Final Arrangements

by Rich Curtin

Rivera raised his voice, attempting to sound desperate. “But we need to apprehend the killer. Can’t you tell me something? Anything?” He disliked pressuring the young man this way, but if he was going to make any progress, he needed to catch a break.

  Fromkin sat rigid, his face frozen in uncertainty. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I... I’m not sure. Maybe. Look, I’m a little new at this. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call my advisor at the university and ask him what I can and can’t do. I’ll do that today and let you know what he says. I’ll abide by his wisdom.”

  “Fair enough,” said Rivera, standing up. He placed his business card on the psychologist’s desk. “Call me as soon as you know.”

  “Yes, Sir, I will.”

  Rivera left the office, feeling a sense of frustration rising within him. Insights into Frank Upton’s life were hard to come by. His gut told him Fromkin had information that would be useful in the investigation. Now he could only hope that the university professor would give Fromkin the green light.

  Rivera slid into his vehicle and started the engine just as Millie Ives, the dispatcher called him on his cell phone.

  “Manny, the sheriff has been asking about you. She wants to know if you’re making any progress on the Upton investigation.”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Did she also ask about the Webb investigation?”

  “No. She’s mainly concerned about the Upton case—for obvious reasons.”

  “I understand.”

  “Arthur Atkinson’s attorney has been practically camped out here demanding his client’s immediate release on bail. But the sheriff is sticking to her guns. She maintains that the evidence is strong enough to hold him. The County Attorney is backing her for the time being, but he’s catching a lot of flak from a couple of county councilmen.”

  Rivera smiled. “So what you’re saying is the sooner I wrap this up, the better.”

  “Right. No pressure, of course.” Rivera could hear her grinning.

  “Okay, Millie. Thanks.”

  20

  RIVERA GRABBED A MUG of coffee in the break room and headed down the hallway to his office. He shut the door and settled into his chair. He was still preoccupied with the idea that two men, both living in the Moab area, and both members of the same rockhound club, were murdered within a few days of each other. What, if anything, was the connection?

  He took a sip of coffee and glanced out the window at the LaSals. Somewhere up in those mountains, someone had come in the night to Frank Upton’s house, snuck up to an open window, and fired two shots into the back of his head. And a week later, someone had visited Iggy Webb in his motorhome, killed him, and searched his place. It seemed like there had to be a connection. But was there? Arthur Atkinson might have killed Upton, but it was impossible for him to have killed Webb. At the time of Webb’s death, Atkinson was incarcerated in a jail cell.

  The motive for Webb’s murder had something to do with the money Rivera found in his freezer, that much seemed certain. On the surface, it appeared that Atkinson was the one who killed Upton. He had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. Without the almost concurrent killing of Webb, that would likely have been the final judgment. So Webb’s murder was the only thing that cast doubt upon Atkinson’s guilt.

  Rivera considered Webb’s history. If someone from his past with a score to settle had come to Moab and killed him, the killer would be long gone by now, so there was probably little Rivera could do about it. Therefore, he had to assume the killer was local and the killing had something to do with Webb’s activities in the present. Yet Rivera had been unable to identify any activities in Webb’s life except rockhounding. Thus far, he could find no basis for believing the motive was related to rocks and minerals. Rockhounding was fascinating, but it didn’t seem profitable enough to motivate one to commit murder.

  Rivera sifted through the facts for over an hour but was unable to come up with a new angle. He couldn’t shake the idea that the two killings had to be related. What he needed to do was somehow connect the dots—find the link between the Webb and Upton murders—but so far, outside the realm of rockhounding, he didn’t have a single useful idea. Complicating matters, the sheriff was being subjected to political pressure from Atkinson’s friends on the County Council who wanted him released, and that added to the self-induced pressure Rivera was feeling to solve the case quickly.

  Upton and Atkinson had been engaged in a feud since high school. Rivera considered the word “feud.” Maybe that wasn’t strong enough. Maybe “private war” was a more apt description. He shook his head at the thought. To be filled with hatred and resentment for the entirety of one’s adult life was such an incredible waste. He couldn’t imagine living that way. You’re only on this earth once—why not enjoy it?

  He had little in the way of concrete evidence, and he’d made little real progress, but he felt he’d better bring the sheriff up to date. No doubt his reexamination of the Atkinson case was worrying her. And rightly so—her reelection might be hanging in the balance. He walked down the hall and entered her office. There was a look of impatience on her face.

  “Okay, Deputy, let’s have it.”

  Rivera sat down and briefed her on his activities since he was assigned the Webb case. He went through his visit to the Upton residence with Dave Tibbetts, his search of the premises, his interview with Upton’s neighbor Annette Benson, and his visits with Father Mahoney, Dr. Henry Fromkin, and Jim Brown, the real estate salesman.

  “That’s it?”

  Rivera was surprised at the question. “Well, I’m just getting started.”

  The tension in Sheriff Anderson’s face seemed to relax. “So you’ve found nothing that would vindicate Arthur Anderson?”

  “Well, that’s right, but there are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for instance, why was Frank Upton seeing a psychologist?”

  “How could that possibly matter? So the guy was having problems. Lots of people seek help from a shrink for all kinds of reasons.”

  “And what did a man like Atkinson have to gain by killing Upton?”

  “Upton was ruining his business. Hurting his bottom line.”

  “Atkinson was smart. If he had shot Upton, wouldn’t he have disposed of the weapon afterwards?”

  “Yeah. Well, maybe. That’s a good point, but my experience has taught me that nonprofessional killers often do stupid things.”

  “And how does the Iggy Webb murder fit into all this?”

  “You’re assuming it does.”

  “Yes, until I can satisfy myself that it doesn’t”

  She shook her head. “How much longer will you need?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll follow the facts to wherever they lead me, but I have no way of knowing how long it will take.”

  “Look, Deputy, I’ve heard all about what a good investigator you are, but honestly, it looks to me like the answer is staring you in the face.” She paused for a long moment in thought. “However, I’ll defer to your expertise for the time being. But know this—the longer you take, the more my reputation becomes damaged. And I place a high value on my reputation. Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s it for now.”

  “Okay, Deputy. You are dismissed.” She pressed a button on her intercom and spoke to her secretary. “Get me the County Attorney.”

  Rivera returned to his office feeling somewhat bewildered. More than ever, he missed having Leroy Bradshaw as his boss. A conversation like the one he’d just finished with Sheriff Anderson would have been inconceivable with Bradshaw. He would never have been in a rush to judgment on a capital murder case, nor would he have been intimidated by political pressure.

  Rivera sat at his desk forcing his thoughts away from his new boss and toward trying to figure out what his next step would be. After reviewing his meager options, he decided to return to Frank Upton’s house and perform a more detailed inspection of the premises. Wi
th what he’d learned about Upton from the priest and the psychologist, maybe items in the house that had no particular significance to him on his first visit would now prove to be important.

  21

  RIVERA PULLED TO a stop in front of the Upton residence, got out of his vehicle, and stretched his back from side to side. His muscles were stiff from lack of exercise, and he still hadn’t lost the two extra inches around his waist that he promised himself months ago he’d shed. His goal was to look good for the wedding. Of course, fewer cheeseburgers and more salads were the answer. He knew that. But whenever he sat down for lunch, hunger pangs would inevitably override his good intentions. He also knew he needed to find a way to get more exercise. Sitting in his office or vehicle all day wasn’t doing much to keep him in shape.

  He looked across the road and saw Billy standing there staring at him. The boy still had an unhappy pout on his face. Rivera waved at him, but the boy just stood there watching him, not moving, and making no effort to return the wave.

  Rivera ducked under the crime scene tape, unlocked the door, and entered the house. The living room was just as he remembered it. He took another look at Upton’s rock collection. He had learned a few things from the rockhounds at the O.S.T. Arena and the lapidary shop, so he was able to identify septarians, geodes, malachite, and quartz. Upton had only a few dozen specimens on his shelves, but each seemed to be a work of art. The colors of the rocks were extraordinary. He wondered if Upton’s and Webb’s paths had crossed at the lapidary shop. Rivera took close-up pictures of each rock in the collection with his cell phone.

  Next, he went into the second bedroom and perused the posters and placard collection. Nothing new there. It was noteworthy that so many of them were directed against Atkinson and his real estate operations. Some of them were harsh and aggressive posters, to say the least. One of them proclaimed Arthur Atkinson Defiles Our Environment.

  He walked back into the living room and scanned the area. Next to the desk was a two-drawer file cabinet. He knelt down and pulled open the top drawer. Many of the files contained articles on environmental matters such as pollution, overpopulation, and the stress mankind has exerted upon the high desert and its waterways. One thick file contained the monthly checking account statements Upton had received from his bank. Rivera read through the statements of the past two years and saw nothing unusual. In a file in the lower drawer, he found Upton’s savings account statements. They revealed that Upton had over two hundred thousand dollars in savings and money market funds. Another file contained a copy of Upton’s Last Will and Testament. It was dated nearly eight years ago and left everything to Dorothy Ellison. In the event she predeceased him, the will stipulated that everything was to go to the Moab Home for Needy Children where Dorothy was raised. The executor was listed as the trust department at Upton’s bank, and the lawyer who drew up the will was Ralph Douglas who lived in Moab.

  Rivera thought about all that. Upton had left everything to the girl Atkinson had lured away from him in high school. The bequeathment must have been intended as a final proclamation of his love for her. Rivera wondered again what had become of her. In that same folder, he found copies of a couple of handwritten letters he’d sent to his executor at the bank. One dated seven years ago simply said that Upton had lost touch with Dorothy after high school, but remembered she’d said she always wanted to live in Colorado. The note said he’d been trying to locate her for years but was unable to do so. The second note, written three years ago, said he’d used the library computer to try to locate her through the social media, but that too had been unsuccessful. The will and the framed photos of Dorothy were undeniable proof Upton had never gotten over her.

  Rivera called Dave Tibbetts and asked that he contact the FBI and request a search for Dorothy’s address and phone number. He had no idea what she might be able to add to Upton’s history, but any information would be helpful, and it was possible she might know something important.

  Rivera stood up and noticed a stack of mail on the desk. He picked it up and thumbed through the envelopes. There was a utility bill, a telephone bill, a mailer inviting him to a rockhound conference in Salt Lake City, a schedule of events from the Sierra Club, and an unopened business letter from Gerald Holmes M.D. in Grand Junction. He wondered why Upton had never opened it. He sliced it open with his pocketknife and pulled out an invoice for $950 for services rendered. The bill was dated one month earlier.

  He called the doctor’s office, got a recording, and left a message requesting the doctor call him back. Rivera surmised Holmes was a psychiatrist and wondered if he might have some useful information—although by now he expected an “I can’t tell you” response to any questions he might ask.

  Rivera combed through the rest of the house and found nothing that added to what he already knew. The one interesting thing he’d discovered was Upton’s will. It was clear that Dorothy Ellison meant a great deal to him, even after all these years. He’d left her everything he owned. Had his anger at losing her to Atkinson driven him to harass Atkinson for the last thirty-five years? And had that harassment led to his own demise? Everything seemed to be pointing in that direction. Rivera shook his head. He still had a hard time grasping the concept of hatred so intense that it lasted for decades and led to violent death. Why do that to yourself?

  He opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool, fresh mountain air. He let it out, trying to relax, but he couldn’t put the idea of such intense hatred out of his mind. He knew it existed all over the world. One heard a lot about it on the news these days. But here in Moab? In the heart of the canyon country? The thought had a depressing effect on his state of mind.

  He noticed Billy standing in his yard and watching him. Abruptly, the young boy started across the road. Rivera looked in both directions to make sure no vehicles were coming. The boy carefully navigated around the ruts in the road to where Rivera was standing. He was still wearing a frown.

  “I was a good boy, but I didn’t get nothin’.”

  Rivera sat down on his haunches. “What do you mean, Billy?”

  “I didn’t get no presents for Christmas.”

  “But, Billy, just like your Mom said, this isn’t Christmas time. This is May. Christmas comes in December.” Rivera’s heart ached for the boy.

  “I didn’t get nothin’.”

  “What makes you think this is the Christmas season?”

  “I saw Santa out here, but he didn’t come to my house.”

  Rivera wished he had something to give the boy as a gift.

  “Hello, Deputy Rivera.”

  Rivera looked up and saw Annette Benson coming across the road. He stood up and smiled. “Billy and I were just having a little chat.”

  She smiled at Rivera, then regarded Billy with the look of a concerned mother. “Billy, you know you’re not supposed to cross the road by yourself,” she said in a calm voice as she wiped the boy’s nose with a tissue.

  Billy looked up at her with an expression of innocence. “Oh, I forgot, Mommy.”

  She patted him on the head, pulled him to her side, and smoothed his hair. She looked at Rivera. “Anything new on Frank?”

  “No. Not really. I’m still investigating. Have you remembered anything else from the night you heard the shots?”

  “I thought about it some more this morning. The only other thing I could remember was that the security light in Frank’s yard wasn’t turned on. He usually left it on all night. My yard light was on, so I was able to see his place fairly clearly. I was just looking for your card so I could call and tell you. Then I glanced out the window and there you were.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Rivera jotted that fact into his notebook.

  After some chit chat about the weather and what living in the mountains was like, Annette Benson said goodbye, took her son’s hand, and led him back home. Billy looked back at Rivera and waved.

  Rivera checked the light in Upton’s yar
d to see if it had been tampered with. The bulb was intact and tight in its socket, and the switch just inside the front door was turned off. He flicked the switch on and off and verified the light was in working order. Upton must have forgotten to turn it on that night.

  As Rivera descended the road leading out of the mountains, he noticed a thunderstorm moving across the northern horizon. He loved thunderstorms. He pulled over at the Fisher Valley overlook and sat on a lichen-covered rock to enjoy the show and relax his mind for a while. The sun was shining brightly where he sat, but the clouds north of the Book Cliffs were dark and ominous, and sheets of rain curved downward from the darkness. The storm cloud rose high into the atmosphere. It was billowy and bright white on top and almost black underneath. Fingers of lightning danced below it, illuminating the underside of the cloud with each flash.

  Seeing a distant thunderstorm moving across the high desert was one of nature’s treats that Rivera enjoyed. It provided a brief respite from the pressures of his work. He considered it to be one of the perks of his job.

  Ten minutes later, he was back in his vehicle headed for Moab.

  22

  WHEN RIVERA ARRIVED at his office, he found a note from Dave Tibbetts on his desk. It simply said, See me. He walked down the hall to Tibbetts’s office.

  “Dave, I got your note.”

  “I heard back from the FBI. They have no record of a Dorothy Ellison in her early fifties who grew up in Utah.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing. They checked the law enforcement databases, the social security database, and the IRS database, and found no one matching those parameters. Either she disappeared and went off the grid after she left Moab, or she got married, changed her name, and only then applied for a social security card. I checked with the Office of Vital Statistics in Salt Lake City. They had a record of her birth, but no death record. I also checked all the DMV databases and got the same result. Sorry.”