Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  An athletic blond man, probably in his thirties, was lying on the bed, mouth agape, staring at the ceiling. He was attired in a blue dress shirt and striped tie, with dark brown corduroy trousers, and brown leather shoes that appeared to have salt caked on the bottom of them. The sleeve on his left arm was rolled up. A hypodermic needle jutted out of his arm. Above it was a rubber tube, tied around his bicep.

  I pressed my fingers into the man’s clammy neck. No pulse. He hadn’t been dead long. He was still sweaty. Rigor mortis hadn’t quite set in. Tempting as it was to close his eyelids for him, I left them open, to avoid tampering with the body.

  I squatted to better inspect his arm. A caramel-colored rubber tube used to tie off the limb dangled in the spot where it had been loosened. I found no track marks. Not even a hint of past ones. That could mean a few things. Maybe he was a former addict taking up heroin use again after years of being clean. Or possibly he was trying it for the first time and injected too much or used too strong a grade. A third, more ominous, scenario had someone else administering it and making it appear to be an overdose. I unbuttoned the cuff on his other sleeve and rolled it up. No track marks on that side, either. I pulled the sleeve back down and buttoned the cuff.

  I removed his billfold from his pants pocket and opened it. I held his driver’s license in the light to read it.

  STATE OF UTAH

  BUREAU OF TAXATION AND FINANCE—MOTOR VEHICLE DIVISION

  NAME: VAUGHN HAYWARD PERRY

  ADDRESS: 6010 East Pine Hill Fork Road, Salt Lake City, Utah

  TEL: WAS-5292

  DATE OF BIRTH: Mo. 9 Day 18 Yr. 1904

  COLOR: W. SEX: M WEIGHT: 172 lbs. HEIGHT: 6 FT. 2 IN.

  EYE COLOR: Blue HAIR COLOR: Blond EXPIRY: 09-18-40

  I slipped the license back in the billfold. It was full of cash. I tucked his wallet in his pocket.

  The scratching came from a phonograph needle caught on the end grooves of a spinning record. Using my handkerchief, I lifted the needle and brought it back to its perch. When the album quit spinning, I checked the label:

  WORLD’S GREATEST MUSIC

  PHILHARMONIC TRANSCRIPTION

  WAGNER: DIE MEISTERSINGER

  Stuffing my hanky in my pocket, I looked around. On the nightstand, I came across a Ronson cigarette lighter, a second hypodermic needle, a small jade box, lid open, containing a few brown capsules, and a spoon on a strip of white linen. I’d worked in the Morals Squad long enough to know that the residue in the spoon and the capsules in the box were heroin.

  I straightened and stepped to the closet door. Hanky in hand, I turned the knob and pulled it open. A row of jackets, shirts, and pants hung neatly on hangers. Pairs of shoes lined the floor. I closed the door and opened the top drawer on the bureau. Folded socks. I shut it. Next drawer: skivvies. Shut it. Bottom: undershirts. I pushed it closed.

  There was a picture frame lying facedown on the floor. With a hanky I picked it up. It showed three young men, each dressed in long, flowing black robes and standing in the sunlight, with an old brick and stone building behind them. Each fellow beamed with happiness. I instantly recognized the trio. From left to right: Rudy Heinrich, Clive Underhill, and the late Vaughn Perry. There was a crack in the glass, as if it had fallen off the bureau. I returned it to exactly where I’d found it.

  On the other side of the room, against the wall, sat an old steamer trunk with peeling travel decals, leather straps, and buckles. I went over to it and raised the lid with the help of my handkerchief.

  The trunk contained books, newspapers, and record albums. I lifted a stack of volumes. Newton R. Perry authored each one, and the publisher was H.W. Price & Sons of New York. The titles struck me as strange: Weeping Flame. The Serpent of the Soul. The Lost Truth. The Martyrdom of Cordell Devereaux. My Fallen Father. The Elemental’s Legacy.

  The oldest was published in 1905, the newest in 1926. A dust jacket from a 1922 edition featured a photo of the author. He appeared professorial: lean, dark hair slicked back, bespectacled, black mustache, tweed jacket, and a bow tie. He bore a striking resemblance to the man lying on the bed. I assumed he was the father of the deceased, given the similar facial features and shared surname.

  I returned the books to the trunk. Next I took out a stack of newspapers. Smelling of inky newsprint, they were back issues of a bizarrely named gazette called The Platinum Patriot, which listed itself on the banner as THE OFFICIAL ORGAN OF THE PLATINUM LEGION OF THE UNITED STATES. I pulled one out at random. The issue I perused said, VOL. 3, NO. 11, NOVEMBER 1935.

  Headlines told me all I needed to know. “Franklin D. Rosenfeld Calls for Worldwide Pax Judaica.” “Jewnited States Congress Orders Probe of Platinum Legion.” “Fascist Revolution Coming to America” Below that, a subhead said:

  SUPREME LUMINARY NEWTON R. PERRY SAYS UPRISING IMMINENT.

  I thumbed through a few others. They were all like that first one.

  I put the newspapers back and I took out a record album. A sleeve label said:

  N.R. PERRY—VOICE OF THE PATRIOT

  NUMBER 179—STATION XEMR, MEXICO

  TRANSCRIBED BROADCAST, OCTOBER 8, 1935

  I took it over to the combo phonograph/radio console. Off went Wagner. On went Perry. I lowered the needle.

  “Good evening,” said a male announcer. “This is station X-E-M-R, broadcasting at 840 kilocycles from our studios in Ciudad Juárez.” A bell jingled, then came melodramatic organ music reminiscent of a soap opera. “Welcome to another broadcast of Voice of the Patriot, a weekly report of news and views from the Platinum Legion of America. Now we proudly introduce the Supreme Luminary of the Platinum Shirts, currently numbering five thousand strong across the United States, the Exalted Chief Newton R. Perry.”

  The organ faded into silence and next came Perry’s silvery voice.

  “Good evening righteous citizens of the republic,” Perry intoned. “I am Chief Newton Perry, here to share with you the one hundred and seventy-ninth broadcast of the Voice of the Patriot. This is a transcribed recording, made in my clandestine studio in the remote Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I am honored you’ve chosen to join me. Let me begin by saying that it is a unique tragedy of our times that I must carry out these broadcasts in secrecy. That’s because in the United States, the so-called land of the free, our government and the press and all of the forces of coercion are firmly in the hands of the international Jew bolshevist criminal conspirators, led by that troika of barbarians Joseph Stalin, Neville Chamberlain, and our very own Franklin Delano Rosenfeld.”

  I wish I could say his speech took a saner turn. Perry’s soft-spoken and conversational style escalated into a half-crazed rant about Jewish bankers and communist conspirators and their “Negro minions” in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. The whole thing made my skin crawl. I’d definitely lived a sheltered life up till then. Never before had I heard such toxic venom being spewed by anybody.

  Perry singled out half of the country in his tirade: immigrants, labor union members, university professors, government relief recipients, Hollywood movie producers, Wall Street “money barons,” Republicans, Democrats, politicians, lawyers, the United States Army, and the “millions cursed with the mark of the Beast.” He reserved most of his animus for Jews. Jew Yorkers. Jew Dealers. Jew bankers. The “Jew-run federal government.”

  I lifted the needle, fearing I might hurl the record against the wall if I had to listen to another second of it. Restraint won out. I slipped it in its sleeve and put it back in the trunk. I desperately needed to go outside and inhale fresh air. Being in that room with that dead man, listening to the hate-filled invective spewed by a demagogue I assumed was his father, proved more than I could take. On my way out of that narrow shotgun house, I lifted the telephone and called the police. I reported a dead body, gave the address, and hung up without identifying myself. Then out the door I stepped, closing it tightly behind me.

  Eighteen

  When I en
tered the lobby of the Hotel Utah, I walked straight into an enormous gathering of men, most attired in fancy suits and wearing lapel name tags. A banner spanning the length of the room let me know who they were: SALT LAKE CITY WELCOMES THE FOURTEENTH ANNUAL NORTH AMERICAN RADIO SELLERS’ CONVENTION. On either side of the multicolored block words, radio towers beamed signal waves, like the RKO logo at the start of the movies. I passed through blue clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke, walking by pretty ladies in glamorous dresses showing off the newest radio models. The din was so loud it began to make my head throb.

  I needed to talk to the witnesses that allegedly saw Roscoe the night of Underhill’s disappearance. Now that Vaughn Perry was dead, I was starting to think that Roscoe had gone off on a wildgoose chase, heading down to the Canyons of the Escalante—if that was indeed where he went. I reached my destination in a dark corner of the ground level, past the elevators. A frosted window on the door said the words HOTEL SECURITY in big, black serif letters, arched like a rainbow. A brass plate centered beneath the window said DOOLEY METZGER. I knocked. Seconds passed and the door opened, but barely, and that Roman-nosed, double-chinned fire hydrant of a man appeared in the narrow space. He wore his derby pulled low, down to his brow, and it shaded his eyes, although I could see them widen with recognition when he looked at me. He took a step back and opened the door further, and I glimpsed the inside of his office. Windowless. Sparsely furnished. Battered desk. His Smith Corona typewriter had seen better days. The only thing fancy about it was the crystal light fixture, filling the room with a strange shimmering light.

  “Oveson.”

  “Hello Metzger. Quite the convention you’ve got going on here.”

  “It’s keeping me busy, as you might imagine.”

  “I’ll make this brief. I need to talk to those three eyewitnesses that saw Roscoe Lund confront Nigel Underhill early Sunday morning. I’d like to find out what they know.”

  “I thought Detective Newbold was handling that side of the investigation.”

  I avoided a direct response. I figured it was none of his business.

  “I’d like to rule out certain things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve reason to believe the alleged altercation, if it indeed occurred, is closely related to Clive Underhill’s disappearance.”

  “Oh, it occurred, all right.”

  “Then that’s all the more important for me to speak to the witnesses.”

  “What else?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is there anything else I should be privy to?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, I’d very much like to know why you believe the two are connected.” He stepped aside and swept his hand. “Please, come in and have a seat.…”

  “I’m in something of a hurry.”

  “I prefer to be kept abreast of things,” he said, repressing a sneer. “In my line of work, that’s essential. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course. There are some details I need to sort out. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I figured perhaps you’d like to share those with me.”

  “I’m looking for information that pertains to my investigation,” I said.

  “What kind of information?”

  “I want to know precisely what happened between Lund and Underhill.”

  “Isn’t it in the police reports?”

  “I have specific questions I’d like to ask.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “I’d like to clarify a few things and, like I said, rule out a few things.”

  He smiled. “I can do this as long as you wish, Oveson.”

  “Do what?”

  “Keep asking you questions. And listen to you keep dodging them. I find you a very obstinate fellow, in your own, friendly manner.”

  “Sorry you feel that way.”

  “Sometimes sharing a little of what you know goes a long way.”

  “Toward?”

  “You’re not like your father, are you?”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about Will Oveson.”

  “So you didn’t.” He drew a deep breath. “Let me place a telephone call upstairs. They’re guests—a couple from Canada—that saw Lund go after Underhill. I don’t wish to disturb their privacy without clearing it with them first.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. Oh, and uh, I heard there was a third eyewitness. I’d like to talk to him, or her, too.”

  Grinding his teeth, he looked me up and down. “I’ll be right back.”

  The door slammed with a forcefulness that startled me. Metzger stayed in his office for a good five minutes, and his muffled voice could be heard although I could not make out his exact words. My heart raced from the rage I felt toward him at that moment. He came across as the worst combination of uncooperative and churlish, and his behavior went beyond rubbing me the wrong way. He was sanding me down raw. I heard movement on the other side of the door. A shadow moved across the frosted window. The doorknob turned and Mr. Cheerful himself stepped out, his gold chain swinging in front of his striped vest.

  “I thought perhaps you could talk to Mr. Booker first,” said Metzger. “He’s the bellhop on duty who was on the seventh floor that night, attending to a room service matter. Right this way.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed him through the crowd and through a set of doors into the Lafayette Ballroom. He turned a switch on the wall and a row of chandeliers lit up, infusing this giant space with sparkling light. Another one of those banners welcoming radio sellers to Salt Lake City hung from the eastern wall. Metzger walked over to a stack of fancy upholstered chairs against the curtained wall, pulled two off the top, and brought them over to where I was standing in the center of the room. He set them up, face-to-face, muttered for me to “stay here,” and left me alone to marvel at the patterned wood floors. I stuck my hands in my pockets, jiggled change, and whistled a song I didn’t even recognize, just to whistle something. He was gone awhile. Twenty minutes, at least. Maybe more. My legs began to ache from standing in one spot. I sat down on one of those chairs, and exhaled with relief for finally being able to take some weight off my feet.

  Metzger returned shortly thereafter, followed by a nervouslooking Negro porter. As the young man approached, I saw he was brawny, with sleepy eyes, flared nostrils, and a prominent chin. He rubbed his hands together, which I attributed to a nervous tic. When Metzger gestured to the empty chair, the fancily uniformed fellow bounded over and sat down. Catching his breath, he stared at me, perhaps fearful that I might do something unpleasant, like arrest him. His nervousness came as no surprise. Most Negroes I’d encountered on my job as a patrolman harbored some sort of fear that we police were going to harm or harass them. That’s why I always went out of my way to be friendly in such instances, to show I meant no harm. I smiled, which maybe broke a little ice, but not all of it. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead, and he was still breathing heavily. Dooley Metzger hovered off to our side, watching us carefully, like a vulture circling over the desert.

  “Thank you. I can handle it from here,” I told Metzger. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  He sneered my way, then gave the bellhop a meaningful look, turned, and left. I waited until he was gone. Seated in the center of the room, we were far enough away from the entrance that I was confident Metzger wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop, especially if we spoke softly.

  I extended my hand and he shook it.

  “Hello. I’m Detective Art Oveson,” I said. “I’m with the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

  “I’m Winston Booker. I go by Blue.”

  We released hands.

  “Blues?”

  “Naw, just Blue. Blue Booker. I’m in a harmonica quartet, and Blue is my nickname in it. Maybe you heard of us? The King Rufus Hi-Hat Harmonica Quartet.” He chuckled, more relaxed now. “We play at places ’round town. Y’all oughta come out and hear us sometime.”


  “I’d like that, very much,” I said, with a genuine spark of enthusiasm in my voice. “Right now, I’ve got a few questions.”

  “Go right ahead, suh.”

  “I’m told that in the early morning hours of Sunday, August seventh, you saw or overheard an argument between two guests on the seventh floor.”

  “Yessuh. That is so. I seen it.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what you saw?”

  “This fella—a big fella—he come knocking on the door.”

  “Which door?”

  “Room seven-oh-three.”

  “OK. Go on.”

  “He come knocking, and Underhill, he answered it…”

  “Nigel Underhill?”

  “Yes. He opened the door and the two of ’em, man, they really started going at it. Hollering, getting in each other’s way and whatnot.”

  “Can you describe the visitor?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Like I said, he was big. Someone you didn’t want to monkey with.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Blue looked up, as if thinking it over, then his eyes shot back to me. “Nice shirt. Suit jacket. Maybe black. Or dark brown. No tie. Corduroy trousers.”

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Bald as the day he was born.”

  “So he wasn’t wearing a hat?”

  “Naw. No hat.”

  “Where were you in relation to him?”

  He squinted. “Relation?”

  “Yeah. Where were you standing when this was happening?”

  “Oh. Down the hall, delivering something to one of the rooms.”

  “What?”

  “What was I delivering?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Extra pillows. To room seven-ten.”

  “Seven-one-zero?”

  “Uh huh. That big guy, he was pounding on the doors, raising a ruckus. It was enough to wake up the dead.”

  “When you were on your way up to deliver the pillows, did you have to walk past these two men arguing?”

  “Naw. It started when I was at the door to seven-ten. I give a knock and called out ‘room service.’”