Silent Witness

by Michael Norman

  Robby and Randy joined the ranks of hundreds of adolescent boys expelled from their FLDS homes, often for little or no reason. After a period of homelessness, they were rescued by Walter Bradshaw and became dedicated members of the Reformed Church of the Divine Christ. They adapted easily to the criminal lifestyle and took great pride in carrying out crimes against the FLDS church.

  Robby and Randy each ordered sausage, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a side of hotcakes with hot cocoa to wash it all down. While they waited, they spoke optimistically of a future free of government sponsored persecution where they’d be free to practice their religious beliefs without interference.

  During a brief lull in the conversation, Robby’s cell phone chirped. “Hello.” He paused, listening to the caller. He glanced at his cheap Timex watch. “What time? And she got away? Okay.” He flipped the phone closed and replaced it on his belt.

  “What happened?” asked Randy.

  “Joiner escaped from Sister Joan. The cabin’s been compromised.”

  “Sister Joan couldn’t find her?”

  Robby shook his head. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea to leave her alone with Sister Joan.”

  Randy shrugged. “She was never one of us anyway. Joey should have kept her away from the family.”

  “It’s too late to worry about that now,” replied Robby. “They’re going to stay at the secondary location and move the departure date ahead by one day.”

  The restaurant was almost empty. When the bars closed in another couple of hours, the place would probably become busy. They ate in relative silence, talking in hushed tones about the route they would use for their drive back to the Arizona Strip. They had spent nearly an hour-and-a-half in the restaurant, and were about ready to leave, when three uniformed Salt Lake City cops walked in. One was a sergeant. The other two appeared to be patrol officers. The sergeant gave them a long look before sitting down. They must have been part of the large contingent of police who had been searching the area in vain trying to find them.

  “Don’t turn around. There are three cops at a table behind us,” whispered Robby.

  “Damn, I knew we shouldn’t have stopped,” said Randy.

  “Relax, bro. Nobody’s made us yet. We look a lot different than we did a few months ago.” The brothers had grown their hair out, dyed it, and were now sporting short beards.

  “Just the same, I’d rather not parade myself past half the police force,” said Randy. “How are we gonna get out of here, anyway?”

  “I’ve got an idea. Just sit tight for a couple of minutes. It’ll look suspicious if we get up and try to leave now.”

  “Okay, what’s your idea?” asked Randy, nervously.

  “I’ll go to the restroom. I’ll stay in there exactly five minutes. That should give you time to pay the bill and get to the car. I’ll follow along right behind you. That way we walk out separately and, hopefully, they don’t pay any attention.”

  Randy didn’t like it, but he couldn’t think of a better way. “Okay, take off and I’ll see you outside. And Robby, I love you, bro.”

  Robby glanced quizzically at his younger brother as he slid out of the booth. “Love you too, bro.” He walked the short distance to the restroom fastidiously avoiding eye contact with the cops.

  Randy glanced at his watch. His armpits were soaked. He needed to take a deep breath, gather himself, and stroll past the cops like a guy without a care in the world. As he walked past, he glanced down at one of the cops, a sergeant, who was staring at him. Robby nodded at the officer, and then continued to the cash register. The register was located near the front door. He could feel the eyes of the cop boring into his back.

  Sergeant Todd Blackhurst scanned the restaurant customers as he and his two subordinates were seated. It was force of habit mostly. The fourteen year veteran never entered a public place in uniform without a careful look around. His eyes stopped on two men seated near the back. One of the men was facing him. He had only a side profile of the other. The officers had spent the past two hours assisting in the hunt for members of the Bradshaw gang who had just engineered the escape of Walter Bradshaw from the University of Utah Hospital. They had been terrorizing Salt Lake County for months, and pictures of the fugitives had been plastered everywhere.

  While the two young men seated across the restaurant weren’t dead ringers for anybody in the gang, there was something vaguely familiar about them. The age, height, and general body build of the men was about right, but not the hair or beards. The hair was longer and darker than anything he’d seen in the wanted flyers, and all the gang members were clean shaven. These two looked a lot scruffier. Yet the thing that bothered Blackhurst the most was how much the men looked alike—brothers perhaps. The Bradshaw gang included two set of brothers, all in their mid-to-late twenties.

  To the two young patrol officers, he said, “Take a look at the two characters sitting to your right near the back of the restaurant. Do they look familiar?”

  Both officers glanced over their right shoulders taking in the strangers. “I don’t think so,” said one. The other officer nodded in agreement.

  It was probably nothing thought Blackhurst. He went back to the menu.

  A few minutes later, Blackhurst noticed one of the men slide out of the booth and disappear into the men’s restroom. Almost immediately, the other one got up and headed to the cash register, passing in front of the officers. Blackhurst stared, and the man stared back, nodding as he walked past. All his cop instincts told him something about these two didn’t feel right. He decided to check it out.

  ***

  Kate and I had left Sammy Roybal and were on our way back to resume our surveillance at the Lucky Gent. We decided to see what Anthony Barnes might be up to once he left the bar.

  My cell phone chirped. I didn’t recognize the caller. “Hello, Kincaid.”

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded calm and controlled. “Detective Kincaid, my name is Ross Benson. My wife, June, and I just picked up a young lady who was walking down the highway in Little Cottonwood Canyon. She asked us to call you—says her name is Robin Joiner. She says a gang of hoodlums kidnapped her and have been holding her in a cabin up the canyon. She managed to get away and flagged us down as we were driving out of the canyon.”

  “Where are you, Mr. Benson?”

  “We’re in the parking lot at the 7-Eleven Store on Wasatch Boulevard, near the mouth of the canyon.”

  “Sit tight. We’ll be there in about ten minutes. We’re going to call the sheriff’s office and there may be a uniformed deputy to you even before we arrive. In the meantime, please don’t let that young lady out of your sight. I’m going to hang-up, but I’ll call you right back.” I disconnected.

  Kate was already blasting down State Street headed for I-215. I dialed 911.

  “Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Office, what’s your emergency?” said the dispatcher.

  I explained who I was as well as the pertinent details regarding the whereabouts of Robin Joiner. I asked them to notify Salt Lake City PD detectives, and urged the sheriff’s office to summon their SWAT team. I had one other request.

  “Seal Little Cottonwood Canyon immediately—no vehicles allowed up the canyon until further notice. Everything coming down the canyon needs to be stopped and searched.”

  I called Ross Benson back and asked to speak to Joiner.

  There was a short pause. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Robin. How are you?”

  “Scared.”

  “Are you injured?”

  “The bottoms of my feet are bruised and bleeding. They took my shoes, and when I finally got the chance to run, I had to do it in my socks.”

  “Sorry to hear that. We’ll get you medical attention right away. Other than your feet, are you okay?”

  She hesitated. “Yeah, but I was wondering…” Her voice trailed off. “How much trouble am I in, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I’m no
t sure, Robin. We’ve definitely got some issues that need to be sorted out, and you’re the only one who can help us do that. We’re going to do everything we can to help you, but you need to help us and yourself. Will you do that?”

  Another pause. “I’ll only talk to you and your partner, Kate what’s-her-name. Michael, from my study group, says I can trust you. Can I?”

  “Just cooperate and tell us the truth, and we’ll do everything we can to help you. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who was at the cabin when you got away?”

  “There was only one person, Joan Dixon. The others left together a couple of hours earlier.”

  “Can you lead us to the cabin?”

  “No problem. I’d actually been there once before with Joey. I know where it is.”

  “Good, we’ll be there in just a minute.”

  Within fifteen minutes of our arrival, the mouth of Little Cottonwood Canyon took on the aura of a police convention. I counted nearly thirty officers representing the FBI, the highway patrol, the sheriff’s office, and Salt Lake City PD. That didn’t include Kate and me, or the sheriff’s department SWAT team that was mobilizing at a nearby precinct station. The command post that had been established near the University of Utah hospital was moved to a parking lot at the entrance to the canyon. The road up the canyon was closed indefinitely.

  In spite of an overwhelming police presence and the intimidation tactics employed by an overbearing supervisor from the FBI, Robin Joiner held her ground. She agreed to be interviewed, but only if Kate and I did it. I wasn’t sure what prompted her to trust us, but the tough girl veneer had given way to genuine angst. I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her. I wasn’t sure, but maybe I felt that way because I’m a father with a daughter of my own.

  The SWAT team arrived, and a hastily planned meeting was organized to determine how the cabin would be taken. Joiner then led a small army of police up the canyon. She asked if either Kate or I could tag along. I went along as chaperone. Once the SWAT team was in place and the order given, officers were inside in seconds. The place was empty. The lights were on and it looked like Joan Dixon had left in a hurry. A crime scene investigation team from the sheriff’s office swarmed the cabin. Physical evidence could prove useful, but what they really needed were people. And so far, the elusive Bradshaw clan had managed to remain one step ahead of the authorities.

  Back at the command post at the base of the canyon, Kate and I stood by in frustration while the powers-that-be wasted time haggling over who would get the credit for Joiner’s capture, and how to spin the story to the army of assembled media who had traipsed from the first command post at the university to this one. Reluctantly, they had agreed that Kate and I would conduct Joiner’s interrogation, but they couldn’t agree on where the interrogation should take place, or who should observe it. If we weren’t careful, we’d have a convention at the interrogation.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Sergeant Todd Blackhurst watched as Randy Allred paid the bill and headed out the restaurant’s front door. Despite the hard stare, the young man refused to make eye contact, something that only heightened Blackhurst’s suspicion. “I wanna check these two guys out,” he said to the patrol officers. “Hansen, you come with me. Baker, the other one’s in the can. Escort him outside when he comes out of the head. We’ll be in the parking lot.”

  Randy Allred had started to relax. He paid the restaurant bill and stepped into the cold night. He had just reached the stolen Nissan when he heard the voice behind him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Blackhurst. “This your car?”

  Allred turned to face the approaching officers. “Yeah. What’s the problem officer?”

  “No problem, really. We’re searching the area for a couple of wanted fugitives. Frankly, you and your partner look a little like them. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll need to see some identification and check the registration on the car.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant to do this?” said Allred, putting as much self righteous indignation into his voice as possible.

  “Not really, son. Now I’ll need to see that identification.”

  Rookie Patrolman Trevor Hansen, weeks out of the police academy, followed Blackhurst into the parking lot, convinced that this shakedown was an exercise in futility. To his way of thinking, these guys didn’t look remotely like members of the Bradshaw gang. Maybe Blackhurst was using this as an excuse for a little in-service training. He figured he’d better play along.

  While Blackhurst conversed with the subject, Hansen grabbed his radio and called in the plate number on the subject’s car. Almost immediately the registration came back to a Mildred Tanner in South Jordan, and the plates belonged on a 2003 Ford Taurus. This guy didn’t look like any Mildred he’d ever met, and the car was a Nissan Sentra, not a Ford Taurus. While Blackhurst conversed with the subject, Hansen unholstered his nine millimeter Smith and Wesson, and held it next to his leg.

  Randy Allred removed the wallet from his back pocket and reached inside for his identification. His hands were shaking, and he wondered whether the cop could see well enough in the dark to notice. He handed Blackhurst a temporary Utah driver’s license bearing the name Michael Waddoups. He hoped the cop wouldn’t notice that the license was expired. He also gave Blackhurst his phony Utah State identification card with his picture on it bearing the same name.

  Allred walked past the cop to the passenger side of the Sentra and said, “I’ll have to open the glove box for the registration and insurance cards.” He was trying to put the Nissan between himself and the two cops. The sergeant wasn’t having it. He followed Allred around to the passenger side.

  Then two things happened simultaneously: Robby Allred emerged from the restaurant with Officer Baker trailing behind. Patrolman Hansen chose that moment to tell Blackhurst about the discrepancy with the license plate. For an instant, the officers took their eyes off Randy Allred and looked at each other. Randy seized the opportunity and pulled the nine millimeter Glock from the waistband of his pants. The last thing Randy heard was the sound of his brother’s, scream, “Nooo, Randy.”

  Allred raised the gun and fired. The first round struck Blackhurst high in the chest propelling him backward. His Kevlar vest saved his life. Randy fired two additional shots intended for Hansen. Both shots missed. Hansen, crouched in a combat position, squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession. Two of them struck Randy, one near the heart and another in the throat. From a prone position, Blackhurst fired twice, missing on the first shot, but striking Allred in his left thigh with the second. Patrolman Baker wrestled a struggling Robby Allred to the asphalt parking lot and held him face down until Hansen came over and helped apply the cuffs. Robby was sobbing uncontrollably, struggling to reach his fallen brother.

  It was over in a matter of seconds. Eight shots had been exchanged in the melee. Allred lay dead in a large pool of his own blood. Restaurant employees called 911 about the same time Blackhurst called it in. A restaurant customer who witnessed the shooting later described the incident as reminiscent of a western movie scene featuring an old fashioned gunfight.

  ***

  Joan Dixon and Amanda Bradshaw made it out of Little Cottonwood Canyon minutes before the road was closed. They left Dixon’s SUV at the cabin figuring there was less likelihood the authorities would be looking for Amanda’s nondescript Ford Escort. They drove east out of Salt Lake City in relative silence, each absorbed in her own thoughts, until they saw the signs for Park City. They were anxious to be reunited with their loved ones. They got off of I-80 at Kimball Junction and met the others at a McDonald’s restaurant next to the freeway.

  The women went inside and purchased food and soft drinks while the men remained in the vehicles. Walter Bradshaw was in and out of it—having brief moments of lucidity followed by periods of delirium. After a hurried meal, Gordon and Joan Dixon, accompanied by Joey Bradshaw, agreed to take the Ford Escort and dri
ve on ahead of the others to the small, rural town of Heber City. There they would rent rooms in two old motels nestled along the town’s main drag and await the arrival of the prophet.

  Under normal circumstances, the sight of a man climbing out of the back-end of a canopy-covered pickup truck, and then watching as a middle aged female took his place, wouldn’t have struck Summit County Deputy Sheriff Dave Cunningham as suspicious. However, on this night, an all points bulletin had gone out asking all law enforcement personnel to be on the lookout for members of the Bradshaw gang who had somehow managed to engineer the escape of the gang leader, Walter Bradshaw. He thought these subjects bore a striking resemblance to the physical descriptions that had come out in the APB.

  Cunningham was sitting in his patrol car across the street from the Kimball Junction McDonald’s finishing several reports as the scenario unfolded before him. He watched a mid-twenties-looking male devour a burger as he stood next to the truck. Moments later he was joined by a young female who had just come out of the restaurant. They spoke briefly and then climbed into the cab of the truck. The female drove while the male rode shotgun.

  Cunningham pulled his patrol car behind the Ford F-150 as it returned to I-80. He ran a registration check. The plates belonged on a 2004 Toyota Tundra, not a Ford F-150.

  Amanda Bradshaw spotted the patrol car almost immediately. “Oh my God, Albert, there’s a cop car behind us.” Albert glanced into the passenger side mirror just as the emergency lights came on. “Step on it,” he said.