Not of This Fold

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  I made a quick calculation about the likelihood that we would be back anytime soon, added to the question of Gabriela’s demise. “I think that’s a good idea,” I said. Her mother could stay here until someone in authority came to relieve her and take care of the children.

  Alma glanced at us once more before going back inside.

  I turned to Gwen, feeling heavy at the thought of another funeral, another broken family, and another murder investigation in the small town where I lived. Why did bad things happen to good people? God wasn’t answering that question any better now than he had the first hundred times I’d asked it.

  “Back to the gas station?” I asked Gwen softly.

  Gwen nodded and hurried down the stairs, knocking a knee loudly against the door at the bottom. On the way back to the Pro-Stop, her driving was shaky.

  We parked a block away from the gas station, and Gwen opened her door. “I have to try to get in there,” she said. “I have to do something.”

  I sighed. “All right. I’m coming with you.” Maybe a bad idea like this was better with company.

  We walked toward the uniformed policeman we’d seen before. He was waving away a driver as we approached. The driver swore and threw something out the window as he drove away. Ignoring him, the policeman turned to us as we approached. “Ladies, this gas station is closed. You’ll need to go on to another one.”

  He looked so young. About the same age as Samuel, and without even a full beard yet, though maybe it was just the terrible light of the street lamp and the fact that his hair was mostly blond. My instinct was to give him a hug and tell him he was doing a good job, that his mother would be proud, but I didn’t.

  “How long is this going to be closed, Officer . . . ?” Gwen asked.

  “Grant,” he filled in. “Probably until morning. This is a crime scene.”

  “I’m starting the Police Academy down at UVU this year,” Gwen lied, her tone masking the anxiety I’d seen at the apartment.

  It was a bold lie, though not quite a criminal one. I knew she had only resorted to it to try to glean more information, so I played along.

  Gwen craned her head as if trying to get a better look, though nothing of importance was visible behind the single strand of yellow tape. “I can’t wait to learn about stuff like this.”

  “Well, it’s a lot different in real life than it looks like on TV,” said Officer Grant, a hint of superiority in his tone.

  It played right into Gwen’s hands.

  “Hmm. Different how? I mean, I know you can’t tell me any details, but I’d love to hear about your experience with this. There’s only so much we can really learn from our textbooks,” she said, leaning in slightly toward him.

  The young policeman straightened up. Did he realize Gwen was married? Probably not. Her ring wasn’t visible in this light, and the way she was acting, he could easily assume she was interested in him as more than a source of information.

  He said, “Well, a woman’s body was reported found by the clerk at the convenience store a few hours ago. I came with my partner to check it out. We confirmed she was dead and called the medical examiner and crime scene crew. Now my partner’s talking to the clerk and looking through the surveillance tapes. I’m just out here, waiting for the detectives to come and finish securing the scene.”

  It was a nice, succinct rendition of the process as far as I’d observed in previous murder investigations from the outside. Except for divulging all this to us, he was doing his job well.

  “Is the body still here?” Gwen asked, full of false eagerness.

  “Yes, but it’s been covered, awaiting the detectives’ sign-off. It was shoved behind the dumpster out back.” He nodded the direction of the dumpster, and I thought I could make out a shrouded lump near it.

  I shivered at the thought that it could be the once-vibrant Gabriela, who had only worried about a better life for her children, even when she might have been in danger.

  “Do they know who she was already? Do they have to fingerprint the body to find that out?” Gwen asked stiffly. Her façade was cracking.

  “Oh, there’s no problem there. She had identification on her. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the car registration to match. I guess there aren’t any relatives to contact, so they have to go to the ward instead,” said Officer Grant, giving away his Mormon affiliation.

  “No relatives?” Gwen asked. “Was she not from around here?”

  “She lived here,” he said. “But her next-of-kin was a husband in Mexico.”

  My heart dropped. The husband who’d been deported. I could only imagine him in Mexico, being contacted by the Utah police force only to hear that his wife had been killed. Would the children go back to him? They were American citizens, as far as I knew, but surely a parent in Mexico was better than the foster care system here.

  “Mexico? Oh, I hope she isn’t someone I know from the Spanish ward,” Gwen said worriedly, putting a hand to her chest. “I do a lot of church work there.”

  “I really shouldn’t tell you her name—we haven’t even released it to the press. But you’ll keep it between us, right?” He glanced around and took a step closer to Gwen. I think he’d forgotten I was even there.

  “Yes, of course,” Gwen said earnestly, nodding.

  Officer Grant put a hand on Gwen’s shoulder in an entirely inappropriate fashion, then said, “Gabriela Suarez. Do you know her?”

  There it was, the confirmation I’d hoped would never come. I felt hollow. Gabriela was gone.

  Gwen let out a low moan. I moved closer and put a hand on her arm, but she pushed me off.

  Detective Grant saw me and his eyes opened widely as he suddenly became aware of how it looked for him to be whispering to a layperson at the scene like this. He stepped back and held himself straighter, apparently rethinking things. “If you knew her personally, I should get the investigating detectives to ask you questions. You might be able to assist in the case.”

  Gwen let her head fall. “No, we don’t know her. Just a poor woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  I almost spoke up, but I wasn’t sure talking to the detective would be a good idea at the moment either. I didn’t know how I might’ve wheedled information out of this young man, but I made appeals to people differently from Gwen, who was young and self-assured and attractive.

  Grant cleared his throat and appeared ready to tell us to get going, but before he could, a tall, black woman in plainclothes approached from the gas station. “Officer Grant,” she began, “why are you . . . ?” And then she trailed off as she recognized me.

  Oh, no. It was Detective Gore, whom I’d gotten to know last year when a member of the bishopric had been killed in our church building. She’d spent a lot of time at my house, trying to understand the ins and outs of Mormon culture. She’d never been a member, which was clear then and now. I was nervous she might ask me something that would force me to incriminate Gwen for her, but her presence on the case also meant it would be wrapped up quickly by someone with homicide experience.

  “Sister Wallheim, what are you doing here? This can’t have anything to do with your ward, surely.”

  “No,” I said meekly.

  “Then you should move along. Murder scenes aren’t open to the public, and the victim isn’t here for anyone to gawk at,” she said sternly.

  Gore’s characteristic bluntness was a relief this time. If she ever did figure out our connection to Gabriela and decide to question us, it wouldn’t be lightly, and I was ready to go home.

  But Gwen wasn’t as eager to leave. “She wasn’t just some nameless victim,” she said, brow furrowed.

  This was about to go downhill fast. Though the detective had barely spoken to us, Gwen didn’t seem to trust Gore with a matter so precious to her, and she wasn’t in the right state of mind to keep quiet about it
. If this got messy and ended up with both of us at the station under the charges of misleading a police investigation, I’d have a lot to explain to Kurt, and all in the middle of the night.

  “I’m the detective assigned to this case, and I don’t need to justify my decisions to either of you,” said Gore, glaring at Gwen.

  I tried to act as mediator between the two of them. “Detective Gore, I’m glad to see you’re on the case. We’ll be on our way now; we didn’t mean to interfere,” I said.

  But Gwen didn’t budge when I tried to pull her back to the car.

  “I’m sure you’ll investigate as long as the media’s watching the case, then let it drop. Because you just can’t stop illegal immigrants from dying, right? Unlike white citizens. Their names are in the news the moment someone can’t get in touch with them.”

  “Gwen,” I said, interrupting her, “this isn’t the time.” I just wanted to us both safely home.

  “How do you know she was undocumented?” Gore said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Just conjecture,” I interrupted. “Sorry, she’s sleep-deprived and worried about work. We were planning to stop for gas and parked when we saw the lights.”

  Gore looked like she wanted to press me, but then decided against it. She turned to Grant. “Officer, make sure they leave the premises.”

  “Yes, Detective,” said Grant, moving toward us.

  “We’re going. My apologies,” I said to Grant, pulling Gwen by the arm back toward the car. She didn’t resist, though I could feel her breathing hard. I opened the door for her, and she climbed in. Then I went around and got in on my side. Gwen was sitting with her head bowed into the steering wheel.

  “Let’s go home,” I suggested. “We’re both tired.” My mind was spinning with thoughts about Gabriela’s husband in Mexico, her young children waiting in the apartment for her when she would never return, and the strange coincidence of Bishop Hope having threatened to call the police over her supposed embezzling of church funds.

  Back in the car with me, Gwen started the engine and cranked up the heat. She backed out of the parking spot and pulled away, but she didn’t go far. She circled the block, then headed back to the gas station, parking just out of Grant’s line of sight.

  “Gwen, what are you doing?”

  She got out her phone. “Wait here,” she said. She didn’t try to justify herself. She didn’t even seem to hear me. Before I could try to talk to her, she got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the heat on full blast.

  The police cars were on the north end of the gas station, by the dumpster, but we were now on the south end. She ducked behind the big sign, then dialed a number on her phone. It was noisy on the freeway overpass and I couldn’t hear anything.

  What was she doing?

  I watched as she crouched down, listening for something. She dialed a number on her phone again, and this time there was a long silence on the freeway. Apparently that was enough for her to hear what she needed.

  She half-crouched, half-crawled her way to the neglected grass and bushes behind the convenience store, closer to where the police were.

  I should have done something to stop her. But she’d moved too quickly, and now anything I did would just draw more attention to her, which could jeopardize her future at the police academy. And the truth was, I’d once tried to take charge of getting justice for a victim—one I’d known far less well. I’d been relentless, and followed instinct instead of advice. If Gwen was set on this during her process of grieving, sticking around to make sure she didn’t get herself into too much trouble might be more effective than trying to stop her.

  My heart was in my throat as I watched her turn back and move rapidly back toward the car. If Officer Grant turned around at any moment, he’d surely see her.

  But then Gwen was at the car. A truck pulled past us up to the front side of the gas station, which was just enough of a distraction that Gwen could get into the car easily. When she slammed the door shut, I cringed and looked at Officer Grant, but neither he nor Detective Gore seemed to have heard the noise. They’d moved toward the new vehicle on site.

  Gwen and I both sank in our seats for a few minutes, trying to remain invisible.

  “What were you doing out there?” I asked.

  “Just looking for something,” she said, neglecting to say whether she’d found it or not.

  “That was dangerous.”

  She let out a laugh of reckless abandonment mixed with real fear.

  I shook my head, wondering if I’d ever done anything so impulsive. Maybe on my first case, but I’d learned since then.

  When I dared look up again, I saw Detective Gore walking out to talk to a man dressed in a jumpsuit, probably a crime scene investigator.

  “I think it’s time for us to go home,” I said, hardly recognizing my own voice because of the harshness in it.

  Gwen patted something in her pocket and started the car. Soon we were heading back up the hill to our neighborhood. Safe. At least for now.

  I mulled over whether to press her again about what she’d found. When she stopped in front of our house, I finally said, “Did you find something of Gabriela’s?” I remembered the time I’d unearthed something related to an investigation and kept it from the police. I hadn’t known for certain that it was evidence, but I had known I should have called them. This was far worse—Gwen had taken an item straight from an active crime scene.

  “What could I have found that the police wouldn’t have already?” she asked with an edge. “They’ve said they’re doing such a good job. It would be impossible for them to miss anything, right?”

  “Listen, Gwen. Do you remember that murder case in our ward? Carrie?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I found something when I was poking around her place. I should have turned it into the police right away. It would have helped them find the truth sooner than they did otherwise. I’ve always felt guilty about it.”

  “It’s not the same with Gabriela,” Gwen insisted. “She’s not a pretty white woman with money and a typical Mormon family.”

  I sighed. I couldn’t force her to tell me what she was hiding, not unless I was willing to get Detective Gore involved. And I wasn’t—yet.

  I shook my head and got out of the car, but before closing the door, I said, “Gwen, call me if you want to talk, all right? I know this is really hard on you. Just—give me a chance. I can help.” I meant with whatever she’d taken from the scene.

  But as Gwen looked up at me, I saw the sharpness in her face and knew she wasn’t ready to talk. “I don’t need your help with this, Linda. I’m planning on going to the police academy, not just playing detective, okay?” she said.

  Well. She’d just dismissed all the experience I’d had with murder as amateur work. She’d said it deliberately to hurt me, and it had. I could forgive her for that, but it made me worry about something else. Had Gwen been abused for so long that she hadn’t learned to trust anyone? I hadn’t seen this side of her before, but if she was treating Brad the same way, that must be hard on him, too.

  I watched as she drove off. Maybe I should have said another prayer, but after Gwen’s reaction last time, I didn’t. We told so many stories as Mormons of the wonderful miracles, big and small, that we saw. But what about when there was no miracle? What about the floods and famines and wars where God didn’t intervene? I thought I’d spent the last thirty years figuring that out, but right at this moment, I felt no closer to the answers, no closer to seeing God’s love for all His children.

  Chapter 10

  I checked my watch as I closed the front door and saw it was just past 3 a.m. I heard a noise in the kitchen and poked my head in. Well, so much for sneaking back to bed.

  Kurt was wide awake, sitting at a stool over what smelled like a cup of my favorite Strawberry Daiquiri Teavana herbal tea. I
t was a strange sight, since as far as I knew, Kurt didn’t like herbal tea and thought it was a bit too close to breaking the rules of the Word of Wisdom to indulge in it. He didn’t think a bishop should be seen drinking something that gave the “appearance of evil”—not to mention, this particular flavor was cocktail-inspired. From what it looked like, though, Kurt was not so much drinking the tea as stirring the teaball and watching it as it slowed and slowed, then stopped.

  “I suppose you didn’t see my message?” I said as I walked in. I took off my coat and put it on the chair next to Kurt, the one I wouldn’t be sitting on. I put my gloves and hat there as well.

  “Message?” Kurt said.

  I pointed to the whiteboard, but it was covered by the door of the cupboard he had left open. I closed it. “See?”

  His eyes widened briefly, then he shook his head. “Not much of a message,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to wake you. You get so little sleep these days,” I said. Did it sound as much like an excuse as it felt? I felt a little guilty about following Gwen into a vigilante murder investigation, but I felt responsible for her. I knew Kurt wouldn’t understand this protective reflex.

  “What did Gabriela need so desperately in the middle of the night?” Kurt asked.

  “She’s dead,” I said bluntly. “She was the woman whose body was found behind the dumpster at the gas station on the news. Gwen was devastated and needed to talk about it with someone.” I was careful to omit any mention of the police and hoped he wouldn’t ask how we’d found out the victim had been Gabriela.

  Kurt digested this for a moment. “She couldn’t have called in the morning?” He was clearly upset, but I think he was trying to tone down the dial on his outrage.

  “Gwen was close to Gabriela, and I wanted to be there for her,” I said, resentful. And I did believe God wanted me to be there for her as her sister in the ward. It wasn’t my fault she had taken things so far tonight.

  Kurt shook his head and stared at the whiteboard message. “It really didn’t occur to you to wake me up and tell me what was going on? I thought we were trying to stay on the same page and keep lines of communication open with each other.”