A Killing in Zion (27 page)

I made a long face and nodded slowly. “A few times.”

“Do you recall what we discussed that day?”

“I wanted to go to Dixie City.”

“What did I tell you at that meeting?”

“You told me I oughtn't to—”

“No, I never used the word ‘oughtn't,'” he interrupted calmly. “I
ordered you
not to go Dixie City. Would you say that's a fair characterization of my position last Thursday?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“After our meeting, what did you do?” asked Buddy.

“I went home and I…”

“Jump ahead,” said Buddy. “To the next day. Friday. What did you do on Friday?”

“I drove down to Dixie City.”

“With or without Roscoe?” asked Buddy.

“With,” I said.

“Despite what?” asked Buddy.

“Despite you advising me…”

“Despite me
ordering
you…”

“Despite you
ordering
me not to go.”

Roscoe said, “Buddy, there's something you should know—”

Buddy gaped at Roscoe and cut him off: “Roscoe?”

“Yeah?”

“There was a movie in the theaters about six or seven years ago called
The Jazz Singer.
Remember? Al Jolson. Blackface. ‘Mammy.' Ring any bells?”

“Sure,” said Roscoe. “Who didn't see it? It was the first talkie ever made.”

“Precisely. Before that, what were all other movies?”

“Silent,” said Roscoe.

“Right!” said Buddy. “Now, unless you want to be selling apples on a street corner to make ends meet after you leave here, you'd better be exactly like all of those movies made before
The Jazz Singer.
” He leaned over his desk and hissed, “Silent.”

Buddy resumed his soft-spoken interrogation of me. “I don't suppose you were planning to inform me of this excursion of yours?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I didn't think so. You must be wondering how I found out about it.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“This morning, Chief Cowley received a telephone call from Granville Sondrup, representing his client, Deputy Dorland Kunz of Dixie City. Sondrup informed the chief that you two gentlemen arrived in Dixie City on the weekend of LeGrand Johnston's funeral, and you committed a number of grievous offenses, including disrupting his funeral—”

I protested: “We didn't disrupt—”

“Uh, uh, uh. Let me finish, Art.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He said the two of you disrupted Johnston's funeral, broke into his office in the middle of the night, and that you, Art, assaulted one of his deputies at the scene of a tragic auto accident involving the marshal's wife.” He studied me for a long second. “Sondrup is vowing to go to the press with these disturbing allegations. Is there any truth to them?”

“Not the first two,” I said, lying to cover for Roscoe.

“And the third?” asked Buddy.

I hesitated. “You really should hear my side of the story, Buddy.”

“You assaulted a deputy?” asked Buddy, betraying no emotion.

“Roscoe and I were leaving Dixie City to come home…”

“Answer the question,” said Buddy. “Did you assault a deputy?”

“Yes.”

“What
exactly
did you do to him?”

“I punched him in the face.”

“What on earth ever possessed you to…” Before finishing his sentence, Buddy held up his index finger. “No, wait. I don't want to know. You're both suspended, for an entire week, without pay. During that time, you are not to conduct police business of any sort. If you violate the terms of your suspension, you will be fired. Once your suspension is up, you will be allowed to return to work on Monday, July sixteenth. There will likely be a disciplinary inquiry into this matter at a future date. Furthermore, a follow-up suspension, demotion, or job dismissal may occur if your superiors decide to pursue one of those courses of action in light of the outcome of the inquiry.”

He gave us a brief pause to let this news sink in.

“And I never had to raise my voice once,” he finally said. “Dismissed.”

*   *   *

Roscoe and I left Buddy's office without saying a word. It was the first time I've ever seen Roscoe too dismayed to speak. His bravado must have flown south. We put on our hats in the corridor on our way to the exit. I asked Roscoe if he needed a ride home. He shook his head. On the way down the steps in the rear of the Public Safety Building, I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I stopped my downward trot and turned to see Jared Weeks at the top of the stairs, waving at me. I headed up until I reached him.

“Thought I saw you,” he said cheerfully. “You comin' up?”

“I can't. I'm suspended.”

The smile slipped away from his face. “Suspended?”

“Until next Monday.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry. It's not the end of the world.”

I moved aside to let a crowd of uniformed officers, fresh out of morning roll call, pass us on their way to the parking lot. I waited until the last man was out of the building and then I smiled reassuringly at Jared. “You're in charge of the squad while I'm gone.”

“Sure thing. Does this have anything to do with your trip?”

“Yeah, but I'd rather not go into it,” I said. “Any word from Myron?”

“Not yet,” Jared said. “On Friday afternoon, I ran that check on brown Hudsons and black Model T trucks over at the state revenue office.”

“And?”

“Until two years ago, a brown Hudson, nineteen and thirty model, was registered to Dorland Kunz,” said Jared. “Registration lapsed after he moved to Arizona. As for the Model T truck, there are three hundred and twenty-seven of them registered in Salt Lake County, but none of the owners' names matched up with any polygamists. I even ran a cross-check on the maiden names of wives. Came up empty-handed.”

I nodded. “Good work. What about that other matter? You know. The woman whose house we paid a visit to last week?”

He averted his eyes and tightened his mouth. “Yeah. I almost forgot.”

“Well, you've got a slight reprieve,” I said. “If you don't come clean by Monday, things are going to get unpleasant. And that's not the way I prefer to conduct my affairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be at home,” I said. “You've got my telephone number.”

“Enjoy your time off, boss,” said Jared. “Maybe you'll get some long overdue rest and relaxation.”

I winked at him. “Maybe.”

Jared and I parted ways. I hurried down the stairs, but found no sign of Roscoe when I reached the bottom. Knowing Roscoe, he'd probably gone off to some hole-in-the-wall where he could get drunk.

It was still overcast outside, but the rain never came, and wildfires still spewed dark columns into the slate-gray sky. I got in my Oldsmobile, still dusty from my trip to northern Arizona, and started her up. I drove over to Main Street to visit Keeley's Ice Cream Company, a bright establishment and a favorite destination of kids who were somehow able to scrape together enough coins in these hard times for a scoop of their favorite flavor. This time of morning, most of the tables and booths were vacant, but they'd soon be packed with rambunctious youngsters and a few intrepid adults. Inside, I picked up a couple of quarts of ice cream.

I carried the frigid containers out into the heat and climbed into my car. I started it back up and let her idle a moment while I waited for the traffic on Main to subside. As soon as the flow in both directions thinned out and a streetcar clanged past, I accelerated into a U-turn and then abruptly turned east at 200 South, the route that would get me home the fastest. The drive took me past Carl Jeppson's floral store, and I glanced in that direction as I drove by. Those solemn wives of his in their pioneer dresses were busily unloading crates of potted flowers out of a delivery truck with the name of Jeppson's business,
SUNSHINE FLORAL
, arched over the painting of a sun shining down on a bouquet of flowers. I drove on toward my house. About two blocks later, it suddenly hit me: Jeppson's delivery truck was a Model T. I couldn't be sure it was the same Model T truck I had seen in the driveway of the fundamentalist church on the night that LeGrand Johnston and Volney Mason were murdered, but I was more concerned about what Jared had just barely told me back at Public Safety:
“As for the Model T truck, there are three hundred and twenty-seven of them registered in Salt Lake County, but none of the owners' names matched up with any polygamists.”
How had he missed this one?

I drove back to Sunshine Floral and confirmed that the truck out front was, indeed, a Model T. I puzzled over it and came up with three possibilities: one, Jared had been careless with the records; two, the truck was not registered under Carl Jeppson's name; or three, the most troubling scenario, Jared had lied to me. But why would Jared cover for Jeppson? What was to be gained from it? Was that truck in front of the flower shop the same one I saw the night of the murders? One way or the other, Jared had suddenly aroused my suspicions in a big way. There was a chance he'd lied to me outright. I aimed to find out if this was so.

I raced home to an empty house, not stopping to wonder where Clara and Nelpha and the kids had gone, and deposited the two quarts of ice cream in the icebox. Then I hurried back out to my car—idling the entire time—and sped down L Street, a road that could match any in San Francisco for steepness, to South Temple. I made record timing getting to Public Safety, steering into the parking lot and making my way over to the farthest possible corner, where I backed into a spot, shut off my car, and waited, hoping for a breeze.

Jared usually took a lunch hour, right at noon sharp. At 11:59, men came spilling out the back doors of Public Safety. One of them was Jared Weeks. I started my car and continued to watch him. He got inside of an unmarked Model A prowler, started it up, and drove toward the lot's exit. I stayed behind him a safe distance. His first stop was Sunshine Floral, where he parked at the curb and ducked inside. By this time, the Model T delivery truck was nowhere to be seen. He emerged from the shop with a bouquet wrapped in green paper, heavily accented with purples and pinks. He carried it to the prowler and was soon back on the road again.

His drive took him to the Salt Lake City Cemetery. The hillside burial ground on the north end of town dated back to 1847, when the first Mormons arrived in the valley. It expanded rapidly in the district known as the Avenues, eventually swallowing up more than two hundred acres of land, and one by one, a sea of headstones and monuments proliferated across the emerald slopes, shaded by high trees and divided by a series of winding roads.

What is he doing here?
I wondered.

He parked his car on Fourth Avenue, crossed the quiet street, and began walking up one of the winding paths into the cemetery grounds. I shut off my car and followed. He'd picked a quiet day to come up here. There weren't any funerals happening. He moved beyond a cluster of trees and shrubs, out of my line of vision. If I lost him, it didn't matter, because I knew I'd find his distinctive bouquet sooner or later.

Before long, I spotted him in a remote corner of the cemetery, placing his bouquet at a grave. I hid behind the trunk of an ancient tree and watched. He sat down near a monument and stayed there fifteen minutes. I was a ways away, but from this distance, I could see him wiping tears and rocking gently back and forth. After straightening the bouquet, he rose to his feet and left. I waited for a couple of minutes and then I set off down the grassy hill until I reached the gravestone. I crouched before it and pulled the fresh bouquet back so I could see the name. I felt as though my heart was going to burst out of my chest when I read it.

JARED MORONI WEEKS

Beloved brother, son & friend.

July 9, 1909–November 16, 1923

 

Twenty-three

Half past four in the afternoon found me back in the lot at Public Safety, doing what I seemed to do best these days: waiting. Jared came lumbering out of the rear doors of the building, presumably calling it a day. Once again, I followed his movements from afar. He walked across the parking lot, waving at coworkers. He climbed on a green-and-brown Harley-Davidson by the chain-link fence and started it. He sped to the exit, and I started my car. I followed him down the alley and out to State Street, where he turned north, heading to South Temple. I remained four car lengths behind him, sitting low in the front seat with my hat brim pulled low over my eyes. He turned east at South Temple and promptly swerved into the next lane to make a left-hand turn onto A Street. I turned east after him and waited for a trolley to pass in the center of the road before I veered into the left lane to turn.

At that point, I lost him. He was nowhere to be seen. I drove up A Street and checked a couple of side roads. I eventually ended up cruising slowly past the house on B Street that I'd visited last week with Jared, but saw no sign of his motorcycle in front of it. I pulled up to the curb on the next block north and shut off the engine, silently contemplating my next move. I did not want to ponder it too long, because it was getting hotter by the minute. I suspected Jared had gone to the house on B Street, because he'd been heading in this direction, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I felt the need to ask him about the Model T truck I saw parked in front of Jeppson's flower shop and that gravestone where he placed flowers at the Salt Lake City Cemetery. The way I saw it, Jared owed me an explanation on both counts. Knowing my goose would be cooked if I confronted him in Public Safety during my suspension, I decided to see if he was here and demand that he level with me.

I got out of the car, crossed the street—clear on both sides—and walked over to the house. It hit me as I sized up the layout of the property and noticed there was no driveway that this was one of those houses with a detached garage located behind it, probably backing out to a gravel or paved road shared with other neighboring garages. I walked around the block to verify my hunch. I was right. I came to a narrow garage alleyway and kept going until I reached the one behind the B Street house. It was a brick number with a big overhead door made of wood. A battered Nash Ajax from the last decade was parked in front of it. I reached for the garage door handle and gave it a good pull and the big door sprang upward and moved along a track into the garage.