by Gary Gusick
“Give me the elevator version of how this thing went down,” said Darla as she stepped on the gas, pushing the Prius up over 100.
“We’re still piecing it together,” he said, “but from what we can tell he planted a series of explosive devices on the property and set them off from somewhere beyond the quarter-mile perimeter we’d set up around the main house. There was an initial explosion at the front entrance. The gate was blown open and ripped all to hell.”
Rita looked at Darla, stunned. Darla understood. To an Elvis fan like Rita, it was almost as if someone had bombed the White House.
“One of the guards out front was hit by debris,” said Paulson. “It looks like he’s okay. The two guards outside the mansion at the front door came running down to see what had happened to the guard at the entrance. When they got down to the entrance, a second explosion occurred. This one was in the basement’s entertainment room.”
“Where Elvis had all his TVs,” said Rita.
“The four first-floor guards ran downstairs. While they were assessing the damage and trying to find the source of the explosion, there were two more explosions that went off simultaneously, one on each of the staircases leading to the basement.”
“So all four of the first-floor guards were trapped in the basement,” said Rita, as though she were seeing the events unfolding in her head.
“Three officers stationed at the rear of the property saw the explosion in the basement, left their posts, and ran into the building to offer their assistance,” said Paulson.
“So the entrance to the back of the property and the entrance to the front door were unprotected, including the stairs leading to the second floor,” said Darla.
Up ahead, a billboard on the side of the road displayed a giant cutout of Elvis in his gold-sequined jumpsuit. VISIT THE KING AT HIS CASTLE. GRACELAND EXIT, 5 MILES AHEAD, it said.
“Riggins got on the grounds from the back of the property with the hostage in hand,” said Paulson. “He made his way to the main entrance, then waltzed through the front door and up the stairs to the second floor, before any of the officers could get to him. I hate to admit it, but he completely outfoxed us.”
“He’s had a long time to plan things,” said Darla.
“At least there’s only one officer injured,” said Paulson.
“Have you gone back in the main house yet?” asked Darla.
“We secured the main floor and the basement. I stationed a five-man SWAT team at the bottom of the first-floor stairs. Riggins spotted them. He says if they set foot on the stairs he’ll take out Elvis. He means the hostage.”
“And no other way to get eyes on him?” asked Darla.
“He’s knocked out the security monitors for the second floor,” Paulson said.
“That’s his MO,” said Rita.
“Do you have access to klieg lights?” asked Darla, steering the Prius through the Memphis streets now, headed toward Elvis Presley Boulevard, hearing the sirens in the distance.
“What in God’s name for?” asked Paulson.
“I have an idea,” said Darla.
“Hold on while I check,” said Paulson. He came back on the line a few seconds later. “They’ve got four in the storage area.”
“Set them around the perimeter of the Graceland property, front, back, and sides, aimed at the house.”
“I’m sorry, why are we doing this?” asked Paulson.
“Don’t worry,” said Darla. “It won’t intimidate Riggins that he can’t see what’s going on. He’ll feel like he’s on a giant stage, basking in the spotlight. That’s exactly where he wants to be.”
“What do you think he has planned?” asked Paulson.
“A public execution,” said Darla.
—
When they arrived at Graceland, the stately-looking house was bathed in light.
Elvis’s home was lit up like a Christmas tree except the parts that looked like something you’d see in a war zone after being hit by an IED.
The Memphis PD had set two perimeters, one around the house itself, and one that encompassed the Graceland property as well the annex across the street from the main house. There were close to fifty law enforcement types on hand, mostly uniformed: Memphis PD, but also a dozen or so from the sheriff’s department, and a handful of suits that Darla recognized as FBI agents belonging to Henry Jendlin.
Darla and Rita made their way through the various barricades to the command center, set up in the Rockabilly Café in the center of the annex, directly across the street from the main house.
Chief Paulson, Henry Jendlin, and two plainclothes cops were staring at a set of blank computer screens as Darla and Rita entered. The two women joined the group in front of the screens.
“We’ve made cellphone contact with Riggins,” said Jendlin, “but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone but the press. And once we let him do that I’m afraid he’s going to kill the hostage.”
“What did you tell him about sending in the press?” asked Darla.
“I stalled,” said Jendlin. “I told him somebody from WMIS was on their way. Of course every TV station in Memphis is already here. As you might expect, Josh Klein has already requested to do the interview. Not going to happen.”
“At least we know what part of the mansion Riggins and the hostage are in,” said Chief Paulson.
“The bathroom,” said Rita. “He’s in the second-floor bathroom, isn’t he, Elvis’s bathroom?”
The chief looked at her puzzled. “How’d you know?”
“That’s where Elvis died,” said Darla.
“On the toilet,” said Rita.
“Riggins is planning a reenactment of Elvis’s death. He wants the world to see Elvis slumped over on the commode,” said Darla. “The final humiliation. Elvis died of a heart attack and I expect that’s what Riggins has in mind for Hailburn.”
“That dirty bastard is going to kill the King while he’s sitting on the throne,” said Rita.
“You’re an expert on these matters?” asked Chief Paulson, eyeballing Rita.
“She’s an Elvis fan,” said Darla. “They’re all experts on this kind of thing.”
“We have a negotiator on the way by jet helicopter from Atlanta,” said Jendlin. “He’s our best man. Basically, all we do now is wait.”
“A negotiator won’t do any good,” said Darla. “The media is the only one Riggins wants to talk to, and the longer we force him to wait, the more unstable he’s going to become.”
“So what do we do?” asked Chief Paulson.
“Give him what he wants,” said Darla.
“We’re not sending in a film crew,” said Jendlin. “It’s too dangerous. Even if Klein and one of his camera crew are willing to risk their life, I’m not going for it.”
Darla looked Rita in the eye. “You know how to operate a video recorder?” she asked.
“I was the one that recorded all our family birthday parties,” said Rita. “Everybody said I did real good.”
“Close enough,” said Darla.
Chapter 27
Speak into the Microphone
The case had become federal when Riggins kidnapped Hailburn and took him across state lines from Mississippi to Tennessee. The decision about what to do now was Henry Jendlin’s.
Jendlin had worked with Darla before. He knew she could keep her cool under pressure, but if she didn’t play her hand just right, if she lost control of the situation, if Riggins saw through her, Hailburn was a goner. And what about Rita Gibbons? Jendlin knew Darla trusted her, but Rita was a relatively inexperienced officer who’d already overreacted in a life-and-death situation. “It’s too risky,” Jendlin told Darla.
Darla wasn’t going to be stopped. “What Riggins wants,” she said, “and he wants this more than anything in the world, is for Hailburn, who he is convinced is Elvis, to make a public apology. He’s not going to settle for anything less.” She looked in Jendlin’s eyes. “Really, Henry, there’s no other way.”
“I need a minute alone,” said Jendlin. He walked outside the Rockabilly and breathed in the night air. The parking lot was filled with cop cars. More were arriving by the minute. He had all the backup he needed and the best negotiator in the Southeast on his way. But Darla was right. None of that would do him any good if Riggins didn’t get the TV interview he was demanding. And how long would Riggins be willing to wait?
He looked through the café window, caught Darla’s eye, and gave her the thumbs-up.
—
Tech support had set up a direct line to Riggins’s cell. Jendlin had already used it once and established rapport with Riggins, calling him Carl. He got on the landline at the command center inside the Rockabilly, putting the call through on the speakerphone, so that Darla and Rita and others could listen.
“Carl, it’s Agent Jendlin. I’ve got some good news.”
“I’m listening,” said Riggins.
“We’re going to do this thing your way. We going to put you on camera with a top interviewer and let you tell your story.”
“It better not be the reporter from WMIS that was outside the convention center,” said Riggins. “The one that’s been calling my act of retribution the ‘Elvis Atrocities.’ ”
Jendlin chuckled. “Josh Klein? No. He took a pass.”
Riggins laughed. “I always figured that little peckerwood was a chickenshit at heart.”
“Besides,” Jendlin said, “UNN sees this as a national story. They’re sending in one of their best reporters, a woman. Actually, they’re sending in a team. There’s a second woman who operates the camera. They just arrived. UNN wants to do a whole segment on you and your mission. That’s what you want, right, Carl?”
The line went silent as Riggins weighed the offer. “When are they going to broadcast my story?” he asked.
“It’s nearly three a.m. on the East Coast,” said Jendlin, “It will take a while to edit, but they’re planning on doing a feature tomorrow morning on This Week in America, their Sunday newsmagazine.”
“You’ll need to send me an iPad so I can watch it live,” said Riggins. “If I like what I see, maybe we can talk about Elvis’s future, but not before then. Understood?”
Jendlin knew better. Riggins was planning to kill Hailburn on camera. “You’re not giving me a lot of choices here, Carl.”
“And if either of the women comes up the stairs armed, Elvis is going night-night for good,” said Riggins.
“Okay, Carl. You got a deal. But if you do anything to harm these reporters, I’m sending the SWAT team in right away. Listen to what I’m saying. This is the only chance you’re going to get to tell your story. So don’t blow it.”
“When are they coming in?” asked Riggins. Jendlin could hear the excitement in his voice.
“Sit tight, Carl. It won’t be long.” He turned to Darla with a sigh of relief. They’d made it over the first hurdle.
—
Darla was dressed in one of her usual designer pantsuits. She would have no trouble passing as a network reporter. She shed her jacket so that Riggins could see that she wasn’t packing. Of course, the .380 Taurus remained strapped to her ankle, hidden under her pant leg, its snap unfastened.
Rita, who was wearing a jacket, silk top, and jeans, removed her jacket, too. By now all the TV stations had arrived on the scene. One of the women on the UNN crew had on a T-shirt that said UNN on the front. Rita swapped tops with her, stuffed her Glock in the back of her jeans, and mounted the small TV camera on her shoulder. A butterfly tat on her right arm completed the look.
“Good thing it’s not Elvis,” said Darla, commenting on the tat.
“I thought about getting one,” said Rita. “But you know how men can be about seeing another man’s name like that.”
Darla would be first in. Posing as the interviewer, she’d the carry a handheld microphone. Rita would follow, the camera pointing over Darla’s shoulder.
“You think there’s any chance you can talk Riggins into surrendering once he does the interview and Hailburn apologizes?” Jendlin asked Darla.
“I’m probably going to have to take him out.” She turned to Rita. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“I ain’t the one with a good-looking husband waiting for me at home,” Rita answered.
“Good point,” said Darla.
The two women stepped out of the command center in the Rockabilly Café, crossed Elvis Presley Boulevard, passed the gnarled wrought iron gates at the opening to the property, then walked up the driveway and through the front door. The steps to the second floor were directly in front of them.
“What do you think?” asked Rita.
“The house is a lot smaller than I thought,” said Darla.
“That’s what everybody says.”
The staircase was covered in cream-colored plush carpet. At the top of the steps, the peacock-blue curtain barred the entrance to the bedrooms and bathrooms. Since Elvis Presley’s death in 1977, with the exception of Priscilla, Lisa Marie Presley, and the Graceland curator, no one had set foot behind the blue curtain.
The four-man SWAT team was in place at the bottom of the stairs, out of view. Using rope ladders, a second two-man SWAT team had scaled the back of the house and was stationed outside the frosted master bathroom window, where Riggins was believed to be holding Hailburn.
The women climbed the stairs, Darla leading the way, Rita at her shoulder. At the top step, Darla paused. “Hello,” she called, making herself sound a little unsure. “I’m looking for Carl Perkins. It’s Jacklin Towns from UNN.”
“Anybody with you?” Riggins’s voice came back from somewhere behind the curtain.
“Just my camera lady, Judy,” said Darla.
“Let me hear her.”
“Howdy, Mr. Perkins, it’s Judy Grossman.”
“Is Elvis still alive, Carl?” asked Darla.
“How do I know I can trust you?” asked Riggins.
“I need to hear Elvis, or we’re not going any further. We’ll only do the interview with the two of you. That’s what you want anyway, isn’t it?”
Twenty seconds passed. “I’m alive,” a second voice said.
“All right, we’re coming in,” said Darla. “Just me and the camera lady.”
Darla pulled back the curtain. Directly ahead of them was a hallway with two doorways on each side.
“Which room are you in, Carl?” asked Darla. When she didn’t get an answer, Darla said, “I’m not going to play hide-and-seek.”
“End of the hall, on the right,” Riggins said.
The door was ajar. Darla pushed it open and she and Rita entered what she took to be Elvis Presley’s bedroom. Most of the room was taken up by a king-sized bed with a gold brocade coverlet. An oil portrait of Elvis’s parents hung on the right wall. The left wall had a similar-sized oil painting of Lisa Marie. The two portraits looked as though they’d been painted by the same artist. At the far end of the left wall was a hallway that led to the master bath.
Rita was tucked in behind Darla, with camera already running, its red “on” light flashing. The network truck parked across the street was picking up video and audio.
As Darla approached the entrance to the hallway leading to the master bath, she caught a glimpse of Hailburn in profile. He sat naked, his midsection duct-taped to the commode. His ankles and his hands were similarly bound. Riggins stood behind his captive with the point of a loaded syringe an inch from Hailburn’s neck.
Riggins had discarded the beard and mustache, but still wore a suit coat. His gun was holstered. His right hand rested on Hailburn’s shoulder. Apparently he thought the syringe at Hailburn’s neck was enough of a threat.
Another few steps and Darla saw the sweat dripping down Hailburn’s face. He appeared ready to throw up, but he was careful not to budge. He looked up at Darla in a way that made her think maybe he had some notion about what she was up to.
“Here we are, Carl,” said Darla, businesslike. “You ready for you
r interview?”
“I’ve never seen you on television,” said Riggins. “How do I know you’re not a cop?”
“Does she look like a cop to you?” said Rita. “She’s network.”
Riggins seemed or be thinking things over. “Show me your hands,” said Riggins. “Both of you.”
Darla, the mic in her left hand, and Rita, with the camera strapped on her, held up their arms. “We’re not armed,” Darla said.
“You got that thing turned on?” Riggins asked, indicating the camera.
“You see that flashing little red light?” said Rita. “We’re recording right now.”
“Only I’ll need to be a little closer or the mic won’t pick up everything,” said Darla. Without waiting for his okay, Darla walked forward, Rita behind, until both women were at the edge of the bathroom, less than ten feet from Riggins and his hostage.
“That’s far enough.” Riggins’s left eye began to twitch. He moved his right hand to his Glock, like he was thinking about pulling it from the holster.
“We’re not sticking around if you’re going to try to shoot us, Carl,” said Darla. “So either take your hand away from the gun or Judy and I are out of here.” Darla stepped back.
Riggins pulled his hand away. “You don’t leave until Elvis apologizes, you understand?”
“That’s what were here for, Carl,” said Darla, her voice calm, just this side of soothing.
“I got something to say and you’re going to record it,” said Riggins, still sounding threatened. “After that, Elvis is gonna apologize for what he done to me.”
I need to come across more relaxed, thought Darla, or he’s going to come unglued. “No problem, Carl. We’ll just take one step at a time. First, if you’d just give us your name.”
Riggins looked at her funny, like maybe she was making fun of him.
“For the millions of viewers all across the country,” she explained. “So they’ll know who you are, your real identity. So there won’t be any confusion.”
Riggins nodded, and ran his free hand through his hair. “Well, as you can see, I’m Carl Perkins, singer and songwriter,” he said, sounding like a shy country boy. “And this here is…” He looked down at Hailburn. “This is Elvis Pres—” He choked on the words, and let his hand fall toward the Glock.