A Killing in Zion (6 page)

“Maybe you ought to consider a different approach,” said Myron.

“What do you suggest?”

“Find a mole. Pay him well.”

I shook my head. “There aren't any finks in this outfit.”

He looked at me. “You hate polygamists, don't you?”

“Makes you say that?”

“The way you tense up when you talk about them.”

I waited to answer him. “I feel sorry for the women and children. They're victims.”

“Maybe the wives want it that way.”

I grimaced. “Why do you say that?”

“You know the old saying about the devil you know.”

“No woman in her right state of mind would choose that way of life,” I said. “Not of her own free will, anyway.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“That answer doesn't exactly inspire confidence.”

I looked at him. “You really want to know why I hate them?”

“Sure.”

“They're deviants. They make a mockery out of all the things I hold sacred. Marriage. Family. Religion. They rule by fear. Nobody in those families dares to step out of line. Do you want me to go on? I could, you know.”

Myron began to recite something. “‘If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle
.
'”

“What's that from?”

“Sun Tzu.
The Art of War
. Ever read it?”

I felt myself coiling up on the defensive. “What are you saying? That I don't know anything about polygamy? If so, let me tell you—”

“I know, I know. You've got ancestors who were polygamists. You've already said it a hundred times. You think it gives you credibility. It doesn't.”

“Okay, smart guy,” I said, my voice rising in frustration. “What's your solution?”

“Putting them in jail won't do any good.”

“Why do you say that?”

He gestured to the building. “That old man in the post office has nearly two dozen wives, and probably triple that number of children. If you send him to prison, what'll his kin do to make ends meet? Tossing him in jail is only going to make things worse.” He drew a breath. “And another thing…”

“What?”

“How come it was kosher to have a bunch of wives fifty years ago but not now?”

I eyed the Packard in front of us. “I'm not going to sit here and debate Mormon doctrine with you, Myron.”

“I don't blame you,” he said. “I wouldn't either if my God kept changing His mind every five minutes.”

“If you don't believe in this squad's mission, maybe you should request a transfer.”

“What, go back to my dreary job in records and miss all the fun? Not on your life.”

Not a second too soon, LeGrand Johnston exited the post office, cane in one hand, burlap mailbag in the other. He moved slowly down the steps to his waiting Packard. With his driver's help, he climbed into the car. I started the engine and followed Johnston's car into the traffic. I was glad to be on the move again. The prospect of continuing this fruitless debate with Myron left me drained. There was, I had to admit,
some
truth in his words, yet his emotionless self-assurance left me cold. Every word he spoke was anchored in his unflappable sense that he was always right. It's pointless to debate a man who thinks he's always right.

For the next few hours, Johnston crisscrossed the city, making rounds that were all too familiar to me. Visiting his wives and offspring, never staying in any one place for too long, had become the old man's daily routine. Most of the women and children on his route resided in modest bungalows dotting the city's residential neighborhoods as far north as the Avenues and as far south as Sugar House. One wife and a trio of youngsters greeted Uncle Grand at the entrance of a two-story Tudor in the Harvard-Yale neighborhood, a ritzy area of tree-lined streets and lavish homes south of the University of Utah. This house, with flower gardens on all sides, was more upscale than the others we'd been to that afternoon.

Five o'clock arrived and we headed back to Public Safety so Roscoe could spell Myron. Roscoe opened the passenger door and Myron, with folded newspaper in hand, tugged the brim of his hat and stepped out. Roscoe got in the car and complained under his breath about the heat as I watched Myron charge—skipping every other step—to the entrance of headquarters, wading into departing policemen ending their shift.

*   *   *

Half past ten at night found us parked near the fundamentalist church on Lincoln Street, where Myron and I had started our long day of surveillance. There were no streetlamps out there, so the moon and the stars were our only light. Roscoe snoozed, breaking out into snoring now and then, his fedora pulled low over his eyes. I watched the house, only able to see glimmers of yellowish light through breaks in the hedge wall.

I blocked out the incessant radio alerts, minding only my own self-pity. These surveillance outings were ripping me away from my family, the most important thing in my life. Earlier in the night, I'd called Clara from a drugstore telephone booth on 2100 South to let her know I'd be home late. She did her best to sound upbeat, but I heard the resignation in her voice. And to think, it was only a few weeks ago that I'd promised her I'd stop working these late nights when summer arrived.

It really bothered me that tonight, Monday, was Family Home Evening, a Mormon custom in which each family got together for a night of fun and games and, in warmer months, evening strolls or auto treks to the ice-cream parlor.
So much for Family Home Evening
, I thought. Was I turning into Buddy Hawkins—my ambitious friend who had swiftly climbed to the position of captain of detectives—willing to push everything aside for my job?

I tried to steer my focus back to the present.
Myron was right
: Johnston—or Uncle Grand, as his followers called him—was careful. He had come back here to his church after a two-hour-long meeting with his apostles at a house belonging to one of them, Alma Covington, on Third Avenue. I had waited in front of Covington's, puzzling over what these codgers could possibly be jabbering about so long. The meeting presumably concluded and the tireless old man left. His driver whisked him to this place, his sanctuary out in the shade trees, the place he stayed on nights when he was busy sorting out church matters until the wee hours. By this time of night, most of the cars at the church were gone. Only Johnston's limousine remained in the driveway.

I thought about calling it a night, dropping Roscoe off at his apartment, and heading home myself. Why was I killing myself for a salary that still required my wife's second income in order to meet our monthly expenses? Had I become one of the police department politicos who I so distrusted, scrambling as fast as I could to get to the top of the ladder? What had the polygamists ever done to me? The keys dangling from the ignition beckoned. The temptation to turn them was great. Yet I held back, for reasons I did not understand.

Time passed. The neighborhood was silent, except for a distant locomotive whistle. I veered in and out of wakefulness, shaking my head and fluttering my eyelids every few minutes to keep awake. I pressed my fingers into my burning eyes and rubbed.

Movement interrupted the stillness. A black Model T truck swerved into the driveway. The light was poor, but I thought I spotted two figures sitting in the vehicle's cab. I switched on the interior light and checked my watch: 11:57. I switched off the light. With the wall of hedges blocking my view, I could not see the new arrivals getting out of the truck, but I heard doors slamming. Now I was more alert than ever, wondering who that was in the truck and why they picked this late hour to drop by. More time ticked away. I stretched my arms and cracked my knuckles. I squirmed in my seat and fidgeted. I drummed my fingers on my knees. Anything I could do to keep from dozing off.

A series of muted cracks startled me. I was pretty sure they were gunshots, coming from inside the church. A dog barked in the distance.

I fumbled for the interior globe. Switched it on. Checked my .38. Full. I snapped closed the cylinder, glanced at the time, 12:12
A
.
M
., and gave Roscoe a shake. He sucked air in through his nostrils, sat up straight, pushed his hat back on his head, and looked around groggily.

“What is it?”

“I heard shots,” I said. “Coming from the church.”

An engine revved up. Roscoe and I looked at each other, then at the imposing building, partly hidden from view behind the foliage. Rubber tires sprayed gravel and the Model T truck came barreling out of the driveway, screeching around a corner and disappearing into the night.

“Who the hell…”

“Let's go,” I said.

I got out of the car, not even bothering to pull my keys out of the ignition, and ran across the street toward the house. I balled my hand into a fist and pounded on the front door of the church.

“This is the police,” I shouted. “Let me in!”

I rapped on the wood repeatedly with the palm of my hand.

“Stand aside,” said Roscoe. He charged shoulder-first, breaking the door open. Wood snapped, splinters flew, and we entered a high-ceilinged foyer. We passed through a chapel with enough rows of folding chairs to accommodate two hundred or so worshipers. A pulpit and an impressive pump organ dominated the front of the room. Hymnbooks filled a bookcase against the wall.

I motioned to Roscoe to follow me upstairs. I advanced through an arched doorway that opened up to a hallway with a set of carpeted stairs. Up the stairs I went to the second floor, where I found a dimly lit corridor with doors on either side. One bore the name
LEGRAND JOHNSTON
. Entering what appeared to be his office, I got my first whiff of a familiar, sickening odor that always triggered my gag reflex. No mistaking the scent of human blood, with its hint of iron and decay, like beef that had been left out in the summer sun. My cotton hankie went over my nose and mouth.

I found Johnston flat on his back by a coffee table. His driver lay on a davenport.

Uncle Grand was dressed in the same dark suit he had worn earlier in the day. I headed over to him and stooped to get a better look. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling. A dark pool, the color of ripe cherries, formed a perfect circle on the hardwood beneath his head.

The bullet hole in his forehead left nothing to the imagination. Another bullet had struck him at the base of his neck. His upper shirt and necktie were saturated in red, but I suspected most of his blood had drained to the floor. My eyes stopped at another hole in his stomach, a crater that was black in the center surrounded by red. Billowing drapes moved like ghosts, blown by wind from the open window. I skirted the body, taking each step slowly until I reached the curtains and hand-parted them. I leaned my head out the open window. Side yard. Treetops, but nobody down there.

I returned to Johnston's body, and Roscoe began examining the driver. With my handkerchief, I fished a billfold out of his front pocket and checked its contents. The murderer had not stolen his cash—sixty-eight dollars by my count. The wallet contained other items: a motor vehicle operator's license; an Intermountain Indemnity insurance card; a University of Utah football schedule for 1933; a Zion's Bank 1934 card calendar; an IOU dated 2-23-34 from L. Boggs for the sum of $1,278; and a business card from the Delphi Hotel, 233 South State. I stuffed it all back in the billfold and placed it in his pocket in the same position it'd been in when I found it. Next I went over the rest of the body. The assailant had left a fancy watch on Johnston's wrist. Careful not to touch it, I lifted the cuff to get a better look. Black-faced Elgin with art deco gold numbers. I let go of the cuff and spent a while—I don't know how long—gazing at that trio of bullet wounds.

“I got his wallet.”

I turned to Roscoe, who handed me the driver's billfold. First thing I saw inside:
OPERATOR
'
S LICENSE—1934—UT DEPT
.
OF REVENUE
. The license said his name was Volney Chester Mason. It listed him as residing at a Garfield Avenue address. I put the license back. The wallet contained a five and several dollar bills. I found a few cards: Seagull Photography Service on West Temple. Deseret Gymnasium membership card.
GRANVILLE SONDRUP
(and below that)
ATTORNEY
-
AT
-
LAW
. The bottom left-hand corner said:
MCCORNICK BLOCK
,
SALT LAKE CITY
. I tucked the cards back in the wallet and slipped it in the man's pocket.

I stooped to get a better look at the driver. Shot in the left eye. Blood all over his head and face. Blood covered his shirt and seeped into the davenport's upholstery. His right hand still held a pistol. It was an M1911 single-action, semiautomatic, black as the night. Tempted though I was to pull it out of his hand and get a better look at it, I left it alone for the homicide detectives to examine. I noted that his pistol was aimed in the general direction of the south wall. I left it untouched.

“There's a hole in the wall over there,” said Roscoe. “Who knows if this gun made it.”

“We'll find out soon enough,” I said, finding the little black entry point in the wallpaper.

“He looks familiar,” said Roscoe, gesturing to Mason. “But I don't know his name.”

“Maybe he's one of Johnston's followers,” I said.

“I'm betting he's hired muscle,” said Roscoe. “I've seen him around, back when I was in that line of work.”

The men weren't going anywhere, so I sidled to a bathroom off Johnston's office. Toilet, sink, and medicine cabinet, clawfoot tub with the white curtain closed. Towels hung on bars. Medicine cabinet: empty. I shut off the light.