I set a tape recorder on the desk between us. “Walter, I’m not at all sure I should be here. You are represented by counsel. He’s not present, and I suspect he doesn’t know you asked to see me. Am I correct about that?”
He shook his head. “The machine can’t hear you nod,” I said. “You’ve got to give me an audible yea or nay.”
“No, Mr. Dixon doesn’t know that I asked to see you.” Glancing at the recorder, he continued, “And is that thing really necessary?”
“Afraid so. We’re going to have to play this one by the book. The tape provides a precise record of our conversation—nothing to interpret, no subtle nuances. It protects us both.”
I went over the Miranda warnings with him, unsure of whether an incriminating statement would be admissible even with a waiver of his constitutional rights. When I finished that little tete-a-tete, I asked the obvious question: “Walter, you requested this meeting so I assume you had a reason. What did you want to see me about?”
“I wanted to give you a gift,” he said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I frowned. “A gift. What kind of gift? What are you talking about, Walter?”
“You’ve been trying to solve the murder of Arnold Ginsberg, and from what I can see, you aren’t having much success. That’s because you’ve been looking in the wrong place. You believe members of my church committed the crime, and they didn’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got my undivided attention. So what is the ‘right place’ for us to look?”
He gave me exasperated look like maybe I’d just fallen off the back of a turnip truck. “I’m surprised you can’t see it. It’s right in front of your nose. I, and my followers, are being framed for the Ginsberg killing by members of the FLDS church on the orders of Warren Jeffs.”
“So, you’re suggesting that the Ginsberg murder was carried out by members of the FLDS church. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Them, or perhaps agents acting on their behalf.”
“Agents, what do you mean?”
“The murder could have been carried out by members of the FLDS church, but more likely, it was committed by an agent, someone sympathetic to the cause acting at their beck-and-call.”
“You mean a hired gun, someone like Porter Rockwell who defended the LDS faithful during the nineteenth century. Is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded.
“It’s nice conjecture, Walter, but that’s all it is unless you can provide proof.”
“What kind of proof do you need?”
“Any kind. An eyewitness would be nice. Do you have any specifics for me—like the names of the people involved? That would be good.”
He just looked at me but didn’t answer.
I decided to try and keep him talking. “This is all well and good, Walter, but without specifics, it’s nothing more than speculation on your part. And frankly, your own motives are a bit suspect, don’t you think? Why should anyone believe you?”
“What makes you say that?” his tone sounding slightly defensive.
“It’s no secret that many of your early crimes and those committed by your followers were directed against the FLDS church, I guess more specifically, FLDS church property. What made you turn against the members of your own church?”
He paused before answering as if carefully trying to measure his words. “I didn’t turn against members of my own church, Mr. Kincaid. Instead, I chose to punish the FLDS church leadership for inflicting unjust suffering upon the faithful. I was directed to do so in a revelation from the Lord.”
Sounded like a crock of shit to me.
“Well, that certainly is convenient, the revelation part I mean. I guess you had to come up with some way to justify committing so many thefts, burglaries, hell, even a couple of arsons.”
“Believe what you will, Mr. Kincaid, but my people are not responsible for most of the crimes you just mentioned. You have no idea how much anger and resentment, much of it directed at Warren Jeffs, lies just under the surface—even among the FLDS faithful.”
“Perhaps I don’t. Care to enlighten me?”
“What occurred with the passing of the Prophet Rulon Jeffs was nothing short of a pure power grab by his son, Warren. For the first time in church history, governance passed not to the next most worthy senior man, but from father to son, almost like royalty.”
“That’s what’s made you so angry, angry enough to leave the church, and angry enough to commit crimes against it?” I hoped that my open ended responses, feigned interest in his ramblings, and apparent bewilderment would keep him talking. It did.
“Warren Jeffs destroyed families, and he did so with utter disregard for the consequences and the costs in real human lives. Did you know, Mr. Kincaid, that after his power-grab, Warren permanently banished hundreds of boys and young men from the church, some as young as thirteen? And he did so based on false accusations in some cases, and minor infractions in others?”
“Like what he did to your family?” I said.
For the first time, I saw emotion from this man—tears welling in his eyes. He nodded but didn’t say anything. I moved on.
“What makes you think Warren Jeffs is calling the shots? He’s locked up in jail in case you missed it.”
He grunted. “Nothing, and I mean nothing happens in the FLDS church that Warren doesn’t direct,” said Bradshaw. “A jail cell can’t stop that.”
He gave me a slight opening and I took advantage of it. “You mean just like you call all the shots for your church from here inside the prison.”
“How would I manage to do that?” he shot back.
I had a decision to make. Should I tell him my theory? I decided to give it a try and see how he reacted. “What if you had a lawyer, one sympathetic to plural marriage, who was willing to be a conduit for information going in and out of the prison?”
He looked at me for a moment without answering, deliberately trying to figure out whether I was running a bluff or actually knew something. “Suppose, just suppose for the sake of discussion your hunch is correct. It is just a hunch, isn’t it?”
My turn not to answer.
He paused before going on. “Your supposition, Mr. Kincaid, and that’s all it is, is absolutely preposterous. It would be impossible for me to conduct the affairs of the Reformed Church of the Divine Christ from inside a prison cell.”
This guy was smart, I had to give him that. And he was fucking with me big time. So I took the bait. “If we take my supposition, as you call it, one step further, that would mean that you, through Gordon Dixon, ordered your followers to kidnap Robin Joiner. And Robin was forcibly abducted from a friend’s apartment last evening. Joey has already been identified as one of the perps, and I suspect, by now, so have the Allred brothers, Albert, or some combination thereof. Care to comment?”
During an interrogation you learn with experience that nonverbal cues are often as revealing as the things suspects say. This was a textbook case. Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits, his chin dropped nearly to the desk top, and momentarily, he was absolutely speechless. It was obvious that he knew nothing about last night’s kidnapping, which also meant he didn’t order it. It wasn’t a big stretch to believe that Gordon Dixon was in for a serious butt-chewing the next time there was a lawyer-client meeting.
Bradshaw stammered, “Was anyone hurt?”
“I don’t know about Robin, but her girlfriend was left behind bound wrists-to-ankles with duct tape over her mouth.”
He considered that for a moment before saying, “I want to see my lawyer.”
“I take it this means that our interview is over,” I said. “By the way, we know all about Joey’s relationship with Robin. Was Robin involved in the armored car hold-up?”
He just stared at me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
On my way to pick up Kate, my cell phone rang. It was Marilyn Hastings from the employe
e assistance program. “I thought you’d want to know. Terry Burnham showed up right on time for his ten o’clock appointment this morning.”
“I’m glad to hear that. How’d it go?”
“It was about what I expected. Aside from being hung over, which didn’t help his disposition any, he was guarded, defensive, and in denial about having a drinking problem. That aside, he was just peachy.”
“Can you work with him, Marilyn?”
“It’s too soon to tell. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. The good news is that he agreed to see me again day after tomorrow.”
“Will you keep me informed?”
“There are some confidentiality issues, but sure, to the degree that I can.”
***
I left my car at police headquarters and rode to Ogden with Kate. I filled her in on the problem with Terry Burnham.
“Damn, I’m sorry to hear that, Sam. I really hoped that he’d found a home inside the SIB, but Terry always struck me as a guy with a lot of baggage.”
“What do you mean?”
“The drinking mostly. I’ve known Terry for almost ten years and he’s always had a reputation for hitting the sauce a little too hard, even before his wife died. The drinking seemed to accelerate after her death, although by that time, he had retired from the force.”
“I’ve got him working with Marilyn Hastings. He showed up for his first counseling appointment this morning.”
“That’s good, I’m glad to hear it, but can I give you a piece of advice?”
“Sure.”
“I know your reputation for sticking up for your employees. It’s one of those things that your own staff and other cops admire about you…”
“Yeah, yeah, skip the accolades and get on with the advice.”
“Promise me you won’t go too far out on a limb with this one.”
“And you say that because…”
“I’ve just got a bad feeling about it. I’d hate to see it blow up in your face.”
“Are you sure you’re telling me everything?” I asked.
“It’s just a feeling in my gut. I hope you’ll listen.”
“I’ll consider myself warned.”
We took the I-15 north until we turned off on to state highway 89, something locals called the Mountain Road. Our conversation waned and we rode in relative silence the rest of the way to Ogden.
We followed Harrison Boulevard north a couple of miles past the university until we located the home of our suspect, Anthony Barnes. There was a For Sale by Owner sign stuck in the front lawn. Like everything in this neighborhood, the house was old, probably built in the years shortly after World War II. It was an all-brick, flat roofed rambler, with window wells revealing a basement.
We drove slowly past the house, turned around, and parked on the street a couple of doors away. There were no cars parked in front of the residence or in the driveway. The door to the detached single car garage was closed as was the drape covering the home’s front window. It looked like nobody was around.
I said, “Were you able to find out anything about this guy? I hate like hell having to walk up to his front door not knowing whether he has an arsenal in their large enough to outfit a marine battalion.”
“I called the military police at Fort Campbell. They didn’t have any discharge information about him, but they were able to tell me that Mr. Barnes had managed to accumulate a less than distinguished service record.”
“Did they give you any specifics?”
“Assault and batteries, mostly. Several bar fights off base and a couple of skirmishes at the NCO club. At the time of his discharge, he’d been banned from using the NCO club. Apparently, when he drinks, this guy loves to fight.”
“Wonderful. Maybe that explains the general discharge.”
“Maybe.”
We walked up the driveway and Kate veered off toward the front door. I remained on the cracked and buckled concrete driveway, walking quickly toward the back of the house. “I’ll cover the rear.”
Kate nodded.
Nobody answered the front door. I climbed the back steps and peered into the kitchen area, through the formal dining room, and into a dimly lit living room. Nobody was around and everything looked as neat as a pin. We decided to try the neighbors on either side. Kate went one way and I went the other. A few minutes later we were back in the car and able to piece together a bit more information about Anthony Barnes.
“What did you find out?” asked Kate.
“Not a lot. The gentleman next door says that Barnes lives alone, rarely has visitors, and comes and goes at odd times. He apparently drives a late model, black, Honda SUV. What about you?”
“He has a 2003 Honda CRV registered in his name. I already knew that. The couple on the other side told me that the house used to belong to his mother. She died a couple of years ago, and Anthony inherited the place. These folks said that Barnes mentioned that he was having a tough time making the mortgage payment and that he was either going to have to sell the place or rent out rooms. They think he works in a bar someplace in Salt Lake.”
“That ought to be easy enough to check,” I said. “That might also explain his coming-and-going at odd hours. Bars aren’t exactly a nine-to-five kind of gig.”
“True enough. Why don’t we grab a bite of lunch some place. After we order, I’ll call the Utah State Liquor Commission office and see if his name shows up on any liquor licenses. Afterward, we can back-track here to see if he’s returned.”
“Sounds like a plan, the eating part especially. I’m starving.”
“You’re always starving.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a raging metabolism to go with my raging hormones.”
“I don’t know about the raging metabolism part, but I can definitely attest to the raging hormones.”
“Kind of led with my chin on that one, didn’t I?”
She smiled, “Absolutely.”
***
Describing lunch at the Café Mexicana as run-of-the-mill would be kind. I ate enough beans to go with my soggy burrito to require a case of Tums just to make it through the afternoon. Kate’s tostada wasn’t much better. But that’s what happens when you take your restaurant recommendation from a guy using a pay phone outside the convenience store where you just gassed your car.
But maybe the indigestion was less about the lunch and more about the conversation, which included Kate’s evening of giddy conviviality with her old boyfriend, Tom Stoddard, at the New Yorker lounge the previous evening. My initial feelings of surprise and jealousy had given way a day later to a more rational and objective view of the incident. After all, appearances could be deceiving—or not.
“Okay,” I said. “Cut to the chase. What was that bullshit I saw going on between you and Tom last night? You did tell me it wasn’t what I thought.”
“Let me tell you what happened. I dropped by his office to have him take a look at the affidavit I’d written for the search warrant application, you know, the one we’re going to serve on Greg Samuelson in order to get Ginsberg’s estate information. If you recall, it was either get a search warrant or I have to sleep with the guy. Which would you prefer?”
I smiled, “Smart ass.”
“Tom suggested we stop for a drink and I didn’t see the harm. It was just two old friends catching up. There was nothing going on for you to be upset about.”
I wasn’t convinced. “If there was nothing to it, you might have told me about it.”
“You’re right. I should have, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“It looked awful damned cozy to me, like two old lovers reliving the past and perhaps toasting the future.”
“It wasn’t like that, Sam. Tom might want it to be that way, but I don’t. There is, however, something I’d like to talk with you about. It’s been on my mind for a while.”
Oh, oh, I thought, here it comes. “Sure, go ahead.”
“You need to be patient with me, Sam. Sometimes, I think you want our relationship to move along faster than my psyche can handle. I need a little time to adjust.”
“If I’ve been putting pressure on you, Kate, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to.”
“I know you didn’t. Just remember that six months ago, I was a career cop, dating a deputy DA, with no plans for marriage, much less children. And then you entered my life, and all of a sudden, things are different. For the first time in my life, I can hear the M word without wanting to put on my track shoes and run. And this relationship comes with a ready-made family. Sometimes, it just freaks me out a little.”
“I’m glad you told me that. I’ll pay more attention to the kinds of things I say and do. I love you, Kate, but it’s gotta be right for everybody—you, me, Sara, and Aunt June. If you need some space, there’s nothing wrong with that. We can take a step back.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “I don’t want to step back but I do want your understanding. By the way, my folks are planning a trip out here. I’ve been telling them about you and Sara and Aunt June for months now, and they’re eager to meet everyone.”
“And are they a little nervous over the ready-made family?”
“A little, I think. Dad doesn’t say much, but he never does. Mom, on the other hand, is a little worried. It’ll all be fine once they have a chance to meet you.”
***
After lunch, we drove past the home of Anthony Barnes. It still didn’t look like anybody was home. Kate jumped on her cell and called a contact in the enforcement section of the Utah State Liquor Control Commission. She asked whether Barnes’ name appeared on any state liquor licenses.
“Guess what, Sam?”
“No idea. What?”
“Anthony Barnes is not listed on any state liquor licenses.”
“So the neighbor was wrong, big deal!”
“Ah, but I’m afraid that it is a big deal,” said Kate.
“How so?”
“Mr. Barnes, while not a bar owner, is licensed as a bartender. Guess where?”
“You’re bustin my chops with this, Kate. Where?”
Silent Witness Page 14
