by Rich Curtin
“This was the strangest case I’ve ever worked on. And one of the toughest. What made it so difficult was the victim planned his own murder. I never expected that.”
“Upton must have had a troubled mind.”
“He never got over Dorothy. Losing her to Atkinson kept eating at him for his entire life. Dorothy told me she didn’t really care for either one of them.”
“Really? That makes the story even more tragic. It’s almost Shakespearean.”
“To tell you the truth, I find the whole thing kind of depressing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just knowing how hatred can eat away and destroy a person’s life. You know in theory that hatred can be debilitating, but to see it up close and personal like this makes me kind of sick to my stomach.”
“What was it that made you suspect Roy Bartlett?”
“It was just a hunch based upon his intellectual arrogance. Upton didn’t have many friends or acquaintances. The rockhounds were the only ones he associated with on a regular basis, so I figured it had to be one of them. Bartlett was the only one who seemed clever enough to subcontract the job out to Webb and create an alibi for himself. The other factor was that Bartlett knew both Upton and Webb better than the other rockhounds did.”
“If Upton hadn’t modified his will, would you have been able to figure it all out?
Rivera thought for a long moment. “Without that, I might not have found a way to break the case.”
“Interesting.”
“And if Webb hadn’t been killed, Upton’s scheme to frame Atkinson might have worked.”
“What’s going to happen with all the rocks Iggy Webb had stored in Shirley Miller’s garage?” asked Carey.
“I visited Shirley yesterday evening and had a couple of beers with her. I told her no one is going to claim Iggy’s belongings, so she might as well consider all that stuff her own—not just the rocks, but also the motorhome and the pickup truck. She’s lost and needs some friends. I suggested she become a rockhound like Iggy was. That way she could meet a lot of new people in the rockhound club. She loved the idea. She said she might even start selling rocks the way Iggy did—sort of pick up where he left off. I called Alice Russell, the club president, and asked her to give Shirley a call. Alice was delighted—she’s been wanting to see more women join the club.”
“That’s a nice touch. It gives Shirley something to live for.”
Rivera finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Time for me to go. Thanks for all the help, Chris.” Rivera stood up, shook hands with Carey, and left the cafe.
The sun was low in the sky as Rivera drove his personal pickup north out of Moab. He crossed the Colorado River, passed the entrance to Arches National Park, and continued up the long incline of U.S.191. He turned left on Hwy. 313 and wound his way up the switchbacks to the top of the mesa. After a few miles, he turned off the pavement and headed west on the gravel road that led to Spring Canyon. Miles later, just before a huge sandstone rock standing by itself on the gently rolling sagebrush hills, he turned left onto a dirt two-track that headed southwest. He wanted to spend some time alone.
The bumpy primitive road wound its way for several miles through black brush and sage until it ended a hundred yards from Labyrinth Canyon. He put on his backpack and headed for the canyon. Soon he was standing on the edge of the bluff, looking down at the Green River some 800 feet below. He’d been to this place before. The rough road that led here kept the tourists away, so he knew he could find the solitude he needed. He took off his backpack and sat down. He leaned back against a sandstone slab and stared into the dark canyon below. There was total silence here, except for the occasional caws of ravens echoing off the canyon walls.
He couldn’t get Frank Upton out of his mind. Upton had known he was drowning in hatred and tried to find relief through religious and psychological channels, but he just couldn’t do it—hatred had overpowered and consumed him. He probably felt a sense of relief when he learned he was going to die. That was one of the things that bothered Rivera the most. The thought of Upton learning about his cancer, accepting that he was going to die, and having no family or friends to help him through the ordeal was bad enough, but then, in the loneliness of his house in the mountains, he’d spent his time devising a frightful plan to frame someone he’d hated since high school. After making his final arrangements, he’d sat by an open window and waited for the bullet that would end it all, hoping his vengeance would be delivered from the grave. Frank Upton had squandered his life and become a slave to his wrath.
Rivera was feeling dispirited at the hatred he’d been exposed to and the way in which lives were ruined because of it. He felt a tightness in his chest and a slight feeling of nausea. He’d seen murder before but never one driven by pure hatred. He wondered why it troubled him so much. He needed somehow to purge the whole business from his thoughts and find peace of mind again.
Rivera lifted his gaze from the depths of the canyon and stared toward the west. The sun had dropped out of sight leaving a dark outline of distant buttes and pinnacles across the horizon. The feathery clouds in the light-blue western sky were illuminated in shades of orange and pink. He felt a cool breeze picking up as the earth adjusted to nighttime temperatures and worked to bring itself into thermal balance. Thirty minutes went by and now he could see Venus shining brightly in the western sky. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, stars made their appearance, one by one.
Time passed. The sky darkened and the clouds lost their orange and pink hues and became purple. The croaking of nighttime desert critters began, and the throbbing cadence of the sound began to relax him. Soon he could see the Milky Way bright across a black sky.
He pulled a blanket from his backpack and bundled up. As he sat there and the hours passed, he began to feel a relaxation he hadn’t felt since he was with Gloria a week ago. It was as though the high desert was slowly cleansing his spirit of the dark malaise brought on by his confrontation with pure evil.
He decided to stay there all night and let the high desert do its work.
