by Andrew Hunt
I needed a Dictaphone. Fast. Time to use one of my connections. I lifted the telephone receiver and thumbed the cradle up and down.
A woman’s voice said, “Operator?”
“Sheriff’s office, Salt Lake County, please.”
“Hold the line, please. I’ll ring that number.”
Two rings—like cat purrs—and a woman’s voice came on the other line. “Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Faye?”
“Speaking?”
“It’s me, Art Oveson.”
“Art, how are you?”
“Great, and how’s every little thing on your end?”
“I’ve had better, I’ve had worse. Still breathing and that counts for something. We miss you around here. It’s not the same anymore without your face brightening the place.”
“That’s kind. I miss you, too, Faye. I’ve got a favor to ask you…”
“Yeah?” She paused for a moment, perhaps expecting me to ask in that quiet patch. She prodded, “Out with it.”
“Cannon has a Dictaphone in his office…”
“For dictating memos. What of it?”
“I’d like to borrow it.”
Dead silence. “Faye?”
“I’m here. He doesn’t want you around here anymore, Art.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why it has to be done on the hush. I need to come in and clear all my belongings out of my old office anyway. How about I kill two birds with one stone—listen to the cylinders with Cannon’s Dictaphone, then box up all my stuff.”
She took a deep breath on the other end. “I don’t know about this, Art…”
“I figure he usually takes a long lunch at Lamb’s Grill with Sykes. Right? I’ll mosey in while he’s gone, play these things, and leave before he comes back.”
“Oh, Art, I’ll probably regret this…”
“I’ll see to it that you don’t. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“If you get caught, I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Okay. Deal.”
Ten minutes later, I stood in the sheriff’s office, chin-wagging with Faye at the front desk. She led me to Cannon’s office and switched on the lights, and the ceiling fans started spinning. The office didn’t look as colossal with Cannon and Sykes away. A breeze blew through open arched windows, and birdsong mixed with streetcar bells, traffic cop whistles, and car horns.
“You have till twelve fifty-five,” she said.
“Tell you what: I’ll be out at twelve fifty,” I said.
She winced at the sight of the cuts on my arm and neck. “You look pretty banged up.”
“I was a little careless in my exploring,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
She laughed and pulled the twin doors closed. I pulled up a chair and sat down beside a rectangular black machine that had a tube and funnel jutting out of it. I checked the combination chamber and speaker on top, and it was empty, so I removed the first of the cylinders from its cardboard container and slipped it inside the machine. I pressed a button on top of the machine, and the speaker cracked and hissed.
Considine’s voice came on, and he introduced C. W. Alexander. The recorded discussion lasted about a half hour, with Alexander briefly touching on his childhood, early career as a miner, and recent years as a speculator. It was mostly quite dull. The interesting part came about twenty minutes into the interview. I turned the volume knob on the side as high as it would go.
“Tell me, Mr. Alexander, why you are hiding in this cabin.”
“I’ve been framed. They’re trying to make it look like I killed Helen.”
“Who’s they?”
“The people responsible for her murder.”
“People? More than one person was involved?” There was no answer from Alexander. “Was more than one person involved?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I would rather not say.”
“But you had nothing to do—”
“God, no. I loved her. I wanted to start a family with her.”
“Rumor has it she was going to leave you, and you—”
“Stop right there! Hold on just a damn second. I had nothing to do with killing Helen. I tell you, I’ve been framed!”
“Who’s framing you?”
“Helen’s killer.”
“Dr. Pfalzgraf?”
“I’d rather not say…”
Alexander described his final outing with Helen Pfalzgraf the night she was murdered. He said they drove to the top of the Avenues and watched the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake Valley spread out for thirty miles. Then they motored out to the countryside in search of a more secluded spot. Their romantic time together turned ugly. They quarreled, and she asked him to take her home. He told Considine that he dropped her off at the Pfalzgraf mansion and she was alive when he last saw her.
“If you don’t believe me, Seymour, ask that security guard fellow at Pfalzgraf’s house. He was there.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Damn. What was his name?” There was the sound of snapping fingers. “Floyd! Ask him. When I dropped her off, he was there. He opened the gate. He’s my witness. I don’t think the sheriff’s people or the police have talked to him yet—”
I backed up the Dictaphone a few seconds and pressed PLAY.
“Floyd! Ask him. When I dropped her off, he was there. He opened the gate. He’s my witness…”
The interview played for several more minutes. C. W. admitted using Pfalzgraf’s movies and sound recordings to blackmail others. “I wish I hadn’t done it,” he said. “I know I’ve fouled things up, painted myself in a corner, but I’m so scared, and I don’t know how to make things right again.” He discussed hiding out in his cabin and the toll it was taking on him and his family. “I’m considering giving up to the police,” he said. “Maybe they’ll give me a square deal. I know Sheriff Cannon won’t. He’s out to nail me, regardless of what I’ve done.”
The machine buzzed, ending the recording. I popped out the cylinder and slipped it in its case.
In went the next one. Let’s see what Twyla Smoot has to say.
“Please identify yourself…”
“Twyla Smoot.”
Her voice was soft, and on a few occasions, Considine had to ask her to speak louder and closer to the microphone.
“And your address?”
“I’m not saying.”
“As you wish. Do you know why I’ve requested this interview?”
“I think so.”
Silence for a moment, but their breathing was audible in the background.
“Why?”
“Something to do with my old job as a nurse in Dr. Wooley’s Ogden clinic.”
“That’s right. What can you tell me about that experience?”
“I’d prefer not to talk about it.”
“This is your chance to tell the world about your ordeal, to set the record straight. And I promised you fifty dollars if you cooperated…”
“I can use the money.” She paused. “I came to work for Wooley in the fall…”
“This would’ve been ’27?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’d just finished the nursing program.”
“Yeah. I had two daughters to feed. My husband ran out on us, the worthless—”
“What kind of fellow was he?”
“My husband? A failure if ever there was—”
“No. Wooley.”
“Oh. Him. He drank a lot. He made passes at me. He loved to cop feels under the table. He wanted me to give him head, but I wouldn’t. I woulda quit, but I needed the money.”
“What was the doctor’s specialty, medically speaking?”
“I’m not even sure he was a real doctor. A quack is what he was. He’d scramble any lady with a hundred bucks. No questions asked. If a woman was desperate and didn’t have the money, he might cut her a deal after she sucked his cock. Sorry about the foul talk.”
>
“I’ve heard his surgeries have killed a few women.”
“I can name seven off the top of my head.”
“Go ahead. Please.”
“You want me to say their names?”
“Yes, please, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“You’re the first person who’s ever shown an interest.” She paused for a half minute. “Uh, let’s see. There was, uh, Esther Bowers. And Georgia Wright. And Maria … Maria … Oh, darn, I can’t remember. She had a Mexican name. Sanchez, I think it was. Maria Sanchez. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was it. Anyway, there was her and Zella Farr and Myrtle Vincent and Edith Dahlquist. What is that? Six?” Considine said, “Yes,” in the background. “There was another one.”
“Drawing a blank?”
“It’ll come to me.”
“Give it a minute and maybe you’ll—”
“Tanner! That was her name! Elizabeth Tanner.”
“Can you tell me more about her?”
“Who?”
“Tanner.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The name sounds familiar. Who was she?”
“I don’t know. The daughter of some big-shot lawyer.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
“Not really. I don’t know why in tarnation she came to see Wooley. Her parents were rich, friends of Dr. Pfalzgraf. The rich ladies went to see Pfalzgraf. The poor showed up on our doorstep. Elizabeth was the only well-off person I ever met.”
“Why do you think Elizabeth didn’t go to Dr. Pfalzgraf?”
“I asked her that, after she told me who she was.”
“What’d she say?”
“Her beau got her pregnant, and she was frightened of her parents and his parents finding out. She went to Pfalzgraf first.”
“How do you know this? Did she tell you this?”
“She told me while Dr. Wooley was outta the room. She was nervous. I tried to comfort her. You shoulda seen her. She was shaking like a leaf.”
“So Pfalzgraf refused her an abortion because…”
“He said he loved her parents too much to do it. So Elizabeth went to Wooley, and he charged her a hundred and stuck dirty metal in her.”
“Did she die in his clinic?”
“No. She was fine when her cousin picked her up. She died a few days later.”
“Her cousin was with her at Wooley’s clinic?”
“Yep. Waited in the waiting room and everything.”
“What was her name?”
“Him.”
“Sorry. Him.”
“Sam. I can’t recollect his last name. I quit a month before Wooley was shot. I moved outta Ogden with my daughters. I like this town better. I don’t look back. After Wooley was murdered, I heard a rumor that Elizabeth’s cousin Sam was the one done the killing—”
The Dictaphone buzzed, startling me. I ejected the cylinder and placed it inside its case. I ran my hand over the Dictaphone, and it was hot to the touch. I grabbed hold of my cylinders and darted out of Cannon’s office. I entered my office, former office now, flipping lights on and placing an empty storage box on the desk. I began emptying the contents from the drawers—all mine because employees had to furnish their own office supplies—and loaded up a box, and when it was almost full, I added the framed wall pictures of my family and the Salt Lake Temple to the top. A wave of sadness hit me as I finished packing, and for a moment I considered crawling on my hands and knees to Cannon and pleading for my old job back.
Thankfully, that moment passed.
The door squeaked open. Floyd Samuelson, of all people, poked his head in a little ways. His face beamed with all the joy of the cat who caught the mouse. “Hello, Art! I didn’t think I’d see you in here! I heard you were … you know…”
“Fired? Yep. I was. I’m here to collect my belongings.”
“What a shame,” he said. “You’re fired and I’m hired, all at the same time.”
“No kidding?” I said, genuinely happy for him. “Congratulations!”
I rose to shake his hand, and as I crossed toward him, he stepped inside to meet me halfway. When we shook, his grip was unusually tight. “I owe it all to you, Art,” he said. “I wouldn’t have applied if you hadn’t mentioned it. Guess I was tired of that Pfalzgraf detail. I needed a change of scenery.”
“That’s swell, Floyd,” I said. “I’m happy for you. Really I am.”
“Thanks, Art,” he said. His eyes widened, and he reached for his billfold. “I’ve got a new picture of Bert, taken at our family reunion last week.”
I noticed his left hand was wrapped in gauze and white medical tape, with a tiny maroon blood spot on it. I had a difficult time concealing my shock. He held the wallet in front of me with his bandaged hand, and I struggled to focus on his boy dressed in a springtime church outfit.
“This was taken in Payson. Look how fast he’s growing.” He saw me staring at his hand and gave his wallet a wiggle. “See, Art. Right here. Ain’t he something? My Bert! We bought him that outfit especially for this reunion.”
I forced myself to look at Floyd’s crooked mouth. “He’s something, alright,” I finally said. “I can see why you’re so proud of him.”
Floyd dropped his gauze-wrapped hand behind his back as he tucked his billfold away with his other hand. It wasn’t my imagination: He began shaking and licking his lips, and his larynx wiggled. “I reckon I best get going. Gee, it’s swell to see you again, Art.”
“You, too.”
He nodded and kept his left hand out of sight. “I only wish we could work together. I know we’d make great partners.”
“Yeah.”
“See you around, I hope.”
“See you around, Floyd.”
He closed the door behind him. I fell into a swivel chair. I jabbed the red button on my desk intercom. Faye’s voice crackled over the speaker: “Yes?”
I pushed the TRANSMIT button and said, “One last thing before I go.”
Hiss-pop. “Yes?”
PUSH. “Is it alright if I take a look at Floyd Samuelson’s job application?”
“You’re not supposed to, now that you don’t work here any longer—but maybe I can pull a few strings. Hold on.”
A few minutes later, Faye entered and placed his job application form on the desk in front of me. My eyes went straight to his handwritten name at the top of the page. “FIRST NAME: Louis—MIDDLE NAME: Floyd—LAST NAME: Samuelson.” I covered the middle name with my index finger. Louis Samuelson. Reverse it: Sam Louis. I looked up at Faye. She was staring at me.
“Everything OK?” she asked.
I nodded and gave her the application. “Yep.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes. I think I did.”
She started to leave, then stopped at the door and faced me. “Maybe this November the voters will … Well, you know. Maybe you can get your old job back.”
“Thanks, Faye,” I said. “I guess we’ll see what happens.”
Twenty-five
A chill evening wind whistled through the streets of Salt Lake City as I steered my car into the parking lot of the local Mormon ward building where I attended church on Sundays. Tonight was Tuesday, not Sunday, so the parking lot was mostly empty, except for the blue ’28 Oldsmobile parked near the entrance to the building. With the end of March approaching, the days were getting longer, and only the most defiant clumps of snow remained. I parked my car next to the Olds and went inside the ward, an austere brick building with a steeple out front. The door to the building was propped open with a chair, and when I went inside, I pulled the chair in with me and the door clicked lock-shut. The hallways were dimly lit, and my footsteps on the carpet made almost no noise. I reached the gymnasium, with its open doors and bright lights, and my ears were greeted by the squeak of shoes against shiny wood and a dribbling basketball echoing from one side o
f the high-ceilinged room to the other. Stepping inside, I watched Buddy Hawkins in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and athletic shoes running down the court and shooting a basketball into the hoop. The ball rolled around the rim and sank into the basket. I clapped, and Buddy lunged for a rebound and faced me.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I figured this is a familiar place for both of us. We see each other here every Sunday. Fine location to shoot the breeze.”
“I didn’t know you were such a good basketball player.”
“You can’t play basketball in those,” he said, eyeing my weatherbeaten black shoes. He looked at my clothes—trousers, coat, dress shirt underneath—and shook his head. “I told you I wanted to play you.”
I took a few steps into the gym, and he tossed me the basketball. I caught it and dribbled a couple of times. “I’m afraid I’m not any good.”
“Take a shot.”
“Nah. I’ve got fallen arches. I can’t run the way you—”
“Go up to the line and shoot, Art. Just give it a try.”
I walked up to the free-throw line, raised the ball over my head, and hurled it. It sailed above the backboard, hit the brick wall behind it, and came rolling back toward us. Buddy shrugged as he retrieved the ball. “Like anything, it takes practice.”
He dribbled a few times, turned, and took a shot. The ball went in. He rebounded it and took another shot. It went in again. Show-off, I thought. He stopped and walked to me, cradling the basketball in his arms. Perspiration covered his face, and a damp circle had formed on his sweatshirt. He stopped a few feet away and tossed the ball gently to me, and I caught it.
He said, “We’ve known each other how long?”
“A while.”
“That’s right. We see each other every Sunday. Our kids go to the same school. One might even describe us as friends. Or at least on friendly terms.”
I stared down at the brown leather ball and pressed my fingertips into it, wondering where this conversation was going.
He continued, “I’ve got this funny notion—and, please, correct me if I’m mistaken—that you know a great deal about the Pfalzgraf homicide. More than you’re letting on. Now, if you were to cooperate with me, I’d cooperate with you. I know you’re out of work. I can help fix that. But to do that, I need you to help me. See, Art, I’m beginning to think that all of these recent homicides around here—Helen Pfalzgraf, C. W. Alexander, Seymour Considine, and the attempt on Roscoe Lund—are connected.”
