The Lady Justice Trilogy, page 33
Every crime has a motive. The obvious motive here was the $25,000 prize and the opportunity to perform at the history-making debut of the lost Elvis tapes. The winner would be the subject of music lore for years, and it could possibly be the jump-start of a new career.
If this were indeed the motive, the obvious suspects would be the finalists themselves. Someone was eliminating the competition.
I stopped by Captain Short’s office and asked if he had a list of the finalists. I shared my theory with him and wasn’t really surprised when he said that the brass were way ahead of me.
Assigning officers to guard the contestants was to be expected. The bonus would be the opportunity to keep an eye on them for suspicious activity.
He copied the list, and I headed home for rehearsal. The song I chose for my second number was Heartbreak Hotel. I donned my jumpsuit, flipped on the CD player, and visualized Elvis belting out his classic hit.
What I discovered was that learning moves to a song wasn’t unlike learning a new dance step.
Maggie and I had taken dozens of dance lessons, and when the instructor introduced a new step, we would often struggle for hours with the timing and footwork. But if we kept at it, everything would eventually fall into place. After we finally got it, we would practice the step and incorporate it into our normal routine, and somehow it got hardwired into our bodies. After that, the movements came naturally.
I stayed in front of the mirror and repeated the song over and over until I didn’t even have to think about it.
I was ready.
After hours of exhausting practice, I sat down with a glass of Arbor Mist and pulled out the list of contestants. The department had put together a very detailed account of each man’s life. After all, they were suspects. I had seen several of them perform in the clubs before I was drafted, but I hadn’t seen them all.
As I read through the list, it was quite obvious that the younger set dominated the competition. Ten of the contestants were between eighteen and thirty. One guy was forty-five, and I came crippling along at sixty-six.
The only mature jumpsuit Elvis’s were two old guys. It would be interesting to see if age and experience would win out over youthful exuberance.
Kemper Arena was packed.
All 19,500 seats had been sold, and a screen had been set up outside the arena for fans that couldn’t get a ticket.
Maggie and I arrived an hour before show time and were escorted into the bowels of the huge arena to a small underground wing housing a series of small, private dressing rooms.
The wing had massive heavy doors that could be locked tight for security purposes. Over the years, celebrities and rock stars had performed at the Kemper, and this heavily guarded sanctuary was designed to insulate the idols from their adoring fans.
Maggie did her magic once again and transformed the old fart into a rock star as best she could. My advantage at the Kemper was that I was farther away from the audience than I was at the intimate club. My wrinkles and waddle were harder to detect from a distance.
I was to perform in the tenth slot, so I settled in for a long wait.
Maggie took her seat in the audience, and I sat in silence, rehearsing each move over and over.
Finally, there was a knock on the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Morgan.”
And of course the buzzards returned in full force. I was led through the labyrinth of halls to a stairway that opened into a backstage holding area. Contestant number nine was just finishing his act, and I peeked around a curtain onto the arena stage.
“Holy crap!”
I had been to the Kemper and Sprint Center before, usually sitting somewhere in the nosebleed section, and it was always an awesome experience.
But there was no way I could ever imagine the impact and thrill of actually being on the stage, bathed in spotlights, with 19,000 screaming fans cheering me on.
There is no doubt in my mind that everyone at some time in their life imagines themselves in the spotlight as a singer, dancer, musician, or poet, but few actually get to live it.
It was awesome!
Then I heard the announcer’s booming voice. “Please welcome contestant number ten representing Westport, Mr. Mike Morgan, ‘Grandpa Elvis.’”
I strode onto the stage, and thank goodness I had practiced until my performance was automatic because my brain was on overload.
I queued the technician, and as Jailhouse Rock boomed through the auditorium, my body kicked into gear.
I have to admit, in retrospect, I can’t really remember what I did. It all just happened, but I still vividly remember the thunderous applause as I bowed and left the stage.
A stagehand guided me back through the hallway maze to my dressing room, and I closed the door. I collapsed into a chair in a daze, my mind still reeling from the impact of that amazing experience.
After about fifteen minutes, I started coming down from my adrenaline-induced high and changed into my civvies. I was finished for the evening.
As each ticket holder took their seats, they were given a ballot with twelve entrants. They were to circle their four favorites and turn the ballot in as they exited the building. The four contestants with the highest number of votes would be the four finalists.
I heard the last contestant being led down the hall, and I gathered my things and started for the door.
But it wouldn’t open.
I struggled with the knob and pulled and tugged, but it wouldn’t budge.
Irritated, I banged on the door with my fist.
“Hey, is anyone out there? I need some help with this door.”
Then I smelled it and saw it at the same time. Smoke was billowing in from under the door.
In a panic, I struggled and pulled at the knob with more intensity, but it didn’t move.
I yelled again but received no reply.
By this time the smoke was rising to head level, and I began to cough.
I looked frantically around the room for another avenue of escape, but there was none. Being in the bowels of the arena, there were, of course, no windows.
Remembering a lesson from my Boy Scout training, I found a rag and soaked it with water and tied it around my face. It helped, but I could see the room filling fast.
I had to find a way out.
Then I saw it: a vent in the corner of the ceiling, probably a heating and cooling duct.
I pulled a chair into the corner and climbed up for a closer look. Warm, pure air was flowing out of the vent but fighting a losing battle against the rising smoke. I looked for the screws that held the vent in place, and thankfully they were slotted and not Phillips. I fished around in my pocket and found a dime. It wasn’t much of a screwdriver, but it would have to do.
The smoke had now reached ceiling level, and I prayed that the screws weren’t rusted shut. Thankfully, the four screws backed out easily, and the vent cover fell to the floor.
I peered inside. The duct was about eighteen inches square, barely enough room to squeeze my 145-pound body through.
Ox would have never made it.
I boosted myself into the duct and gulped a lungful of the clean air.
I had never experienced claustrophobia, but then I’d never tried to wriggle through a tunnel that touched me on all four sides.
I remembered reading Thor Heyerdahl’s Kon Tiki and his experience in the underground tunnels of Easter Island.
If he could do it, so could I.
I inched my way along the duct for about twenty feet and came to another vent that opened not into another room but into the hallway.
I saw a figure coming my way and was about to cry out for help when I saw him bend down in front of a dressing room door and add fuel to the fire burning there.
It was the perp.
I couldn’t see who it was because his face was covered with a breathing device of some kind.
I watched as he went from door to door, adding fuel at each one. If each dressing room were like the one I just left, the other contestants would soon succumb to the smoke.
I had to do something quickly.
I saw him round a corner and disappear into the next hallway.
I examined the hallway vent. The screw heads were on the outside, so I would have to break out from the inside.
Due to the restricting confines of the duct, my arms were stretched out in front of me, and I had difficulty getting into a position where I could apply pressure to the vent. I was finally in place. I hoped the screws were not tapped into metal. If they were, I was sunk. I hit the vent with all the leverage I could muster, the screws popped out of the brittle drywall, and I was free.
Well, sort of.
I looked out of the vent opening and saw the floor about ten feet below. In my present position, I could wiggle out head first, but I wasn’t sure I could survive the ten-foot drop. My other option was to inch my way past the opening, contort my body so that my feet went out first, then roll onto my stomach and drop.
My sixty-six-year-old body wasn’t thrilled with either option, but the latter seemed to offer the best chance of survival.
I twisted and turned and finally was poised with my ass end hanging out of the vent. I took a deep breath and launched myself into the hallway.
As I hit the floor, I remembered an old joke about a fall not being dangerous; it’s the sudden stop at the end that gets you.
They were right.
I lay stunned in the smoke-filled hallway but hurriedly pulled myself together as I heard the perp’s foot-steps coming my way.
I retreated down the hall in the opposite direction frantically looking for something to defend myself with.
I spotted a glass enclosure set into the hallway wall next to a bathroom door.
A fire extinguisher.
I grabbed the extinguisher and ducked into the bathroom just as the perp came around the corner. I hurriedly read the directions on the canister and pulled the pin as directed.
I cracked the door an inch, and as the perp walked by, I burst from the bathroom.
“Hold it right there, buster!”
When the perp turned to face me, I squeezed the handle, and a wave of foam blasted him square in the face.
He staggered back, momentarily blinded, and I whacked him on the head with the canister.
Seeing he was out cold, I raced along the hallway, spraying foam on the fires in front of each door. Then I retraced my steps, opening each door he had secured from the outside, and ten coughing contestants poured into the hallway.
Ten!
Someone was missing. Then it dawned on me.
I returned to the fallen perp and removed the breathing mask. The forty-five-year-old Elvis lay unconscious on the floor.
We made our way to the massive double doors that sealed the wing from the rest of the arena, threw them open, and gulped lungfuls of fresh air.
Police, Kemper security guards, and firemen flooded the hallway.
I saw a blur coming at me. It was Maggie.
She didn’t say a word. She just buried her tear-stained face in my neck and held me tight.
The perp’s name was John Martin.
He had spent his entire life as a second-banana entertainer but had finally gotten his big break in Branson, Missouri. For many seasons, he had been the Elvis impersonator in the “Legends in Concert” theater show, but the years had not been kind to John.
The late night hours, rich food, and booze had taken their toll.
The ‘Legends’ theater owners, seeing their attendance dwindle, opted to make a change to a young, vibrant Elvis, and John was put out to pasture.
The employment prospects for a forty-five-year-old washed-up Elvis impersonator are pretty slim.
John saw this contest and the resurgence in Elvis’s popularity brought on by the lost tapes as his last hope for fame and fortune.
With his twisted logic, he thought he could improve his chances of winning by eliminating the competition.
Desperation can drive a man to unthinkable deeds.
CHAPTER 14
Once the door to freedom was opened at Kemper, all of us contestants were fitted with oxygen masks and whisked off to the hospital. After exhausting physicals, we were released. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured.
Maggie drove me home, and I stumbled into bed. It was almost noon when I awakened. My head ached, and my body felt like it had been run over by an eighteen-wheeler.
My breakfast was black coffee and aspirin. I sat in my easy chair, nursing my coffee and my pain, gazing out the front window.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but during that time, I saw each of my friends, Willie, the professor, Jerry, and Bernice leave the building and return.
Each was alone.
I looked around at the familiar surroundings of my comfortable apartment. I had been happy there.
But something was missing.
Each time I tried to move, my old body reminded me of the trauma I had subjected it to, and it occurred to me that I had almost gotten my ticket punched three times in the last month.
I was alone. I hurt. I felt sorry for myself. The phone rang, jolting me out of my reverie.
“Walt, this is Shorty. How are you doing today?”
“I’ve had better days, but I’ll live.”
“In all the confusion last night, we didn’t have much of a chance to talk. On behalf of the department, the contestants, and Kemper Arena, I want to thank you for a job well done. Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“Nope. I haven’t moved around much yet.”
“Well, get ready for your fifteen minutes of fame. The headline reads, ‘Grandpa Elvis Saves The Day!’”
“Swell. Just what I need.”
“And if that’s not enough to cheer you up—”
“What?”
“You won! You’re a finalist in the Elvis competition.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“You’re thirty-three years older than the next oldest contestant, and the fans are amazed that an old guy can move like you do. Plus, you’re the only contestant that was actually alive the same time as Elvis, a contemporary, so to speak.”
“So what now?”
“So now you get ready for the final next week. Since the mugger was caught, we figured we didn’t need you undercover anymore. We explained the operation to the press and gave them your real name. ‘Grandpa Elvis’ is now Walt Williams. We know you’ll make us proud.
“By the way, each contestant will be doing a four-song set, so take the rest of the week off. Break a leg!”
Great. Now I’ll have two broken legs.
After the captain signed off, I just sat there staring into space.
Me? In the Sprint Center arena? Doing a four-number set in front of 19,000 people? On the same night that the lost Elvis tapes are revealed to the world?
Holy cow!
I picked up the phone and dialed. “Maggie, I—”
“Oh, I know! I’m so excited. I can hardly wait.”
“Maggie, I need you.”
She promised to come over as soon as she finished some paperwork.
I put on my Elvis videos hoping for inspiration for my two additional numbers.
Elvis had just finished gyrating through Polk Salad Annie when the phone rang again.
I figured it was Ox or Vince or one of the guys who had read the paper and was calling to give me a hard time.
I wish it had been.
The words I heard left me numb.
“Walt, this is Brother Hank. They’ve got Gracie!”
Forgetting about my aches and pains, I threw on my clothes and headed for Brother Hank’s parsonage. I called Maggie and told her not to come over. I said I’d explain later.
Brother Hank met me at the door with red, swollen eyes and trembling hands.
“Okay, Brother Hank. Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
“Gracie went out to walk the dog. When she didn’t return right away, I went to look for her. The dog was leashed to the mailbox, and this note was attached to her collar.”
I looked at the note. It read, “If you ever want to see your wife alive again, you’ll give us the tapes. Stay by the phone. We’ll be in touch.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“No, Walt. I called you first. I figured you’d know what to do.”
“This is way out of my league. I need to call the captain.”
“Do what you have to do. I just want Gracie back.”
I called Captain Short, and within a half hour Shorty and two black SUVs were at the curb.
The captain and four men I’d never seen before came to the door.
“Walt, Brother Hank, these are agents Blackburn,
Finch, Greeley, and Barnes with the FBI.”
“FBI?”
“Walt, kidnapping is a federal offense. The FBI has jurisdiction here. It’s their case.”
Blackburn was obviously the agent in charge. He herded us into the pastor’s study and had Brother Hank retell the story from the beginning.
When he was finished, Blackburn turned to Shorty and me.
“Thanks for your help, gentlemen. We’ll take it from here.”
He dismissed us with a wave of his hand.
“Hold on a minute,” I said.
“I said we’ll take it from here. We’ve handled hundreds of abductions. We’ll get Mrs. Johnson back.”
“But … but,” stammered Brother Hank. “I want Walt here. He’s my friend and I trust him.”
Then the captain broke in. “I know you guys have jurisdiction, but it’s customary to have a liaison with the department. I want Walt to be our liaison. Just let him know if there’s any way we can help.”
Blackburn shook his head in disgust. “Okay, okay. Just stay out of our way.”
No problem.
The Feds busied themselves setting up recording equipment and computers, and there really wasn’t much for me to do, so I retreated into another room and called Lee. I explained what had transpired up to this point.
