by Andrew Hunt
“That’s quite a story,” said Chief Ballard. “Are you prepared, Arthur, to go on the record with all of this information?”
“No. None of this is going to be made public.”
The men looked at each other, then looked at me, and the stenographer stopped taking shorthand and blinked in my direction.
“Come again?” asked Chief Ballard.
“None of this is going to be made public,” I repeated. “The police are going to declare Helen Pfalzgraf’s murder unsolved. That means C. W. Alexander’s name will be cleared, and the police will publicly absolve him of any involvement in the crime. The public will not learn of Parley Tanner’s alleged involvement in Helen’s murder, just as they won’t find out about their affair or her getting pregnant by him. Same goes for Floyd Samuelson’s involvement in the slayings of Wooley and Considine, and his attempt on Roscoe Lund.”
“But Art,” said Buddy, “there’s no way under the sun we can possibly—”
I cut him off. “You can tell the press that Parley and Floyd were going up to the Tanners’ cabin to open it up for the spring, and they lost control of their automobile on a slick mountain road. You wouldn’t be lying about the second part.”
Cannon said, “What makes you think you’re in any position to give us orders?”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I have in my possession a box of eighty reels from Dr. Pfalzgraf’s extensive collection of movies. Pfalzgraf spent years using hidden cameras to film his clients when they visited his office to request his illegal surgeries. I think you know precisely what type of surgeries I’m talking about. It turns out that many of these women are the wives of influential men. If any of this ever goes public, I’ll see to it that the movies get turned over to the press and the feds. Believe me, gentlemen, a lot of important careers will be destroyed.”
“Whose careers are we talking about?” asked Rasmussen, showing his first signs of nervousness.
“You know me. I never tip my hand.”
Buddy smirked.
“Why are you doing this, Art?” asked Ballard.
“To protect someone.”
“Miriam Tanner?” asked Buddy.
I didn’t reply. He knew the answer.
An uneasy silence fell over the room. Rasmussen closed his notebook and returned it, along with his pen and capped inkwell, to his briefcase, and then he studied me while he scratched his chin. He broke the silence. “Releasing those films to the public has the potential to be very destructive, Mr. Oveson. You could ruin a lot of lives. Are you prepared to do this in order to protect the feelings of one individual?”
“I am.”
Rasmussen nodded and arched his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose if a thorough police investigation confirms Mr. Oveson’s assertions, my office is prepared to accept his conditions. I’m sure a less heavy-handed approach on Mr. Oveson’s part would’ve won me over, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. The important thing is we know who bears responsibility for this recent string of homicides. The public need not know of our findings.”
Ballard turned toward Buddy. “How say you?”
Buddy, with his arms folded, watched me. He switched his gaze to the table and thought it over. “We’d have to keep a tight lid on this one. If it ever got out to the public that we withheld information about a series of high-profile crimes committed in our community, there’ll be hell to pay.” He paused, without taking his eyes off the table. “Then again, if Miriam Tanner were to find out what we all heard in this room today, she’d be crushed, in a far worse way than she is now. She’s already devastated. Revealing the details of this case to the public would only add to her anguish. Which is why Art here is doing what he’s doing.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Cannon. “It astonishes me that men of your stature would allow yourselves to be pushed around by a sidewinder like Oveson. Well, gentlemen, I’m not playing ball here. I’m sure as heck not going to participate in any cover-up. The good people of this county have the right to find out all of the details of this case.”
The time had come. I pulled the metal film canister out of my coat pocket, placed it on the table, and slid it over to Cannon like a hockey puck. It stopped at the edge of the table, in front of him. He read the label, and his eyes widened with recognition. He looked at the others at the table as he laid the canister on his lap.
“That’s mine,” he said quietly. “Been looking for it.”
He cleared his throat and regained his composure. “Like I was saying. The people have the right to know. That’s why, come tomorrow morning, I’m gonna call a press conference and tell the world exactly who murdered Helen Pfalzgraf.”
“Why?” I asked. “So you can get reelected?”
“Dang straight,” he said, with an exaggerated nod. “The men and women of this county deserve to have a sheriff who looks after their interests. Not like that bastard Blackham, and not a bunch of police who kowtow to a little desperado like you, Oveson!”
I smiled. “You don’t think I’d actually leave the film in that can, do you?”
Another look of horror, rivaling his expression when he saw the canister, spread over his face. “You … mean…”
I nodded. “It’s empty.”
He pried the can open like a metallic clam and turned pale when he found nothing inside of it.
“Where is it? Tell me right now!”
“You know, Cannon,” I said, “the people of this county would be a whole lot better off if you’d get in your car and drive as far away from here as possible and never come back.”
“Why, you little son of a—”
Like a whale leaping out of the ocean, he lunged across the table, knocking over two of the upside-down glasses and one of the pitchers of ice water on his way. It happened in a blurry flash, that big, beefy body flying at me, those hands reaching for my throat. The sheer weight of him sent me backward, and he knocked the wind out of me with a punch to my gut. I heard the other men moving—getting out of their chairs, running around the table—but Cannon was smothering me and I couldn’t see much. Men’s voices overlapped, and in the confusion I couldn’t tell whose was whose.
Cannon’s weight eased off me as multiple fingers grasped his arms and shoulders and chest and lifted him. He got in one last punch—his hard, leathery knuckles connecting with my mouth and nose—before they peeled him off. A pair of uniformed police officers pulled him out of the room flailing and shouting and pointing at me. Spit flew out of his mouth as he shouted, “I’ll dog you, Oveson! I swear to God, I’ll dog you, boy! You ain’t heard the last’a me! Goddamn backstabbing rattlesnake!”
The door closed, but he could still be heard in the hallway, raving like a lunatic. “Let me at him! I’ll break his dang neck! I swear, I’ll dog that kid…” Eventually, his voice faded into the distance. I remained flat on my back in a puddle of ice water until Buddy offered me his hand and helped me to my feet. Wit, Rasmussen, and Ballard straightened chairs, and Buddy lifted mine upright. We returned to our seats, momentarily too shaken to speak, catching our breaths and letting our pulses slow. Buddy broke the silence by bursting into laughter, and a few seconds later Wit joined him. Rasmussen bit into his lower lip in a vain attempt to keep a straight face, but restraint lost out. Before long, everybody in the room except Ballard was laughing, and even he had a slight a grin on his face.
“Alright, enough’s enough,” said the chief, shaking his head. “I’d like a little time alone with Arthur. Gentlemen, would you please excuse us?”
Chair legs scraped the floor, and the men stood and, one by one, left the room. Wit Dunaway closed the door behind him.
Chief Ballard kept his hands pressed together and covering his mouth, as if praying, and stared at me a long time with those squinting, dignified eyes of his. For a few seconds, I felt as if he were looking into my very soul, and for all I know, he may have been doing exactly that. He radiated an ancient wisdom, in an old Abraham Lincoln sort of way,
and his firm yet taciturn style reminded me of my father.
“Are you OK?” asked Ballard.
“Yes, sir,” I said, running my palm over my sore face. “I’m fine, thank you.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and kept his eyes on me. “He hasn’t changed one iota since he used to work here, Cannon. I share your sentiments about him. That doesn’t justify your actions, though, Arthur. Extortion. Blackmail. Hindering a police investigation. Conducting a homicide investigation without being properly qualified to do so. I could sit here and list half a dozen other laws you’ve broken that I know of. I could easily send you to Sugar House Prison for the next decade.”
He turned two glasses resting in the center of the table right side up, raised the pitcher, and filled them. He nudged a glass of water to me, and I reluctantly took a drink. I needed it. His withering stare left me parched. I could hear each gulp as he downed his, and he returned the glass to the table. “I wonder what your father would think if he’d lived to see this. Willard Oveson was my first partner, before you were even born. He didn’t teach me everything I know about being a policeman, but he taught me all of the most important things. I’m certain Will would be as shocked as I am by your methods.”
He didn’t speak for a while; then he scooted his chair back and stood to leave. On his way out the door, he faced me. “Come back Monday. There’ll be a job waiting for you, if you want it.”
I reared my head back in surprise. “But I thought you said…”
“We need a new dispatcher.”
My shoulders slumped. “Dispatcher?”
He must have heard the disappointment in my voice, because he looked me up and down. “You’ve got to start somewhere, Arthur.”
Familiar words.
Chief Ballard left the door open when he walked out. I took that to mean I was free to go.
In the waiting room by the information desk, Clara was asleep on a chair. I nudged her gently, and she woke up, stood, and wrapped her arms around me. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Let’s go home.” Outside, my sensitive ears picked up every late-afternoon sound, from a distant locomotive whistle to a dog barking. My bandaged arm ached, my head throbbed, my neck was sore, and yet I’d never felt as happy to be alive as I did walking out of the Public Safety Building, holding hands with Clara. We faced bustling State Street, congested with streetcars, autos, and trucks, polluting the air with exhaust and yet brimming with life.
Thirty
Pioneer Day—July 24, 1930—fell on a Thursday.
Anyone who has been in Utah on Pioneer Day can attest that it is a bigger holiday in this state than July 4, and that is saying something because Utahns are a patriotic bunch. Pioneer Day celebrates the families who came to Utah in 1847 to build a city in an arid landscape at a time when the conventional wisdom of the day held that this land could not be settled. We had proved the naysayers wrong. Some of the more zealous celebrants even donned pioneer clothing—calico and homespun—and rode across the valley in the very same wagons their forebears arrived in eight decades ago.
Festivities commenced in the morning. A colossal, flapping banner over Main Street announced, PIONEER DAYS PARADE, JULY 24, 1930. Sun baked the pavement and sidewalks. People stood under trees and opened all of the windows in their houses and prayed for a breeze. The radio announced that a record fifteen thousand flocked to the beaches of Saltair that day. Streetcars ran double operations, depositing throngs at downtown stops to watch the parade. Crowds packed both sides of Main Street, waiting for the 9:00 A.M. parade to begin, eager to watch floats and marching bands and touring cars loaded with local celebrities and dignitaries.
Later that day, at Liberty Park, thousands of people—mostly families—filled the grounds to be part of the annual picnic. Hot dogs and hamburgers sizzled on the grill; kids ran from booth to booth, paying a nickel to play carnival games and toss balls at a dunk-tank target; colored biplanes buzzed overhead. Finding a parking spot within a mile of the park was nearly impossible, and city enforcers were working overtime, ticketing cars parked on lawns and sidewalks.
At night, people gathered in the park to watch one of the biggest fireworks exhibitions in the western United States. Roscoe and I arrived before starting our regular shift on the Dawn Patrol—midnight to 8:00 A.M.—a move upward from dispatch, yet still far from ideal. It’s like Chief Ballard said, though: You have to start somewhere. My stiff black police uniform made my neck and arms itch, and my cap was too big for me, but Clara and Sarah Jane and Hyrum didn’t seem to notice. They found us in the park, and Sarah Jane ran up to me and threw her arms around my neck. Clara held hands with Hyrum, and he toddled up to me and hugged my leg. I led them to the new patrol car, a 1930 Chevrolet with white stars on both front doors, each emblazoned with the gold words SALT LAKE CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT. A siren had been fitted below the right headlamp, and a blinking red light was fastened to the grille. It boasted vulcanized whitewalls and gleaming black metal spokes, and the interior smelled of fresh leather. My family huddled together on the running board, and Roscoe—by now a regular guest at our house for Sunday evening dinners—leaned against the hood of the car.
Colorful explosions of light filled the skies over Liberty Park with shimmering greens and violets, oranges and yellows, reds and silvers. Sitting on my lap, Hyrum saw the fireworks reflected in my chest badge, and he touched it and smiled at me. The more elaborate skyrockets prompted oohs and ahhs and clapping and finger pointing from the thousands of spectators sitting on the lawns, in the backs of flatbed trucks, on benches, in the seats of convertible autos. Somewhere in the distance, a phonograph or radio played patriotic band music that went along beautifully with the pyrotechnics over our heads.
The previous months had been eventful. I went to work for the Salt Lake City Police Department at the beginning of April, assigned to operate their radio station, KGPW. Inside a windowless room, I read alerts into a microphone plugged into a radio console with lots of dials. An operator would pass me messages written on slips of paper, which I’d announce with the squeeze of the mike key, and my voice went out to patrol cars across the valley. Boredom reigned most of the time on the job, although I’d have the occasional lively day, packed with alerts.
Roscoe spent weeks convalescing, eventually walking out of LDS Hospital with the help of a wooden cane. I picked him up the day of his release, and we passed under the shade of fragrant trees in the Avenues. When he entered his apartment, Barney—who’d been under my daily care while Roscoe was in the hospital—came running to his old friend and leaped into his arms, and the two experienced a joyful reunion full of petting and purring. I left, closing the door to let them enjoy their time together in peace. Two months later, Chief Ballard promoted me to Dawn Patrol, partnering me up with Roscoe. The two of us spent long nights breaking up quarrels, shutting down nocturnal gambling operations, destroying distilleries, arresting prowlers and perverts, helping ambulance drivers and morgue wagon boys retrieve car-wreck victims, and responding to false alarms and needless calls. Paired together every night, we grew closer, yet we hid our fondness for each other under a layer of joking and back patting.
Around the time I went to work for the Salt Lake City Police Department, Sheriff Fred Cannon announced he was resigning. Cannon told a press conference he was stepping down for “health reasons” and Assistant Sheriff Albert M. Sykes would be taking over as sheriff of Salt Lake County. Last I heard, Cannon loaded all of his worldly belongings into a touring car, along with his wife, Ida, and drove out of the city to points unknown. Upon assuming the duties of sheriff, Sykes promptly announced his decision not to run for the office in November, leaving Lorenzo Blackham’s candidacy uncontested.
A big funeral was held for Parley Tanner at the Salt Lake City Cemetery in the Avenues. It was a sunny day, warm for late March, and I watched the whole thing from my car, parked on a dirt road overlooking the cemetery and the valley beyond it
. A few days later, Floyd Samuelson’s kin held a smaller funeral at Mount Olivet Cemetery on 500 South, burying him in the shade of a tall weeping birch tree. I showed up at Floyd’s service, too, and—as at Parley Tanner’s ceremony—kept my distance. I leaned against a stone wall, watching his widow dressed in black, held up by loved ones as she wept. Floyd’s young son, Bert, gently placed a flower on the casket and kissed the wood before it was lowered into the ground.
* * *
By June, the police had declared Helen Pfalzgraf’s murder unsolved, telling the public they had no suspects or leads. The trail had grown cold, Chief Ballard said, and the police simply had no explanation as to who killed Helen or why. Coincidentally, Sheriff Sykes changed the status of C. W. Alexander’s death from a suicide to a homicide and issued a statement that there was no evidence linking the slain mining speculator to the Pfalzgraf homicide. Alexander’s suicide note had been a hoax, said Sykes, planted at the crime scene by the murderer in an effort to throw off the police. He told a Salt Lake Examiner reporter there were no suspects in the Alexander homicide.
The investigation into the killing of Seymour Considine took a strange turn in the spring. Police in Asbury Park, New Jersey—Considine’s hometown—got wind of his plans to write an exposé about Al Capone’s brutal strong-arm tactics in Chicago and the power that Mr. Scarface wielded over the city’s political establishment. Considine had interviewed about a dozen Chicagoans for the story before he was murdered. The Asbury Park investigators pinned Considine’s murder on Capone’s men. They figured Capone’s enforcer, Frank Nitti, must’ve dispatched two torpedoes to Salt Lake City to finish off the true crime writer. “It will be hard, if not impossible, to prove,” an unnamed police source told the Asbury Park Tribune, “but for now, all signs point to a Capone hit.”