by Rich Curtin
“May I speak with you, Deputy Rivera?”
“Yes, of course.” Rivera gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.” Rivera hoped the psychologist had gotten a favorable ruling from his professor.
“May I close the door?”
“Sure.”
Fromkin gently pushed the door closed and seated himself. “I spoke with my advisor.”
“Yes? What did he say?”
“I explained the whole situation to him. He asked me a few questions about my sessions with Frank Upton which I answered. Then he said that I was bound by the patient-doctor privilege despite the fact that Frank was dead. So I can’t discuss with you anything that was said in my sessions with Frank.”
Rivera let out an exasperated breath. “Is that it?”
“No. There was one other thing. Frank left this manila envelope in my possession.” He held up the envelope, then put it back on his lap. “He asked me to do him a favor.” Fromkin paused.
“What was the favor?” Rivera felt himself getting impatient.
“He said the envelope contained an addressed letter with a stamp on it. He said the stamp was one of those forever stamps, so I’d never have to worry about adding any postage to it. He asked me to mail the letter five years after his death. I agreed to do so and put the envelope in Frank’s file. I asked my professor about this, and he said he saw no reason for me to withhold the letter from the authorities as there was no reason to believe it was related to his therapy.” He placed the envelope on Rivera’s desk.
“When did Upton give you this?”
“On his last visit, about two weeks ago.”
Rivera picked up the envelope. “Did he indicate he was expecting to die any time soon?”
“No. I guess I should have asked him that. I just assumed it was a personal letter to someone he was close to.”
Rivera inspected the envelope. Printed on the front were the words Enclosed Letter to Be Mailed Five Years after Frank Upton’s Death. He turned the envelope over—the back was blank. He extracted his pocketknife from his pants pocket, pulled out the blade, and sliced open the envelope. Inside was a plain white envelope with a stamp on it. It was addressed to Arthur Atkinson’s brother Benjamin who lives in Blanding. The envelope was annotated with the words Personal—Please Hand Deliver to Arthur Atkinson. Rivera looked up at Fromkin. “It’s addressed to Arthur Atkinson’s brother with a request he pass it on to Arthur.”
“Oh.”
Rivera sliced open the letter. It contained two typewritten pages. He unfolded them and began reading to himself. Halfway through the letter, he started to feel a tightness in his chest. He couldn’t believe what Upton had written. He looked up at Fromkin. “I think you’d better hear this too.” He began reading aloud from the beginning.
“Dear Arthur,
By now, you’ve been in prison for about five years. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather see behind bars. I imagine by now you’ve gotten used to eating jailhouse slop, conversing with low-IQ thugs, watching your back every moment of every day, hearing screams of despair in the night from your fellow inmates, and thinking about how your real estate empire collapsed and your life was ruined. I can’t begin to tell you how much that pleases me. I wish I could be there to see your face right now.
I’ve hated you all of my adult life, and, of course, you’ve hated me. My hatred began when you stole Dorothy Ellison from me. She was supposed to be mine. I wanted to marry her. She made me happy and I looked forward to seeing her each day. Then you butted in and my life became total misery. You took her but I doubt you ever really loved her.
Then, right after graduation, you dumped her. You were going to Stanford and she wasn’t planning to go to college. I guess she no longer seemed appropriate for your life at the summit of society. You used her and then tossed her away. She left town after that and I never saw her again.
I must admit my hatred for you took a severe toll on my life. I was never happy for a single minute after losing Dorothy. That probably makes you happy but read on.
A few weeks before my death, I learned that I was dying of incurable melanoma. Rather than go through a slow painful death, I decided to commit suicide. I hired someone to come to my house and shoot me in the back of the head. I switched off the yard light, opened the window, sat with my back to it, turned on some music, and started drinking. All the shooter had to do was show up late at night and do the deed.
And here’s the best part. I told the shooter to wear gloves, borrow the gun you kept in your Jeep, and return it there after he killed me. Isn’t that delicious? You know the gun, don’t you Arthur? Of course you do. Remember the time you pointed it at me and threatened me? Well, that’s what gave me the whole idea. Naturally, I had to write a number of false entries in my diary that pointed the finger at you so the cops would suspect you and test your gun for a match to the bullets that killed me. I so enjoyed writing those diary entries.”
Rivera looked up at Fromkin. The psychologist was looking at the floor with a pained expression and slowly shaking his head. Rivera continued reading aloud.
“Why am I telling you all this? So you’ll understand the depth of my hatred for you. It wasn’t for trivial reasons.
You know, I could have just let you rot in prison for the rest of your life. I know this letter will set you free, but I wanted you to know that it was I who ruined your life. Not a mistake or some bad luck, but me, Frank Upton.
Now you’re broke and no one will ever do business with you again. You’ll have no friends. Your life will be empty and miserable just like mine was.
So long, Arthur. See you in hell.
Frank Upton”
Rivera just sat there, trying to digest what he had read. He’d never known such hatred. He felt dispirited and drained. He cleared his throat and spoke in a strained voice. “Was that the kind of wrath you were treating him for?”
Fromkin had lost all color in his face. “I had no idea what I was dealing with.” He slowly got up and left without saying another word.
26
RIVERA KNOCKED ON the open door of the sheriff’s office and entered. He closed the door behind him, sat down, and for a long moment said nothing.
Anderson looked impatient. “Yes, Deputy, what is it?”
Rivera sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “Before Upton was killed, he composed this letter and left it with his psychologist to be mailed five years after his death.” He handed the letter to the sheriff.
She unfolded it and began reading. Halfway through the letter, her jaw dropped, and a look of shock appeared on her face. She finished the letter and looked up at Rivera. “So, I arrested the wrong man.” She shook her head in disgust. “Upton arranged his own murder in order to frame Arthur Atkinson.”
“Looks that way.”
“Good Lord, what kind of person does something like that? What kind of mind…” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“I think he was troubled his whole life. He hated Atkinson so much that he came up with this scheme as a way to destroy him.”
“I’ve been in law enforcement for most of my adult life and I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“We’d better release Atkinson,” said Rivera.
“I guess I’ve really shot myself in the foot.”
“Just make an announcement. Say that new evidence has come to light. But let’s not elaborate on any of the details. It might hinder my investigation going forward.”
The sheriff studied the letter again. “And how did you come by this letter?’
“I got it from Upton’s psychologist.”
“Remind me again how you knew Upton was seeing a psychologist.”
“His neighbor in the house across the street told me she saw Upton talking to Father Mahoney at the church a few times. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but judged from the gesturing and facial expressions that they were discussing something serious. So I visited Father Mahoney and a
sked him about it. He said he couldn’t tell me much, but he did say he referred Upton to a psychologist in town.”
She produced a wry smile and nodded. “So you spoke to the shrink and got this letter.”
“More or less.”
“I’ve got to give you credit. That’s some good work.”
“I still have to find Upton’s killer. And Webb’s. Since two different guns were used, I may be looking for two different shooters.”
“So what’s your next step?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think it through. I brought you this letter as soon as I read it.”
Rivera returned to his office thinking about the sheriff. As soon as she released Atkinson, she was going to catch a lot of heat from him and his friends on the County Council. This was going to open the door for Denny Campbell to run for sheriff and possibly regain his old job. The erroneous arrest could easily cost Sheriff Anderson the election. He didn’t know her very well. He hoped she would handle the situation with professionalism and dignity. Upton had been so clever in his subterfuge that what had happened to her could have happened to anyone.
Rivera grabbed a fresh mug of coffee, closed the door to his office, and sat down. Now he had to rethink everything. He ran through the chronology. The feud between Upton and Atkinson was going strong when Upton learned of his brain cancer. According to Darlene at the thrift shop, Upton had decided to end his life rather than go through what promised to be an extended period of suffering. His hatred of Atkinson was so intense that he decided to put his own death to good use and take one last colossal swipe at Atkinson by framing him for murder. He knew that Atkinson kept a handgun in his Jeep because Atkinson had threatened him with it, so he planned to use that as the murder weapon. Then he bought a diary and filled in entries starting on January first and continuing through May. Presumably all but one of the entries describing Atkinson’s gun-waving threats were fabricated. Then came the hard part. Upton had to find someone willing to shoot him.
After that, all he had to do was turn off the outside light, open the window, and settle into a comfortable chair with his back to the window. He would have been sitting there, looking at Dorothy’s photograph, drinking bourbon, listening to Kiri Te Kanawa perform, and waiting for his demise. Upton must have selected that particular opera music precisely because it was about confronting the end of one’s life. He was an opera aficionado and would have known that. The selection of Strauss’s Four Last Songs wasn’t ironic as Rivera had first thought—it was deliberate.
Upton probably didn’t know exactly when the shooter would arrive, so he might have been waiting for hours. Rivera wondered what he had been thinking about while he sat there, knowing the fruition of his life had come to this unsatisfactory ending. The image of that scene sent a shiver up Rivera’s spine.
He took a sip of coffee and began thinking about the process of hiring a person to kill oneself. How does one do that? He pondered the question and came up with only two possibilities. You either get a friend to do it as a ‘favor,’ or you hire someone to do it. Upton had no close friends, so a ‘favor’ was out of the question. Besides, the letter specifically used the words hired someone. So Upton must have paid someone to kill him. Even though he arranged for his own death, the act was still murder and the shooter had to be brought to justice.
So whom did Upton hire? It could have been anyone, but whoever it was, there had to be a financial transaction involved. It had to be for a substantial sum of money, so a record of it would exist somewhere. No one would commit murder for a trivial compensation. The crumpled note Rivera had found in Iggy Webb’s wastebasket came to mind. Was it possible Webb was the shooter? The note suggested he was to receive $25,000, $5,000 up front and $20,000 later. But how could Upton pay the $20,000 balance after he was dead? That made no sense. The Webb money must have been for something else.
In any case, Upton had paid the shooter, whoever he was, somehow. Rivera recalled seeing nothing that suggested a payoff in Upton’s checkbook or in the file containing his monthly financial statements. The statements were current through the end of April, but a transfer might have occurred in May. Rivera slid his feet off the desk and picked up the phone. He called Upton’s bank, spoke to the bank manager, and learned that no large sums had been transferred out of Upton’s savings account or his checking account during May. That puzzled him. So how did the shooter get paid?
Perhaps the form of payment was in something other than cash. Could some valuable rocks have been used as payment? He rejected that idea as soon as he thought of it. The rocks he was familiar with weren’t worth enough to serve as compensation for a murder. And Upton’s rock collection was still intact in his living room. Maybe Upton had some information of value that he used to barter with the shooter, perhaps a secret source of valuable minerals. Rivera would have to give that some thought.
Rivera had more questions than answers. He stood up, walked to the window, and peered outside. The sky was overcast with a rippled layer of gray clouds low enough to mask the peaks of the LaSal Mountains. The clouds were moving swiftly, and a breeze was oscillating the branches of the cottonwood trees. The mild cold front the weatherman had predicted was passing through.
What Upton had tried to accomplish was stuck in the forefront of Rivera’s mind and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d never before run across such a sick mind. He was disgusted and felt mildly depressed. The idea that hatred could drive someone to do what Upton had done was beyond his comprehension. Most of Rivera’s previous murder cases involved some form of greed as a motive—someone trying to make a quick buck. But this case was different. He’d never seen one like it before—a killing motivated by pure hatred and vengeance. Or wrath, as Father Mahoney had called it. And the root cause was an event that took place in high school thirty-five years ago. Thirty-five years of misery—what a waste of Upton’s life. And Atkinson didn’t sound like a very happy fellow either. Their mutual hatred had ruined both their lives.
Rivera wondered why Upton didn’t go after Dorothy Ellison right after Atkinson had abandoned her. Maybe he tried but couldn’t find her. Or maybe his young ego was so bruised from the experience that he let her get away. Maybe the grief he felt due to his rejection caused him to freeze up with uncertainty. Or maybe he just went crazy.
27
RIVERA WAS STARTLED AWAKE in the middle of the night. He was tangled in his covers and his heart was pounding. He’d been dreaming about something unpleasant he could only vaguely remember. It had something to do with a bunch of spruce logs tumbling down toward him. He was in fear of getting crushed and he was trying to get out of the way, but his legs moved so slowly, like he was running through molasses.
Now his adrenalin level was pumped up, and he couldn’t get back to sleep. He was wide awake, so he lay there, staring at the ceiling. The night was silent except for the sound of a dove cooing in the tree outside his window. Pining for its mate, Rivera figured. He knew how that felt. Soon, his mind began churning through random details of the Iggy Webb and Frank Upton cases.
He thought about Upton’s arrangement with his shooter. How the hell did the shooter get paid? According to Upton’s financial records, he hadn’t paid the shooter in advance. And why would he? The shooter might have taken the money and then refused to kill Upton. Then what could Upton do? He couldn’t very well report it to the police or bring suit against the offender. And he certainly couldn’t pay for it after the fact. How can you pay someone after you’re dead?
Of course!
Rivera sat up and switched on his nightstand lamp. He grabbed the pen and pad he kept there to record thoughts and ideas that might pop into his mind during the night. He wrote the words Beneficiary in will. He’d seen Upton’s will—everything had been left to Dorothy Ellison or, in the event she predeceased him, to the Moab Home for Needy Children. But that was an old will. So he added the words, Call attorney. Was will recently updated?
Then he turned off the l
ight and went back to sleep, feeling satisfied that he had a useful lead to pursue in the morning.
28
AFTER BREAKFAST, RIVERA drove to the office of Ralph Douglas, Attorney at Law. After the usual preliminaries, Douglas’s secretary escorted him into the attorney’s office. Douglas greeted him with a smile and a handshake. He waved toward one of the expensive-looking padded chairs in front of his large, mahogany desk. University degrees and legal certifications mounted in brass frames decorated the walls.
Douglas was a slick looking man in his late thirties. He had a loud voice and an artificial smile. “Have a seat, Manny. I think I know why you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Rivera sat down. He had dealt with Douglas before, so he knew to be cautious with his words. He wanted to accomplish his mission without revealing too much about what he was doing. Douglas had a reputation around town as someone who was pretty loose with his tongue. He liked to appear well-connected and in-the-know, and often dropped names and facts that he shouldn’t. He would occasionally reveal confidential matters of a sensitive nature in order to curry favor with people in positions of authority. Most of the important people in town avoided him like the plague. Douglas also possessed an unabashed propensity to probe into matters that were none of his business.
“I’m here following up on some details related to the Frank Upton murder. I need to ask you a few questions.”
Douglas produced a concerned-looking expression. “The sheriff arrested Arthur Atkinson for Upton’s murder and then she released him, so I’m guessing you have another suspect. Who do you think did it, Manny? Of course, anything you tell me will remain confidential.”
“You know I can’t talk about the case, Mr. Douglas.”
“Call me Ralph, Manny. C’mon, we’ve known each other for years.”
Rivera smiled. He’d had a single discussion with Douglas in connection with a case he was working on five years ago. He barely knew the man. “I understand you prepared Frank Upton’s Last Will and Testament.”
