A Killing in Zion (12 page)

“He's in room five, sir!”

“Thank you, Officer!”

“Things are getting off to a rough start,” he said above all the other voices. “These men are all mum, closed up tight as drums. Sondrup is going from room to room, giving orders not to cooperate. The no-good son of a—”

“How are the wife and kids, Gus?” I asked.

He seemed surprised at my question. “Never better. Yours, sir?”

“Things are looking sunny on our end,” I said. I tucked the pencil in the spring clip.

“Pleased to hear it, Lieutenant. Do you need a partner, sir?”

“Something tells me I'm better off alone with this particular fellow. Thank you, though.”

I slipped into room five and, closing the door, silenced the hallway din. I spied my reflection in the two-way mirror: still as gangly and awkward as ever, and my messy hair could use a good combing. In the corner of the room, a brunette stenographer in a green dress readied herself over her stenotype as I pulled out a chair, sat down, and turned my attention to Alma Covington. My interaction with him had been limited, yet I could sense this was a man whose intelligence outshined that of his polygamist brethren. Unlike the others, he struck me as erudite and cultured, a man who knew there was more to life than how many women he married.

“I have a few questions I'd like to ask you, Mr. Covington,” I said.

The machine snapped away as the stenographer's fingers struck keys.

“I assume you're here to discuss LeGrand Johnston.”

“Yes.”

“My attorney has advised me not to say anything.”

“That is certainly your right.”

“I respectfully disagree with him,” Covington said. “We polygamists have been hiding from the world for too long. It's high time we be more outspoken and prouder of who we are. We need to show the world we're not freaks. We need to move into the twentieth century, so to speak.”

I nodded. “Those are encouraging words.”

“So ask away, Detective.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I wish more polygamists shared your openness.”

“They're a misunderstood people.” He spoke as though he were an anthropologist studying them from a distance. “It stands to reason why they distrust the outside world. They're like the Mormon pioneers of yore, hounded, judged, driven from place to place.”

I could have launched into one of my anti-polygamy tirades, but I held back.
Let the baby have his bottle
, I reasoned. Besides, until now, not a single polygamist had shown the slightest willingness to speak to me. Who knows if this opportunity would ever present itself again?

“You're right, I want to ask you about Johnston,” I said. “Do you have any theories about who might've murdered him?”

“The question is
who'd want to
,” he said. “He was a gentleman. A thinker. A visionary. A finer man could not be found.”

“I've heard rumors about a power struggle in your church,” I said. “Is there any truth to these claims?”

His eyes moved searchingly, as if he needed to inspect the room to reply. “No.”

“You hesitated,” I told him. “You had to think it over.”

“Every religion has its divisions. We're no exception. But I know of no one in our church who'd want to end Grand's earthly existence. We've lost our prophet, seer, and revelator. We've lost an extraordinary man who gave us, in his talks and his writings, an enchanting vision of the future. Yes, I'm afraid we've lost a great deal more than most people realize.”

His self-assured posture loosened. His shoulders slumped. Eyes closed. His sadness now showed in a way that it hadn't before, and it seemed genuine.

I allowed him some time. I looked at the stenographer. She smiled at me.

“Are you getting all this?” I asked her. “Do you need us to slow down?”

“You're doing just fine,” she said.

I turned back to Covington. “Sorry for your loss.”

He stiffened upright, eyes wide, still serious but no longer in the grip of despair. “I know of nobody in our church capable of murdering Grand, especially in the terrible way it was done.”

“How about outside of your church?”

“There are rival groups, but most pose no threat.”

“Is there one that could've been behind this?”

He lowered his head, as if silently deliberating how much to reveal.

“Please,” I said softly. “I need you to level with me.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose. “It's small. It's called the Assembly. Short for the Assembly of Apostolic Saints of Final Days.”

“What a mouthful,” I said. “Have they got a leader?”

“Yes. Orville Babcock. He owns a used car lot on State Street called Babcock Motors.”

“Do you think this Babcock character had it in him to kill Johnston?”

“I'm not saying he did. I'm not saying he didn't. I know the two men were once close, but they had a parting of ways. Orville went off and started his own church. Since then, he's been denouncing Grand with alarming frequency.”

I snickered a little, instantly fearing I might've offended Covington.

“Did I say something amusing?” he asked.

“A breakaway sect of a breakaway sect? Is there a word for that?”

His grin was subtle, but there. “Who knows?”

“So you think this Babcock might have had something to do with Johnston's murder?”

“I really don't know. Some of his attacks on Uncle Grand have been harsh. Be that as it may, it's a big leap from saying bad things to doing bad things. I guess you'll have to look into that yourself.”

I nodded. “What happens now? Does Rulon Black take the helm?”

“Pending the approval of the apostles,” he said. “I'm sure they'll vote to confirm him.”

“He's a rather mysterious fellow.”

“How so?”

“Well, for starters, nobody's ever seen him.”

“He's an elusive man, no question.”

“So he's real?”

“Of course. What sort of question is that?”

“You can't blame a fellow for asking.”

“I can count on just two hands the number of times I've been in his presence, and only from a distance or in dark surroundings. He's self-conscious about his appearance. I imagine it must have something to do with the attempt on his life.”

“You mean somebody tried to kill him?”

“Oh good heavens, yes.”

“Who?”

“The assailant is still unknown. The attack left him disfigured and confined to a wheelchair, I'm sad to say.”

“When was this?”

“Years ago. You'd have to ask him the exact date. Dear Uncle Grand always had a real soft spot for Rulon. After the attempt on Rulon's life, the prophet declared that Rulon could stay an apostle and keep living in seclusion in his compound on the Arizona border.”

“I don't recall seeing anything in the police files about him being attacked.”

“He didn't report it to the police.”

“Why?”

“The police aren't exactly sympathetic.”

“Well, you people
are
lawbreakers.”

“There are unjust laws, Detective Oveson.” Covington smiled, and when he squinted, crows' feet formed at the corners of his eyes. “Although I suspect a man of your zeal does not stop to consider that.”

Another comment best ignored. “When you say Rulon was disfigured and wheelchair-bound, what happened to him?”

“There's no point in describing it. It's all gossip.”

“Do you think whoever his attacker was might've had a hand in murdering LeGrand Johnston?” I asked.

“It's been so long,” he said. “I don't see how there could be a connection.”

“One last question?”

“Sure.”

“The night Uncle Grand was murdered, there was a young woman there, at the fundamentalist church. Do you know who she is?”

He shook his head and made a slight pout. “The prophet knows a good many people, male and female. Did you bring a picture of her?”

I showed him my eight-by-ten of her.

“Where is she now?” he asked.

“Do you know her?”

He looked up from the photograph as he pushed it back to me. “I'm afraid not.”

“To answer your question, she's in protective custody.”

“Oh. Why don't you ask her her name yourself?”

“She won't speak. Something frightened her and she isn't saying anything.”

“Do you suppose she saw…” His words trailed off, as if he could not finish his sentence.

“Who knows?”

It wasn't my imagination: He seemed genuinely stunned by the news of the girl. He knew something he wasn't saying, I could tell that much. I asked again, “Do you know her?”

He grinned. “Does anybody really know anybody?”

“Do
you
know
her
?” I repeated.

“She looks familiar,” he said. “Beyond that, I can't say.”

“Who were all those women?” I asked.

“Which ones? You mean back at my house?”

I nodded.

“That's my production staff on the newspaper,” he explained. “A real dedicated bunch.”

“How many of them are your wives?” I asked.

“I have but one lawfully wedded wife to speak of,” he said, now sporting an ear-to-ear
you-can't-fool-me
grin.

“Uh-huh. Got any children?” I asked.

“Only daughters.” There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice, but that smile spread across his face once more. “Perhaps the Lord will one day bless me with a son.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said. “This has been helpful.”

I leaned forward, extending my arm across the table, offering the hand of friendship. He shook it, without hesitation.

*   *   *

Carl Jeppson squirmed in his chair and turned his glass of water around and around in circles. He blinked rapidly. He cleared his throat repeatedly. When he felt like I was not saying enough or staring at him too much, he'd get irritated and ask, “What?” No question, the man was agitated. The room's bright lights added to his discomfort, and he kept pressing his fingers into his eyes and rubbing.

“I don't appreciate being dragged out of my place of business, in full view of passersby,” he said. “I've a reputation to uphold.” He paused a few seconds and looked me up and down. “I think the police are using this crime as a pretext to come down hard on our community.”

“That's not so,” I said. “All we're trying to do is figure out who murdered your prophet and his driver. You people ought to be helping us. Instead you're treating us like we're your enemies. I don't get it.”

He puffed his cheeks and blew air. “I've been advised by my attorney not to—”

“Let me show you something.”

I handed him the photograph. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly when he saw the girl, but then he tried to conceal his surprise. He flicked his fingertips at the picture and it slid across the tabletop.

“Who is she?”

“I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“If you say you don't know her, then yeah.”

“She's not somebody I recognize.”

“Maybe she's one of Johnston's wives?” I guessed aloud.

“Grand only had one wife in his time on earth, his dear Lucinda, who he met and married back when he—”

“Cut it out,” I said. “Look, I know the man's a polygamist, no matter what you and the others say. He's the head of the Fundamentalist Church of Saints, a church that openly advocates plural marriage. And he is—or was—the kind of fellow who lived by example. I know he had many wives. I've been following him around for nearly three months and I've seen him stop at their various houses. I've counted at least fifteen here in Salt Lake, and I know for a fact he's got more in Dixie City. So you might as well come clean and let me know how many wives the old bird had, because I'm tired of playing these guessing games.”

“I object to your line of questioning,” protested Jeppson. “Grand was a respected businessman and a brilliant theologian. He was a self-made man, raised in dire poverty. Any other man born into those circumstances would've come out of it with a hardened heart, but he didn't. He stayed generous until the end. I find it offensive in the extreme that you'd reduce this man's life to how many wives he was sealed to during his earthly existence. Of what concern is that to the police, and how does it relate to the murder of our prophet?”

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.