They’d put him in prison for taking a photograph.
There’d been no trial, no jury, no explanation, just the slam of iron bars echoing off stone walls and a number in place of his name.
He never saw anyone but the guards, but he could sometimes hear the other prisoners yelling, screaming, crying. He wondered if they could hear him talking to the rusty faucet that dripped away in his cell.
A nagging fear in the back of his mind said that made him crazy. He preferred to think it was keeping him sane.
He’d taken the black and white snapshot while visiting Graceland. A van with blacked out windows at the side of the house had caught his attention. He lifted his camera over the wall, and changed his life for ever.
The picture was of Elvis, leaving the building, mere hours before he supposedly died.
He didn’t know this until he developed the picture, and he never fully understood what it meant – only that a few hours later men in dark suits were kicking in his door because of it.
They’d hidden him away so he couldn’t tell anyone what he knew: that the King was still alive.
The fringe theories about Elvis’s end range from him faking his death, to aliens taking him, to mob assassination to all sorts of weirdness involving the US government. It’s given the tabloids headline fuel for decades, and have helped keep him in the public eye in a way his music never would have. His music doesn’t scream crazy, after all.