by Andrew Hunt
On page three, I came across something interesting. “Officers detained a white male, late 20s, who identified himself as Sam Louis. Suspect was seen fleeing building where Wooley’s office is housed. Louis explained that he was leaving the premises to catch a bus. Ogden police held Louis for four hours while they performed a background check. When the officers were satisfied the suspect played no role in the homicide, they released him from custody.”
I opened my spiral notebook and jotted the name “Sam Louis.” I tapped my pencil against my lips, eyed that name, and thought about it. I stuck my hand in the brown paper bag and pulled out a piece of taffy, ripped off the wax paper, and stuck the candy in my mouth. “Sam Louis, Sam Louis, Sam Louis…”
The name seemed familiar, but it didn’t set off any bells right away.
I thumbed through the file and came across a snapshot of Wooley while he was alive. Taken outside somewhere, it showed him standing next to a pine tree. He had on a fancy suit—three piece, pinstripes, with a gold watch chain and patent leather shoes. He was a lean man, with thick glasses, a pointed nose, thinning white hair, a weak chin, and a self-conscious smile. He appeared too mousy to be the “dangerous abortionist” the press made him out to be. But one cannot base much on looks.
I opened a folder marked WOOLEY, EVERETT—PRESS CLIPPINGS, 1925—1928. A cluster of articles in August of 1926 detailed the efforts of Dr. Hans Pfalzgraf to drive Dr. Wooley out of Salt Lake City. PHYSICIAN FILES COMPLAINT ON BEHALF OF S.L. WOMAN (Salt Lake Examiner, Thursday, August 12, ’26). MEDICAL BOARD HEARS PFALZGRAF’S COMPLAINT (Ogden Post, Saturday, August 14, ’26). WOOLEY PERFORMED HARMFUL SURGERY, BOARD AVERS (Salt Lake Telegram, Tuesday, August 24, ’26). BOARD SUSPENDS WOOLEY’S LICENSE (Salt Lake Telegram, Thursday, August 26, ’26). WOOLEY ASSAULTS PFALZGRAF IN DOWNTOWN RESTAURANT, and below that, RESPECTED S.L. PHYSICIAN TO PRESS CHARGES (Ogden Post, Saturday, August 28, ’26).
The next series of clippings was from October of ’28, all from the Ogden Post, about a citizens group called the Ogden Protective League filing a complaint with police about a surgeon practicing in the city without a license. If you guessed the name of the surgeon to be Dr. Everett Wooley, you get a cigar. One of the clippings referred to two women, Pearl Hickmore (of Pleasant View) and Maxine Granger (of Brigham City), coming down with “mystery illnesses” after visiting the doctor. No word on the ultimate fate of either woman.
Peterson gave a knock and poked his head in. “How’s it going?”
I had taken up enough of his Saturday. I closed the clippings file and set it on top of the others. “I think I’ve seen everything I needed to see. Thank you for your time, Clark.”
He walked in the room and I handed him the files. He said, “It’s a shame, Wooley getting it like that. But most folks in this town don’t miss him. Not after what he did to all those poor girls.”
“Have there been any new leads in this case?”
“I don’t know, it wasn’t mine,” he said. “I’m just a lowly patrolman walking the beat. The case has been closed for a while, though. We must’ve interviewed twenty, thirty people. Nothing but a lot of dead ends.”
“What about this Sam Louis?” I glanced at the name on my notebook. “Last name spelled L-O-U-I-S. According to the file, eyewitnesses saw him fleeing the building where Wooley’s office was located.”
“Hang on a minute,” he said, and he left the room with the files in his arms. A few minutes later, he returned and slammed a 1929 city directory on the table, opening the page to the L’s. He ran his finger down a column, then shook his head and backed up a step, glancing at me apologetically. “Nope. No Sam or Samuel Louis in the city directory. You sure it was L-O-U-I-S?”
I nodded. “That’s what the report said.”
He checked just in case. “Sorry,” he said. “No Samuel or Sam Lewis, L-E-W-I-S.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I’m grateful that you looked.”
His eyebrows bounced up and down, and he cracked a smile. “Don’t forget about that chicken dinner, Art.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
Twelve
Sunday dinner at the Oveson family compound once again drew perfect attendance. The women complimented each other’s hairdos and talked about the challenges of canning homegrown vegetables. All of the Oveson brothers except me gathered around the fire crackling in the hearth to discuss their latest law enforcement exploits. A radio in the sitting room played the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The place was full of children, running, laughing, and dashing in and out of the back door, enjoying Nature’s first breath of spring and the longer days outside.
If you haven’t been to Utah, let me tell you March is a wild-card month. March can either be bitter cold or springlike, with the season’s first buds poking out of branch ends. The children left the door open each time they dashed out in the backyard to play, but Mom didn’t object. She was too focused on preparing dinner—a hefty pot roast that dripped juice into the pan—and I assisted by setting the long tables with the proper place mats, plates, and silverware.
By half past six, the two long tables were packed, the north one with adults, the south with children. Plates made the rounds—roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas with pearl onions, asparagus, gravy, a basket of hot rolls, a plate of softened sweet butter. People were too busy eating to make small talk, although I was simply moving food around my plate and hoping nobody would notice. My appetite had flown south, and I wasn’t keen on sitting at the same table with my competitive brothers, especially with the Helen Pfalzgraf investigation unresolved.
A spat erupted at the children’s table. Sarah Jane got into a shoving match with her cousin Stephen.
I grabbed my panting daughter while Grant wrapped his arms around Stephen. I said, “What on earth are you two fighting about, anyhow?”
“Stephen called you a tenderfoot, Dad!”
The word took me aback. “Tenderfoot?” I echoed. “Do you even know what that means?”
“No,” shrieked Sarah Jane, “but nobody can call my dad names!”
“He is a tenderfoot,” said Stephen, a bristly buzz-cut kid whose white shirt and red tie were now disheveled. “That’s what my pop says, and Pop’s always right!”
Grant, a huskier version of me, was shaking his head and blushing. “Now, you know I didn’t say that, Stephen. I never called Uncle Arthur a tenderfoot.”
“Sure you did, Pop,” he said. “A few days ago, at the dinner table. You said Uncle Arthur is a tenderfoot. I heard you.”
“You misunderstood me,” said Grant, leading Stephen back to his chair. “Now you sit down there and enjoy the wonderful dinner Grandmama made for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
I returned to my chair, and Clara reached over and squeezed my hand. She leaned in close and whispered, “Don’t mind him. He had no call to say that.”
Grant sat next to his wife, Bess, a double-chinned brunette in a green dress. He scooted his chair closer to the table and tucked his napkin into his collar like a bib.
Mom ran her fingers through her white hair and stared through her bifocals, first at Grant, then at me, then Grant again. “I don’t want you two quarreling over anything. You hear?”
Grant, all smiles, said, “Oh, we weren’t quarreling, Mom. I said something a few days ago and Stephen misunderstood me. That’s all.”
I said, “So you didn’t say I was a tenderfoot?”
“I was talking to Bess about the Pfalzgraf investigation,” he said. “I might’ve said the Salt Lake Sheriff’s Office was full of tenderfoots. Something along those lines. But I didn’t mean any harm by it, Art. Honestly.”
“Why would you say something like that?” I asked.
He took a deep breath as he drowned his piece of roast beef in gravy. “It’s been over two weeks, Art. The crime scene was full of clues. The Keystone Kops could’ve—”
“Grant!” said Frank, my oldest brother. “That’s quite enough.”
Grant nodded, cut into his
roast beef, and forked a bite into his mouth. He watched me as he chewed and arched his eyebrows, tauntingly.
“The Keystone Kops could have what?” I asked. “Finish your sentence.”
He spoke with his mouth full. “Every criminal in America knows that Salt Lake City is the place to go if you want to get away with murder.”
“Grant,” said John and Frank at the same time.
John said, “Gosh, leave him alone, Grant. Eat your supper.”
Frank said, “Don’t fight back, Art. There’s a time and a place. Cool down and eat your supper, kid.”
I said to Grant, “If you’re so doggone smart, why don’t you come up and show us hayseeds a thing or two. I’m sure one hour of Sherlocking and you’d crack this case wide open.”
“I bet I’d do a better job than any of you,” he said, his mouth forming a crooked grin. “Tell you what. I’ll take a day off, come up and show you fellows how it’s done.”
Clara moved so close to me her lips touched my ears when she whispered. “Think of all the work your mom has done. Be the bigger man.”
She sat straight, still looking at me—all eyes were on me at this point—and I took a deep breath. I faced Grant, who watched me intently, rocking back and forth subtly, perhaps waiting for me to strike back. I tossed my linen napkin on the table as I stood and headed for the back door.
Most of the snow outside had melted—big patches of mud and grass showed—and the days were lasting longer and getting warmer. I went to my favorite spot inside the barn and boosted myself up onto the leather chair of the tractor. The din of livestock kept me company out there as I blew warm air into my hands. Water dripped everywhere, Mother Nature’s whisper that April was coming. I was alone a good ten minutes, but footsteps told me my solitude was about to come to an end.
Mom stood in the doorway with a black knit stocking cap on her head, a gentle smile on her face, and her dark green coat buttoned up to the very top. She walked past bales of hay and metal farm implements and made herself comfortable on top of a big wooden crate.
“I had a feeling I’d find you out here. You aren’t like your brothers in one respect. They’re always surrounding themselves with other people, but you—you like to be alone. Always have.”
I nodded. “It helps me clear the cobwebs out of my head, Mom.”
“Won’t you come back in, Art? I know Grant was out of line, but he didn’t mean any harm. He sometimes gets carried away and says things he shouldn’t, and this was one of those times. If you could find it in your heart to forgive him…”
“He was right. I am a tenderfoot.” I ran my fingers along the red surface of the tractor’s body, now dented and scratched by years of use. “I’m not like this old tractor here. It’s been making the rounds on these fields for years and years. I’ve always followed the easy route. I’m a year away from thirty and I haven’t done much of anything with my life.”
“Don’t say that,” said Mom. “You’ve achieved great things. Maybe you are the type who doesn’t go looking for big challenges. Nothing wrong with that.”
I nodded. “I’ve spent a lifetime running away from the things that scare me. I don’t know why.” I looked down at my feet, not able to make eye contact with her. “Maybe it’s my poor health. Maybe it was Dad’s death. I don’t know. I feel like I’m always so frightened by the world.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Arthur,” Mom said, squeezing my wrist. “That’s always been your biggest problem—not giving yourself enough credit. All of you Oveson boys are smart, but you, Arthur, have got something more. You’ve got a heart full of kindness.”
She nodded her head firmly and gave my wrist another squeeze. “Life is full of adversity. You don’t need to seek it out. It’s how you respond to it when it finds you that counts.”
I looked into her warm eyes. “What they say about Sheriff Cannon is true. He’s no good. All he wants to do is pin the Pfalzgraf homicide on this one fellow, and he might not even be our man.”
“Times like this, you have to listen to your heart. It’ll serve you well.” She paused. “Do you want to come inside?”
“Maybe not quite yet. I think I’ll sit out here for a few minutes.”
“Well, I’ll stay, too. Keep you company.”
She inched back on the top of that crate to get more comfortable. We stayed in the barn together a while longer, eyeing the snow-covered peaks to the east, reflecting the last streaks of daylight.
* * *
Roscoe didn’t show up to Monday morning calisthenics. In the short time I’d been a deputy, he had never missed a day of work. Three other deputies also failed to appear at the gymnasium: Harold Romney, Bill McKitrick, and Ed Glendon. I didn’t think much of it as I endured the daily exercise routines with the other deputies. After, I took my usual piping-hot morning shower, toweled myself off, opened my locker, and gazed at my dripping reflection in the little mirror. Once I dried off, I got dressed in less than two minutes, stopping to run a comb through my hair before I put on my socks and shoes. Jim Boyd, a brown-haired deputy with pale skin, big ears, and an overbite, emerged from the showers, opening up a locker near me.
“Tough break, Art,” he said as I was tying my shoelaces.
I looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“About your partner and all,” he said, slipping on his temple garments.
“What about my partner?”
He stood motionless for a few seconds and winced at me. “You mean you ain’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Cannon canned him, along with Glendon, Romney, and that other fella. What’s his name?” He snapped his finger twice and his eyes widened. “McKitrick. Cannon called ’em all into his office on Saturday, said they were the ringleaders, and fired each and every one, right on the spot.”
“Ringleaders? Ringleaders of what?”
Boyd walked over to a nearby sink with toothpowder, a toothbrush, and a metal cup. He filled the cup with water and glanced at his protruding pearlies, which in his case weren’t so white. “Cannon found out about that little letter they wrote to the Examiner calling for his resignation and endorsing Blackham.”
I stood still, mouth open, too dumbfounded to speak.
Boyd began brushing his teeth, side to side, up and down, and I gave his words a minute to settle in. He tipped his metal cup, gargled with water and spit. “I thought Lund would’ve called you over the weekend. He’s your partner, ain’t he?”
“Yeah. But…” I stopped. I thought about telling Boyd that I didn’t know Roscoe very well. Then I reconsidered. I had a lot of mixed feelings running through my head about Roscoe at that moment, and Boyd didn’t need to know about them.
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
I rushed out, heading straight for Sheriff Cannon’s office. Walking down the hall, I thought of exactly what I was going to tell him—that nobody liked him. He was inept. His reputation was in the gutter. Probably his own mother even thought him corrupt. I couldn’t remember being this furious at any other point in my life. I charged up the sets of stairs and cut across the common room full of desks, until his office door came into view. This is it, I told myself. I’m finally going to say all of the things I’ve wanted to say to him.
Something happened a few feet away from his office door, though. My feet didn’t just go cold—they went full-fledged iceberg on me.
Cannon was in there, sitting triumphantly at his desk, looking every bit the king, stuffing a sweet roll into his mouth and washing it down with a cup of hot chocolate. He saw me and arched his eyebrows, stood up, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He waved his hand toward the chair, chewing food as he beckoned me inside. Sykes was sitting in his favorite chair, to the side of Cannon’s desk, breaking open roasted peanuts from a brown paper bag.
“Have a seat, Deputy,” said Cannon. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
“Sir,” I said, “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about—
”
“Good, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about, too,” he said. “I’ll go first. Deputy Oveson—”
I blurted out, “Sheriff Cannon—”
“Uh, uh, uh. Let me go first. You’ve probably heard the news that I fired four disloyal deputies who were fomenting all kinds of trouble in these corridors.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sir—”
“Good. I’ll finish what I’m going to say, and then I’ll give you a turn. At first I was disappointed that you didn’t tell me about this little escapade of theirs. After all, I did ask you to be my eyes and ears. Your failure to convey that information to me had me wondering about you, Deputy—about where your loyalties lie. I thought about calling you in here with the four of them and telling you to hit the road, too. But Sykes here told me something.”
I glanced at Sykes, who was busy eating peanuts and tossing the shells into a spittoon.
“What’s that, sir?” I asked.
“Sykes said that the other fellows probably didn’t let you in on their little plot because they had you pegged a Cannon loyalist. I gave it some thought, and what Sykes says makes a lot of sense. But now that you’re here in my office, I want to hear it from you, Oveson.”
“Hear what, sir?”
“Were you in on it?”
The March wind whipped in through the open window and ruffled my hair. Car horns blared, streetcar bells clanged, and Old Glory at the City and County Building across the street flapped high on a pole alongside the state beehive flag. I sat paralyzed in that chair, unable to say what I was really thinking, and terrified of going home and breaking it to Clara that I no longer had a job.