Why had Henderson called Dr. Eriksen “your Dr. Eriksen”?
Clarke spoke up. “You’re telling us that after I told you about Taylor’s text, you called to get a copy of Eriksen’s report, but so far, no report is forthcoming?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. I’m also telling you both that unless and until I get such a report that verifies that the manner of death for Jessica Grant was homicide and that she was pregnant with Steve Smith’s child, the course of this investigation does not change. I want this entire mess cleaned up by Wednesday.”
“But, sir, in all likelihood there’s just some kind of filing error. You know how overworked they are. In the interest of justice, we need to wait until we can all go through the report.” The moment Clarke said the words in the interest of justice, Henderson’s face went a deep shade of red.
“In the interest of justice? Officer Clarke, the interest of justice is served when we follow where the evidence leads and close a case expeditiously. We have suicide note, a teenage girl with a history of mental issues who had made attempts before and who, by her family’s own account, was nursing some kind of crush on a respected member of this community. I don’t know what your definition of justice is if it’s not—”
Henderson’s phone buzzed three times. It was sitting on his desk facing Abbie. Henderson glanced down to grab it and put it in his pocket, but not before Abbie read the three rapid-fire text bubbles: ME AWAY FOR WEEK … REPORT GONE … IS CASE UNDER CONTROL? THX.
Abbie averted her eyes before Henderson looked back up from stuffing the phone in his pocket.
“You two do what you need to do to write this up,” Henderson said. “We need to give two families closure. I intend that we do exactly that.”
Clarke followed Abbie down the hall and to her office. He closed the door behind him.
“I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve never seen the chief like this before,” Clarke said.
Abbie sat down. Clarke took a chair across from her desk and asked, “Did you see what the texts were? I tried to read, but there was a glare on the phone from where I was standing.”
Abbie told Clarke what she’d read and then told him who’d sent the message: Kevin Bowen. At first, Clarke said nothing. In the silence, Abbie worried he thought she was making it up. If Abbie hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would be doubting what she’d just seen herself.
“That explains a lot,” Clarke said finally. “I mean, why we’ve had so much trouble with this case, the chief closing the door to his office all the time, why he’s so on edge…”
“There’s something else you should know,” Abbie said. Then she told Clarke about the break-in.
* * *
Clarke was furious about what had happened, but after he calmed down, he agreed that there was nothing to be gained by telling anyone else about the break-in, at least not at the moment. He did, however, insist on personally setting up a new security system at Abbie’s. They spent the rest of the afternoon rereading every piece of paper they had on both the Smith and Grant cases.
They reviewed every interview, every photo, every piece of evidence. Clarke wondered if he could convince someone at Dr. Eriksen’s office to let him look for the missing report. He did his best at flirting with the young receptionist who had shown Abbie into the office that morning. In the end he got her telephone number, but was told that until Dr. Eriksen returned from his family emergency, there was nothing she could do.
“Let’s get some dinner,” Abbie said after she heard Clarke’s stomach growl for the umpteenth time. He wouldn’t complain, but they could both use some food and a change of scenery. “How about Rainbow Gardens? That should cheer both of us up.”
Abbie let her mind wander as Clarke drove to the restaurant. Neither of them spoke. Clarke was probably still processing the events of the day. Abbie was trying to figure out what she wasn’t seeing in this case. It occurred to her that even though her family’s history stretched back to the early days of the Church, she wasn’t part of that history anymore.
Abbie knew she inhabited an unpopular space in Utah. It was easier to live here if you had never been a member of the Church than it was if you had left the Church. Not everyone saw Abbie’s choice as a personal one. Some saw her decision as a rebuke; others saw it as a sign of moral weakness.
This might be why she was missing something about this case. Steve Smith and Jessica Grant had been active members of the Church. They’d shared their lives with everyone around them. They’d gone to church with the same neighbors every Sunday. They’d known who had been called to leadership positions, who went to the temple regularly, who went on expensive vacations, who bought new cars, and who had second homes in St. George. Regular visits from home and visiting teachers meant the Bishop knew who was having surgery, who was hiding a coffee pot in their kitchen, and who was having money or marital trouble. Nothing was private for insiders, but the world was difficult for an outsider to penetrate. Abbie wasn’t entirely an outsider, but she wasn’t exactly an insider either: she was an apostate.
Clarke and Abbie walked into Rainbow Gardens. The place didn’t ever change. The black-and-white tile floor with kelly-green accents had been there for as long as anyone could remember. The hostess greeted them and sat them beneath the branches of a large, healthy ficus trees in the inner part of the restaurant.
A teenage waitress with a challenging complexion appeared at their table. “What can I get you?”
They ordered their sandwiches along with two Mormon muffins with extra honey butter.
As soon as the teenager left, Abbie said, “I want to know about Jessica Grant’s and Steve Smith’s families. I think we’re missing something.”
“I don’t know if I know anything helpful. Both families have been here forever. The Grants are the Grants of the prophet Heber J. Grant. I think his father—by that I mean Heber J.’s father—was close to Brigham Young. Jess’s parents have lived here in this general area a long time, but I don’t know exactly how long they’ve lived in Pleasant View. Smith’s family lived in Ogden when he was a kid. I think he went to Bonneville. His family goes back to Hyrum Smith, but I’m not exactly sure how.”
“Either family have problems with the Church?” Abbie asked.
“You mean being inactive?” Clarke looked as if he didn’t understand the question.
Abbie rephrased it. “No, I mean, were there any times when the Church changed course to become more progressive and family members resisted? You know, like some of the people who don’t like the new variations of garments or don’t like the changes in the temple ceremony or have trouble with young women being able to serve missions at nineteen?”
“Both families are Iron Rods. I don’t know anyone in either family you could call a Liahona, with the exception of one of Jessica’s uncles who moved to California and, rumor is, came out as gay. Nobody in her family talks about it.”
Clarke was using LDS vocabulary for a way some people categorized members. The terms had come from a talk given by a prominent Church leader in the 1980s. A person who was an Iron Rod looked to the scriptures for answers and followed Church leaders without question; a person who was a “Liahona”—the compass Lehi had used when he fled Jerusalem for the New World—felt there might be room for more personal revelation and questioning. People joked that Liahonas were just future former Mormons.
“Do you think there would be anyone in either family who thinks that taking the penalty oaths out of the temple ceremony was a mistake? Anyone who might believe, at least in theory, that there could be a need for blood atonement?” Abbie asked.
“You know this is a touchy subject, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It’s hardly like anyone will talk about what we do in the temple. After we found Smith’s body, I did a little research on the temple ceremony.” Clarke paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “By the way, I feel pretty bad about the whole thing with the identification.”
This was
the first time Clarke had directly brought up the fact that everyone but Abbie had known who the victim was from the moment they saw him. Clarke went on, “The chief cut me off when I wanted to tell you who Smith was. When you were looking through the clothes, he told me that even though it seemed like we all recognized Steve Smith, it was best in situations like these to wait for formal identification. At the time, I just figured that was right. I’d never been involved with a homicide before. I didn’t know better, even though I knew it didn’t feel quite right not to tell you.”
Abbie had swallowed a bite of her bran muffin with the honey-sweetened butter. “Thanks for explaining.”
“I’m not trying to explain, I’m trying to apologize. Not being honest was wrong. I’m sorry.”
Abbie could see that the years at church learning repentance—real repentance—were hardwired in her partner. Clarke felt bad about what he’d done. He had probably prayed about it. Amid all the things Abbie had left behind when she left the Church, she had kept the practice of repentance. Abbie no longer prayed to a god when she felt she’d done something she wished she hadn’t, but the ritual of acknowledging fault, making amends, and doing everything possible to not repeat the same mistake again was a ritual that comforted Abbie, even when it was difficult. Perhaps especially when it was difficult. While an apology didn’t erase history, it made things better and sometimes, like now, it created the foundation for a stronger friendship.
“It’s okay,” Abbie said. Clarke looked relieved, and grateful.
“So, here’s what I think,” Clarke said. “There’s some anecdotal evidence of blood atonement actually happening in the mid-1800s; you know that. The Church has tried to distance itself from the practice and the theory, but Joseph Fielding Smith defended it in the 1950s and Bruce R. McConkie did in the 1970s. Clearly, there are some fundamentalist polygamists who still believe in it, maybe even practice it. The penalty oaths were in the temple ceremony until 1990. Nobody talks about it now, but I don’t think that’s because nobody thinks about it. I think there are still some people who believe some sins are beyond the atonement of Jesus Christ.”
THIRTY-FIVE
By the time Abbie got back to Flynn’s, it was dark. She entered the security code quickly and headed upstairs to the bedroom to change into pajamas. Margene must have come by during the day, because there were fresh towels in the bathroom and the bed was made. It had been a while since Abbie had felt someone was looking out for her and, she had to admit, it was nice.
She took her dad’s notes downstairs, poured a glass of the Rosé, and curled up on a love seat in the living room. She wasn’t even remotely hungry after her enormous sandwich at Rainbow Gardens. She took a sip of the wine and her body relaxed a little. She was relieved to have the Bowen thing out in the open with Clarke.
She flipped through one of her dad’s books, The Journal of Discourses. It fell open to a sermon by Jedidiah Morgan Grant delivered in 1856. Abbie recognized the fire-and-brimstone speech as the source of the idea for “committees of blood.” If Abbie’s memory was correct, these committees were supposed to designate a place where covenant breakers could have their blood shed to atone for sins beyond forgiveness.
At the bottom of page, Abbie saw “D&C 42: 25–26, Rasmos Anderson” neatly printed in her dad’s handwriting. Abbie’s old copy of the Book of Mormon was precariously perched on top of a stack of her dad’s notebooks. She opened it and looked up 42:25–26.
25 But he that has committed adultery and repents with all his heart, and forsaketh it, and doeth it no more, thou shalt forgive;
26 But if he doeth it again, he shall not be forgiven, but shall be cast out.
Abbie searched through her dad’s notes on blood atonement, looking for Rasmos Anderson. Nothing. Then she Googled the name. There he was. A Danish Mormon who had slept with his stepdaughter during Brigham Young’s reign. Not exactly the stuff that made you think the guy was a prince, but still. A bishop’s council had supposedly found him guilty on the charge of adultery and voted in favor of death for violating his covenants. He was to die by having his throat cut, so that the running of his blood would atone for his sins. According to the references, the bishop’s council ordered Anderson’s wife to prepare clean clothes for him to be buried in and to tell anyone who asked about her husband that he had gone to California.
Had someone ordered Melinda to tell anyone who asked about her husband that he had gone to Costa Rica? Abbie didn’t think that seemed quite right, but there was something here. Her brain kept teasing her. Abbie finished her wine and debated pouring another glass, but decided sleep was the better course. Maybe it would all come to her in a dream, or, she thought wryly, maybe it would come to her in a revelation.
THIRTY-SIX
Abbie had left for the station well before dawn. It was Wednesday morning. They didn’t have anything to counter the murder-suicide theory. No divine revelation had come during the night. She knew that Jess wasn’t a killer, but she had no way of making a case against anyone else.
Abbie must have been completely distracted, because she jumped when Clarke stepped into her office.
“Clarke!” Abbie nearly spilled her coffee.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just I’ve been thinking. Is it possible we ruled out Melinda because we felt sorry for her? You know, if she knew Jess was pregnant, that would change things. In the Celestial Kingdom, assuming Smith was worthy to be there because he had atoned for his adultery, he could have been sealed to both Jess and Melinda and their children. Jess being sealed to him would have meant this child would be, too. I don’t know, but that seems like motive.” Clarke closed the door and took a seat in front of her desk.
“Even without the whole afterlife slant, having an affair, especially if pregnancy is involved, is a solid motive,” Abbie said, then asked Clarke, “Do you think Melinda Smith is capable of murder?”
“More than Jess is,” Clarke said. “Melinda’s the only person who knew the exact time her husband was leaving. Her alibis for both her husband’s and Jess’s murders are her own children. She has plenty of personal and financial reasons for being angry with Smith and Jess. Jess wouldn’t think twice about letting Melinda into her house, probably not even worry about letting her into her bedroom. It’s not a stretch to think Melinda would’ve known Jessica liked to use that pale-pink paper for everything she printed. It was all over her desk.”
“True,” Abbie agreed, “but that’s all circumstantial.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t really want to believe Melinda Smith could do this, but there’s no denying it’s our most plausible theory.”
“What about her response when we told her about Jess? That seemed real,” Abbie said.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Clarke said, “I heard her throwing up just like you did. That wasn’t fake. The fact that all the blood drained from her face when we told her about Jess wasn’t fake either. We thought she was distressed because she was finding out for the first time that her husband was cheating on her. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she was distressed because we had found out her motive for killing her husband.”
Clarke was right about all the pieces fitting. “Then why wait a week to go after Jessica?”
“Melinda found out about the pregnancy. I think something inside her just snapped. She couldn’t take it. She didn’t want someone else to be a mother to Smith’s children, but she had to wait until there was an easy way to do it,” Clarke answered.
“Okay, let’s say you’re right so far. What about the blood atonement angle?”
“That’s actually what got me thinking about Melinda in the first place. Do you remember that time in the kitchen when we were talking to her? When she mentioned how her husband always went to the temple? I thought she was just bragging about what an active Latter-day Saint he was, but I think all that church stuff came out subconsciously. Melinda went through the temple back when the penalty oaths were part of the ceremony.
She came from a really strict family. She’s the only person who has an interest in Steve Smith atoning for his adultery. She wants her family to be together forever. If he’d had affairs before, she had no reason to believe that was going to stop. If she wanted her whole family to be worthy of the Celestial Kingdom, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands.”
Abbie sipped her coffee as she mulled over Clarke’s theory. There was a certain elegance to it. Clarke was right about how often Melinda mentioned what a good man—a good Mormon—her husband had been.
“Okay, let’s say you’re right, we’ve got to have more than a theory,” Abbie said.
“I know.” Clarke slumped in his chair, making his tall lanky frame look crumpled. “I think we need to talk to Meghan again. I bet she knew about Jess being pregnant. Even if no one else knew who the father was, Melinda would have suspected her husband. Smith had already spent an entire spring gallivanting in Costa Rica with Jess. We know they met at Meghan’s. Melinda could easily have seen that. They live just a few houses away. We just need someone to remember something they saw but didn’t think was important. Melinda seeing her husband talking to Meghan. Someone saw something. I know we don’t have much time, but we can’t let Jess be blamed for something she didn’t do.”
Clarke’s phone buzzed. He looked down to read the text.
“You’re not going to believe this. That was Meghan. They’re having Jess’s funeral this morning. It starts in half an hour. Meghan was worried I wouldn’t hear about it.”
“I didn’t know Jess’s body had been released, did you?” Abbie asked.
Clarke shook his head. “I’ve been checking the obituaries in The Standard, The Trib, and the Deseret News. There hasn’t been any mention of the funeral. There hasn’t even been an obituary.” That obituary the brothers had been working so hard on when Abbie and Clarke had talked to them about Jess.
* * *
“Jim,” Abbie heard someone whisper while standing with Clarke in the lobby waiting to enter the chapel. She turned around and saw Meghan. “I’m so glad you made it. I just found out about it this morning. Nobody’s here. I texted as many people as I could think of, but everyone’s at work or at school. I think some people don’t even know what happened.” Meghan took Clarke’s hand. “Even my mom can’t make it. Will you sit with me?”
Blessed be the Wicked Page 23