A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  I smiled at him.

  “What?” he asked, his pupils doing a nervous dance.

  “Prophet, my foot,” I said. “He wasn’t a prophet.”

  “How can you say that? What makes you so cocksure?”

  “Because I can tell a confidence man when I see one,” I said. “Joseph Smith was a prophet. Brigham Young was a prophet. Heber J. Grant is a prophet. Not Johnston. No, he was as crooked as the day is long. That’s what he was.”

  His posture sagged with defeat. “I remember reading about you in the newspaper, back when you were promoted. Even though I hated that your squad was back in business, your remarks to the reporter encouraged me. You said people shouldn’t judge others that are different, or jump to conclusions. You said you’d arrest polygamists only if you found evidence of them committing crimes. Remember?”

  I leaned in close to him, for effect. “Tell me something. If we hadn’t arrested you, would you have come in voluntarily if we’d asked you to?”

  That shut him up. I snatched the picture of the girl and left. No point in quizzing a man as uncooperative as Carl Jeppson.

  Nine

  The other interrogations were fruitless. I went from room to room, observing detectives questioning suspects. Granville Sondrup, a lantern-jawed, middle-aged man in a chalk-stripe three-piece suit and bright red tie, with a head of thick, prematurely gray hair, sat in on as many of the exchanges as he could. But because they were happening concurrently, it was impossible for him to attend each one. When present, he’d frequently lean over and whisper into the ear of his client. Then the nodding apostle would straighten and say either “I refuse to answer that question” or “I don’t know.” Most of the polygamists were uncooperative, some even combative. Their expressions—a mix of twitches and glares—spoke volumes, even as their voices stayed silent. When they answered questions, after the rare granting of approval by Sondrup, their replies came out terse, often snarled. During each session, I would interrupt and show the photograph of the girl to the suspect. No one recognized her. Or so they claimed.

  Wit paced the halls, stopping now and again to watch through the two-way windows. His coworkers knew to stay out of his way. He dropped his cigarette on the linoleum, crushed it under his heel, and blew smoke out his nose. “Eldon Black is in there,” he told me when I’d finished with another polygamist, jerking his head in the direction of room three. “Peery gave up on him a while ago. Why don’t you see what you can do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I entered room three, shut the door, and took a seat across from Rulon Black’s shifty-eyed, bucktoothed son. The elder Black’s police dossier sat on the table. I placed the photograph of the girl down next to it, opened the folder, and thumbed through its contents.

  “Hello, Mr. Black.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Detective.”

  I slid the eight-by-ten photograph at him. He glanced at it. His eyes returned to me. “All questions may be directed to Mr. Sondrup.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  I knitted my fingers together and cracked my knuckles. That got a wince out of him. “What’s her name?”

  “My, my, but you are persistent, Detective Oveson.”

  “I want a straight answer,” I said. “All I’m asking is who is she?”

  “Am I a suspect in last night’s murders?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Not at this point, anyhow.”

  “Then I’m free to go? I’ve been here for two hours. Two and a half hours, actually.”

  I ignored his remark. “You’re not going to tell me her name?”

  “I’ll repeat what I said, because evidently you didn’t hear me. Please address any questions to Mr. Sondrup, attorney at law.”

  “How about I address a question to you and you answer it. I’ll start with: Why is LeGrand Johnston lying in the morgue?”

  He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. “I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

  “What about his driver, Volney Mason?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “No guesses?”

  “You’re wasting your time and mine,” he said. “I do not know who killed them. All I know is that a great man lost his life, and I wish to leave now so I can spend time properly mourning the loss of my prophet with the other members of my faith.”

  “I’ve heard there was something of a rift between Johnston and your father,” I said. “Care to comment on it?”

  “No.”

  Tough nut to crack, I thought. He kept his cool. Not even a bead of sweat.

  I pressed him: “Which is it? No, you don’t care to comment on it? Or no, there was no rivalry?”

  “They were close,” he said. “This rivalry you speak of, I’ve never heard of it before now.”

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “We’ll revisit that one later. Johnston had, what, twenty-two wives? Maybe one of them got jealous and decided to kill him.”

  “Your desperation is starting to show, Detective.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know where you get your foolish ideas,” said Eldon. “LeGrand only had one wife, Lucinda. One wife, singular, not twenty-two.”

  “On paper, that’s true,” I said. “But in your church’s secret ceremonies, he was sealed to lots of wives, not just one.”

  “Tell me, Detective, are we here to talk about the murders that happened last night at our church, or the custom of plural marriage?”

  “Talking about one doesn’t rule out the other,” I said. “LeGrand Johnston was, after all, the head of the largest polygamist sect in the United States.…”

  “No, Detective, he’s a prophet in a legitimate church whose members are being persecuted by the authorities. Is it any wonder so many of us are pulling up our stakes and leaving this place? We’re merely carrying on the traditions of the early Mormon pioneers, searching for a haven where we can—”

  I slammed my palm on the table, startling him only slightly. “Hey!” I shouted, pointing my finger. “Don’t you dare compare yourselves to my church’s founders! You hear me? Because there is no comparison!”

  His grin returned. “I believe I’ve found your raw spot.”

  I calmed down, lowered my voice. “How come I’ve never seen a photograph of your father?”

  He narrowed his eyes in surprise. “A photograph?”

  “Yeah, a photo, a snapshot. Doesn’t like having his picture taken?”

  “That’s a peculiar question, Detective,” said Eldon. “I don’t see what it has to do with why I’m here.”

  “I find it strange I’ve never seen him,” I said. “No picture, no … nothing.”

  He studied me for a moment. “Like most families, we keep all of our pictures in a family photo album.”

  “Does each wife get one?” I asked. “A photo album, I mean.”

  “Again, I’m not really comprehending why you’re asking this line of questions,” he said. “It hardly strikes me as germane to the matter at hand.”

  “Let me rephrase the question: Do you have a picture of your father I can borrow? It’ll help our investigation greatly.”

  “You want to borrow a picture of my father?”

  “If I promise to return it safely,” I said, “may I?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Detective Oveson, with all due respect, I have more important things to do than sit here and explain why I’m not going to give you a picture of my father.”

  “I see no reason to drag this out any longer,” I said. Easing my chair back to leave, I paused before I stood. “So far, you people aren’t acting like you want to see us nab the killer in this case. It makes us think you’re holding out. Maybe hiding something.”

  He shifted his attention to the two-way mirror, as if he were trying to see beyond his reflection. I took that as an indication that he no longer intended to cooperate
with me. I reached across the table and picked up the picture of the girl sitting in front of him and rose to my feet.

  “Detective Oveson.” I stopped halfway to the door and turned to Eldon Black. “When you’ve been hounded and harassed by the authorities as much as we have, it has a way of eroding your faith in the fairness of the justice system.”

  I left because I am sure had I stayed in that room, I would have said—or done—something I’d later regret.

  * * *

  “This is outrageous!”

  Granville Sondrup, attorney at law, had a loud voice, and was legendary for shouting his courtroom summations. On this day, it hurt my ears, and I could tell from the unpleasant grimace on Wit’s face that I wasn’t alone. Worsening matters, we had to sit in Chief Bill Cowley’s office and listen to this man carrying on about how horribly he thought his clients had been treated by the Salt Lake City Police Department. Buddy Hawkins sat in on the meeting, keeping his arms folded in uneasy silence.

  From behind his stately desk, Cowley listened intently and smiled at all times, a gesture of courtesy. Other than a candlestick telephone, the only other items atop that massive chunk of art deco rosewood were the components of an onyx desk set: a dual fountain pen holder, a letter rack, a perpetual calendar, and galloping horse bookends with no books in between. The walls in the office were so white they stung my eyes when I looked at them. I’ll give the police chief this much: The windows opened up to a fine view of the Wasatch Mountains. Whether he actually took time to savor it was a different story.

  “You’ve arrested eleven of the most respected citizens of this community,” Sondrup said. “You did it in a way that was so public, so conspicuous, that I can’t help but conclude that you were deliberately trying to humiliate my clients!”

  “Jesus Christ!” hissed Wit. “I can’t believe I have to sit here and listen—”

  “Wit, please,” said Cowley, shaking his head disapprovingly. He rotated his chair toward Sondrup. “Mr. Sondrup, this is standard procedure in a high-profile homicide. It’s not unusual to arrest and temporarily detain multiple suspects in a case of this nature. Our resources, alas, are limited, and bringing these men down here together allows us to complete the initial phase of our investigation.”

  “I want my clients released immediately,” he said. “Moreover, the men I represent wish to know when you’re going to open up the second floor of their church.”

  “Come again?” asked Buddy.

  “Inside of the building on Lincoln, the stairs are blocked off by ropes and there are policemen standing guard, intimidating my clients.”

  “Oh, for hell’s sake,” said Wit. “Intimidating…”

  Sondrup ignored Wit: “They must be ordered to leave the premises at once and open up the second floor so that my clients have access to what’s up there.”

  “It’s a crime scene,” protested Wit.

  “It’s a place of worship, and the entire second floor is cordoned off. It’s a clear violation of the religious freedom of my clients.”

  “We’ll endeavor to open that up as soon as possible,” said Buddy, his gaze shifting back and forth between Sondrup and Cowley. “Wit has assigned two of his most capable detectives to that location, and they should be wrapping up shortly.”

  Sondrup knitted his brow. “And another thing…”

  “Yes?” asked Cowley.

  “What exactly is Detective Oveson doing working on this case? Last I heard, he’s not in Homicide.”

  “Oveson is assisting with relevant information from his ongoing investigation into the local polygamist community,” said Buddy. “He has been bringing Detective Dunaway up to speed about the current situation.”

  “You know the old expression,” said Sondrup. “If it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck. You know what this looks to me like?”

  “What?” asked Cowley.

  “A crackdown.”

  Cowley shook his head and turned his palms up. “Mr. Sondrup…”

  “I’m merely commenting on the optics of this thing.”

  “Granville…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t let their paranoia rub off on you,” reasoned Cowley. “I know you’re smarter than that. This is not a crackdown. It’s anything but.”

  “We’re in the middle of the worst hard times in the history of this country,” said Sondrup. “Crime rates are on the rise, and you’re dedicating valuable men and resources to a campaign of harassment and intim—”

  “That’s a load of shit!” snapped Wit. “You can’t seem to get it into that thick skull of yours that the leader of this cult was found shot to death in his own goddamn church! Given that, I’d say we’ve been proceeding with kid gloves.”

  “I object to your use of foul language, Detective Dunaway,” said Sondrup. “And the fact that you used the word ‘cult’ to describe their church shows a real lack of respect on your part.”

  “Fuck you, Sondrup, and the horse you rode in on!”

  “Wit, this isn’t helping,” said Buddy. He looked at Sondrup. “Mr. Sondrup, what can we say to talk you out of this lawsuit you plan to file against us?”

  Wit’s outburst had gotten to Sondrup. I could see his hands trembling slightly. “At this point, nothing, Captain Hawkins. I’m going to sue the SLCPD for violating the civil liberties of my clients. Nothing you say or do can stop me at this point.”

  Sondrup got up and left, slamming the door. Cowley tilted back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts. Buddy studied him for cues. The veins on Wit’s neck bulged and his forehead had turned red. I sat still, saying nothing, waiting for someone to speak.

  Wit broke the uneasy silence. “The nerve of that bastard!”

  “The mayor called me,” said Cowley. “He isn’t happy with how this thing is going.”

  Wit spoke through clenched teeth. “He isn’t, is he?”

  “For a crusader, he hates controversy,” said Buddy.

  Cowley said, “Mayor Cummings got wind of the fact that the Examiner is running a story about today’s arrests at the top of A1 alongside coverage of the murder, and he’s worried it’s going to cast him in a poor light. He presented me with a list of demands.”

  “Oh?” I asked, hoping to head Wit off at the pass. “What are they?”

  “He wants the Anti-Polygamy Squad to stay out of the case,” Cowley told me.

  Wit jerked upright in his chair. “What the hell…”

  Cowley went on: “Cummings agrees with Sondrup. He says it’s not the mandate of Art’s squad to get involved with homicide cases.”

  “You mean we’re supposed to stay out of it completely?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Publicly, yes,” explained Buddy. “Naturally, you two may share information, as long as it’s done on the quiet.”

  “What else does this sonofabitch want?” asked Wit.

  Cowley resumed: “He’s demanding that we release all of the polygamists promptly and refrain from further arrests until we have airtight evidence linking one or more of them to the homicides. He also wants a written report justifying today’s arrests.”

  “Why, that no-account prick!” Wit shot up to his feet so abruptly, he tipped over his chair. “How dare he second-guess us!”

  Cowley shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we need to do what he says. Bear in mind, the mayor’s opponents are already talking about a public inquiry into the conduct of this department.”

  “Public inquiry?” said Wit, turning his palms up in frustration. “Where do they come off…”

  “The point is, if we release these men now, there’s a chance Sondrup will drop his lawsuit,” said Cowley. “We need to play ball on this one.”

  Those veins in Wit’s neck were getting more prominent, and his facial color now resembled that of a beet. “What about Johnston? What about his driver? Are we supposed to just forget about those two small details?”

  “Do as the
chief says. Go downstairs and let the polygamists go,” ordered Buddy. “Keep your investigation out of the papers from here on out, and Art…” Buddy looked at me. “Don’t touch it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  When Wit left, he slammed the door even harder than Sondrup, a feat I thought impossible. Cowley continued to recline far back in his chair, seemingly unfazed, although his slow, solemn blinks revealed a man pushed to the edge by stress. Buddy motioned to me with a subtle head jerk that I should go, too. I rose from my chair, tugged my hat brim, plunged my hands in my pockets, and smiled at the two men on my way out the door. I figured they both needed to see at least one friendly face that day.

  Ten

  At the end of the workday, I caught Tom Livsey in the corridor, closing his office door on his way home.

  “’Lo there, Art,” he said, locking up. “Got any plans for the holiday?”

  “A big barbecue at the Oveson homestead in American Fork,” I said. “You?”

  “Who knows with this darn drought? I hear they might cancel the fireworks at Liberty Park, what with everything so dried out. That won’t sit well with my kids.”

  “That’s a shame.” I pointed to a door with MORGUE on the frosted glass. “Mind if I take a peek at your new tenants?”

  “Make it snappy.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Tom unlocked the door and I followed him into a high-ceilinged room with tall windows, operating tables, and lab sinks. He threw a switch, electrifying rows of globes overhead. Bleach fumes assaulted my eyes as we crossed octagonal tiles to a wall of morgue refrigerators, four high, six across. He pulled rubber gloves on his hands and picked the top towel off a stack. He tossed it to me and I caught it with a puzzled expression.

  “Just in case.”

  I held the towel near my face as Tom unfastened a lever on a morgue drawer and slid it open, like a massive filing cabinet. He peeled back the sheet, revealing lifeless LeGrand Johnston with that puckering hole in his forehead, thoroughly scrubbed and drained of blood. His flesh had turned paler and sagged more than it had last night. The wisps of white hair on his head came into focus more clearly, as did the wrinkles on his neck and torso and his prune lips. I glimpsed the other two bullet holes, at the base of his neck and in his flabby stomach. Surveying the damage, I wondered if his soul had reached a better place. I supposed I’d never know.