by Rich Curtin
“Are you able to tell me the root of his unhappiness?”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid not. That would be going too far.”
“Were you able to help him?”
“I tried but without much success. I suggested some books he might read but he waved that idea away. He seemed to become more uptight with each visit. Each time we spoke, he seemed to have a greater sense of urgency.” The priest turned his hands palms-up and produced an expression of helplessness. “I had the desire to help him but I’m afraid I didn’t have the skills, so I referred him to a psychologist here in town.”
Rivera decided to push a little harder, probe a little further. “Without going into the specifics, could you tell me the general nature of his problem?”
The priest took off his glasses, chewed on the stem, and stared at Rivera. “Deputy Rivera, I want to help you, but the church has strict prohibitions on what I can reveal. Let’s just say his problem had a lot to do with wrath. That’s as far as I can go.”
Rivera had heard the word before but wasn’t sure of its precise meaning. He had the impression it meant something like anger or hatred. Rather than press the priest any further on the subject, he decided he would look up the exact meaning of the word later.
“Can you tell me the name of the psychologist you referred him to?”
“I can. His name is Dr. Henry Fromkin. He’s new in town. His office is in the Uranium Building.”
Rivera stood up. “Okay, thank you, Father. Before I leave, may I ask you one more question?”
The priest nodded.
“Did Frank Upton ever mention rockhounding?”
Father Mahoney smiled at the non sequitur. “Rockhounding? No, not that I recall.”
Back in his vehicle, Rivera extracted his cell phone and searched the internet for the meaning of the word wrath. He learned it was one of the seven deadly sins in Christian theology. The others were pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, and sloth. Wrath had a meaning that went beyond simple hatred. It meant intense hatred with a strong desire to exact vengeance.
Now Rivera wondered what was going on in Upton’s life that disturbed him so. Perhaps it was his disagreement with Atkinson about the growth of Moab. Perhaps it was something else. Rivera was trained by Sheriff Bradshaw never to stop digging until he had all the answers to all the questions, and everything made sense to him. No loose ends. The source of Upton’s wrath was something Rivera needed to understand.
18
RIVERA DECIDED HIS next stop would be a visit to Stevens Expeditions, the outfitter company owned by Stan Stevens. Stan had made a good living over the years by taking tour groups into the backcountry to places they would never attempt to go without professional guides. Rivera hoped he might be able to shed some light on Upton’s and Atkinson’s lives during their high school days. His company was located on Main Street at the north end of Moab.
Rivera stopped his vehicle at the traffic light in the center of town and heard the accordion music again. He lowered his window and marveled at its quality. The young musician was smiling and playing, and a small group of tourists were watching her perform. An elderly man dropped a dollar bill into her tip jar. It was then Rivera noticed a young man sitting in a folding chair several feet away holding an infant in his arms. Rivera pieced together the scene, figuring the young man was the accordionist’s husband and she was a new mother. She was performing her music on the street corner to help support her family. He made a mental note to stop when he had a free moment and add a few dollars to her tip jar.
He pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the Stevens Expeditions building. The lot was filled with Toyota Land Cruisers, high clearance four-wheel drive vehicles exceptionally suited to navigate and survive the rough backcountry roads. Two guides were loading tents, backpacks, and provisions onto the roof racks of a couple of the vehicles. The guides were tan, strong, lean, and lithe, and their expertise and experience were obvious from the way they handled their chores and worked as a team. Six tourists stood nearby watching them. They were pale, out of shape, and elderly, but appeared eager to start their journey into the unknown.
Rivera recognized one of the guides. “Where are you guys headed?” he asked.
“Out into the Maze. We’re going to hike Horseshoe Canyon to see the Great Gallery pictographs, then head over to Standing Rocks and the Doll House. We’ll be gone for four days.”
Rivera had once seen the Maze from a campsite called the Maze Overlook. Laid out hundreds of feet below him was the Maze itself, a myriad of interconnected canyons that measured thirty miles by twenty miles. It seemed to go on forever. It was some of the most remote and rugged land in the continental United States, a stone wilderness of incredible beauty that was both seductive and dangerous. He’d not yet had the opportunity to hike down into the canyons, but it was something he wanted to do. He’d heard stories about people hiking into the Maze and never being seen again, which aroused his adventuresome spirit and made him want to explore the canyons even more.
“Have fun out there. Is Stan in the office?”
“Yes, he is.”
Rivera maneuvered around a couple of large rubber rafts used for running the rapids through Cataract Canyon and entered a small office constructed of weathered wooden planks. Stan was by himself, sitting at his desk. He had blond hair on its way to becoming gray, pale blue eyes, and a tanned, ruddy complexion. He smiled when he looked up from the brochure he was reading and saw Rivera.
“Hi, Manny. How’s it going?”
“Hi, Stan. Got a few minutes to talk?”
“Sure. We’re just about finished packing up the vehicles to take some senior citizens into the Maze.” He looked around and then lowered his voice. “I told the guides to be sure to pack some Geritol and rubbing alcohol.”
Rivera laughed. “They must be intrepid souls. Most people their age wouldn’t attempt it.”
“True enough. What can I do for you today?”
“I wanted to see how good your memory is. I was looking through an old Grand County High School yearbook and saw your picture in there.”
Stevens threw back his head and laughed. “Good grief, that picture is awful. I look like a ten-year-old. I’d like to buy every copy of that yearbook in existence, pile them up out back, and set them on fire.”
Rivera grinned. “Nah. You looked like a fine young lad.”
“Actually, I wish I looked that good now. What’s on your mind?”
“You were in the same class as Frank Upton and Arthur Atkinson, weren’t you?”
The smile faded from Stevens’s face. “Yes, I was. Now one of them is dead and the other one is in jail for murder. Strange how things work out. Back then, they were just a couple of high school kids. Now look at them.”
“Did you stay in touch with them over the years?”
“Not really. I remember both of them pretty well from our high school days, but after graduation, I rarely ran into either of them.”
“What were they like in high school?”
“Arthur Atkinson was the young man everyone looked up to. Class president, captain of the football team, all that stuff, plus he was a good looking, popular guy. Frank Upton was sort of the opposite of Arthur. He was neither popular nor smart. And he certainly wasn’t good looking. But he had one thing going for him—Dorothy Ellison, a cheerleader and probably the prettiest girl in the school, had a thing for him. And Frank was crazy about her. They dated during their junior year. Everything was fine until Arthur made a move on Dorothy.”
“What happened then?”
“I was never sure if Arthur had a real interest in her, or simply resented the fact that the prettiest girl in high school wasn’t his. Anyway, with his good looks and charm, it didn’t take him long to win her over. By senior year, Dorothy was dating Arthur. Frank was furious with Arthur for stealing his girlfriend and one day in the hallway, he walked up to him and punched him in the face.” Stevens laughed. “Bloodied his damn nose right the
re in front of everyone. Arthur was bigger and stronger and proceeded to beat the daylights out of Frank. It took three of us to subdue Arthur. Ever since that day, there was no love lost between them. After the fighting incident, Arthur enjoyed sticking it to Frank whenever he could. If he was with Dorothy and he saw Frank coming, he would begin kissing her passionately and then look for a reaction from Frank. There were a couple of shoving matches after that, but Frank always came out on the short end of the stick. One time, all four tires on Arthur’s pickup truck were slashed. There were no witnesses, but everyone figured Frank did it. I heard that after graduation, Frank became kind of a recluse. He didn’t associate much with anyone. And that was that—just a silly matter of high school romance and jealousy.”
Rivera thought about the pictures of Dorothy in Upton’s house. Obviously, Upton’s feelings for her had lasted well beyond high school. “So what happened to Dorothy? Did she and Arthur stay together?”
“No. They dated through senior year, then right after graduation, she left Moab. Word had it that she broke up with Arthur. I also heard it the other way around. I never knew which version was true. You know how rumors fly in a small town.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“Not a clue. I never heard of her again after she left town.”
“Did she have any family in Moab?”
“No, she was an orphan. Her parents were killed in a plane crash in the mountains when she was a youngster. As I recall, she was raised at the Moab Home for Needy Children.”
“Do you suppose it’s possible Upton and Atkinson were still feuding about all that?”
“I have no idea. I know they hated each other’s guts in high school, but it’s hard to believe their hatred lasted this long. Man, that was thirty-five years ago.”
Rivera nodded. “It is hard to believe,” he said. But possible, he thought. “Did you know a fellow by the name of Iggy Webb?”
“He’s the other guy who was murdered, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“No. I’d never heard of him until his name was in the news.”
“Okay Stan, thanks for your time. I’ll let you get back to work. One of these days, I’m gonna take one of your trips into the Maze.”
“Any time, Manny.”
Rivera drove out to Spanish Valley to one of Arthur Atkinson’s subdivisions. He wanted to get a clearer picture of what Frank Upton had been doing to undermine further expansion of Atkinson’s real estate empire. He parked in front of an office trailer at the entrance to a subdivision called Mountainview Acres. The subdivision looked like it was about half built out. It consisted of tan stucco four-plexes with red tile roofs. Bright green lawns with sprinkler systems contrasted with the surrounding desert landscape. Personally, Rivera preferred cactus gardens—they were beautiful and required no water and little care.
Rivera knocked on the office door and entered. An older man greeted him with a salesman’s smile. He was overweight with a bulging, florid face. He had a full head of unkempt gray hair which made him look like he’d just gotten out of bed. The man stood up and introduced himself as Jim Brown. “Just like the football player,” he said, shaking Rivera’s hand with a meaty paw.
“Has anyone else from the sheriff’s office been out here to talk with you?”
“Nope. You’re the first.”
“Okay, just a few questions.” Rivera got right to the point. “I’d like to learn more about what Frank Upton was doing to undermine Arthur Atkinson’s real estate business.”
The man shook his head. “You name it, Upton’s done it. It’s been going on for years. I’ve been working for Arthur for fifteen, no sixteen years now, and the interference and malicious acts started long before I got here. It’s unbelievable. He’s damaged our machinery, stolen our brochures, spray painted our for-sale signs, and set fire to one of our office trailers. He even tried to burn down one of the spec houses we had under construction. Fortunately, someone saw the flames early enough and called the fire department, so there was only minimal damage. Of course, he’s been careful to hit us late at night when no one is around, so we can’t prove he was the one who did it. But we know it was him. Who else would do such things? He’s paraded with placards in front of our subdivisions warning potential buyers not to trust Arthur. He’s plastered posters all over town trying to block our projects, and he’s organized some of the town’s radical environmentalists to smear Arthur’s name.” Brown removed a pint-sized bottle from his desk drawer and took a swig. “Good whiskey. Want some?”
“No, thanks. Is it true that Atkinson pointed his pistol at Upton on several occasions and warned him to stop interfering with his business?”
“Yeah, that’s true, but I’m pretty sure it only happened once. That was a long time ago.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“I was in the car with Arthur when it happened. He was just trying to scare Upton off. Upton was doing a serious amount of damage to Arthur’s business. I think Arthur let his utter frustration get the better of him that day. He regretted it afterwards and said it had been a stupid thing to do, so I doubt it ever happened again.” Brown thought for a moment. “And I don’t believe Arthur killed Upton either.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ve known Arthur for a long time. He’s a very competitive man and he’s got a rough side to him, but I just can’t see him as a murderer.”
“Do you know if Atkinson is a rockhound?”
Brown laughed. “I don’t believe so, but he sure is a land hound. He’s trying to buy up everything in the county. I remember when Spanish Valley was pretty much all grazing and farmland. If Arthur has his way, someday it will be all condos.”
“Has all this trouble affected your business?”
“It sure has. Especially this past week. People are leery of signing a contract with a guy who’s cooling his heels in jail for murder. Prospects have stopped coming around. I think approval of our new subdivision, Whisper Breeze, is all but dead as a result of Arthur’s arrest.” He took another swig from the bottle. “I don’t know how I’m going to make a living if Arthur ends up in prison for the rest of his life.”
“Do you know anything about someone firing a shot at Upton’s house in the mountains?”
“No, I never heard about that, but Upton was such an irritating fellow, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was true.”
“Anything else you can tell me about Upton and Atkinson?”
“No. But I can tell you that I visited Arthur in the county jail to go over some business matters. He’s furious with your sheriff, and that’s putting it mildly.”
Rivera thanked Brown and left the sales office. He wondered if Upton was really the one who had damaged machinery and set fires in Atkinson’s subdivisions. And if so, was that done because of Upton’s concern about overcrowding in Moab and the destruction of the environment, or was it because of their fight over a high school cheerleader named Dorothy? In either case, it was looking more and more like the sheriff had been right—that Atkinson had become fed up with Upton’s destructive antics and killed him.
Rivera was still puzzled over Upton’s recent and sudden visits to Father Mahoney. He decided to visit Dr. Fromkin, the psychologist the priest had mentioned. Maybe Fromkin could shed some light on what had been bothering Upton so much.
19
DR. HENRY FROMKIN sat behind an uncluttered desk in a small office in the Uranium Building. Framed degrees, diplomas, and certifications covered the wall behind him. On each side of the desk was a potted rubber tree plant in a glazed, dark brown ceramic pot. New Age flute music emanated from speakers in the corners of the room. A couch and two soft chairs sat across from the desk.
The man sitting behind the desk wasn’t what Rivera had anticipated. He’d expected an older man with a beard and a serious countenance, perhaps someone resembling depictions he’d seen of Sigmund Freud. Instead, he found himself looking at a young, overweight man i
n his mid-twenties with curly red hair and a round face with a sprinkling of freckles on his nose. Rivera had never seen him around town before. The deputy introduced himself and shook Fromkin’s hand. The hand was soft, and the skin was cold and clammy. Rivera seated himself in one of the chairs.
The psychologist switched on a concerned look and spoke in what Rivera judged was a practiced, sincere tone of voice. “How may I help you, Deputy Rivera?”
“I’m investigating the Frank Upton murder.” Rivera started to mention Father Mahoney, but then decided to leave his name out of the conversation. No reason to involve the priest in any of this. “I understand he came to you for help.”
“Yes, he was a patient of mine.” Fromkin appeared nervous at the questioning, so Rivera decided to go slowly.
“He had some problems?”
“Yes, of course. He came to me for help and counseling.” Fromkin folded his hands on his desk, stared at Rivera, and waited.
“Can you tell me in general terms the nature of his problems?”
Fromkin pursed his lips. “Let me explain something. I’m not at liberty to reveal anything Frank and I discussed. It’s called the doctor-patient privilege. I don’t have much experience yet—I just graduated last fall and opened this office in January—but I do know I’m not obligated to talk to the authorities about my patients’ problems.” He seemed unsure of what he was saying.
Rivera wasn’t making much headway in his investigation and was in serious need of information. Fromkin’s youth and inexperience might make him susceptible to pressure. He decided to press the matter. “But Upton is dead now, and I need to find his killer. Surely you can tell me something that will help me.”
“The fact that he’s dead doesn’t matter, I believe.” Fromkin’s demeanor was guarded and he seemed to be selecting his words carefully.
