A Killing in Zion (19 page)

“You're not actually thinking of buying a car from this asshole, are you?” asked Roscoe.

I moved in close to him. “Do me a favor. Keep the gutter language to a minimum. These people are quite religious.”

“Help you gentlemen?” a voice called out behind us.

We turned at the same time to face Mr. Dixieland, who I assumed was Orville Babcock. His straw hat shaded bulging eyes, and one of his front teeth was made of gold. Not a tall man, maybe five foot five, he had a flabby chin darkened by a five-o'clock shadow, and I could smell his sweet-scented hair tonic even under that hat of his. “Slippery” seemed a good word to describe him.

“Are you in the market for a newer model, or a little number from the good old days?” he asked.

“Are you Orville Babcock?”

“Yes, sir.”

I showed him my badge. “Detective Art Oveson, Salt Lake police. This is my partner, Detective Lund. We'd like to ask questions about LeGrand Johnston.”

The smile on his face flew south. No more gold tooth for us. “I haven't seen him in years,” he said. “He and I haven't been in touch since nineteen and twenty-nine.”

“Can you tell me more about your parting of ways?”

“We're fundamentalist Mormons, he and I. That was what we had in common in the first place.”

“I suppose that makes you a polygamist, like him?” asked Roscoe.

He seemed to consider Roscoe's question as he whipped out a cotton hankie and dabbed his glistening neck. Ultimately, he opted not to respond to it. “If this is about his murder, I can assure you I played no part in it.”

“You left LeGrand's cult and founded your own,” said Roscoe.

“I prefer ‘church,'” said Babcock. “Otherwise, that's accurate.”

I pressed: “Did anything in particular trigger your falling-out with Johnston?”

“God told me to abandon LeGrand's corrupt church,” Babcock said, with a straight face.

“God told you?” asked Roscoe, lowering his sunglasses to reveal skeptical eyes.

“Yes.”

“Does God talk to you all the time?” asked Roscoe.

“Yes.”

Roscoe pressed: “What does God tell you?”

“He gives me advice.”

“What kind of advice?” asked Roscoe. “Wash behind your ears and wipe with toilet paper?”

Babcock ground his teeth and I thought I spotted a vein bulging out of his throat. “I take great umbrage at your remarks, Detective Lund!”

Roscoe leaned near me, perplexed. “Umbrage?”

“Let me,” I whispered. I stepped closer to Babcock. “I apologize if Detective Lund's comments offended you. I just have a few more questions.”

“I told everything to the police,” he said.

“You did?” I asked.

“Yes, five years ago, after my break with LeGrand, I went to the police to report his vile practices. Isn't there some record of my testimony?”

“I haven't seen anything about it in our files,” I said. “If you'd cooperate with us again, it'd be mighty helpful.”

“LeGrand is an instrument of the devil. My church is the one true church, the one that Heavenly Father has established on earth as—”

“Shit almighty, Babcock, cut the preaching and make with the specifics,” said Roscoe.

I whispered to Roscoe, “Gutter talk.” His posture slackened slightly with compliance. To Babcock, I said, “What issues did you two disagree over?”

Babcock glowered at Roscoe, although he calmed down after shifting his attention back to me. “I hated LeGrand for supporting the banishments. I thought it was a cowardly and immoral thing to do.”

“Banishments?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“It happens down in Dixie City, around the time the boys turn twelve or thirteen. Certain ones get drummed outta town, sent away to fend for themselves.”

“Not all of them?” asked Roscoe.

He shook his head. “Only those judged impure by the prophet's council.”

“What's the prophet's council?” I asked.

“It's a tribunal that operates in secrecy. They run their own star chamber and mete out harsh punishments. Most of the boys have no choice but to run away, find somewhere else to live. A lot of them end up here in Salt Lake City. Some woman runs a sort of halfway house for runaway polygamist kids.”

“What's her name?” I asked. “She might be helpful.”

“'Fraid I can't help you there,” he said. “I don't know her name. I've only heard of her. The point is, LeGrand and his apostles are making a mockery out of plural marriage. It's a way of life sanctioned by the Lord, but they've turned it into something dark and terrible. I keep trying to persuade Carl to get out of it.”

“Jeppson?” I asked. He nodded. I said, “Do you think he'd be willing to cooperate with us, if we promised him protection?”

“He's scared,” said Babcock. “These men … you don't know what they're capable of. I saw firsthand with Len Orton.”

“Who's Len Orton?” asked Roscoe.

“He's one of the reasons I left Grand's church,” said Babcock. “Orton was an apostle in the church who began questioning some of the church's crooked practices. One day, he failed to show up at his place of business. He repaired cars. Wasn't like him to miss work. Ever. His wife filed a missing persons report, but Orton was never found. I have a pretty good idea what happened to him.”

“What?” asked Roscoe.

“He's deep in some crevice somewhere nobody's ever gonna find him.”

“What year did this happen?” I asked.

He closed his eyes and thought it over. “Mmm, nineteen and twenty-six.”

“Maybe he had some sort of accident,” I suggested.

He opened his eyes and laughed. “Sure. Right. Uh-huh. An accident. Just like Caldwell Black, Rulon's younger brother. He started getting funny ideas, too. He went around telling anybody who'd listen that the fundamentalists were up to no good, sinning with young girls and making dirty money hand over fist. He went missing, too.”

“When?” I asked.

“Four years ago,” said Babcock. “His house burned to the ground, killing his wife and three of his children. Caldwell's body was never found. That happened in Dixie City, too. Town marshal chalked it up to a faulty furnace. That's a laugh.”

“What do you think happened to him?” I asked.

“I don't think
anything
, Mr. Detective. I
know
darn well what happened to him. He's in the same slot canyon as Len Orton. They've tried to kill me, too, a couple of times. Fired shots into my lot here a few years back. I'm pretty sure they're trying to poison me now. They regard me as a threat.”

Roscoe chuckled. “You're starting to sound paranoid, Babcock. Maybe we oughta be making rubber room reservations for you.”

Babcock sneered. “Mock me all you want. God knows I speak the truth. Just wait until we find out what happened to those boys who went missing in May.”

“What boys?” I asked.

Babcock swallowed hard and got nervous. “You mean … you don't know?”

“Know what?” asked Roscoe.

Babcock shook his head. “I need to get back to work. I'm a busy man.”

“Bullshit!” snapped Roscoe. “You can't go jackassing like that and then just drop it. What do you mean
missing boys
?”

“I see what you're trying to do,” he said, taking a few steps backward. “Sniffing around here, asking all of these questions. Well, it won't work. You've got to get up pretty early in the morning to fool this old catfish.”

“These boys you mentioned,” I said. “Who are they and when did they go missing?”

He waved a hand in the direction of State Street. “I'm going to have to ask you both to leave. I won't answer any more questions unless I have my lawyer present.”

Nodding, I took one of my business cards from a holder I kept in my pocket, placed it on the hood of a car, and looked at Roscoe. “Got a pencil on you?”

He plucked one out of his pocket, all the while glowering at Babcock, and handed it to me. I jotted my telephone number on the back of my card and returned to the pencil to Roscoe. I handed Babcock the card and he arched his eyebrows at it.

“If you happen to think of something you think I should know, call me,” I said. “Day or night, it doesn't matter. I've written my home telephone number on the back of the card just in case.”

He pocketed the card and we set off, back toward our car. We were halfway across the lot, passing rattletraps with new sets of tires, rusted areas painted over, and dents pounded out, before Roscoe spoke. “You let him off easy, Art. I was prepared to beat the shit out of him until he coughed up more information.”

“You don't understand,” I whispered out the side of my mouth. “This is the most information anybody's given us since the murders. If we push him too hard, he's gonna go cold on us. If we bend a little, give him some elbow room, we can come back for more. We don't want him thinking we're the enemy, Roscoe.”

We'd almost reached 800 South when I heard Babcock call my name. “Oveson!” I turned around to see him standing in the middle of all those autos.

“I noticed you were ogling at the Oakland!”

“She's a beaut!” I shouted back.

“You can't beat that price! Want to take her for a spin?”

“Let me talk to the missus and I'll get back to you!”

“Tell the little lady that for twenty extra bucks, I'll throw in a car radio!”

“I will! Thanks!”

Roscoe and I started again in the direction to the car.

“All right, we'll back off for now,” conceded Roscoe. “But please tell me you're not going to buy a car from that weasel.”

“Just humoring him,” I said, winking as we crossed the piping-hot pavement.

 

Fifteen

The bitty bell jingled when I closed the flower shop door. The strong scent of roses greeted my nose. A familiar-looking group of four women on the other side of the counter in the rear of the store briefly stopped assembling and wrapping bouquets to watch me. One leaned to another and whispered, and both—like all of the others—stared at me as I walked in with Roscoe following me. Something about the combination of the chilled air, dim light, and bright, fragrant blooms comforted me, enough to make me consider how pleasant it would be to take a nap in here. I reached the counter, a little higher than my waist, and rested my palms on the surface near the brass cash register.

“Mr. Jeppson?” I asked.

“He's not here,” said a black-haired, olive-complected woman in a pale blue dress. She was probably around my age.

“Where is he?” asked Roscoe, scanning the place.

“We don't know,” answered a similarly dressed redhead. “He didn't tell us where he was going.”

“We have no idea when he's going to be back,” said another.

Roscoe bowed to admire orchids in a vase. “We'll wait.”

“We aren't sure when he'll return,” the redhead reiterated. “He'll probably be gone a long time.”

Roscoe shrugged. “We haven't got any pressing engagements.”

“Don't let us interrupt you,” I said.

“He's right,” said Roscoe. “Go on doing what you were doing.”

We waited. And waited. Five minutes ticked by, then ten. I leaned against the counter for support. Roscoe strolled up and down the center of the store, examining prearranged bouquets in vases behind sliding glass doors. The women went about their business, trimming flowers, arranging them with baby's breath or assorted greens, trying their hardest not to look at us. I was starting to fear that we might be there all day long. After a half hour of this, one of the women, young and big boned, with ruddy cheeks and auburn hair, stood so abruptly that she sent her chair skidding backward. She opened the door to the back room, slipped inside, and slammed it behind her, startling a couple of her coworkers. Roscoe and I looked at each other for a second, then returned our attention to the women still slaving away behind the counter.

“Got any Dr Pepper?” Roscoe asked.

The women ignored him, but one—the redhead in blue—gave him a forlorn eye and shook her head.

“I didn't think so,” he said, with a sly grin.

The big-boned woman emerged from the back room with Carl Jeppson in tow, fancied up in his three-piece Sunday finest and bringing with him a palpable sense of dread. He approached the counter and puffed his cheeks and shook his head disdainfully.

“It's bad enough that you fellows tore me away from my shop on one of the busiest days of the year and kept me languishing in a jail cell for hours, even though I committed no crime.” One could not miss the bitterness in his voice. “Now you're back for more, I see. You can't leave me well enough alone, can you?”

“What can we say?” asked Roscoe. “We've taken a shine to you.”

“Please be brief,” he said. “I've had it up to here with these disruptions.”

“We don't intend to stay long,” I said. “The reason we're here is you weren't entirely forthcoming with us the other day, Jeppson.”

“Oh?”

“You left something out,” I said.

“What?”

“You never mentioned those boys who went missing in May.”

His face lost all color. His mouth moved for a few seconds, but at first no words came out. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Same way you knew who that girl was in the picture I showed you the other day, even though you said you didn't. You know more than you let on.”

He glanced over his shoulder, then he sized me up. “Outside?”

I nodded. He took a second or so to jot something on a slip of paper, then dropped the pencil on the counter and placed the paper in his pocket. He rounded the counter and led the way to the exit. A moment later, Jeppson, Roscoe, and I stood in triangle formation in the late-afternoon heat, where the traffic made my eardrums throb. At first when Jeppson spoke, I couldn't hear him above the steady roar of automobile engines. I lifted my finger to my earlobe and pleaded with him to talk a little louder. He cleared his throat and raised his voice so it was barely loud enough for me to hear him.