A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  I thought about calling it a night, dropping Roscoe off at his apartment, and heading home myself. Why was I killing myself for a salary that still required my wife’s second income in order to meet our monthly expenses? Had I become one of the police department politicos who I so distrusted, scrambling as fast as I could to get to the top of the ladder? What had the polygamists ever done to me? The keys dangling from the ignition beckoned. The temptation to turn them was great. Yet I held back, for reasons I did not understand.

  Time passed. The neighborhood was silent, except for a distant locomotive whistle. I veered in and out of wakefulness, shaking my head and fluttering my eyelids every few minutes to keep awake. I pressed my fingers into my burning eyes and rubbed.

  Movement interrupted the stillness. A black Model T truck swerved into the driveway. The light was poor, but I thought I spotted two figures sitting in the vehicle’s cab. I switched on the interior light and checked my watch: 11:57. I switched off the light. With the wall of hedges blocking my view, I could not see the new arrivals getting out of the truck, but I heard doors slamming. Now I was more alert than ever, wondering who that was in the truck and why they picked this late hour to drop by. More time ticked away. I stretched my arms and cracked my knuckles. I squirmed in my seat and fidgeted. I drummed my fingers on my knees. Anything I could do to keep from dozing off.

  A series of muted cracks startled me. I was pretty sure they were gunshots, coming from inside the church. A dog barked in the distance.

  I fumbled for the interior globe. Switched it on. Checked my .38. Full. I snapped closed the cylinder, glanced at the time, 12:12 A.M., and gave Roscoe a shake. He sucked air in through his nostrils, sat up straight, pushed his hat back on his head, and looked around groggily.

  “What is it?”

  “I heard shots,” I said. “Coming from the church.”

  An engine revved up. Roscoe and I looked at each other, then at the imposing building, partly hidden from view behind the foliage. Rubber tires sprayed gravel and the Model T truck came barreling out of the driveway, screeching around a corner and disappearing into the night.

  “Who the hell…”

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I got out of the car, not even bothering to pull my keys out of the ignition, and ran across the street toward the house. I balled my hand into a fist and pounded on the front door of the church.

  “This is the police,” I shouted. “Let me in!”

  I rapped on the wood repeatedly with the palm of my hand.

  “Stand aside,” said Roscoe. He charged shoulder-first, breaking the door open. Wood snapped, splinters flew, and we entered a high-ceilinged foyer. We passed through a chapel with enough rows of folding chairs to accommodate two hundred or so worshipers. A pulpit and an impressive pump organ dominated the front of the room. Hymnbooks filled a bookcase against the wall.

  I motioned to Roscoe to follow me upstairs. I advanced through an arched doorway that opened up to a hallway with a set of carpeted stairs. Up the stairs I went to the second floor, where I found a dimly lit corridor with doors on either side. One bore the name LEGRAND JOHNSTON. Entering what appeared to be his office, I got my first whiff of a familiar, sickening odor that always triggered my gag reflex. No mistaking the scent of human blood, with its hint of iron and decay, like beef that had been left out in the summer sun. My cotton hankie went over my nose and mouth.

  I found Johnston flat on his back by a coffee table. His driver lay on a davenport.

  Uncle Grand was dressed in the same dark suit he had worn earlier in the day. I headed over to him and stooped to get a better look. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling. A dark pool, the color of ripe cherries, formed a perfect circle on the hardwood beneath his head.

  The bullet hole in his forehead left nothing to the imagination. Another bullet had struck him at the base of his neck. His upper shirt and necktie were saturated in red, but I suspected most of his blood had drained to the floor. My eyes stopped at another hole in his stomach, a crater that was black in the center surrounded by red. Billowing drapes moved like ghosts, blown by wind from the open window. I skirted the body, taking each step slowly until I reached the curtains and hand-parted them. I leaned my head out the open window. Side yard. Treetops, but nobody down there.

  I returned to Johnston’s body, and Roscoe began examining the driver. With my handkerchief, I fished a billfold out of his front pocket and checked its contents. The murderer had not stolen his cash—sixty-eight dollars by my count. The wallet contained other items: a motor vehicle operator’s license; an Intermountain Indemnity insurance card; a University of Utah football schedule for 1933; a Zion’s Bank 1934 card calendar; an IOU dated 2-23-34 from L. Boggs for the sum of $1,278; and a business card from the Delphi Hotel, 233 South State. I stuffed it all back in the billfold and placed it in his pocket in the same position it’d been in when I found it. Next I went over the rest of the body. The assailant had left a fancy watch on Johnston’s wrist. Careful not to touch it, I lifted the cuff to get a better look. Black-faced Elgin with art deco gold numbers. I let go of the cuff and spent a while—I don’t know how long—gazing at that trio of bullet wounds.

  “I got his wallet.”

  I turned to Roscoe, who handed me the driver’s billfold. First thing I saw inside: OPERATOR’S LICENSE—1934—UT DEPT. OF REVENUE. The license said his name was Volney Chester Mason. It listed him as residing at a Garfield Avenue address. I put the license back. The wallet contained a five and several dollar bills. I found a few cards: Seagull Photography Service on West Temple. Deseret Gymnasium membership card. GRANVILLE SONDRUP (and below that) ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. The bottom left-hand corner said: MCCORNICK BLOCK, SALT LAKE CITY. I tucked the cards back in the wallet and slipped it in the man’s pocket.

  I stooped to get a better look at the driver. Shot in the left eye. Blood all over his head and face. Blood covered his shirt and seeped into the davenport’s upholstery. His right hand still held a pistol. It was an M1911 single-action, semiautomatic, black as the night. Tempted though I was to pull it out of his hand and get a better look at it, I left it alone for the homicide detectives to examine. I noted that his pistol was aimed in the general direction of the south wall. I left it untouched.

  “There’s a hole in the wall over there,” said Roscoe. “Who knows if this gun made it.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” I said, finding the little black entry point in the wallpaper.

  “He looks familiar,” said Roscoe, gesturing to Mason. “But I don’t know his name.”

  “Maybe he’s one of Johnston’s followers,” I said.

  “I’m betting he’s hired muscle,” said Roscoe. “I’ve seen him around, back when I was in that line of work.”

  The men weren’t going anywhere, so I sidled to a bathroom off Johnston’s office. Toilet, sink, and medicine cabinet, clawfoot tub with the white curtain closed. Towels hung on bars. Medicine cabinet: empty. I shut off the light.

  A sound in one of the neighboring rooms startled me.

  I aimed my gun and advanced stealthily. I peered into what seemed to be a guest room, complete with a four-poster bed, a bureau topped with a crocheted ruffled doily and washbasin, and a framed photograph of LeGrand Johnston hanging on the wall. I wondered if this was where the prophet’s concubines slept after auditioning to join his big family.

  I turned to leave, but a muffled movement coming from the closet stopped me. I crept toward it, using my handkerchief to grab the knob. I opened it and pointed my gun inside. I reached up inside and pulled a chain. An electric globe flashed on to nothing but a row of dresses that had been spread apart, as if somebody had already searched inside of it. My heart began to slow, and I turned to leave when I spotted a pair of black shoes with shiny buckles on the closet floor below the dresses. My eyes followed the shoes to a pair of ankles, then ankles to shins. I brushed the hanging clothes aside with my arm so that a girl came into view. She couldn’t have been any older t
han thirteen. Her calico dress must have been unbearably hot. She kept her brown hair woven into braids, her blue eyes reflected the light from above, and a dimple formed a tiny canyon in her chin.

  I knelt slightly and showed her my badge.

  “I’m Detective Arthur Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a policeman. What’s your name?”

  She didn’t respond. When I touched her arm, she didn’t pull away, didn’t budge at all. She continued to stare blankly ahead. I wondered what, if anything, she’d seen. What put her in this state?

  “Who is she?”

  I faced Roscoe, framed by the doorway, gun drawn as he sized up the girl.

  “I don’t know,” I said, blowing a sigh. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  Five

  On the sedan’s driver’s-side running board, I sat hunched with my elbows on my knees, savoring a breeze, even though it brought smoke from forest fires. A line of police cars and the morgue wagon were parked in front of the mansion-turned-church. Sitting out here at two A.M. was preferable to getting in the way of the homicide dicks and lab boys doing their job on the second floor. My mind still had not fully absorbed the shock of finding the bodies of Johnston and his driver. I spent a while remembering those weeks of tailing Johnston around the valley, wondering if there was something I missed that should have led me to expect tonight’s awful turn of events. But nothing came to mind. My eyes burned with dryness and I wanted to be in bed at home instead of here. Roscoe had already caught a ride downtown with one of the prowlers that had left earlier. I told him I’d fill him in tomorrow. I stayed put, waiting for an update from Lieutenant Wit Dunaway of the Homicide Squad.

  Eventually Wit left the crime scene with his partner, Pace Newbold, and came to see me. Pasty-skinned and chinless, Newbold was my age, thirty-three, and he harbored a passionate dislike of Mormons, probably because he’d once been one and had had a bad parting of ways with the religion. As for Wit, a man in his mid-fifties, years of hard work had elevated him to senior homicide detective. His receding dark hair capped an oval face with pinholes for eyes and a permanent scowl. Tonight he arrived in a wrinkled black suit and crooked red tie. His grim act concealed real intellect and a splendid sense of humor. He’d learned his streetwise sensibilities in Boston, where he’d been one of the ringleaders of the big police strike in ’19. Tonight he seemed subdued, probably owing to the hour, although he grinned at me as he approached.

  “It’s the radio star,” Wit said. “I should’ve brought my autograph book.”

  “Hello, Wit,” I said. “Pace.”

  “Why are you still out here at this ungodly hour?” asked Pace. “Didn’t anybody tell you the ice-cream joints are all closed?”

  Verbal sparring was the last thing I wanted to do. Leave the witticisms to the witty, I thought. “I was shadowing Johnston.”

  “I thought so,” said Wit. “I appreciate you asking the night dispatcher to contact me. This is big. In fact, I telephoned Cowley at home. Woke him up, but I figured this is important enough to disrupt his beauty sleep. Look, Art, I’m happy to keep you apprised of our investigation. But I expect the same from you. Cooperation is a two-way street, you know.”

  “Sure, all right.”

  “Let’s start with why you are here so late.”

  “I told you. I was tailing Johnston.”

  “At this time of night?”

  I nodded. “I’ve been at it for months now, trying to catch him engaging in some sort of illegal activity. Up till today, it’s been pretty dull.”

  “So you didn’t see this coming?” asked Wit.

  “Nope.”

  “Got any idea who Johnston’s wheelman was?” asked Pace.

  “Volney Mason? I don’t know anything about him.”

  “Ain’t seen him before?”

  “Just driving Johnston. Roscoe suspects he was hired muscle.”

  “What about the girl in there?” Wit asked.

  “What about her?”

  “She hasn’t said a word so far,” said Pace. “She say anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t seen her before tonight?” asked Wit.

  “No.”

  “Earlier you said you saw a pickup truck leaving the scene right after you heard shots,” said Pace.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m quite sure it was a Model T truck.”

  “But you’re not certain.”

  “The lighting was poor.”

  “Didja get plates?’

  “No.” Before either man could lob another question at me, I gestured to the mansion. “Anybody else in there?”

  “Other than the girl and the two stiffs, no signs of life,” said Wit.

  “I presume there aren’t any suspects yet?” I asked.

  “Only the girl,” said Pace. “We found a pillowcase on her containing what we presume are her belongings. Knitting. Fabrics. Needlepoint. Oh, and a Western Motor Coach bus ticket from St. George to Salt Lake City, dated Friday, the eighth of June. No ID on her, though.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance she had something to do with it?” I asked.

  Wit plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and rattled coins. “She’s stunned. Unless she’s got Garbo’s acting chops, I’m guessing she saw something, but she’s too shocked to speak. She might be able to help us find who shot Johnston. If we can get her to talk.”

  “What’s going to happen to her?” I asked.

  “We’re taking her for questioning, then they’ll stick her in the fun house,” said Pace.

  The fun house—the Utah State Industrial School, a three-story brick-and-stone building from the last century, built around a castle-like tower, pressed against the Wasatch Mountains in Ogden, a town forty miles north of Salt Lake City. The so-called “school” served as the state reformatory for young lawbreakers. From what I’d heard, survival of the fittest reigned inside of those walls.

  “That won’t help,” I said. “They’ll make mincemeat out of her.”

  As I spoke those words, a pair of patrolmen escorted the girl to a police car. Light from the nearby church lent an ethereal glow to her heart-shaped face and gingham dress, as though she were a ghost from 1847 who had suddenly materialized in the night. She made eye contact with me briefly, then dipped her head as one of the officers helped her up to the running board and into the backseat and closed the door. Wit mentioned something about going home and crawling back into bed. I wasn’t listening. I was too busy watching the police car leaving, its taillights disappearing around the corner.

  * * *

  Salt Lake City’s roads were mostly empty at three A.M. I slowed at L Street, where I left-turned north, climbing the steep hill to our bungalow. I steered into the driveway, cut off the engine, and got out of the car. On my way to the front door, a hypnotic scene on the eastern side of the valley grabbed my attention: the Big Cottonwood Canyon fire cast an eerie orange light on the mountains. I worried about the firefighters putting their lives on the line, battling blazes and rescuing homes like mine.

  The Ovesons of L Street lived in a handsome brick bungalow with a columned porch and pretty flowerbeds that Clara took care of. Ours was a neighborhood of ancient trees that touched the sky, where children played in the street and people kept their porch light globes burning late. At three in the morning, however, the block was dark and sound asleep.

  I was too anxious to sleep. There’s no stimulant quite as powerful as finding a pair of dead men. In the dark silence of my house, I felt haunted by the faces of the victims. Their lifeless expressions appeared vividly each time I closed my eyes, like a couple of restless apparitions. No chance of me hitting the sack with that on my mind. A tug on a lamp chain furnished a soft glow in the living room, and I ambled over to the rolltop desk, where I retrieved a brown leather-bound scrapbook.

  Entering the kitchen, I turned on the lights, sat down at the table, and leafed throu
gh the scrapbook’s contents: newspaper clippings, Photostats of police reports, and an official police photograph of a man with piercing eyes, high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a bristly mustache. I removed a picture of my father, Willard Oveson, to get a better look at it. Taken in 1908, back when he was the lead inspector in the Salt Lake City Police Department, it showed him in his prime. I smiled at my father’s image before I slipped it back into the photo corners glued to the page. I missed him, and thumbing through this scrapbook was one way of getting closer to him. But I knew that if I turned too many pages, I would reach the articles and crime scene reports containing the details of his murder on a wintry night in 1914. Was I ready to go back there again? Was now the ideal time?

  I closed my eyes and pictured my unconscious father dying in a hospital bed. That was the last time I ever saw him. I chased away the memory. Too many dead men were wandering in my head.

  A pair of hands gripped my shoulders, startling me so badly I leaped out of my seat. Standing behind me in her robe and pajamas, Clara took several steps backward, wide-eyed and openmouthed, before bursting into laughter.

  “Aren’t you the jumpy one?”

  “Sorry. You alarmed me. Coming up behind me like that.”

  She flashed her pearlies, came closer, and hugged me. Her pregnant belly pressed against me as she squeezed tighter. I returned her embrace and kissed the golden finger curls on top of her head. She placed her chin on my chest and stared up at me with her hazel eyes. “I heard you come in the front door a few minutes ago. Why didn’t you come to bed?”

  “I’m anxious, I guess.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “Rough night.”

  Her smile faded. “What happened?”

  “Double homicide.”

  We let go of each other and her expression turned serious. “Who…?”