Kings of Tupelo: A Southern Crime Story opens with a bang: The 2013 arrest of Paul Kevin Curtis on suspicion of sending ricin-poisoned letters to President Obama and others. Moments later, we hear from a news broadcast that Curtis is “said to be an Elvis impersonator obsessed with conspiracies.”
But within a minute, we see an even more shocking sight: the modern-day Curtis relaxing in his trailer-side pool, singing the Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” — a situation you wouldn’t expect for a man accused of trying to kill the president less than a decade ago.
Perhaps at this point in Kings of Tupelo, you immediately paused to read up on why Curtis is still walking — and floating — free. The simple answer: Curtis didn’t do it. The first episode of Kings of Tupelo just uses the arrest as a teaser, without telling the full story of the ricin letters another man pleaded guilty to mailing.
The twist underscores a crucial aspect of the criminal justice system — and media coverage of it — that is too often forgotten: An arrest does not equal guilt.
If you want the details without watching the three episodes of Kings of Tupelo, read on.
Kings of Tupelo, Paul Kevin Curtis and the Ricin Letters
The saga of Kings of Tupelo is so complicated and juicy that it sometimes makes Tiger King seem sedate. It tells the story of how Curtis, an Elvis impersonator and one-half of the brother Elvis Presley tribute act Double Trouble, started a career as a janitor and stumbled upon body parts in a hospital morgue freezer, which sent him down a conspiracy rabbit hole.
The series is extremely compelling, in large part, because Curtis — or KC, as he’s nicknamed — is so often so likable. Even when he’s deep in conspiracy talk, he’s energetic, charismatic, and seems well-meaning, which doesn’t gibe at all with our assumptions about someone who would try to kill a president with ricin.
Ricin, as Breaking Bad fans know, is a poison found naturally in castor beans. A very small amount can kill dozens of people. So the ricin-laced letters mailed to Obama and others in 2013 were a very serious matter.
As you watch the first episode of Kings of Tupelo, you find yourself wondering: am I starting to like a guy who tried to kill a president? The answer, fortunately, is no.
Curtis was arrested in April 2013 in what initially — and wrongly — seemed like an open-and-shut case. The letters contained phrases like ones Curtis had used online, including, “I am KC and I approve this message.”
But after searching Curtis’ home in Corinth, Mississippi, authorities found “no evidence of ricin, no signs Curtis had ever researched how to process castor beans to make the incurable poison, or even knew what it is,” according to a contemporaneous summary in The Week.
The charges against Curtis were quickly dropped.
“I thought they said rice and I said I don’t even eat rice,” Curtis said after he was released from custody. “I respect President Obama. I love my country and would never do anything to pose a threat to him or any other U.S. official.”
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Within a week of Curtis’ arrest, authorities made another arrest, this time of James Everett Dutschke, 41, of Tupelo, Mississippi. Curtis and Dutschke had feuded, and prosectors soon alleged that Dutschke had framed Curtis.
On January 17, 2014, Dutschke pleaded guilty to one count of developing and possessing ricin, and three counts of mailing threatening letters laced with ricin to Obama, Republican Sen. Roger Wicker of Mississippi, and Lee County, Mississippi, Judge Sadie Holland.
Dutschke also agreed to a 25-year prison sentence, which he is presently serving. You can read the full U.S. Department of Justice release here.
Why Paul Kevin Curtis and James Everett Dutschke Feuded
Curtis and Dutschke met in 2005, when Dutschke — a martial arts teacher — worked for Curtis’ brother Jack, the other half of Double Trouble — at Jack Curtis’ insurance office. Dutschke declined to publish Paul Kevin Curtis’ accusations of body-part trafficking, which led to a feud between the two.
Because Dutschke claimed to be a member of Mensa, the high-IQ society. Curtis decided to troll him by claiming that he, too, was a member of Mensa, and things escalated from there.
So there you have it, an abbreviated explanation of one element of Kings of Tupelo. But the wildest part of the Netflix docuseries — now in the streaming platform’s Top 10 — is that we’ve just scraped the surface of the story’s many turns.
Main image: Kings of Tupelo. Netflix.