,” said Rita, impressed. “Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

  “A long story, the details of which I won’t bother
you with,” Uther answered shyly.

  “It wouldn’t be a bother,” said Rita, looking him up and down.

  Darla cleared her throat. “We need to get back to what it is Uther was going to show us,” she said.

  “By all means.” Uther sat up in his chair. “If you would like to check your email. I’ve sent each of you a chart.”

  Checking their smartphones, there it was. Each of them opened the email and began studying the chart.

  “As you can see,” said Uther, “I’ve managed to find four events in Mississippi, involving Elvis tribute artists scheduled prior to the contest in Tupelo. The first is a performance by gentleman named Roger Everson, at the Jupiter Casino in Choctaw this Monday. His act is titled Yours Truly, Elvis. Mr. Everson has a day job as a logger on a pine tree plantation, located somewhere in northern Winston County. He resides in a trailer off Highway 25.”

  Shelby shook his head. “How’d you find all this so fast?”

  “Social networking,” said Uther.

  “I suppose you also know what he’s having for dinner,” said Darla.

  “I can tell you that,” said Rita. “Elvis’s favorite. Peanut butter and bananas. And I’ll bet it’s fried. ’Cause, really, what else could it be?”

  “The next scheduled event, following Mr. Everson’s casino engagement, is Tuesday evening,” said Uther. “A special service at the Southern Church of the Holy Redeemer, here in Jackson, a singing sermon called The Gospel According to Elvis. Visiting pastor ‘Jumbo’ Elvis Peterson promises to sing his way through the New Testament.”

  “Everybody knows Pastor Jumbo,” said Rita. “He’s even been on Entertainment USA. He’s the largest, physically speaking, of the tribute artists in the state.”

  “Correct again, Ms. Gibbons,” said Uther. “Pastor Jumbo’s weight is listed at three hundred sixty-eight pounds.”

  “He’s on the tall side, so the weight don’t look all quite so bad on him,” said Rita.