by Andrew Hunt
That Monday morning, Myron and Jared sat at their desks and greeted me with quiet hellos when I walked in the door. On the wall above Roscoe’s desk hung a big map of Salt Lake City punctured by colored pushpins that reminded me of Christmas lights. Each pin represented a different polygamist dwelling. Clusters were bunched together in the Avenues, the quaint hillside neighborhood on the northeast bench of the Wasatch Mountains where I lived as well. You could also find plenty of pins around the Marmalade District, an area of nineteenth-century mansions west of Capitol Hill; near Liberty Park in the city’s center, where construction crews were still building fresh bungalows; and in the farmlands to the south, down around Riverton, Draper, and Bluffdale, a group of tiny burghs that bid you farewell before you crossed into Utah Valley. The colored pins—there must’ve been two hundred of them—made our mission seem that much more tangible. I ran my fingers along those primary colors, eager to carry out my first big busts.
Then I spied Roscoe’s empty chair. Thoughts of colored pins faded.
“Anyone seen Roscoe?”
“Nope.”
“Not yet.”
I walked over and perched my hind end on my desk’s edge, let out a loud exhale, and ran my hand across my forehead. When I pulled it away, it startled me to see Myron Adler standing before me, holding a pink pastry box.
“Rugelach,” said Myron. “They’re a traditional favorite. Hannah made them.”
I glanced down at the sweet golden-brown crescents. “They look delicious.”
“Take two. One won’t fill you.”
I did as he suggested, biting into one and setting its twin beside the typewriter. Deliciousness filled my mouth—a flaky shell with cinnamon, walnuts, and raisins inside. I loved every bite and showed it with a long, drawn-out “mmm-mmm.” “Dang, that’s tasty. Tell Hannah I love it and I want more.”
Myron’s facial expression stayed strictly deadpan—not so much as a slight grin—and he stood in place holding that box, motionless, like a statue. I used my pants as a napkin for my sugar-and-crumb-coated fingers, then I popped the second half in my mouth and chewed away, repeating the “mmm-mmm,” in case Myron had any doubts. “Scrumptious.”
“He sounds nothing like you,” said Myron.
“Come again?”
“Lyle Talbot.”
I finished chewing what was in my mouth and swallowed. “Oh. You heard that on the radio?”
“Yeah.”
I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I prodded: “Well? What did you think?”
“Decent production values done in by a hokey script,” he said. “The dialogue was hopelessly contrived and stilted. People don’t talk like that in real life. At least nobody I know ever does.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
“Don’t mention it.” He turned to Jared Weeks. “What about you? Did you tune in to Crime Does Not Pay on Saturday night?”
Jared didn’t look up from whatever he was doing. “I don’t own a radio.”
Myron faced me. “I jotted down a list of seven mistakes they made in their decidedly fictionalized version of the case, should you be interested.…”
“No, that’s quite all right,” I said. “I’ll, uh, take your word for it.”
“Suit yourself.” Myron returned to his desk, closing the box of rugelach on the way. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
“I will.”
“How was your trip to Los Angeles, boss?” asked Jared, swiveling toward me in his chair. “Feeling rested and refreshed?”
“Hardly,” I said. “We never stopped to relax. The network gave us the royal treatment. We got to stay in a fancy hotel. We went to the beach. We purchased one of those maps of the movie stars’ homes and drove through the posh neighborhoods. One of the days we were there, we even got to tour a motion picture studio and saw a movie being made. There’s nothing else quite like Los Angeles.”
“That’s swell, boss,” said Jared, with a crooked grin. “We missed you while you were gone, but we held the fort.”
“Good to hear,” I told him. “Well, let’s get back to business. Who’s willing to take notes?”
Jared raised his hand.
“Thanks, Jared. So, any breaks while I was away?”
“Still slow going,” said Jared, jotting as he spoke. “We were hoping to tie at least three key polygamists to violations of the White-Slave Traffic Act—”
“Also known as the Mann Act,” interrupted Myron.
“Which three?” I asked. “Please tell me one of them is Uncle Grand.…”
“No, not Uncle Grand,” said Jared. “He’s too careful. Our pair of witnesses may be able to connect Moss, Barton, and Boggs to those violations. If they are willing to testify. That’s a big if. It’s not looking hopeful at this point.”
“What about using the mails to send obscene materials?” I asked. “Any progress on that front?”
“We were aiming to pin that charge on Alma Covington, who’s still editing the polygamist newspaper out of his basement,” said Myron. “We haven’t had much luck so far. I’m combing through back issues as we speak.”
“I’m not too hopeful about that option,” I said. “It’s a tame little thing, hardly what I’d call a smut rag. What about illegal cohabitation?”
“It’ll be tough,” said Myron. I knew he was right. After the last roundup of polygamists about thirteen years ago on illegal cohabitation charges, the lawbreakers wised up. Nowadays, all of their wives live in separate dwellings, and the patriarchs go from home to home rather than keeping the wives in the same house.
“And the Lindbergh Law?” I pressed.
They shook their heads at the same time. “The witness recanted,” said Jared, writing more notes. “She was the mother. Remember? Mrs. Jardine. She was prepared to testify that her twelve-year-old daughter had been kidnapped, forced against her will into the sect, and taken across the border into Arizona, but she backed down. She’s afraid of what the polygamists will do to her and her family if she goes on the witness stand.”
“Did you tell her—”
“Yeah, of course I did,” said Jared testily, lowering his pen. “Told her we could have an armed patrolman placed at her house for protection, at least during the trial. She said no.”
“What about Uncle Grand?” I asked.
“No new developments on that front while you were gone,” said Myron. “Do you really think it’s such a good idea to keep tailing the guy?”
Jared chimed in. “With all due respect, boss, you’ve been following the man since mid-April and it don’t seem to be doing a lick o’ good.”
“I’ll take your comments into consideration,” I said, in an attempt to give them the brush-off. “Anything else?”
Myron said, “We know of a former cult member who might be willing to testify that Johnston routinely advocates plural marriage during services at their little church down on Lincoln Street.”
“Advocating isn’t illegal,” I said. “Last I checked there’s still a First Amendment. What else?”
“What else do you want?” asked Myron. “We’ve got a small squad.” He glanced at Roscoe’s empty chair. “And not everyone pulls his weight.”
The comment stung, but how could I quarrel with him? He was right. Maybe carving out a place for Roscoe on this squad hadn’t been the best idea after all. I knew what had to be done next: Find Roscoe. Fast. My reasons were purely selfish. Him not showing up to work made me look bad. My ears still worked well enough that I could hear the whispers around the hallway, hushed talk about me, a “yes-man to the bosses downstairs” who got where he was because of his “legendary father,” being “suckered in” by my best friend, an “over-the-hill boozer.” I tried my hardest to ignore this kind of talk. At the end of the day, however, even though I pretended not to care, I cared very much.
Three
I surged outside into the hazy heat of Salt Lake City, where everything had turned a shade of rust unde
r smoke-shrouded skies. About the only good that could be said of the ugly discoloration that came with being downwind of so many wildfires is that it shielded us, slightly, from the worst of the sun’s midday assault. We paid a big price for that shield, though. It reeked of smoke everywhere, and the veil over our heads tinted all things—cars, buildings, the LDS Temple—in sepia tones and left a fine film of ash in many places. These infernos had been months in the making. A combination heat wave and drought that arrived in Utah in the spring had turned forests into tinderboxes, and—just as the experts had predicted—the arrival of summer brought fires to the state. Radio reports told of flames leaping into nearby canyons and making their way closer to the city. Each day, chartered motor buses transported brave men to the front lines of the worst-hit places: Black’s Fork, Pine Valley, Crandall Canyon and, closer to home, Big Cottonwood Canyon, where I could see the mountainside glowing orange from my porch late at night. Each day I hesitated to pick up the morning newspaper, fearing more stories of crews unable to contain blazes and young men—boys, really—perishing in ways I didn’t even want to imagine.
Behind the wheel of an unmarked police sedan, I drove westbound out of the city on a street called North Temple, over a viaduct that spanned the rail yard, in the direction of the Great Salt Lake. I switched off the police radio. This situation called for my complete attention. Roscoe Lund had to be found and returned to Public Safety before our superiors noticed his absence. The powers that be in the police force had no use for Roscoe, and he responded by playing into their hands. He did this in a variety of ways: not showing up to work; mouthing off to superiors; sparring with other cops, at times with words, at times with fists.
I had been on the receiving end of others’ grief for my unswerving loyalty to Roscoe for years now. A few of the more pious Mormons I know had asked me how I—a dedicated churchgoer—could be so close to such a foul-mouthed and hard-drinking rebel. I’d been told by some of my fellow lawmen that my bond with Roscoe has been imprudent on my part and has probably hindered my career in the Salt Lake City Police Department. Myron Adler once expressed his dismay over my attempts to help Roscoe out of jams. “I don’t see what you get out of being that dreg’s guardian angel,” he told me. When I hear those kinds of comments, I usually shrug them off. I’ll say something along the lines of “You don’t know Roscoe like I know him,” or “He’s a great guy if you give him half a chance.” But the real reason for the closeness between Roscoe and me could not be articulated so easily.
Since our first partnering when we worked in the Salt Lake County sheriff’s office, through our time as uniformed patrolmen in the Salt Lake City Police Department, Roscoe had become more like a family member than a friend. He got to be closer to me than any of my brothers. I never had been one to spill my guts to anyone, but I found myself confiding in him on repeated occasions. In turn, he’d tell me about a woman he was seeing, or a place he wished he could go if he had the money (the South Seas came up many times), or he’d recall tales from his colorful youth. So many times we laughed together. Once, when I was talking about my father, I got teary-eyed in front of him. All of those experiences, night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year, cemented our connection to each other. I imagine it was something akin to the relationship that develops between soldiers who share a trench together, though I am fortunate that I was too young to experience the Great War to say that with any certainty.
At the end of the day, put in its simplest terms, Roscoe was my friend, warts and all. As someone who did not have many genuine friends, the few I did have meant a great deal to me. The way I saw it, the occasional headaches and inconveniences that came with that camaraderie were but a small price to pay.
Driving west, with the Wasatch Mountains shrinking in my rearview mirror, I sped into an area of warehouses, cheap luncheonettes, a liquor store, a bowling alley built of adobe, and long stretches of earth between everything. I kept pace with a Union Pacific passenger train, its frenetic locomotive spewing smoke. I neared the sombrero-shaped sign for the Tampico, a Mexican restaurant. I swerved into its parking lot and found a spot between an ice delivery truck and the saddest-looking flivver I’d ever laid eyes on. The building’s paint had faded, worn off the brick entirely in some places. The storefront window facing North Temple advertised MEXICAN FOOD SERVED ROUND THE CLOCK.
A call from a downtown telephone booth had brought me out here. It was the second place I called after I didn’t get an answer at Roscoe’s apartment. The owner of the joint, an old friend, confirmed my suspicions. Roscoe was, indeed, there.
The Tampico had an old-time Mexican feel, with scattered late breakfast customers seated at tables and booths and a mariachi album playing on a behind-the-counter Victrola. Potted cacti were placed everywhere, and the walls showcased framed black-and-white photographs of people I guessed were Mexicans: Mexicans posing by old jalopies, Mexicans working in orchards, Mexicans dancing in courtyards, Mexican revolutionaries riding horses alongside a train.
I knew the owner; sweet old Miguel, one of the nicest fellows I’d ever met. Balding and beefy with an inky black mustache, he always wore a pristine white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black trousers, and shiny patent leather shoes. Back in the days when I worked Dawn Patrol, the midnight-to-8 A.M. shift, Roscoe and I would drive out here every night because it was one of the few restaurants open twenty-four hours. Roscoe still dined here frequently.
“Señor Arturo!”
“Miguel! How’s every little thing?”
We shook hands and he nodded at the kitchen door. “Bien! Our little restaurant, she catch on big!”
“That’s swell,” I said. “Is Lupe still making those delicious what-do-you-call-’ems…?”
“Empanadas?”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s it! Empanadas!”
“Tomorrow and Friday, she make them. Only two bits a box. Best deal in town. You want to order?”
I fished a dollar out of my billfold and handed it to him. “I’ll take two. I’ll come by and get them tomorrow.”
“Good! They ready by, oh…” He closed one eye. “Four o’clock. Let me get you your change.…”
“No. Keep it.”
He stopped in his tracks and smiled. “Thank you, Arturo! Is very generous!”
“Don’t mention it.” I drew a deep breath. “I believe you have someone…”
He flashed a palm, as if to suggest, No need to say anything else. “This way.”
I followed him into the kitchen, where an army of his relatives fried food, stirred pots, and rattled dishes and silverware. I tailed him over the clay tiles as he entered a darkened back room containing a desk and chair, a davenport, and a corner cot, where somebody slept soundly. The shades were closed. He gave one a gentle tug and it shot up, flap-flap-flap-ing several times, letting sunlight flood in. I could tell from the sleeping man’s shaven head that he was Roscoe. I crossed the room to get a better look at his face. He’d taken a few punches no doubt, which had left his face marred by bruises and cuts, a fat lip, and a black eye thrown in for good measure. I looked at Miguel, who was watching me intently, waiting for me to say something.
“Who did this to him?”
Miguel shrugged. “He come in last night, about two. First he say he hungry for supper, then he pass out cold. I bring him back here. My sons help.”
“Thank you, Miguel. You fellas did good.”
“You and Roscoe very good to us, Arturo. You welcome here anytime.”
“That’s awfully kind. Thanks.”
I leaned forward and gave Roscoe’s shoulder a shake. He continued sleeping. I repeated the shaking twice, each time longer and more rigorous than before. Not so much as a break in the snoring. I stepped back, straightened, and scanned the room, weighing options.
I turned to Miguel. “Do you mind me getting your bedding wet?”
“Wet?”
“Yeah, is it okay if I get the blanket and sheets we
t with water?”
“Si. Yes. We got clothesline out back. What you got in mind?”
“You don’t happen to have a bucket or a pail…?”
“Si.”
“Would you mind bringing it to me full of cold water, please?”
His mouth opened and eyes widened with fear. “Are you sure…?”
“It’s all right. He told me he wants me to do it when I can’t wake him up.”
“If you insist.”
“Thanks, Miguel.”
Miguel left and I spent the time he was gone hovering over Roscoe, listening to him snore. Labored footsteps approached, water sloshed, and Miguel stood by my side. He handed me a wooden fruit bucket, heavy with water.
“You may want to step away,” I gasped, raising it by its handle.
He backed into the shadows, and I lifted the bucket high with all my might and tipped it upside down. The water retained the shape of the bucket for nearly a second as it plunged through space, pounding Roscoe with a kersplash. It worked. Roscoe’s eyes shot open when the flood hit him. He tumbled out of the bed, landing on his stomach. He lifted himself onto his hands and knees and grunted while droplets tapped the floor. He then plopped back on his rump and ran his fingers over his sopping head as he squinted up at me.
“Time is it?”
I glanced at my Bulova. “Half past nine. In the morning.”
“Day is it?”
“Monday.”
“Month?”
“July,” I said. “Second. Nineteen and thirty-four.”
He held up his hand and I gripped it and helped him to his feet. He swerved and dipped a few times and I worried he was going to fall. He stayed upright, a minor miracle, and made his way over to the chair where his jacket, shirt, and hat rested. I gave him a minute to get dressed and put on his shoes. While he tied his laces, he looked at Miguel, who stood by the door, sheepishly staring back.
