by Andrew Hunt
“Yes, sir.”
Sykes said, “I understand Nash has already subpoenaed Helen Pfalzgraf’s younger sister and a fellow who claims he got a look at the suspect who ditched her Cadillac up in Ogden. If you ask me, I think Nash and Livsey are just trying to make Sheriff Cannon here look bad, like he’s not on top of the investigation.”
I nodded, trying my best to stay out of the fray. “It sounds like they’ve built quite a case.”
Cannon scrunched his face in displeasure. “Truth is, I haven’t been happy with the progress of this investigation. I’ve put all of my men on this case and all we have to show for it are a bunch of lurid headlines.”
He opened a file folder that contained a few newspaper clippings. He held one up and read from it. “From the Los Angeles Times: MURDERED SOCIALITE CAUGHT IN LOVE TRIANGLE.” He dropped it and picked up another. “From the New York Times … Let’s see, what have we got here? SLAIN UTAH WOMAN ROMANCED BY PERSIAN PRINCE BEFORE DEATH.” He put it down and arched his eyebrows at the next one. “This is my personal favorite. From the Salt Lake Examiner: SHERIFF’S DEPUTIES MAKE LITTLE HEADWAY IN PFALZGRAF INVESTIGATION.”
He closed the folder and nudged it aside. His smile never left. “Do you know what gets me the most about all of this? These newspaper reporters know more about this investigation than me. I’ll give you a for instance. They knew about Helen Pfalzgraf’s secret bank accounts totaling…”
He opened the folder, picked up another clipping, and read from it. “Seven thousand eight hundred dollars. That includes her accounts in banks in Los Angeles and San Francisco, and that’s just for starters. I knew nothing about these accounts until I read the newspapers. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I get a telephone call this morning from”—he glanced at a yellow pad on his desk—“a Mr. Con … Conside…”
“Seymour Considine?” I asked.
He looked up at me and blinked a few times. “Goes by the initials S. J. Do you know him?”
“Sure,” I said. “He writes for one of those true crime magazines. I just barely met him at the Vienna. He came up and introduced himself to Roscoe and me.”
“Well, Considine delivered a major sucker punch this morning,” said Cannon. “He said Dr. and Missus Pfalzgraf paid a visit to Pfalzgraf’s attorney, Parley Tanner, the day before the murder. Considine found a stenographer from Tanner’s law office who went on the record saying she overheard the word ‘divorce’ used repeatedly. Of course, the woman has been dismissed from her job, but the damage has been done. What’s worse is I knew nothing about it until that Considine fella flapped his mouth. Most of what I know about this case, I’ve learned from the newspapers.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I want to assure you I’ve been earning my keep. The other day, I telephoned Helen’s father in Twin Falls, Idaho. He said he hasn’t seen her for years and he’s not even planning on going to her funeral. He shouted at me to leave him alone and hung up on me. One of Helen’s sisters, Constance Higginbotham, still lives in Salt Lake, and Deputy Evans has questioned her, and I’ve requested a copy of the transcript as soon as Faye has it typed up. I’ve been out to the murder site twice looking for additional clues, but I’ve come up empty-handed. We’ve been sorting through two hundred telephone calls, letters, and eyewitness reports. I’ve called around to the local mining companies to trace the piece of galena ore that was used to hit Helen Pfalzgraf in the head. I’ve placed a call to—”
He cut me off with a wave, and his smile grew even wider, which surprised me. “Art, I don’t need a rundown of your weekly activities. I know you’re no slacker. If all my deputies were like you, I wouldn’t be losing sleep at night.”
I gulped nervously, and, despite icy wind blasting through the open window, beads of sweat formed on my brow. “Well, sir,” I said, “is there something I can do to help?”
Cannon jerked an upbeat nod at Sykes. “See what I mean about this boy? He’s just the type of capital fellow I’d like to be on my team in the final minutes of a nail-biter. Isn’t he something?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sykes, deadpanning all the way. “He is something.”
Cannon looked at me and said, “I need you to speak frankly and tell me what the general sentiment is among the deputies toward me at this time. I would very much like to hear your observations.”
“My observations, sir?”
“Yes. Please tell me your impressions.”
How to tell him his deputies detested him? He struck me as the kind of person who’d slay the messenger if the news were bad, and in this case, positive words eluded me. Yet here he was, staring at me with that permanent smile on his face, waiting for an answer. The clock ticked on the table behind him.
I picked the wrong time to have a severe case of cottonmouth. I could see from his slight wince that he detected my uneasiness. Finally, I managed to speak. “Well, sir, I think it is safe to say that in all the time I’ve been here, the esprit de corps of the men has never been higher.”
He blinked as though trying to make sense of what I just said. Lucky for me, he didn’t try too hard. The smile only faded for a few seconds, before it returned in full force. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said, banging his desk with the palm of his hand. “It’s a proven fact that high morale makes for good crime fighting.”
Sykes nodded and said, “It is the basis of any effective law enforcement organization.”
“You’re darn right!” said Cannon. He chuckled, which petered out into a grunt while his eyes studied me. “I understand you paid a visit to Dr. Pfalzgraf’s place the other day. Talked to his daughter.”
“Yes, sir. I felt it was important to find out what she knew—”
Cannon cut me off. “There’s something I forgot to tell you the first time we discussed this case.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Leave Dr. Pfalzgraf and his daughter out of it.”
“Begging your pardon, sir?”
“I questioned him already, Oveson. I’m convinced he had nothing to do with his wife’s murder. He’s a solid, upstanding citizen in every respect. His daughter has an alibi, so I took the liberty of ruling her out, too.”
“Well, don’t you think I should at least—”
“The Pfalzgrafs are distraught. The man just lost his wife. I could tell when I questioned him he’s innocent. Something else…” His words trailed off.
“What’s that?”
“What I’m about to tell you is just between you and me and Sykes here. The doctor gave me a generous donation toward my reelection campaign. It’ll enable me to put up some new billboards along Highway 91. I happen to know Lorenzo Blackham’s billboards are getting a lot of attention, and—well—I’d like a few of my own, just to show the public I’m serious about winning my bid for reelection.”
Even with my instinct to avoid conflict, I could not hide my disgust with what Cannon was proposing. “So you don’t want me to investigate Dr. Pfalzgraf because he gave you a campaign donation?”
“That’s a crude way of putting it,” Sykes said angrily. “A better way of saying it is that Sheriff Cannon interrogated Pfalzgraf already and he’s convinced the doctor’s innocent. It’s hard times we’re living in, Oveson, and we’ve got no business wasting taxpayers’ money chasing after someone who’s clearly innocent.”
“With all due respect, I think he should be treated like every other suspect in this case—”
“I don’t care what you think, Deputy,” said Cannon, scowling at me now. “I’m not accustomed to having my orders challenged. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
What was I going to say? Men were losing their jobs all over the place. What about Clara and my children? What of my monthly mortgage payment? There were bills to pay, too—hydroelectric, coal, the iceman, the milkman, water. We would never get rich from my salary, but it kept a roof over our heads. Clara received a steady income from her teaching job, but I couldn’t let her be the family breadwin
ner. What would my brothers say? The Oveson name would be shamed.
My heart raced. I squirmed, squeaking against the leather chair, and the cold wind sliced my ear like a straight razor.
“So I can count on you to play ball?” asked Cannon, smiling once more.
I said, “Yes, sir. I can be counted on.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Cannon asked Sykes. “A real go-getter.”
Sykes nodded, and for the first time his lips formed something vaguely resembling a smile. He said, “The genuine article.”
“You’re someone to watch out for, Oveson,” said Sheriff Cannon. “You’re the bird who’s going places in this business.”
I stood up and walked over to the door. Cannon said, “Remember, Oveson. I reward loyalty. And so far, you’ve got a blue-ribbon attitude, son.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, mustering a smile. I overheard Cannon say, “Now there goes one heck of a kid.”
Seven
The dream always plays out the same way.
Blinding whiteness envelops me as I walk forward. The contours of a hospital hallway slowly take shape. Nurses wheel patients on gurneys, and a woman’s voice pages a physician on the loudspeakers. I reach room 402 and notice Dad’s name on a medical chart attached to a clipboard. Dad, in a medical gown, lies on his back with an intravenous tube in his arm, eyes closed. His brown hair is combed back, which makes his hairline seem even more receding than usual, and his chin is pulled into his neck. The doctor had removed the bullets and bandaged the wounds where he got shot. Outside, the largest storm in Utah history blankets the valley with snow. In here, radiators bang and rattle, filling the room with warm, thick air.
I am twelve years old, about to turn thirteen. It is 1914 again. There is so much I want to tell him. We are reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in English class, and I yearn to talk to him about it, ask him if he’d read it, share my impressions.
Dad’s eyes are closed, and his chest rises slightly with each breath. His right hand dangles over the bed’s edge, so I lift it by the wrist, lay it across his chest next to his other, and pull the sheet higher, bringing it nearly to his neck. I slide a chair closer and sit at his bedside, waiting for him to open his eyes and say something. Anything.
Dad opens his eyes. I am no longer eleven. I am twenty-nine and it is 1930.
I want to tell him everything that has happened in the last sixteen years. I’ll show him pictures of my wedding reception—me in a rented tuxedo, Clara in a white wedding dress—and remind him that she and I fell in love in the seventh grade. I’ll describe his grandchildren and tell him how strongly they resemble him. I’ll hold up my polished deputy’s badge so he can see it, and I’ll ask him what one piece of advice he’d pass on to a beginning lawman.
The three words we had such a difficult time telling each other when he was alive—I love you—will come out of our mouths so naturally.
Dad rarely said he loved me, but he showed me every day with his actions: taking me fishing; teaching me how to cook frankfurters over an open fire; leading me on the best hiking trails at Zion and Bryce and Canyonlands and in the high Uintas. He showed his love for me by waking up each morning and going to work.
So much I had to tell him.
But our time is up.
His eyes widen, he places his hand over his heart, his face twists in pain and the life leaves him.
I search for serenity in his eyes but find none. All I see is terror. I have no reason to believe he went somewhere else. He simply ceases to exist, and when his bodily functions stop, his consciousness ends.
At least in my dream, that is how it played out.
I will not see him again, and I did not have a chance to say a proper good-bye.
The dream ends there. With each awakening, I jerk upright to catch my breath, drenched in sweat, heart racing.
When I awoke this night, I leaped out of bed and stumbled to the bureau drawer where I had left my star-shaped badge. The moon illuminated the engraved words: SALT LAKE COUNTY DEPUTY SHERIFF. I ran my fingertips along the lines and grooves and tiny canyons.
“I wish you could see this, Dad,” I whispered.
Each time I dreamed the dream, I would cling to the hope of glimpsing calmness in his eyes. Maybe once, once, he’d die peacefully and I would feel as though he had moved on to the other side.
My dreams are not so cooperative. They torment me. The father in my dreams has only agony in his eyes.
* * *
The coroner’s inquest convened at 9:00 A.M. sharp on the morning of Monday, March 3, 1930. It was held inside the city council chambers, a big room with twinkling chandeliers and plenty of space for a jury of six and a hundred spectators. I arrived a half hour early, hoping for a good seat, but the place was almost full. No surprise. This case had evolved—or should I say devolved—into a nationwide soap opera, and we Salt Lakers had the best seat in the house. This was the biggest homicide case to happen in Utah since the murder of Hazel Hamilton. In fact, the coroner, Dr. Laird Nash, announced that he would set up loudspeakers in the packed hallway for the overflow crowd.
When the inquest opened, I spotted Dr. Hans Pfalzgraf in the front right corner of the room, sitting next to his attorney, Parley Tanner. Pfalzgraf was straight out of Hollywood central casting for the kindly old doctor role, with his round face, wire-rimmed glasses, thinning white hair, and white mustache.
On the other side of Pfalzgraf sat my old friend Floyd Samuelson in his dark security guard outfit and matching cap. He turned in his chair until he made eye contact with me, smiled, and gave a wave.
I looked back over my shoulder and made eye contact with Buddy Hawkins, two rows behind me, seated beside Wit Dunaway. Buddy nodded, I nodded back, and I faced forward. Roscoe and I squirmed on the hard, pewlike bench. He opened the color Sunday funny papers and began reading “Mutt and Jeff,” laughing under his breath.
“All rise,” said a bailiff.
Everybody stood, and in walked Dr. Nash in a navy blue three-piece suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. He took a seat at the center of a long table in the front of the room, placed a stack of file folders to his right, and tipped a stainless steel pitcher to fill a glass with water. “Please be seated.”
He waited a moment for the sound of creaking benches and scooting chairs to settle. “This is the coroner’s inquest into the death of Mrs. Helen Kent Pfalzgraf, resident of 1285 East South Temple here in Salt Lake City. I am Dr. Laird Nash. I would like to remind you that this hearing is purely for informational purposes. I shall summon a series of witnesses, review professional reports, and present evidence that I hope will clarify all relevant issues. This is not a civil or criminal trial, and, as you can plainly see, it is open to the public.”
People in the room laughed. Roscoe ignored him, having moved on to the color panels of “Toonerville Folks.”
“The first witness I would like to call to the stand is Constance Higginbotham,” said Nash.
With a wavy platinum bob, blue eyes, a red lipstick grin, and a green dress that hugged her tiny body, Constance Higginbotham seemed to share her sister’s penchant for film-star fashions, but she possessed a sort of imperfect beauty—namely, a pug nose and slightly crooked teeth—that would’ve kept her out of the movies. She raised her right hand and placed her left on the bailiff’s Bible and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her God. She sat down.
“Please state your name,” said Nash.
“Constance Lola Higginbotham.” She had a surprisingly deep voice for such a small woman.
“Where do you reside?”
“The Kensington.”
“Address?”
“Come again?”
“Can you give me an exact street address of the Kensington?”
“Oh sure. Second North and Main. Apartment three-oh-two, third floor.”
“And you are the sister of…”
“Helen Kent Pfalzgraf. She
used to share my last name. Higginbotham. She added the Kent on her own. I don’t know why. Her middle name was Joyce.”
Nash read his notes, and I could see his lips moving. Then he looked up at Constance Higginbotham and said, “It says here that you testified you were in Farmington on the night Mrs. Pfalzgraf was murdered.”
“Yes, that’s right. I was on a date. We went to Lagoon.”
“The amusement park?”
“Yeah. I’m partial to the roller coaster. And there was a dance orchestra playing that night.”
“Oh yeah? Which one?”
She rolled her eyes like Clara Bow. “Ray Miller was the bandleader.”
“When did you learn of your sister’s death, Miss Higginbotham?”
“Uh, that would’ve been the following afternoon. About three o’clock. A couple of deputies dropped by my apartment and told me the news.”
“Did they explain the cause of death?”
“No. They must’ve seen I was busted up over it. They didn’t say much. They were sweet fellas.”
“When and how did you find out about the cause of your sister’s death?”
“The following day, in the afternoon. Hans—um, Dr. Pfalzgraf identified her body at the coroner’s. His attorney telephoned my apartment to tell me what happened to Helen. He said she was run over by a car a bunch of times, and he said the sheriff thought her own car was used to kill her.”
Nash jotted notes and nodded as she spoke, even though a stenotype operator was hard at work at the table next to the jury box. Nash dipped his pen in the inkwell and made eye contact with the witness. “My condolences to you for your terrible loss, Miss Higginbotham.”
She arched her eyebrows, as if his remark took her by surprise. “Thank you, mister. I puzzled over it for a long time—you know, who’d want to kill her? She was going through problems at the end of her life…”
“What sort of problems?”
“Marital problems. Hans treated her fine. He was more patient than any man I’ve ever seen. But Helen was—ah, you know—restless. Always going out, rushing off somewhere—parties, dates, jumping on trains to California. All the time telling me she was going to be in movies.”
