True crime has become a paint-by-numbers game. The formula is often copied and pasted, and finding a novel approach in the field is rare.
With that in mind, you can imagine my skepticism when I saw yet another true crime documentary suggested to me on Netflix. This time, it was The Kings of Tupelo: A Southern Crime Saga touting itself as a “bizarre true-crime tale” in which “an Elvis impersonator’s conspiracy theory sets off a feud that spirals into an attempted presidential assassination.”
That’s a lead that will make you take notice.
Still, I hated the first episode of the three-part documentary. Honestly, I almost didn’t make it to the second installment.
‘Welcome to Tupelo, Mississippi, where things are different.’
The vast majority of episode one focuses on explaining the environment viewers will navigate. The introduction revolves around one of Tupelo’s most famous sons: Elvis Presley. Elvis “tribute artist” Paul Kevin Curtis, who goes by K.C., is our narrative guide.
One thing is clear: Presley was born in Tupelo, and the town will never let you forget it.
I understood the need to set the stage. Still, the process was far too prolonged. Some of it helped introduce main characters, but that was the exception. I understand the production team’s desire to fixate on the film’s geographical pull—the “South,” and its trappings play a large part in the story—but it was a tad bit overdone.
Nevertheless, I’m glad I made it to the second episode … because this ish is bananas.
Paul Kevin Curtis appears on NBC News’ Today show in 2013. (Photo by Peter Kramer/NBC/NBC Newswire/NBCUniversal via Getty Images)
‘It was my introduction into the world of conspiracy …’
After meeting his future wife and becoming a father, K.C. realizes he can’t support his family just singing and dancing. He starts a janitorial business focusing on the Presley hook and seems to do well. In 1999, he lands a large contract with North Mississippi Medical Center to clean their facilities.
According to K.C., while working in a hospital morgue in 1999, he stumbled across a refrigerator containing a severed head and other body parts. He relays the finding to anyone who will listen, quickly catching the ire of the hospital administration. He’s fired, and by his own admission, “that night [he] made a decision to send the rest of [his] life trying to uncover the truth” of those severed body parts.
At this point most of the audience has no doubt picked up on K.C.’s peculiarities.
He quickly purchases a Gateway computer and spends day and night searching the internet and scouring chatrooms and message boards for information regarding body-part harvesting and trafficking conspiracies. Based on reports from his then-wife, brother and others around town, K.C. became somewhat obsessed with the idea that the hospital was involved in organ and body-part trafficking. According to local law enforcement, K.C. started to pop up consistently on their radar.
He was undeterred by what he describes as police harassment. He was “onto something,” and no one was going to stop his “one-man crusade” to share online the information he was discovering. K.C. drafted legislation on the topic and appeared to work very hard to introduce it to local politicians. His abrasive and obsessive tactics bring the ire of local and national politicians, though.
‘I guess God chose me … I am a warrior ninja with a sword of justice.’
He mentions his divine purpose multiple times throughout Kings of Tupelo. K.C. believes God has chosen him to fight the powers that be and expose the underbelly of body-part harvesting and trafficking. By the middle of the second episode, it’s clear he experiences delusions of grandeur at best and some sort of undiagnosed mental health issue at worst.
Throughout the series, I constantly found myself asking when the shoe was going to drop regarding some sort of medical diagnosis. The closest we get is a short segment where his family has him temporarily committed, but there is little discussion or further information.
Paul Kevin Curtis in Netflix’s The Kings of Tupelo: A Southern Crime Saga. (Photo courtesy of Netflix)
If you practice criminal defense, you know how often mental health issues arise in criminal cases. We go so far as to keep a copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM. Obviously, my job isn’t to diagnose my clients, but it’s good to know the potential signs in undiagnosed individuals. And if they have a diagnosis, it’s helpful to have more insight.
Working with a client who experiences mental health episodes can be challenging, but there are degrees of difficulty depending on the individual client.
Here, K.C.’s delusions of grandeur could merely be a primary feature of a delusional disorder, or they could be a symptom of something else, like schizophrenia, bipolar disorder—or many other conditions. Coupling this with what seems like consistent paranoia, though, gives the impression there may be more to the story than the documentary gives off. Make no mistake: He is coherent and sometimes quite funny—purposeful or not—throughout the documentary.
Nevertheless, like many of my clients who exhibit symptoms of an underlying issue, it’s hard to know whether K.C.’s “eccentricity” is an indicator of a potential diagnosis or simply quirks associated with his peculiar personality. Regardless, as his ex-wife explains, “Kevin did not have a big grip on reality.”
‘Sir, I haven’t bought rice in years … I never eat rice.’
When local politicians receive letters containing the poison ricin, K.C.’s name comes up as a possible suspect. When then-President Barack Obama in 2013 receives one such letter, the feds get involved and trace the letters back to a Tupelo mail office; K.C. is arrested and investigated as a terrorist.
His brashness and grandiose demeanor dig him even deeper. Had he mailed letters to all those people? Of course he had. Which politician hadn’t he contacted about his body-part-trafficking legislation? But as authorities begin to examine K.C., things don’t seem to fit. How could this Elvis tribute artist/janitor concoct such a high-level attack? Things didn’t add up—until they do.
I won’t get too far into the twist, as I really want you all to watch the series. It is wonderfully chaotic, and the team behind the documentary deserves applause for stepping outside the genre’s comfort zone.
OK, one hint: The twist involves a feud with a karate instructor.
And it’s this type of mania that ultimately sets Kings of Tupelo apart and makes it well worth the watch. The second half plays out like a cross between a Cohen brothers movie and Step Brothers, the classic Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly film. I mean that in the absolute best way possible.
If this sounds compelling, don’t ask me how; just go with it and find out for yourself.
Adam Banner
Adam R. Banner is the founder and lead attorney of the Oklahoma Legal Group, a criminal defense law firm in Oklahoma City. His practice focuses solely on state and federal criminal defense. He represents the accused against allegations of sex crimes, violent crimes, drug crimes and white-collar crimes.
The study of law isn’t for everyone, yet its practice and procedure seem to permeate pop culture at an increasing rate. This column is about the intersection of law and pop culture in an attempt to separate the real from the ridiculous.
This column reflects the opinions of the author and not necessarily the views of the ABA Journal—or the American Bar Association.
