Once Elvis Presley, Church, and I were alone in the room, I held up the photograph for him to see. His face grew red. “Who took that picture?” he blurted out.
“You didn’t?” I asked.
“No sir. I did not.”
“You’re sure?”
“I was a, uh, little busy at the time,” he said.
Church, meanwhile, was examining the mailing envelope. He tapped a finger on the cancelled stamps. “Mr. Presley, where were you six days ago?”
“The third?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see. That would have been Indianapolis, I think. We’re zigzagging across the country, more or less. Cleveland to Detroit to Cincinnati to Grand Rapids to Grand Bay, then we’re up to Marquette, then a long trip over to Green Bay. From there we’ve got an extended run in Branson, Missouri.”
I took the mailing envelope from Church and examined the postage. The envelope, its photographs and blackmail note had been mailed from Grand Bay, Michigan, while our Elvis Presley was in Indianapolis, Indiana.
“Huh,” I said.
“You can say that again,” Church said. “Mr. Presley, you can go now.”
Elvis nodded and left. Church said, “Any more bright ideas?”
I looked at the stamps on the mailing envelope. “Well, just one. But it’s a good one.”
RAY CHURCH AND I were watching the tide of visitors ebb and flow through the Kingston house, a neat colonial with robin’s-egg blue vinyl siding and a beautiful crop of Kentucky blue for a lawn.
“I feel guilty,” I said. “I should’ve noticed the stamp. Things might’ve been different.”
Church shrugged. “You also told her to inform you when he contacted her and she didn’t. She went and met him alone instead. If she’d listened to you in the first place-it’s what she was paying you for-she’d be alive. Of course, it’s possible you’d be dead. Frankly, I’d rather try to figure out who killed Alicia Kingston than try to figure out who killed you.”
“I’m touched,” I said.
“It’s hard to find good fishing partners,” he said.
“You say I talk too much and scare the fish.”
He smirked. “You do. It’s possible that’s what makes you a good fishing partner.”
We lapsed into silence. A couple people left the house, then another two cars arrived and a herd of people tramped to the front door and disappeared within.
Ray said, “Do other artists have imitators? I mean, are there Frank Sinatra imitators? Where’s that imitation thing come from, anyway?”
I shrugged. “I always felt like Elvis was imitating himself, there toward the end. Maybe it was a natural progression.”
“Huh. Sounds like a master’s thesis.”
“It probably already is,” I said.
We watched three more cars arrive. Church said, “Ready?”
“Sure.” I walked down the street and entered through the front door, mingling with this particular group of well-wishers. The Kingston house was crowded with mourners and family and friends. I nodded and shook hands, murmured my condolences, mingled, and kept my eyes open. John Kingston was tall and thin with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. To my mind he seemed to be handling the murder of his wife rather well. A number of attractive women were quick to drift his way whenever the weight of his grief threatened to overwhelm him, which it seemed to do at regularly timed intervals. Then his blue eyes would swell with tears and he would excuse himself, set his punch, juice, or coffee cup down and retreat to a back bedroom, the attractive ladyfriend following in his wake.
The third time this happened in the ninety minutes I was there I picked up his Styrofoam cup of juice and gracefully made an exit, walked down the street, and climbed into Ray Church’s Ford Explorer.
“Got it?” he said.
“You make sure to keep me updated,” I said.
“You bet.”
RAY DID BETTER than that. He put me in the observation room when they brought John Kingston in. Kingston refused to talk without his attorney, but his attorney showed up in an hour. It was a small town, ultimately.
“Okay,” said the attorney, a snowy-haired old smoothie who’d been practicing law ever since Clarence Darrow made his case against God. “Lay it out for us.”
“Your client’s being arrested in the murder of his wife,” Church said. “He had a private investigator in Detroit follow her to the Amazing Elvis Extravaganza in Detroit and photographed her having sex with one of the Elvis impersonators. He then took the photographs, mailed them to his wife with a blackmail note in order to get her to go to a hotel room at the Resort to meet him. He registered under the name Elvis Presley and wore a wig, glasses, and sideburns so he would blend in with the one hundred and one other Elvis impersonators. When Alicia came into the room he stabbed her in the heart and left.”
The attorney yawned, blinked, and said, “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. You can’t prove any of it.”
“We’ll see,” Church said. “But I can prove he sent the blackmail letter. His house is being searched now and we’ll be going through his accounts to track down the P.I.”
Church then held up a sheet of paper that looked like a blotchy barcode. “This is a copy of Mr. Kingston’s DNA fingerprint taken from a cup of juice he was drinking in his house.” He held up another sheet of paper. “It’s identical to this one. Which was taken off the postage stamps on the envelope the photographs came in.” He shook his head. “Elvis stamps, no less. Should’ve used self-adhesive, Mr. Kingston. As you’re aware, counselor, that’s probable cause. I have warrants to search his house, his office, and draw blood for an official DNA sample. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Kingston?”
Kingston looked stunned. “Why would I do that? Why would I kill my wife?”
“Having sex with an Elvis impersonator isn’t enough?” Church said.
“That’s nuts! I’d just get a divorce. I wouldn’t murder her.”
Church leaned over and inspected something else in the file next to him. He held it out to John Kingston. “Just in case you were wondering if the only thing I had so far was the DNA samples, I’ve been busy. And we’re only getting going, John. When we’re done with you, your life is going to look like a large print easy-to-read edition. The truth is, I didn’t think you’d murder her over her infidelities. But I do think you’d murder her over a half-million life insurance policy.”
He leaned toward John Kingston. “Elvis is dead, John. And so are you.”
Bring Me the Head of Osama bin Laden A Hollywood Fable by GARY PHILLIPS
FADE IN.
ON SCREEN
[Sometime in the near past.]
INT. ALAN ROSS’S OFFICE-DAY
