Heat waves shimmered up from the asphalt in front of him. This time, Ulysses Jones would ride with the patient.Ĭrosby expertly threaded the boxy white, blue, and orange vehicle through the thin midafternoon traffic with lights flashing. On each call, they alternated between driving and riding in the back with the ill or injured. Members of the Memphis Fire Department, they had received eighty-eight hours of special training to become emergency medical technicians and had years of experience. His partner, Ulysses Jones, twenty-six, sat in the passenger seat. He was thirty-eight, stoutly built, dark-haired, and heavily mustached. On this run Crosby was driving the ambulance. Two years before, one of the medics, Charles Crosby, had come to assist Elvis’s father, Vernon Presley, after he suffered a heart attack. They had been there often, to take care of fans fainting at the front gate and pedestrians injured by passing automobiles. The “mansion,” as the dispatcher called it, was Elvis Presley’s home, Graceland, three miles south of the fire station. The two medics manning the ambulance recognized the address right away. 6 swung out of the station onto Elvis Presley Boulevard and headed south, siren wailing, advertising a speed that the ponderous machine had not yet achieved. “Go to the front gate and go to the front of the mansion,” the voice directed. The dispatcher indicated that someone at 3754 Elvis Presley Boulevard was having difficulty breathing. The call came to Memphis Fire Station No.
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