City of Saints

by Andrew Hunt

  I saw a note on a table next to the chair, and next to the note were a locket and a wedding ring that I guessed were Helen Pfalzgraf’s. The note was typewritten. Peculiar, since there was no typewriter in the cabin, as far as I could see. I didn’t touch the note, but I craned my head so I could get a good look at it.

  I killed Helen K. Pfalzgraff. I am a lowly coward with a black heart. I can no longer live with myself. I am ending my life. (Signed,) CLYDE W. ALEXANDER.

  He misspelled his lover’s last name. He didn’t bother putting his signature above his name at the bottom of the note. Hard to say what smelled worse: his decomposing remains or this sham setup to make his death look like a suicide.

  I walked into the kitchen, dropped the oil rag on a table, and found a wall phone near the back door. I lifted the earpiece and turned the iron crank at the bottom of the box. The line crackled as I stepped close to the mouthpiece.

  “Operator.”

  “Operator, give me the sheriff’s office in Salt Lake City, please. This is an emergency.”

  “One moment and I’ll connect you.”

  While I waited, I picked up the oil rag and held it over my face, because the rotten odor coming from the next room was too much to take.

  Fourteen

  A snowstorm did not prevent a crowd of hundreds from forming a semicircle around the steps of City Hall. The press hounds came out in full force. Cannon in his overcoat showed up with his wife, Ida, and Sykes hovered over a group of newly hired deputies as they set up the podium near the building’s entrance. Nearer to the center of the vast audience stood Buddy Hawkins in a fedora and overcoat, side by side with Chief Otis Ballard. White-haired and lean-faced, Ballard startled me with his presence. He had once been my father’s partner, many years earlier, and I had vague memories of him coming to the house when I was a little kid. His appearance at today’s function did not shock me, but it heightened my nervousness. My eyes continued scanning the crowd, stopping at Seymour Considine, bundled up with his hat titled sideways and a toothy grin on his face. I wondered what he was grinning about.

  I turned to Clara, who looked strikingly beautiful in a long coat over a dress made of green velvet and black lace; she held hands with Sarah Jane, whose smile never let up. I leaned near and whispered, “Oh no,” when I noticed a gaggle of Ovesons—my brothers, their wives, and their sizable collection of offspring—seeking out prime locations in the audience. Cannon’s assistant, Faye, had planned this event at the last minute and informed me about it the previous day with a telephone call. Cannon raised his eyebrows at his pocket watch, turned my way, and gestured for me to follow him to the podium.

  “I love you,” said Clara before I pulled away.

  “I love you, too.”

  We kissed each other, and then I hurried over to where Cannon and Sykes stood. I spotted Dr. Pfalzgraf, bundled up and wearing a bowler, squeezing past others on his way up the steps, followed by Floyd Samuelson in his uniform and cap. Watching him carefully, I wondered why such a private man would be making such a public appearance. I saw my mother in the crowd and inhaled deeply, licked my dry lips with my even drier tongue, and did my best to appear calm. Camera shutters clicked as Cannon took his place at the podium.

  He began speaking, but I was too nervous to hear his words. I kept looking out at my mother’s smile through a veil of falling snow, wishing this press conference would end so I could pile into the family auto with Clara and Sarah Jane, pick up Hi from her sister Joyce’s house, and go home to a hot meal and time with my family. In my moment of anxiety, bits and pieces of Cannon’s speech stuck with me: “… great day for law and order in the state of Utah … Deputy Oveson behaved heroically in the line of duty … Alexander died as he lived: a craven killer, without an ounce of decency … now I’ll turn the time over to Deputy Oveson…”

  People clapped. Why? What had I done to deserve it? I gulped and my hands trembled as Cannon put his arm around my shoulder and guided me over to the podium. In that instant, all I could think about was young Scotty Alexander—terrified and alone, firing a gun at me because he thought I was the same man who’d visited the week before. The applause subsided, and I looked out at that sea of faces, smiling at me, waiting for me to say something meaningful.

  “I’m proud to present you with this badge,” said Cannon, opening a small box and revealing a gold-plated deputy’s star. “With this promotion, Deputy Oveson, you’re now a senior deputy in the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Department. I’ll let you say a few words.”

  Light applause crackled.

  “I … um…” I bit my lower lip and looked down at my loose-fitting shoes. I shut my eyes tightly and pictured my father’s face. Smiling. He leans close to me in the boat and shows me how to hook the bait. When I opened my eyes, the crowd was still there. Still waiting. “I just want to say that I didn’t do this alone. I was only one man in a department full of fellows who are, in my estimation, a heck of a lot braver than I am. We all did this together, under the guidance of Sheriff Cannon and Assistant Sheriff Sykes.” The crowd clapped. “My father, who was a police officer when he was alive, used to tell me that the only way for justice to prevail is if brave men and women stand up and make it happen. I only hope that my actions, in some small way, helped bring about justice. Thank you.”

  I moved away from the podium, and the audience erupted in applause and whistles. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Cannon and Pfalzgraf talking about something or other; they were far enough away and the cheering so loud that I couldn’t hear them. Cannon turned in my direction and pointed at me, and Pfalzgraf nodded and headed this way. A silence fell over the scene in front of City Hall as Pfalzgraf arrived at the podium, holding a slip of paper in his hands.

  He cleared his throat and spoke in his thick German accent. “I have asked the bank to make a check for ten thousand dollars out to Deputy Arthur Oveson. I give this money to him with my personal thanks for apprehending my wife’s killer.”

  To the cheers of those present, Pfalzgraf turned to me, crinkly-eyed and smiling, and shook my hand while I eyed the check in his other hand. “Thank you, Deputy Oveson.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  He handed me the check, and cameras clicked away, capturing a moment that I didn’t want to be remembered.

  Nobody warned me I’d have to pose for so many snapshots. One after another: Huddled between Cannon and Sykes. Lined up with my brothers. Embracing my mother. Crowded together with all of the other deputies—at least those who managed to hold on to their jobs. Arms around Clara and Sarah, all smiles. Standing in the center of the enormous Oveson clan. Shaking hands with white-haired Salt Lake Police Chief Otis Ballard. I was exhausted when it was all over.

  The crowd dispersed. People climbed into their cars and drove away. Every last Oveson either hugged me or shook my hand before they left. My mother told me she was proud of me, and I handed her the check that Pfalzgraf gave me.

  “What is this?” she asked. “I can’t take this, Art…”

  “You can,” I said, “and you will. I love you, Mom.”

  “No mother’s ever been more proud of her son,” she said, holding back the tears as best she could and not succeeding entirely.

  By the time my mother and I parted ways, the crowd had thinned to only a few. Imagine my surprise when I saw Roscoe Lund, dressed in a fancy worsted three-piece suit, standing on the sidewalk, collecting snow on the brim of his fedora. He offered a big smile and approached me with his hands buried deep in his pockets. I held out my hand, but he didn’t bother shaking, and somehow, I’d known he wouldn’t.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Art.” He looked me up and down. “You look none the worse for wear.”

  “You’re looking pretty dapper yourself. What are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, you know. Pounding the pavement, looking for work. I think I might have something lined up.”

  “No kidding? What?”

  He shrugged an
d released a chuckle. “Mum’s the word. I don’t like to jinx anything. I guess you’re the hero of the hour.”

  “I guess so.”

  “The public doesn’t know what I know. You’re wet behind the ears, sonny.”

  His words stung me for a second, and I responded with a slow nod, as if feeling the truth of what he said. “Yeah, maybe so.”

  He paused thoughtfully. I worried another insult was coming. He surprised me. “But I’m happy for you, Art. Because one day, you’re gonna make a hell of a lawman.”

  He squinted up at the swirling clouds. “Goddamn March snow.” He lowered his head and winked. “See you around.”

  I watched him cross the street to a dark-colored sedan, get in, and drive away. Away to where, I can only guess.

  * * *

  The next day, a surprise awaited me at work.

  In the front reception area, Faye Meadows, a bobbed brunette with a thing for bright floral dresses, worked the switchboard. She arched her eyebrows when she saw me coming and said, “Hold on,” into her transmitter tube. She plucked the earphones off her head, rose, and hurried over to me, glancing into the waiting room. The last person I expected to see sitting on one of the waiting room’s benches was Scotty Alexander, but there he was, his flat cap pulled low, eyes swollen from tears, lower lip quivering, clutching a folded newspaper against his chest.

  “He was standing out front when I opened this morning,” she said softly. “Crying. I tried to console him, but no luck. He said he wanted to talk to you. I would’ve asked him to leave, but he’s just a kid. I don’t even know how he got here. I didn’t see any grown-ups with him.”

  “Did he say what he wants?”

  “Just that he wants to talk to you. Said he won’t leave until he does. I’m so sorry, Art. I didn’t know what—”

  “Don’t apologize,” I said, smiling reassuringly at Faye. “You did the right thing. I’ll have a word with him. See what he wants.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  I entered the bright waiting room, filled with natural light from arched windows. There were three pewlike benches in the room, and Scotty sat on one facing the windows. Some days the room was full of people, but not today. Scotty sat alone. When he saw me approaching, his face tightened with rage. He got on his feet, met me halfway, and handed me the folded newspaper. The front page of the Salt Lake Examiner greeted me with a banner headline, PFALZGRAF SLAYER KILLS SELF. Oval photos of Helen Pfalzgraf, smiling in her cloche hat and fur, and C. W. Alexander, lean-faced, hair slicked back, bow tie on—overlapped with a photo of the cabin where I found Alexander’s body. Adjacent to the main story was a small sidebar with a grainy image of me accepting my badge from Sheriff Fred Cannon. The headline on that story read SLEUTH IN PFALZGRAF CASE PROMOTED TO SENIOR DEPUTY.

  “Remember what you said?” Scotty had a hard time speaking through his sobs. “You said you wanted to help him! But you didn’t! You lied to me.”

  “Listen, maybe there’s somewhere we can sit down and talk—”

  “I don’t want to sit down! I don’t even want to look at you!”

  “I can explain what—”

  “You can’t explain anything! You’re a bad man! Just like Mr. Louis!”

  Hearing his breaking voice, seeing tears streaming down his cheeks, was more than I could take. I felt terrible. I folded the newspaper like it had been when he gave it to me and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. He yanked his shoulder free and ran over to one of the windows, leaned into the glass, and cried. He kept his back turned to me. I watched his body convulse.

  I eased closer until I stood next to him, and I let him get some of that crying out of his system before I said anything. I could tell he was a kid who needed to sob some of his pain away. I always understood that crying had tremendous healing powers, like sucking the poison out of a rattlesnake bite. Even so, seeing a kid cry because of something I did left me forlorn.

  “You have to believe me when I say that all of this has happened so quickly, my head is spinning,” I said. “I wanted to help your father—”

  He looked at me with red eyes. “He’s dead! You didn’t protect him, like you promised! Now the papers are saying he killed that lady! He couldn’t have! My dad never hurt anybody!”

  He shoved me in the chest. I didn’t expect it. He could really shove, young Scotty. I almost toppled on my hind end. Lucky for me I had fast reflexes. Only my Stetson fell on the floor.

  To give him more time to cry, I reached down and picked up my hat. “You’re right,” I said a minute later. “I didn’t protect him, but maybe there’s a way we can make things right.”

  “How? He’s dead! You can’t do anything to fix it!”

  “I can’t bring him back. That’s true. But I can do something else.”

  “What?”

  His crying let up, and he was blinking at me now. A good sign.

  “Let’s talk some more and see if I can come up with something,” I said. “You like ice cream?”

  He sniffed and let out a shaky exhale. “Who doesn’t?”

  His eyes dropped to my hat, which I held by the brim. He smiled and said, “I see you got a new one.”

  I smiled back. “C’mon. Let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice day out.”

  Our outdoor stroll took us to Keeley’s Ice Cream Parlor on Main Street. On the way, Scotty explained that he found the address of the sheriff’s office in the city directory at his grandparents’ house. He used a hammer to bust open his piggy bank to retrieve a dime for the early-morning transit bus. While he spoke, he kept staring up at the downtown buildings in amazement. He missed his home, he said, and wanted to return.

  At Keeley’s, we sat at a round corner table, and he must’ve broken a speed record with his banana split. I sat back and let him munch away. He came to the end and scraped the glass dish with his spoon to get the last of it.

  “Aren’t you going to have one?” he asked, wiping chocolate off his face with a paper napkin.

  “Awfully tempting, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Best breakfast I’ve ever had!”

  I posed a long-shot question. “Is there anything you can tell me about your dad? Anything that might help me clear his name?”

  He stared thoughtfully at the hanging lights above. “He was left-handed.”

  “What?”

  “I overheard my mom telling my grandma and grandpa yesterday that my dad was left-handed. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but the way she said it, was like it was real important.”

  I instantly thought of that revolver in Alexander’s right hand, but I spared Scotty the gruesome detail. “That’s helpful. Is there anything else?”

  He nodded. “The last time he called me on the telephone, he told me he wanted me to get good grades in school and listen to Mom and help take care of my sister. And just before he hung up, he said, ‘I keep my cans in the hurricane.’”

  I looked down at my hat on the table and considered the words. I keep my cans in the hurricane. What on earth? My eyes shot back up to Scotty, who waited expectantly, perhaps for me to say something that would help him understand his final conversation with his father. I sighed. “He didn’t say anything else?”

  Scotty’s facial features loosened, and there was no missing his disappointment. “I guess you don’t know what it means?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t. I’ll try to find out for you, though.”

  I led Scotty to the telephone booth and dropped a dime in the phone box so he could call his mother and tell her he’d be home soon. We walked together over to the bus depot, and there a Beehive transit bus idled before its trip to Bountiful in five minutes. I bought his ticket, made sure he got on board safely, and paid the driver an extra dollar to deliver Scotty safely right in front of his house.

  From the sidewalk I waved to him, and he waved to me, as the bus drove away from the depot, heading north for Bountiful.

  * * *
/>   “Oveson! May I speak to you for a moment?”

  Sheriff Cannon stood in front of his office beaming, opened the timepiece attached to his vest by a gold chain, and turned around. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  I followed him into his office—that colossal office, larger than a Ringling Brothers circus tent—and sat in my usual chair, opposite Cannon. His wide smile made me wonder if his facial muscles ever got tired. All that smiling must be exhausting, I thought. Sykes perched at his favorite spot, his sourpuss expression unchanging with my entrance. I squirmed in the chair until I was as comfortable as I was going to get, kicking my right leg over my left knee, jiggling my foot, admiring the blue sky through the arched windows. The dailies covered Cannon’s desk, all celebrating the outcome of the Pfalzgraf case with triumphant headlines. He held up a local newspaper so I could see the words: SHERIFF’S OFFICE SOLVES PFALZGRAF MURDER.

  “I’m getting this one framed,” he said. He turned it toward his face and gave a prideful nod. “Ain’t she a beaut?”

  “That’s a swell headline, sir.”

  “That it is, Oveson. That it is.” He folded the paper and tossed it on his desk. “This is precisely the outcome I was hoping for with this case. The people of Salt Lake City once again feel safe. And when they feel good, I feel good. All of us owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  Cannon looked at Sykes. “Always so modest. You can tell it’s not an act.”

  “He’s the genuine article,” said Sykes.

  Cannon looked at me. “The office at the end of the hall is yours. The man from the sign company is coming today to paint your name on the door. Arthur J. Oveson. Senior deputy. What a nice ring that has to it.”