City of Saints

by Andrew Hunt

  “It was good of you to promote me, sir. I don’t deserve it—”

  “So! How are you going to spend that reward money?” Cannon leaned forward and whispered loudly, “You gonna give me my cut?”

  He burst into laughter and looked at Sykes, who stretched his mouth into a smile.

  Cannon’s laughter died down, and he said under his breath, “My cut. That’s rich.” He cleared his throat and got official. “How do you plan to spend it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll see.”

  Cannon nodded with bobbing eyebrows. “I get it. You have to consult with the missus first. Not only is he a good egg, Sykes. He’s pragmatic.”

  “I think the expression I’ve used before is ‘levelheaded,’” said Sykes.

  “That’s why I keep Sykes around. To expand my vocabulary.” Cannon’s lips curled up into a smile again, and he said, “I’ve called you in here to tell you that I’ve changed the description of your new job. You’re now the public liaison.”

  “Public liaison?”

  “Yes. You’re the human face of the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office. In that capacity, you’ll go out and speak to civic groups, churches, schools, and you’ll keep men, women, and children posted about the wonderful things we’re doing in this office to safeguard lives and property. Understand?”

  I nodded. “Sir, I’d like to—”

  “No need to thank me, Oveson. You’re a natural for it. We’ve needed a position like that in this office for a long time. I wish I could take credit for creating it, but it’s Sykes’s idea. I always give credit where credit is due. Don’t I, Al?”

  “That you do,” said Sykes.

  “Sir,” I said, trying to conceal my trembling voice, “with your permission, I’d like to continue investigating the Pfalzgraf homicide.”

  Silence—thick as molasses. Cannon’s smile went away, and his eyebrows twitched. No amount of squirming on my part alleviated the uneasiness I felt at that moment.

  “Come again?” asked Cannon.

  “This Alexander suicide stinks,” I said. “He’s left-handed, but the gun was in his right hand. He didn’t own a .45, but that’s the type of gun he used. There’s no typewriter at his cabin—”

  “He could’ve typed that note at his work,” said Cannon. “Remember, he had Helen’s wedding ring and locket on him.”

  I shook my head. “Those could’ve been planted. He misspelled Helen Pfalzgraf’s last name, even though they were supposed to be intimate. Here’s the really strange part: A man stopped by his in-laws’ house a few days before me looking for him—a man named Sam Louis. Louis is also connected to the Everett Wooley homicide in Ogden a year and a half ago. I suspect this Louis fellow had a hand in Alexander’s—”

  “Hold on.” Cannon stood up, circled his desk, walked past me, and closed his office door. He returned to his chair and sat down. “The sensitive nature of this conversation calls for privacy.”

  I said, “Thanks. With your blessing, I’d like to—”

  “Permission denied,” said Cannon.

  “What?” I asked. “With all due respect—why, sir?”

  Sykes said, “Haven’t you read the papers? The case is closed. It’s been solved.”

  “Helen Pfalzgraf’s murderer is still out there,” I said. “I know it.”

  Cannon’s friendly gaze went nasty glare on me real fast. “Look, Oveson, the people of Salt Lake City wanted swift justice in this case. I don’t mind telling you I think this investigation lasted longer than it should’ve, but it’s a done deal now. Alexander confessed to the murder. He killed himself. The case is closed. I can tell you right now the voters in this county won’t be happy if they find out we’re reopening a murder investigation I said was solved.”

  I said, “That’s just it. It hasn’t been solved. Not yet.”

  Sykes said, “What exactly are you proposing, Oveson?”

  I looked at Sykes. “I want to find out who this Sam Louis is. I want to talk to Dr. Pfalzgraf. Campaign donation or not, I want to ask him questions about the death of his first wife. I want to get to the bottom of how Dr. Wooley’s murder connects with all of this—”

  “I know what this is all about,” said Cannon. “You’ve been working hard on this case, and now that it’s solved, you don’t want it to be over. I suspect you’d like to relive a little of your glory from the past few days. Heck, that’s to be expected. But this case is over, and I’m ordering you to drop it and move on to your new position as public liaison.”

  I said, “But—”

  “Oveson,” said Cannon, frowning now. “Don’t do this. OK. I’m being civil. Don’t make me angry. I like you. You’re a good fellow, and your presence in this office improves the general state of affairs greatly. But if I have to, I’ll let you go. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He signed. “Now, before you go, I got a call from a Mrs. Lorlene Kelley at…” He read from a pink message slip. “Hawthorne Elementary on Seventh. She’d like you to come and talk to the students at an assembly on Friday morning. She wants you to give a general safety spiel—you know, crossing at crosswalks, avoiding strangers, going straight home after school. All that jazz. I hope you don’t mind. I said yes for you.”

  I stood up and put my hands in my pockets. “This Friday?”

  “Ten A.M.” He blinked at me a few times, but his smile remained on hiatus. “That’s all, Oveson. You may go now.”

  With that reward of ten G’s, I could tell Sheriff Cannon where to go, I thought. Alas, I was better at imagining myself as a tough guy than actually being one. Timidity visited me, poured himself a glass of milk, propped his feet on the ottoman, and made himself right at home. I left Cannon’s office, tail between my legs, thanking him for promoting me to public liaison, yet feeling a painful sting somewhere inside.

  * * *

  I awoke at half past one and could not get back to sleep. Clara slept beside me in a long-sleeve flannel nightgown, breathing gently. I lay on my back for ten minutes, staring at the ceiling and listening to a distant locomotive whistle. I got out of bed and crossed the hallway into Sarah Jane’s room to check on her. Same as her mom—out like a light. I poked my head in Hi’s room and found him sleeping in his crib. I pulled the blankets higher on him and ran my hand over his downy hair. A mobile of farm animals hung from the ceiling above his bed. I tapped a cow and the rest jumped up and down and danced in circles, eventually slowing down. I left before they came to a halt.

  In the kitchen, I lit the gas stove and heated a pan of milk. I poured the warm milk into a mug, sat down with a pencil and spiral notepad, and began jotting notes. Sam Louis, I wrote, then I drew a horizontal arrow, followed by the name Dr. Everett Wooley. A second arrow, this one diagonal, went from “Sam Louis” to C. W. Alexander. Above this very rudimentary schematic, I wrote Harmony Tattershall with a question mark beside her last name and circled it. Considine told me about Harmony. Pfalzgraf had filed a complaint on her behalf against Dr. Wooley. There was no telephone number for her with the city operator or in the phone book, but maybe there was another way of finding her. One thing was certain, though: It wasn’t going to happen at this hour of the morning.

  I opted to go back to bed. I capped the milk bottle and carried it back to the icebox. Clara had taped a newspaper article with my picture to the icebox door. The headline read, DEPUTY SLEUTH IN PFALZGRAF CASE PROMOTED. The grainy picture showed me shaking hands with Sheriff Fred Cannon in a press ceremony at the county jail. I opened the icebox and put the milk on the top shelf, closed the door, and saw the article again. DEPUTY SLEUTH. I shook my head and sighed. This sleuth was going take another shot at sawing logs.

  Fifteen

  There was no way humanly possible that someone searching for the Salt Lake County General Hospital could miss it. White, three stories, with elaborate cornices along the top, long rows of rectangular windows, and marble-columned front steps, i
t was by far the largest building on 2100 South State, a newly developed area at the city’s southern boundary with lots of eyesore billboards, thick utility poles, and cheap restaurants that weren’t much more than glorified shacks under shade trees. In the late afternoon, I sat in my car, parked in the lot south of the building, thumbing through an issue of Real Mystery Stories. I glanced at my wristwatch—4:45—then watched the entrance, people coming and going. Earlier that afternoon, I had driven all the way down here to see Dr. Pfalzgraf and ask him about the murder of his wife. I knew the doctor worked a shift until five o’clock in the evening, and I sat there working up the nerve to confront him as he was leaving the building.

  Thumbing through Real Mystery Stories, I came to Seymour Considine’s latest installment on the Pfalzgraf murder. The story contained no surprises. It was about what one would expect from such a lurid magazine. He wrote florid dispatches, full of fifty-cent words and artist’s renditions of key moments in the Pfalzgraf case. One illustration showed Helen Kent Pfalzgraf (poorly rendered) in the center of a big heart, surrounded by the Persian prince, C. W. Alexander, and Dr. Pfalzgraf.

  My eyes wandered down to the prose: “Dear Reader, one can only imagine the terror that Helen felt as her attacker raised that chunk of ore high and it came down, splitting the top of her skull. The diabolical caitiff who committed this ghastly crime realized Helen might not be dead, so he dragged her through the snow and mud and dropped her to the bitter cold earth. Then, sensing this was the time to strike, he got behind the wheel of her posh Cadillac, revved the engine and shifted to ‘drive.’ The car roared forward and Helen—poor Helen—feasted her eyes on an oncoming pair of yellow lights, barreling toward her at high speed. Then came the smack of the bumper against her skull, a crunch reminiscent of a cracking eggshell, the blow of blows! No piece of ore could do this sort of damage to the human head, no matter how forceful the attacker’s arm!”

  “Caitiff?” I said out loud, making a face. “I’ll have to look that one up.”

  I rolled the magazine into a tube and tossed it on the seat next to me. My timing was perfect. I watched Dr. Pfalzgraf pass through the hospital doors, shadowed by Floyd Samuelson in his black security guard getup. On the opposite side of the parking lot, they reached the doc’s car, a dark blue Essex sedan, and Samuelson opened the back door for him. I stuck closely to the Essex’s red taillights, heading northbound on State. We stayed on the wide street all the way to the Brooks Arcade at the 300 South and State intersection. I turned left at 300, flipped a U-turn, and parked next to the curb, which gave me a view of the alley behind the building where Floyd parked Pfalzgaf’s car.

  The Brooks Arcade was a queer place, a sprawling center of commerce that offered a little bit of everything: a millinery, a cigar shop, a dressmaking school where women could buy cheap clothing, a sandwich joint, a studio specializing in pricey china, a men’s clothier, the Politz Candy Company (which I happened to know sponsored a basketball team in a local league that played Thursdays at the police gymnasium), and a plethora of offices—doctors, lawyers, dentists. Outside, dusk brought shadows, but there was still enough light for me to see Doc Pfalzgraf going in the Brooks Arcade through the service entrance, tailed closely by Floyd.

  I got out of my car, jogged across the street, and headed down the alley until I reached the heavy steel door. I grabbed the handle and shook it. Locked. I hurried around the building to the State Street entrance, passed under a green and white awning, and shoved a door with chicken-wire glass. In the lobby, I went straight to the glass-case directory, and my eyes dropped to DR. H. PFALZGRAF, ROOM 268.

  The second floor had green carpeting with tan patterns and elegant brass-and-glass light fixtures on the ceiling. All the doors were oak with pebbled glass and serif black-and-gold lettering. It was a long hall, and I eventually turned right and kept walking until I reached a door that read, DR. H. PFALZGRAF, MD. Below that: OBSTETRICS AND GYNECOLOGY. I jiggled the knob. Locked again. I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and Floyd poked his head out.

  “Art!”

  “Howdy, Floyd. How’s every little thing?”

  He was shocked to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to talk to Dr. Pfalzgraf.”

  “About what?”

  “I have some questions—”

  “Look, Art, if this is about the reward—”

  “This has nothing to do with the reward. I won’t take up much of his time. I’m putting the finishing touches on the Mrs. Pfalzgraf matter, and I have a few routine questions before I close the case for good.”

  “This isn’t a good time, Art.” His voice shook with panic, and his face turned marshmallowy. “Couldn’t you come back again later? Please…”

  “What’s wrong, Floyd? I don’t see why Pfalzgraf can’t take a few minutes out of his day and answer a couple of questions.”

  “Art, I’d consider it a personal favor to me if you’d scram and call him another time, when he doesn’t have so much work to catch up on.”

  I tilted right to see if I could catch any sign of Pfalzgraf behind Floyd, but he also moved right (or to his left, I should say), blocking my line of vision. A slant to my left produced the same result. Dr. Pfalzgraf wasn’t in the anteroom. He must have been back in his office, or perhaps one of the patient rooms. I ran my fingers through my hair and looked down at Floyd’s spiffy patent leather shoes, which almost seemed nailed to the floor. At that moment, I needed Roscoe to rattle the gate for me, to strong-arm Floyd into letting us waltz inside the office to have a word with the doctor. While Roscoe was at it, he could shove Pfalzgraf against a nearby wall and twist his arm for answers. My attack dog was gone, though, and Sheriff Cannon had made it clear he didn’t want me touching this case, so I aimed for the lower-profile approach. No tough talk. No warning about judges swearing out warrants. The moment called for tact.

  I said, “Maybe you can tell the doc I stopped by and I’ll come back later.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Art.”

  He stepped back and slammed the door. His footsteps faded on the other side.

  The Floyd Samuelson I knew—showing off pictures of his son, making small talk about the weather and his job—was nowhere to be seen. This was another Floyd altogether, a version I’d never seen before: agitated, frightened, eager to get rid of me. Something was up.

  * * *

  I consulted with the city directory I kept in the trunk of my car, turning straight to the T’s. Tanner, Parley. Arlington Drive. My eyebrows shot up. Ritzy address, I thought.

  Tanner lived in Federal Heights, the most affluent neighborhood in Salt Lake City—probably in the entire state—and a short drive from the Pfalzgraf mansion. Rumor had it the real estate developers shipped in the tallest trees they could find and planted them on both sides of the road. The Tanner house surpassed my wildest expectations. Parking across the street, I pegged it at five thousand square feet, with two of everything: two doors, two chimneys, two stories, two columns on the porch, and two gardens, not yet humming with life because of the cold weather, divided by a concrete walkway. It was probably suppertime, but I cared more about this investigation than about interrupting the Tanner family’s dinner. I stepped up on the porch, balled my hand into a fist, and pounded on the outer screen door. I pushed the doorbell. Chimes clanged.

  A gray-suited servant showed me to the living room. A framed oil painting of a woman as tall as me hung above the hearth. If there is such a thing as being too pretty, the woman in the painting would be a candidate: golden hair styled into a wavy bob, blue eyes, a thin swan’s neck, a jutting chin with a dimple, and a white summer dress with pearls and lace and a low V-neck. In the fireplace, flames danced and crackled and spit sparks. Hundreds of books—their spines colored black and green, maroon and brown, many with gold lettering—covered the entire wall from floor to ceiling. There was a French theme to the room, from a knotted pile carpet to the four Louis XVI chairs. Candlelike lighting fix
tures lined the walls, and there was lots of dark cherry woodwork.

  In walked Parley Tanner wearing duds that for anyone else would’ve been extravagant but for him were informal: a green wool sweater, white oxford underneath, brown corduroys, and brown leather slippers lined with soft fur. Behind him was a woman who bore a haunting resemblance to the one in the oil painting, only older and with hair that was curlier and grayer. She wore a brown tunic and dress with tan dots splashed all over both and a matching bow tie at the neckline. The dress was tiered, and I bet the outfit must have set her back a small fortune. She probably had to go overseas—Paris, I’m guessing—to get it. She had a Mona Lisa smile, and she passed her husband and extended her hand to me. I squeezed it gently, but she didn’t squeeze back.

  “Miriam Tanner,” she said. “And you are?”

  “Art Oveson.” I wasn’t used to saying my new rank, senior deputy. Art Oveson would have to suffice for now. “We’ve met, Mr. Tanner.”

  “Yes, hello again, Art,” said Parley Tanner. “I meant to call and congratulate you on a masterful job of solving the Pfalzgraf case.” I thanked him, and he said, “Very well done. Executed brilliantly in every respect. Please, let us sit.”

  Following handshakes, we fanned out and each chose a Louis XVI chair.

  I sniffed the air. The aroma of cooking food warmed my body.

  “You’re welcome to join us for dinner,” said Miriam. “It’s just Parley and me. We’re having a roast I prepared.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, but I don’t intend to intrude,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t be intruding,” she said. “Please join us.”

  “Much obliged, ma’am, but my wife and children are expecting me home in a little while.”

  The Mona Lisa smile widened subtly. “Of course. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Perhaps another time? Ever since Elizabeth left us, it’s just been Parley and me. We always end up with leftovers in the icebox.”

  “They make for great lunches the next day,” said Parley with a grin and a wink.