A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  He turned on his clippers and they buzzed ominously as he ran them over my noggin until all that remained was faint fuzz. Clumps of auburn hair rained down on the floor, some of it on my shoes. He turned off the clippers and handed me a mirror, and I inspected. Shocked by the Roscoe Lund cue ball look, I thanked him, and we shook hands and he went on his way.

  In the living room, Clara, Hyrum, Sarah Jane, and Nelpha waited for me. Clara burst into hysterical giggles when we came out of the kitchen and she saw my new look, muttering something about “Roscoe’s twin brother.” This was a welcome change from her mix of tears and outrage when she first saw the cut on my head.

  Sarah Jane giggled too, and Nelpha even got in on it by smiling gently.

  “You look like Frankenstein, Pop,” said Hyrum.

  “Oh, a wise guy,” I said. I rolled my eyes up into my head, bared my bottom teeth, and did my best impersonation of the Boris Karloff monster.

  “Dad, it’s still Family Home Evening,” said Sarah. “It’s two-for-one night at the Rialto.”

  “Yeah? What’s playing?”

  “Footlight Parade!”

  “Hey, I took you to that last time it was in town,” I said.

  Sarah Jane gestured to smiling Nelpha. “She hasn’t seen it.”

  “What are we waiting for?” I asked. “To the Rialto!”

  * * *

  The Rialto promised “iced air.” And it delivered.

  I could practically see the steam with each exhale. We crossed the lobby and entered the movie palace through swinging doors. A flashlight-toting usher led us down a flight of steps to an unoccupied row of seats. I tipped the lad in the maroon monkey suit for guiding us away from the cigarette smokers so we didn’t have to breathe in their foul-smelling fumes. The Rialto, formerly the Kinema Theater, boasted 820 seats under a ceiling as high as heaven. The theater filled up each Monday night because families could get in half price (hence, TWO-FOR-ONE NIGHT spelled out in tiny blinking lightbulbs in the lobby). The only catch was the Rialto showed re-releases on Mondays, films originally out in theaters a while back. Tonight’s feature, Footlight Parade, had played in the movie houses in the fall of ’33, but it returned for a revival on el cheapo night. Despite having seen Footlight Parade before, I was happy to watch it again.

  After the newsreel ended, a musical fanfare sounded with the arched words WARNER BROS. PICTURES, INC. floating above the wavy VITAPHONE pennant. The sound track filled the theater as credits to Footlight Parade rolled as if listed in a turning drum. I clapped when my favorite actor, with his tough-guy grin, appeared on the screen above the words JAMES CAGNEY AS “CHESTER KENT.”

  Footlight Parade moved fast. Lavish musical numbers climaxed with bathing beauties on a giant waterfall swimming and dancing to Busby Berkeley choreography. Cameras filmed the action from above, capturing elaborate, shape-shifting geometric patterns, all to the effervescent sounds of voice and orchestra. For an hour and a half, I almost forgot my life was careening like an out-of-control auto, just as I almost forgot about that stitched canyon on my freshly shaven head.

  Almost.

  Twenty-five

  I knew I’d likely end up in serious trouble for what I was doing, but I didn’t care. Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures. Holding a newspaper in my right hand bearing that morning’s date, I barged in through the door with the name CAPTAIN C. W. HAWKINS on its pebbled glass. In the anteroom, I strode past his secretary, Beryl Paisley, a spinster in her fifties with curly salt-and-pepper hair. She stopped typing, watched me with horrified eyes, and leaped out of her seat to put herself between Buddy’s office door and me. She revealed her nervousness with her quivering turkey neck and jittery hands, which she lifted to my chest to push me back.

  “You can’t go in there!” she said. “He’s in a meeting right now!”

  I gently brushed her aside with my arm, which got a bewildered whine and huff out of her. “Begging your pardon, Miss Paisley,” I said, “but I really need to get in there. Now.”

  “He’s talking to the district attorney.…”

  I ignored her and pushed Buddy’s door hard. His furious expression when I entered told me I might end up unemployed for what I was doing. The DA, Walter Rasmussen, a slick politico with brown hair pomaded flat against his head and a special fondness for double-breasted navy blue Brooks Brothers suits, sprang out of his chair, aghast at my abrupt entrance. He straightened his wire-rim glasses and stayed silent as I crossed the plush carpeting. I slammed the newspaper on his desk, flattening it out with the palms of my hands. There was no missing the headline: POLICE CHIEF ABOLISHES CONTROVERSIAL POLYG SQUAD. Below that appeared a subhead: COWLEY DENIES CONNECTION TO RECENT MURDERS.

  “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?” I half asked, half demanded.

  Buddy rose and circled around his desk, hooked me by the arm, and pulled me toward his door. “Excuse me a minute, will you, Walt? This won’t take long.”

  He took me to the anteroom and pulled his door closed, and when he turned to me, I noticed the red splotches on his neck. He only got those when he was flying into a rage. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked through clenched teeth. “I’m in the middle of a very important meeting with the district attorney. Have you any idea how wildly inappropriate you’re being, Art?”

  “Put yourself in my shoes,” I said, plucking off my hat. “Can you imagine how awful it is to find this out in the newspaper?”

  Buddy looked horrified when he saw my bald head with the stitches on the side. “What happened…”

  “Long story,” I said. “Best saved for another time.”

  “I tried telephoning you at your home last night, but nobody answered,” said Buddy. “It’s over, Art. As of this Friday at five P.M., your squad is no more. Next Monday, you’re returning to Morals, demoted to junior grade. Roscoe is back to guiding traffic, Myron—”

  “You don’t have to tell me. We’re going back to our old jobs. It’s all spelled out in great detail in the article.”

  “It was either that or Sondrup was going to go straight to the press and reveal all of the gruesome details about your Dixie City excursion,” said Buddy. “He cut a deal with Cowley and Mayor Cummings. If they pull the plug on the squad and cease all harassment of his clients, Sondrup will drop his lawsuit against the city and the department. One way or the other, your squad is shutting down. The mayor has gotten nothing but grief ever since he revived it, and your recent escapades have only given ammunition to his opposition in the city council.”

  “All right, then I’ll talk to the mayor,” I said. “Tell him what’s what, help him see the error of his ways.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Believe me, I had to stick my neck out to keep you on the force, because if Cowley and Cummings had it their way, you’d be unemployed. The last thing you ought to be doing is storming into people’s offices and giving them a piece of your mind, especially mine! I’m the best friend you’ve got right now. I’m the reason you’re still working here. Oh, and must I remind you that you’re still suspended? If you don’t leave Public Safety this instant, you’re going to become yet another statistic. Am I making myself clear?”

  “We can’t stop now, Buddy,” I said. “These polygamists are more dangerous than ever, and if we don’t make some effort to stop them…”

  “You had that chance, Art,” he said grimly. “You not only dropped the ball. You threw it away. You were doing an admirable job of building cases against these men, but you were done in by your pigheaded impulsiveness.”

  How to respond to such a comment? Whatever wind was in my sails when I first entered Public Safety, Buddy took it away right then. His glower softened, and he let out a sigh.

  “Go home and rest for the next few days,” he said. “There’s a wisdom to knowing when it’s over, Art, and to accepting that.” He wai
ted a beat before turning to leave. “Don’t let the polygamists become your white whale.”

  I nodded. He returned to his office and closed the door. I suddenly became aware of Beryl Paisley watching me, and I straightened my hat on my head and walked out of that anteroom trying to preserve as much of my dignity as I could.

  * * *

  “Just the man we’re looking for!”

  Wit Dunaway and Pace Newbold approached me outside the rear entrance to Public Safety on my way to the parking lot. I kept my hat pulled low, hoping they wouldn’t notice my newly hairless head. Their fierce expressions told me they weren’t happy. In fact, Pace—sweating profusely in this oppressive July heat—glared at me like he wanted to break my jaw. We met up at the chain-link fence enclosing the lot.

  “What can I do for you fellas?” I asked.

  “There’s been a break in the case,” said Pace. “We’d like to have little Miss Pioneer back.”

  “Oh yeah?” I asked. “What’s cooking?”

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis,” said Pace. “And you don’t need to know.”

  “We’re playing our cards close to our chests on this one,” said Wit. “I’m sure you understand, Art.”

  “I thought we were sharing information,” I said.

  “Last I heard, you’re suspended,” said Pace. “I’d say that renders our little arrangement null and void, wouldn’t you?”

  I was angry, and he could see it in my face. “I’m concerned for the girl. That’s all.”

  “Of course you are,” said Wit. “If you really want to know, we found a .32 caliber Harrington and Richardson in the hedges outside of the fundamentalist church. Somebody in a hurry must have tossed it out there, without thinking it through clearly. We’re tracing the registration right now, but fingerprints on it match the ones we took off the girl we found at the murder scene. So you can either bring her here or we’ll gladly drop by your place and pick her up. It’s six of one and half dozen of the other.”

  I felt my heart beating hard. Could that gentle soul staying under my roof really be a killer? Then again, how much did I know about her? She’d already lied to me by pretending not to know how to write. And where had she gone last week when she left my house? One thing was certain: These questions weren’t going to answer themselves while Wit and Pace waited for my response.

  “She’s camping,” I blurted out. “With Clara’s family, up in the Uintas.”

  They shot suspicious glances at each other. Wit looked me up and down. “I thought most of the campsites were closed, on account of the forest fires.”

  “They found one that’s open,” I said. “Not too far from Kamas.”

  “That’s what? An hour’s drive from here?” asked Pace. “That gives you time to get in your car and go pick her up. If you don’t bring her to Public Safety this afternoon, we’ll pay a visit to your house after work today. Remember, we can arrest you if you choose not to cooperate.”

  “On what grounds?” I asked.

  “Obstructing a homicide investigation,” said Pace. “After reading the headlines about your squad in this morning’s edition, I don’t think that’s a desirable option for you. And Oveson? There ain’t no ice cream in jail, if you get my drift.”

  Pace and I entered into an angry staring match, and the slightest provocation could have set either one of us off. It’s a good thing Wit was there. He sensed the tension and—ever the diplomat—knew precisely what to say.

  “At the end of the day, we want the same thing as you,” he said. “We just want to know who pulled the trigger on the gun that killed Johnston and Mason that night at the church. Like it or not, the girl is the prime suspect.”

  “What about the Model T truck I saw driving away?” I asked.

  “There are plenty of Model T trucks on the roads,” said Pace. “In the absence of any license plate numbers, or a description of the driver, there’s not much we can do.”

  “That’s not so,” I said, trying my best to stall them. “You can match registration records available at the office of revenue against the names of polygamists.”

  I left out the part about ordering Jared to do that. My goal was not to give them information. It was to steer them in another direction, to buy me some time. I could not bring myself to believe that Nelpha had had a hand in the killings. My reasons were not necessarily rational or backed up by evidence. It all came from a pang originating in my gut. I had visions of Nelpha cowering in fear in a ratty old bunk at the State Industrial School, the target of bullies and guards alike. The justice system was not always kind to the vulnerable, especially someone unable to speak, to find the words to defend herself.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot, but we’d need those names from you,” said Wit, snapping me back to reality. “Have you got them handy?”

  “I can give them to you on Monday, when my suspension ends,” I said. “I’m not allowed in Public Safety until then.”

  Pace grinned. “Say, what did you get suspended for, anyhow?”

  I hesitated. “I went to Dixie City against Buddy’s orders.”

  “What else?” asked Pace.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s gotta be more to it than that,” he said. “C’mon. Cough it up.”

  “When I was down there, I punched someone.”

  Pace dipped his head and broke out into laughter. Wit’s smirk escalated into a big smile and he began convulsing with laughter, too.

  “You’re having us on,” laughed Pace. “You? Assaulted someone? What are you, Max Schmeling?”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, tugging my hat brim. “See you around, boys.”

  I excused my way between them.

  “Art,” Wit called out. “Don’t make us pay you a visit. You follow?”

  I glanced back at Wit. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Back on the road in my Oldsmobile, I noticed the brown Hudson sedan in my rearview mirror, and someone inside watching me through binoculars. It tailed me as I drove home. I engaged in evasive maneuvering. Instead of driving east on South Temple, the route I usually took to get home from Public Safety, I drove south on State and turned right on 200 South. Now going west, I checked the mirror once more. The Hudson still shadowed me. Based on the shape of its headlights, vaguely resembling upside-down teardrops, I pegged it as a ’32. I kept driving west, past assorted shops and auto mechanics, three-story office buildings and the Sweet’s Candy Company, past the Khan Brothers Grocery building and a cluster of eyesores called the Keyser Warehouses.

  I wove around traffic. I glanced at the mirror’s reflection. Still there. The car never got close enough that I could read the license plate, but even from this far away I could make out the Kunz brothers inside. When I reached 300 West and the stately Denver and Rio Grande Western Depot came into view, I swerved north with screaming tires. I approached the equally grandiose Union Pacific Depot and the Bamberger Depot, the terminus for the interurban railway. I knew of an alley shortcut north of the Bamberger where I could ditch my pursuer. I accelerated and picked up speed. The Hudson grew smaller in my mirror. I cranked the steering wheel as much as possible. Hard right into the alley. I braked and put the car in park. I sat there for ten minutes. No sign of the Hudson.

  I drove home, gripping the steering wheel tightly all the way, determined to get something—anything—out of Nelpha.

  Twenty-six

  Plumes of smoke, miles high, obscured the tops of the Wasatch Mountains on the east side of the valley as I steered into the driveway of my home and killed the car’s engine. Vexing as the fires were, I had other matters on my mind to contend with. I walked through the front door of my house, yelled out “hello” but got no response. On the table by the front door, Clara had left a note saying that she’d borrowed her father’s Model A to take the family out shopping, and they’d be back in a while. I sat down on the couch and perused the other headlines in that morning’s Examiner. All bad news. Fires.
Heat waves. Dust storms. Unemployment. Nazis. Sometimes newspapers only make everything seem worse. I folded it in half and tossed it onto the table as the front door opened and a cacophony of joyful voices filled the house.

  Clara, Sarah Jane, and a girl I almost didn’t recognize as Nelpha strolled into the living room, aglow with happiness. Nelpha could have stepped right out of an MGM movie, with her chin-length permanent wave and short-sleeved floral dress with splashes of bright reds, blues, teals, and yellows on white. I thought back to the night I found her, hidden in a closet, trembling in her homespun, terrified of the sight of me. I never would’ve guessed this beautiful butterfly had been waiting to break free of her cocoon. She looked so happy, so radiant.

  I hated to do what I knew I had to do.

  Clara’s face brightened when she saw me. “Hi, honey! There’s something you should see!”

  I cracked a grin. “Okay.”

  “Ta-da!” said Clara, gesturing to Nelpha. “What do you think of this marvelous young lady?”

  Slightly embarrassed, Nelpha stared down at her new black shoes as she smiled.

  “We took her to ZCMI to buy some new dresses,” said Sarah Jane. “Then to the Crystal for a permanent wave. What do you think, Dad? Doesn’t she remind you of Loretta Young?”

  “She looks beautiful,” I said with a warm smile. “You look beautiful, Nelpha.”

  “She’s got lilac spray, too!” Sarah imitated an Englishwoman. “I believe the proper name is ‘eau de toilette.’”

  Sarah Jane giggled and Nelpha raised her head with that humble, sweet smile still there.

  “I took the money out of our rainy day fund,” said Clara. “I’ll pay it all back over the next few months.”