Bradshaw remembered with pleasure the crimes of retribution, the Lord calling out to him in righteous indignation, to punish the Jeffs’ empire. And punish they did. At every turn and in every way possible, the Bradshaws had exacted revenge on Warren Jeffs and the FLDS church. What started out as acts of vandalism against church-owned property became crimes of theft, burglary, even arson.
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of the prison guards. “Bradshaw, you got a visitor. Step over to the cell door and turn around, hands behind your back—you know the drill.” The cuff port door opened. He stood and turned around, extending his hands until he felt the cold steel of the handcuffs bite into his wrists. His cell door opened and two burly correctional officers attached a leash to his handcuffs. An ankle chain was secured to each ankle requiring him to walk taking baby steps.
***
I went to see Bradshaw with the rudiments of a plan. I was certain that going to him in a conventional way, reciting the Miranda warnings with the expectation of hearing some startling confession, stood little chance of success. Instead, I intended to set a trap and see if he walked into it. We met in a small office in the Uintah I housing unit used mostly by staff for writing reports and conducting inmate disciplinary hearings. I carried a concealed voice-activated tape recorder in my shirt pocket.
Walter Bradshaw looked remarkably undistinguished. He was a slight man, maybe six feet, slim, with short black hair and a full salt and pepper beard. The beard aged him beyond his forty-five years I thought. His only feature that I would describe as striking were his eyes—eyes like Paul Newman, only these were a bright emerald green and they seemed to look right through you. He stared at me intently as I entered the room and sat down, wondering, I’m sure, who I was and what I wanted.
After perfunctory introductions and a minute or so of idle chit-chat designed to establish rapport or some such nonsense from Interrogation 101 training, I got down to business.
“Mr. Bradshaw, Salt Lake P.D. homicide contacted me last night with some disturbing information. It seems that one of the witnesses in the pending case against you was found murdered last evening, and a second witness in the case is also missing. What can you tell me about that?”
The non-verbal expression on his face was one of surprise. For a moment he said nothing, probably trying to process what I’d just told him. “I wouldn’t know a thing about it. Why are you talking to me anyway, Mr. Kincaid? I’ve been in prison for the past several weeks, and while I believe in the power of holy miracles, I think we’d both agree that the likelihood of my being in two places at the same time is highly remote.”
“I’m talking to you, Walter, because the crime lab team discovered physical evidence at the scene linking members of your family to the killing,” I lied.
“I don’t believe that any member of the Reformed Church would have anything to do with such a crime. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be talking to you about it now would I?”
“Probably not, but maybe you should. You’re facing enough new charges to keep you locked up for a long time. And that doesn’t count the parole violations. I can assure you that the state parole board is eager to meet with you just as soon as the court disposes of the new charges. A good word from me to the prosecutor and the parole board wouldn’t hurt and just might help.”
“The Lord will take care of my needs, Mr. Kincaid. I am not seeking, nor am I interested in, receiving help from anyone who is employed by the State of Utah. Government is the oppressor, and you, sir, are an instrument of that oppression.”
He paused for a moment, looking pensive, and then he continued. “Tell me something Mr. Kincaid, which witness was killed—the man or the young girl?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity, I suppose, although I’d hate to see that beautiful, young woman hurt. No harm at all if it was the queer sinner. God’s justice, you know.”
“How did you even know there was a male and female witness?”
“TV and newspapers for starters. And my attorney knows. We know the names of all the witnesses because the government is required to provide that information.”
He was right about that.
I tried a different tactic. “You know, Walter, life in max is pretty damned hard. I guess I don’t have to tell you that. If you change your mind and decide to cooperate, I might be able to get you transferred into a medium security housing unit where you aren’t locked down twenty-three hours a day. Think about it.” I slid my business card across the table toward him.
He looked at it for a moment and then slid it back. “This conversation is over, sir.”
Chapter Five
On one level, my interview with Walter Bradshaw appeared to have been a bust. I hadn’t expected a confession and he didn’t offer one. On the other hand, my assertion that physical evidence found at the crime scene had linked his gang to the murder of Arnold Ginsberg seemed to have caught him off-guard. If he’d ordered the murder the only surprise should have been my lie about the existence of physical evidence. If he didn’t, the entire episode should have shocked him.
On my way out of Uintah I, I stopped at the office of Captain Jerry Branch. “Jerry, I need your help with something. If Bradshaw makes any phone calls in the next day or two, I’d like you to record them and notify my office immediately. Same thing if he receives visitors.”
“Sure. Anything in particular you’d like us to be listening for?” I explained the possible connection to the Ginsberg murder.
Back in my office, I reviewed Bradshaw’s visitation history. Since his return to prison, he had received at least one family visitor per week and sometimes two. The approved visitors were his wife, Janine, and his daughter-in-law, Amanda. Amanda was married to Walter’s eldest son, twenty-six year old Albert. Albert was a fugitive and wanted in the armored car robbery and murder.
The other visitor was Bradshaw’s lawyer, a man named Gordon Dixon. I’d never heard of him. Dixon wasn’t an employee in the public defenders office, that much I knew. That meant that he was in private practice and was either hired by the family or appointed by the court to represent Walter. In his past legal scrapes, Bradshaw had always claimed poverty and was represented by court appointed counsel, usually a public defender. Dixon had been in to see Bradshaw on three occasions in the past several weeks, ostensibly to discuss legal strategy for his impending trial. Absent suspicious circumstances, the attorney-client privilege prevented the prison from reading mail or eavesdropping on conversations between a convict and his lawyer. I decided to find out more about Gordon Dixon and the nature of his law practice.
Patti stuck her head in my office. “You’d better get moving. You’ve got a busy day in front of you. Director Cates is expecting you at eleven and Judge Wilkinson agreed to see you at noon. His afternoon court docket was full, but he offered to see you briefly during his lunch hour—didn’t sound too happy about it though.”
“Dandy.” I stood up and reached for my coat when it struck me. “What’s that smell? Have you started wearing peppermint perfume these days?” Then I saw them lying on top of my file cabinet—automobile air fresheners, several of them in fragrances ranging from peppermint, to sage, vanilla, and orange spice. “What the hell am I supposed to do with these?”
She was laughing now. “Terry bought those for you. He thought you could wear them around your neck at Ginsberg’s autopsy this afternoon. It’s scheduled for one-thirty.”
“Very funny. That boy obviously doesn’t have enough to do. I’ll have to fix that.”
***
I was ushered into Director Cates’ office promptly at eleven. He was known, among other things, for his punctuality. Unfortunately, I was not, but I was attempting to mend my ways, if for no other reason than to get off on the right foot with my new boss.
For a moment I thought Cates was going to remain behind a large, walnut desk, but he stood and pointed me in the general direction of a round con
ference table in one corner of his office. We sat. There was no idle chit-chat.
“I understand that you wanted to see me about the murder last night of the Salt Lake City businessman, Ginsberg, I think his name was. Frankly, I wondered what that had to do with us, but I’m sure you’ll fill me in.”
I explained the possible connection of Walter Bradshaw to the murder of Arnold Ginsberg and the request from Salt Lake City P.D. for our help with the investigation.
“It strikes me that we should help with the case, but I’m going to leave that to your discretion. What I do expect is that you keep me in the loop and always exercise good judgment before committing us to these kinds of investigations. Tell me this. Has the press connected Ginsberg’s murder to the Bradshaw case?”
“Not yet, but I think it’s only a matter of time. It’s possible that Salt Lake P.D. might release that information in the normal course of business. But even if they don’t, it’s only a matter of time before some good investigative reporter will uncover the fact that Ginsberg was a witness in the case and that Bradshaw was on parole at the time of the robbery/murder.”
Cates was a note-taker. As we talked, he busily scribbled notes to himself in a planner. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll pass this information along to our public information officer in case the media starts asking questions. Anything else?”
“Only that Bradshaw’s preliminary hearing is scheduled for tomorrow, and the prison’s Special Operations Tactical Team will shuttle him back-and-forth between the courthouse and prison. With the other members of his gang still at large, security is tight.”
“Appreciate the information, Sam. I’ll consider it. Before you leave there’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
That put me on full alert.
“I’m sorry that until now I haven’t had time to sit down with you and go over some things. My first few weeks on the job have been a little hectic. And I want you to understand that while I don’t hold you or the Special Investigations Branch responsible for the recent scandal, there are some people, both in and out of the department, who have pointed the finger of blame in your direction.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
“I considered reassigning you but decided against it, in part, because of a conversation I had with my predecessor, Norm Sloan. Sloan gave you high marks for not only your professional skills but also your loyalty to him, and your dedication to the department. You’ll soon discover that I will demand the same level of personal loyalty and dedication.”
“I appreciate Director Sloan’s kind words of support. And of course I’ll try to provide you with the same level of dedication and support that I gave him. And if it turns out that that’s not good enough, we’ll both know that it’s time for me to move on.”
“Fair enough,” Cates said. “The issue I wanted to discuss with you today is how to keep the department operating on sound ethical principles and the role you and the SIB will have to play in that endeavor. I ran a tight ship for twenty-eight years in the King County Sheriff’s Department and I intend to run a tight ship here. People in this department are going to quickly learn that I have a zero tolerance policy for rogue employees who think they can operate outside the rules. Tell me something, Sam, how do you think we can prevent future scandals like that recent business with the so-called Commission?”
“Like a lot of people, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it. And I’ve concluded that, as a department, we should have been doing some things differently.”
“Such as?”
“Hiring for starters. In the name of saving money, the department gutted the budget for conducting full-field background investigations on prospective employees. Also, we eliminated psychological screening completely from the personnel selection process. That was a mistake.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Cates. “And that’s why I’ve shifted background investigations from the personnel department back to your office. And from now on, nobody gets hired without a psychological evaluation. We’ve already put that service out for bid.
“What else?”
I started to wonder if this was a test. “Scheduling of line staff and supervisors probably should have been done differently.”
“How so?”
“The prison allowed, even encouraged, the same line staff and supervisors to work together for too long a period of time in the same area. It would have been better to rotate and mix line staff and managers more often. That would have prevented the formation of tight cliques of staff and supervisors, making it harder to organize and control illicit activities.”
I don’t know whether he liked this idea but he was back scribbling notes in his planner. Maybe he was writing that I was a flaming nut-case and had begun the paper trail that would lead to my ultimate removal from the department. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.
He looked up from his planner. “Here’s my plan and how the SIB has an integral role its success. It starts with my office. Employees have to know that illegal and unethical behavior won’t be tolerated. I have to set the tone for that right from the get-go with stronger written policies and procedures, improved training, increased emphasis on ethics, and, of course, vigorous enforcement. In part, that’s where your office comes in. Every allegation of employee misconduct must be investigated quickly and thoroughly, and appropriate corrective action taken immediately.
I interrupted. “That’s all well and good. I assume we’ll get the resources to pay for it because, at the moment, I don’t have the budget or staff to carry out the mandate, or to conduct full-field background investigations on all applicants. I don’t have a problem with the SIB having the responsibility as long as we have the necessary resources.”
“Tell me what you think you need.”
“Right now, the SIB functions with six investigators counting myself, and one overworked secretary. I need, as a minimum, one additional full-time investigator, two would be better, and an additional clerical support person.”
Cates thought about it for a moment. “Here’s what I can do for you now. I’ll find the money in the current budget to get you another secretary. When the new fiscal year begins, I’ll get you another investigator. Until then, you’ll have to make do.”
Our meeting ended. I’d been blunt. I wasn’t sure whether he appreciated my candor. His demeanor didn’t give much away. But I knew that I’d been set-up to fail if I couldn’t command sufficient resources to implement his plan for greater staff accountability. In the meantime, I had a murder investigation to work.
Chapter Six
Robin Joiner slept until almost noon. She had spent nearly two hours drinking coffee and eating a late night dinner of eggs, hash browns, and toast at the IHOP, several miles south and west of the University of Utah campus. The attempted kidnapping had frightened her beyond anything she had ever experienced.
After dinner, she walked several blocks on Main Street until she found a motel that looked clean enough to pass the smell test. Joiner debated about whether to use her remaining cash to register for the room using a false name but ultimately decided against it. It seemed prudent to hoard her cash for emergencies and use her debit card for the room, knowing that using the card would create a paper trail. After a restless hour in which she couldn’t get to sleep, she got up and walked a block to a twenty-four hour convenience store where she purchased some Tylenol PM. The sleep medication had done its job, but it had also left her with a major hangover.
Joiner got up, showered, and wandered over to the motel’s lobby. The dump had advertised a continental breakfast. She needed to sit down and figure out what to do. As she poured a cup of coffee, Joiner glanced down at the front page headlines of the Salt Lake Tribune. Something caught her attention, something familiar. And then it hit her like punch in the gut. There had been a murder in Salt Lake City last night. The victim was Arnold Ginsberg, the same Arnold Ginsberg whom she’d met at police headquarters the day o
f the armored car robbery. She collapsed in a chair and read the story with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
This changed everything. Over watered-down coffee, juice, and a stale Danish, Joiner carefully considered her options. In time a plan began to take shape in her head, a plan that gave her a glimmer of hope.
***
I was irritated as I sat outside the chambers of district court judge Homer Wilkinson. I was supposed to see him at noon. His secretary had left for lunch shortly after twelve having assured me that the judge would be out momentarily. It was now after twelve-thirty and he still hadn’t made an appearance. Finally, the office door opened and an apologetic judge beckoned me inside.
I had testified in front of Wilkinson on a couple of old prison cases, but I could tell that he didn’t remember me. I introduced myself, and we chatted briefly about nothing of significance. Finally, he asked, “So, Mr. Kincaid, what brings you to see me today?”
I asked him if he’d heard anything about the murder of Arnold Ginsberg. He had. What he didn’t know, only because it hadn’t yet come to the attention of the press, was Ginsberg’s status as a witness in the Bradshaw case.
“Judge, the victim in this homicide was scheduled to appear in your courtroom tomorrow as a prosecution witness in the preliminary hearing of Walter Bradshaw. As you probably know, the rest of the Bradshaw gang remains at-large. Salt Lake City P.D. believes that Ginsberg’s murder may not be random and may, in fact, be connected to his status as a witness in the case.” Now I had his complete attention.
Silent Witness Page 3