by Andrew Hunt
“How about it?” he asked. “It really shouldn’t take you this long to come up with an answer.”
“No. I wasn’t in on it.”
I spoke the truth. I wasn’t in on it. Uttering the words was still agonizing. I felt like I was betraying Roscoe.
He slammed his palm on the desk, and the bang startled me, making me leap out of my chair an inch or so.
“What did I tell you, Sykes?” he asked. “Didn’t I say he was loyal to the end?”
“Actually, I believe that was me who said that,” said Sykes, who looked up from his peanut shelling to wink at me. Cannon smiled at me as he leaned back in his chair, hands clutching the armrests. “Now what was it you wanted to say?”
My entire body trembled, from head to toe, as I looked at him, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he noticed my bewildered expression. “W-w-what?”
“You were going to tell me something, Oveson. Go right ahead. I’m all ears.”
“Tell you…” I licked my lips and nodded my head really fast. “Oh yeah. I was going to tell you something. I was going to tell you…”
Peanut shells rattled as they hit the spittoon. My mouth eventually formed the words. “I was going to tell you that I had nothing to do with writing that letter. Had I known about it, I would’ve shared that information with you and tried to help nip it in the bud.”
Cannon’s smile returned. “That’s what I thought. You know darn well how much I prize loyalty. And your loyalty to me will never again be brought into question, Deputy.”
I stood up from my chair, turned around, and headed for those arched doors, thanking my lucky stars the men’s room was nearby.
“Oh, and Oveson?”
Slowly, I pivoted toward him.
“Go out and find C. W. Alexander for me. I’m starting to really dislike the lack of resolution on this case. I read in the Examiner this morning that Doc Pfalzgraf is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for the man who apprehends his wife’s killer—dead or alive. Bring Alexander back and you’ll get a good chunk of dough for your family. Also…”
He opened his drawer, lifted out a little gray box, and opened it, revealing a shiny gold star. “You’ll get a promotion. It’ll up you a grade. I’m sure your missus will be thrilled when you come home wearing this beaut on your chest.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I have no doubt she will.”
I left. There was nothing else to say.
Thirteen
Sitting at one of the desks in the common room after my unsettling conversation with Cannon, I made it my mission to find C. W. Alexander.
I possessed a newfound determination to apprehend the man for questioning. Perhaps Cannon’s offer of a promotion prodded me. Or maybe I simply needed something to keep me focused after the loss of Roscoe. Exiting Cannon’s office, I’d felt a combination of restlessness and nausea, but I couldn’t figure out why. Then it occurred to me as I raised the earpiece from the telephone. I missed Roscoe. I never thought I would. It’s funny how a friendship can develop between two men without either of them realizing it. Maybe Roscoe was aware of it. I sure hadn’t been, not until now, anyway.
I put in the first call to Alexander’s secretary at Intermountain Mining Speculators in the Newhouse, where Sheriff Cannon had stationed a deputy. Her flinty voice left nothing to guesswork. “I haven’t seen him. I haven’t heard from him. Please stop telephoning me about this—you’re tying up our lines.”
I went through some court records, confirmed that Alexander was indeed married, and found out his wife’s maiden name—Hicks. A midmorning search through back issues of the Examiner also proved fruitful. I found their May 18, 1921, marriage announcement on page B-8. Her parents, Elmer and Rose Hicks, were listed as living on a rural road in Bountiful. Next, I went to the ’29 Salt Lake City directory and found “HICKS, E & R,” located at 400 East in Bountiful. I stared at their name in print and wondered why none of the other deputies had done this since we started our search.
I put on my Stetson as I cut through the parking lot behind the county jail and climbed into the driver’s seat of a county Model A. The sky had turned dark with clouds, and gusts of wind shook the car as I steered onto Fourth South. The day was fixing to snow, but it hadn’t started yet. Most of the winter snow in the Salt Lake Valley had already melted after days of warmth, so we were about due to be walloped.
I raced up the highway to Bountiful in record time. Close to Salt Lake City—in the next county to the north, at the foothills of the Wasatch Range—it’s a town of scattered farms, a café, a market, a filling station, and new suburban streets with freshly constructed bungalows. I took the 400 East exit, drove along a stretch of road where the houses were spaced far apart, and parked in front of one I recognized from an old Sears, Roebuck catalog—two stories, wood frame, gambrel roof, veranda and rocking chairs out front. A detached garage out back had been built to resemble the main house. These joints were the craze fifteen, twenty years ago. A buyer would order a house out of a catalog, pick it up when it arrived on a freight train, and assemble it, often with the help of dragooned neighbors.
I went up to the front door and gave a knock. It creaked open a few inches. I lifted my .38 out of my holster, switched off the safety, and cocked the hammer back. It was dark inside. My eyes needed a moment to adjust. The place had a lived-in feel, but the closed curtains blocked out the daytime light, and there wasn’t much of that due to overcast skies. Somewhere Ruth Etting sang “Deep Night” on either a phonograph or a radio—I couldn’t tell which. Wood floors moaned under my feet. A steep front-hall staircase rose to an even darker second floor.
Etting’s voice filled my ears …
“Deep night, stars in the sky above…”
I crept forward, down a hall lined with framed photographs barely visible in the darkness.
“Moonlight, lighting our place of love…”
At the end of the hall, I whipped through a door, gun aimed. I stood in a kitchen. Pots and pans dangled from hooks above the counter, and in the center was a table covered with a checkered tablecloth and five of everything: place mats, plates, sets of silverware.
I lowered my .38 and walked across the linoleum, past a stove and porcelain sink, and the back door came into view, its window concealed behind blinds. I unlocked the door latch and opened it, stepped out onto the back porch, and went down four stairs to a path behind the house. It started to snow as I headed in the direction of the two-car detached garage. The twin doors were closed and latched shut, but each had a square window. I fished a piece of paper out of my pocket and read my own scribble: Forest green 1927 Hupmobile 4-door sedan, LP UT 8347.
I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered into the garage. It was dark inside, but light enough for me to see a cream-colored, four-door Willys-Knight sedan. No sign of a green Hupmobile.
The sudden crack of gunfire rolled from one side of the valley to the other, and a geyser of dirt erupted three inches away from my foot. I bolted. My Stetson fell on the ground as I lunged and rolled behind the garage, where I crouched with my .38 leveled. I peeked around the corner at the house. A flash went off in the second-floor window, followed by a jolting crack. A bullet pinged off the garage. I couldn’t see the shooter, although I noticed a ghostly shadow between the curtains.
Another shot went off, clipping the branch of a nearby box elder tree. A fourth bullet shattered a garage door window. The shooter was aiming wildly. This wasn’t a pro.
I inched closer to the corner and shouted as loudly as my lungs would let me, “My name is Deputy Arthur Oveson, Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office! I didn’t come here to hurt you or anybody else! I’m only here to help!”
Snowflakes tapped my face. I squatted between the garage and fence, debating in my mind what to do next. A hundred yards separated the garage from the back door, and I opted to run for it. I counted down: Five, four, three, two, one … A mad sprint, my legs moving as fast as they could carry me, and a pair of shots ripp
ed out of the upstairs window. Earth burst a few feet away from me, and my Stetson, lying on the ground, jumped suddenly with a new hole blown clean through it. I leaped onto the back porch and tore through the back door.
I slipped inside the house, .38 in my right hand, and bumped things as I moved through the darkness—a kitchen chair, a table, a coat tree in the front hall. I stepped on every other stair on my way to the second floor. The door at the top of the stairs was closed. That was the room I wanted, the one overlooking the backyard. The transom window above it was open. I crouched low on the right side of the door and called out, “Listen up in there. My name is Deputy Oveson, and I aim to leave this house without firing a single shot! I don’t have a beef with you! I wanna talk. That’s all.”
First I thought the only sound in the house was the radio downstairs, now playing a quiz show. Then my ears picked up something else: a soft whimpering coming from behind the door in front of me. I reached for the crystal knob. “I’m going to open the door slowly. I’m not going to make any sudden moves. The last thing in the world I wish to do is hurt you.”
I turned the knob clockwise, and the door jumped out of the frame half an inch. I gave the door a gentle poke and crouched on the left side of the doorway. The door creaked open a few more inches. “All I really want is for us to walk out of here together.”
I spied around the corner into a room containing a full-sized bed with a brass headboard and footboard and a patch quilt, a bureau with a mirror and metal washbasin, a rocking chair, a framed photograph of the Salt Lake Temple, and a little boy, armed with a pistol almost as long as he was, sitting cross-legged and sobbing. With his free hand he covered his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, and his cheeks were sprayed with freckles. He was dressed in thick black denim pants and a plaid shirt with shades of maroon, black, and yellow. I spotted a box of bullets a few feet away from him. I holstered my .38, so as not to scare him.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Scotty,” he said, sniffling, voice trembling. “Scotty Alexander.”
I nodded and stared at that long-barreled pistol in his hand. “That’s a good name. I like that name—Scotty. That’s a big gun you’ve got there. Might I be able to persuade you to lay it on the floor in front of you? It’s a dangerous item, and I don’t want it to discharge and hurt you or me. I’ve got a daughter who’s not quite your age—her name’s Sarah Jane—and I want her to see her dad tonight.”
Convulsing with sobs, he leaned forward and placed the gun about a foot away from his toes.
“Now, son,” I said, “I’m gonna reach out and switch on the safety on that gun. It’s your firearm—I don’t intend to take it. I just don’t want it going off. OK?”
He raised his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead against them. He nodded his head slightly to my request. I leaned close to the gun and pushed the safety switch, then let out a quiet sigh of relief.
“I’m going to give you a handkerchief,” I said. “It’s clean. You can use it for your nose and eyes.”
I passed him a cotton hankie, and he took it and held it against his nose. By now he’d eased to a gentle weeping.
“Are you gonna arrest me?” he asked.
“I’ll make you a deal, Scotty. If you don’t fire that gun anymore, I won’t arrest you. It’s too dangerous for a boy your age. How old are you, anyhow?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s what I guessed. Last week, I read in the paper about a couple of fellows in North Carolina—not much older than you—who got a hold of a revolver. They started by shooting tin cans off of a fence. Then one of the boys put a tin can on top of his head and told his pal to fire. Well, the kid who put the can on his head is now in the cemetery, and the poor boy who fired the shot has to live with what he did for the rest of his life.” I pointed to the gun on the floor. “The moral of the story is, not much good comes of those things.”
He looked up at me. He had a pug nose and crooked teeth, but he was a cute kid—full of innocence. “Sorry about your hat.”
I chuckled. “You have a good aim.”
He snickered, for the first time since I got there. “I’ve got money in my piggy bank.”
“Nah. I was due for a new one anyhow.” I glanced over my shoulder, taking in the quietness of the house. “How come you felt the need to use that gun?”
“I was scared.”
“Of what?” He didn’t answer, so I didn’t press it. Instead, I said, “Aren’t there any grown-ups around here?”
“My grandma and grandpa own a restaurant by the highway. Mama works there, and my sister helps out, too.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Pioneer.”
“Oh yeah. I drove past it on my way here. What’s the best thing on the menu?”
“Steak and french fries.”
“I’ll have to give it a try. What about your father?”
He rubbed his tiny red eyes, and I was relieved he wasn’t crying anymore. “He’s hiding. Why are you looking for him? My dad didn’t hurt anybody.”
“I want to help him, but I need to be able to find him first.”
“They think he killed a lady, but he didn’t. My dad wouldn’t do that.”
“I believe you. In order to help him, though, I’ve got to know where he is.”
“C’mere. I got something to show you.”
He led me downstairs into the kitchen and pressed a button that turned on a light fixture above. He gestured me to follow him, and when we reached a wood box telephone, he pointed to handwriting on the wall above it. “Here.”
I leaned in close to read the shaky scrawl: 79 SUMMIT, P.C., TEL SUM 387. I guessed the P.C. stood for Park City, a mining town in the mountains.
“Didn’t that other man help him?” asked Scotty.
I looked down at the boy, and said, “What other man?”
“The man who came here looking for him. He wasn’t as nice as you. He aimed a gun at me. That’s why I shot at you when you got here. I thought you were him.”
“Did you give him this address?”
Scotty nodded—then his eyes widened and he suddenly looked horrified, and his lower lip began to quiver. “He scared me. Did I do something wrong?”
I crouched so I was eye to eye with him. “No. Stay calm. I need your help, son. This other man—what’d he look like?”
“He had a hat and coat.”
“Was he a police officer or a sheriff or a deputy, like me?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t think so. He didn’t say. He said he was my dad’s friend, and he even shook my hand. He told me he needed to find my dad. He said it was real important that he talk to him right away. I said I didn’t know where he was. Then the man got angry and called me a liar. He aimed a gun at me and told me I’d better tell him where my dad was or my whole family was gonna go to jail. The gun scared me real bad. So I showed that to him.”
He pointed to the address above the telephone.
“What did he say his name was?” I asked.
Scotty tapped his chin. His eyes opened wide with recognition. “Sam.”
“Sam? Sam what?”
More finger tapping. “Sam. Sam. Lou. Loom.”
I remembered the name in the Wooley file at the Ogden Police Department. The name I jotted on my pad of paper: Sam Louis. A witness saw him fleeing Wooley’s office around the time a gunshot was heard. A short time later, Wooley was found dead. I said, “Was it Sam Louis?”
He snapped his finger. “Sam Louis! That’s his name!”
“When did he come here? Was it recently?”
“A while ago…”
“How long ago?”
His face lit up again. “Thursday.”
“This past Thursday? March sixth?”
“I don’t know what the date was, but yeah, it was last Thursday. Is my dad going to be OK? Mama says he isn’t answering the telephone. She thinks Bell disconnected it.”
I took a deep
breath and looked into his pleading eyes. “I’m going to go see him right now. I promise you this. I’ll do everything in my power to help him.”
He smiled. “Thanks. I’m sorry I shot at you.”
“No harm done,” I said. I rubbed the top of his head, and he smiled. “Except my hat went to the dogs. Maybe you oughta be one of those Wild West Show sharpshooters.”
He laughed.
Five minutes later, after giving him my Stetson with the new hole in it and saying good-bye, I was on the road, driving the Model A as fast as it would go up the canyon to Park City.
* * *
A green cabin with white shutters, a little porch, and a picket fence, 79 Summit stood at the end of a steep gravel road at the forest’s edge. Down the road a stretch, Park City was on the verge of becoming a ghost town. Most townsfolk had left long ago, and a lot of the dwellings were boarded up and decaying from years of neglect. There were a few signs of life. Some houses were still occupied. The center of town still had a five-and-dime, a diner, a Chinese laundry, a couple of merchants, a candy store, and a local branch of Zion’s Bank. Park City had seen far better days, though. At first glance, 79 Summit appeared to be one of its many abandoned places. Pine trees towered above it on all sides and a small garage kept the cabin company. I slid the garage door open a few inches and, sure enough, that ’27 Hupmobile was parked inside.
The front door was locked. I reached into my coat pocket for my pick set and played around with the lock until I felt a click. I turned the knob and pushed the door open. The foul stench hit me head-on like an airplane, sending me reeling to the hedges to upchuck. I was on my knees on the pine-needle-covered ground, clearing out my system.
I’d given my only handkerchief to Scotty Alexander, so I fetched an oil rag from the Model A’s backseat and held it over my nose and mouth as I entered the cabin. The puny interior—two rooms, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with a claw-foot tub—at least meant that I wouldn’t be searching long.
C. W. Alexander was sitting in a floral-pattern armchair in the living room, dressed in a brown three-piece suit with a shirt and tie. His right hand still held a .45 caliber revolver, his index finger resting on the trigger. There was a hole in his chest that I guessed to be large enough for me to stick my index finger into, but I wasn’t about to put that theory to the test. I breathed steadily through the oil rag, and believe me when I say the smell of petroleum beat the stench of a days-old corpse any time. His eyes were still open, his mouth agape, head bent back.
