by Andrew Hunt
“The men in those cells are suspects in a murder investigation.” I stopped halfway up the stairs, turned, and looked down at Abner to drive my point across. “They’re apostles in the Fundamentalist Church of Saints, which means they’re part of Johnston’s inner circle. As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, they’re uncooperative in the extreme, and we have reason to believe, based on our past interactions with them, that not a single one of them would have submitted willingly to questioning unless we arrested them. They left us with no choice.”
“Aren’t you violating their rights by arresting them in this manner?” pressed Abner. “Aren’t you targeting them merely because they disagree with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and have the gumption to—”
“This has nothing to do with the LDS Church,” I shot back firmly. “We are conducting a homicide investigation and we cannot rule any of those men out as suspects unless we’ve had a chance to question each one separately. Is that clear?”
“Why arrest all of them?” he asked. “I mean, we’ve had other homicides in this town before and you don’t round up dozens of people.…”
“C’mon, Ab, do the math! We didn’t arrest dozens! There are eleven men downstairs, ten of ’em apostles in the Fundamentalist Church of Saints, and the other one’s the son of Johnston’s successor, who’s nowhere to be found. That’s not even a full dozen, much less ‘dozens’ plural.”
“All right, you got me on that one,” said Abner, grinning sheepishly. “What about you, Detective Oveson? Aren’t you a Mormon?”
“Yeah, I am,” I said. “What of it? Mormons rejected polygamy long ago.”
“You must have ancestors who were polygamists,” he said. “How do you feel about them?”
“This isn’t about my ancestors, or yours, or anybody else’s,” I said. “It’s about finding out who murdered LeGrand Johnston and Volney Mason. And believe me when I say we will find out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Ab, I’ve got a meeting I’m late for.”
I continued up the stairs, and Abner called out from behind me. “Crack this one and you might be on the radio again!”
* * *
Half jogging, I passed my office and went instead to the Homicide Squad’s meeting room at the end of the corridor. Wit Dunaway sat on top of a long desk in the front of the room, thumbing through a report in a folder. All of the other men from the Homicide and Anti-Polygamy squads sat in wooden chairs. I peeked up at the clock as I planted my bottom on a hard seat near Roscoe. A few minutes past three o’clock.
“Art, how nice of you to join us,” Wit said. “Now we can get started.”
Light laughter around the room, and maybe a scowl from Pace Newbold, who could always be counted on for a dirty look.
Wit eased off the desk and began pacing, scanning the room as he briefed. “Interrogations will occur under my supervision. A stenographer will be posted in each room, so please speak up and make sure your suspect does likewise. I understand their attorney, Mr. Sondrup, will be sitting in on as many of these as he can, so show him some courtesy. If you get any bites, no matter how small, come see me.”
The door flew open and in strode a Homicide dick, J. D. Lythgoe, gaunt and gray haired, the old man of the bunch in his early sixties. He walked up to Wit and said something that I could not make out in a hushed tone, but Wit was concentrating on his every word, nodding slowly the entire time. Lythgoe took his seat behind me and a soft “Thank you, John” came from Wit.
“I’ve just been told by Detective Lythgoe that Mr. Sondrup, the attorney for the suspects, is downstairs as we speak advising his clients not to cooperate.”
Angry whispers and furrowed brows spread around the room.
“You know what to do,” said Wit. “Get busy.”
Desk legs scraped linoleum. Men stood. A line formed at the door. Amid the muted conversations, Wit walked over to me.
“Why don’t you start in on Covington, since you brought him in,” he said. “We’ve still got the girl in a separate holding cell. She’s stubborn as all get-out, I’ll give her that much. Maybe this mute routine of hers isn’t an act after all. Anyhow, I’m going to go to work on her one more time before the fellas from the State Industrial School drop by to haul her off. When you’re done, maybe you can check in and see how things are shaping up.” His face brightened. “Oh yeah…”
He opened his file folder and took out an eight-by-ten picture and handed it to me. I looked at it. It was a mug shot of the girl from the Lincoln Street church.
“Do me a favor, will you?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Ask around, see if any of the men know her. Maybe we can ID her that way, if she’s intent on keeping her trap shut.”
“Will do.”
* * *
After talking to Wit, I went to the long hallway of interrogation rooms in the basement, conveniently located near the jail cells. The corridor was packed with plainclothes detectives and a sprinkling of patrolmen, and I could hardly hear myself think in the din. I carried the picture of the girl in my hand as I squeezed past them. Officer Gus Nibley, uniformed and without a speck of dust on his cap’s visor, wormed through a wall of men to hand me an incomplete police report attached to a clipboard with Alma Covington’s name at the top and a freshly sharpened pencil, the tools I needed to start my interrogation. Normally soft-spoken, Nibley had to raise his voice considerably for me to hear him.
“He’s in room five, sir!”
“Thank you, Officer!”
“Things are getting off to a rough start,” he said above all the other voices. “These men are all mum, closed up tight as drums. Sondrup is going from room to room, giving orders not to cooperate. The no-good son of a—”
“How are the wife and kids, Gus?” I asked.
He seemed surprised at my question. “Never better. Yours, sir?”
“Things are looking sunny on our end,” I said. I tucked the pencil in the spring clip.
“Pleased to hear it, Lieutenant. Do you need a partner, sir?”
“Something tells me I’m better off alone with this particular fellow. Thank you, though.”
I slipped into room five and, closing the door, silenced the hallway din. I spied my reflection in the two-way mirror: still as gangly and awkward as ever, and my messy hair could use a good combing. In the corner of the room, a brunette stenographer in a green dress readied herself over her stenotype as I pulled out a chair, sat down, and turned my attention to Alma Covington. My interaction with him had been limited, yet I could sense this was a man whose intelligence outshined that of his polygamist brethren. Unlike the others, he struck me as erudite and cultured, a man who knew there was more to life than how many women he married.
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, Mr. Covington,” I said.
The machine snapped away as the stenographer’s fingers struck keys.
“I assume you’re here to discuss LeGrand Johnston.”
“Yes.”
“My attorney has advised me not to say anything.”
“That is certainly your right.”
“I respectfully disagree with him,” Covington said. “We polygamists have been hiding from the world for too long. It’s high time we be more outspoken and prouder of who we are. We need to show the world we’re not freaks. We need to move into the twentieth century, so to speak.”
I nodded. “Those are encouraging words.”
“So ask away, Detective.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I wish more polygamists shared your openness.”
“They’re a misunderstood people.” He spoke as though he were an anthropologist studying them from a distance. “It stands to reason why they distrust the outside world. They’re like the Mormon pioneers of yore, hounded, judged, driven from place to place.”
I could have launched into one of my anti-polygamy tirades, but I held back. Let the baby have his bottle, I reasoned. Besides, until now, not a single polygamist had shown t
he slightest willingness to speak to me. Who knows if this opportunity would ever present itself again?
“You’re right, I want to ask you about Johnston,” I said. “Do you have any theories about who might’ve murdered him?”
“The question is who’d want to,” he said. “He was a gentleman. A thinker. A visionary. A finer man could not be found.”
“I’ve heard rumors about a power struggle in your church,” I said. “Is there any truth to these claims?”
His eyes moved searchingly, as if he needed to inspect the room to reply. “No.”
“You hesitated,” I told him. “You had to think it over.”
“Every religion has its divisions. We’re no exception. But I know of no one in our church who’d want to end Grand’s earthly existence. We’ve lost our prophet, seer, and revelator. We’ve lost an extraordinary man who gave us, in his talks and his writings, an enchanting vision of the future. Yes, I’m afraid we’ve lost a great deal more than most people realize.”
His self-assured posture loosened. His shoulders slumped. Eyes closed. His sadness now showed in a way that it hadn’t before, and it seemed genuine.
I allowed him some time. I looked at the stenographer. She smiled at me.
“Are you getting all this?” I asked her. “Do you need us to slow down?”
“You’re doing just fine,” she said.
I turned back to Covington. “Sorry for your loss.”
He stiffened upright, eyes wide, still serious but no longer in the grip of despair. “I know of nobody in our church capable of murdering Grand, especially in the terrible way it was done.”
“How about outside of your church?”
“There are rival groups, but most pose no threat.”
“Is there one that could’ve been behind this?”
He lowered his head, as if silently deliberating how much to reveal.
“Please,” I said softly. “I need you to level with me.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose. “It’s small. It’s called the Assembly. Short for the Assembly of Apostolic Saints of Final Days.”
“What a mouthful,” I said. “Have they got a leader?”
“Yes. Orville Babcock. He owns a used car lot on State Street called Babcock Motors.”
“Do you think this Babcock character had it in him to kill Johnston?”
“I’m not saying he did. I’m not saying he didn’t. I know the two men were once close, but they had a parting of ways. Orville went off and started his own church. Since then, he’s been denouncing Grand with alarming frequency.”
I snickered a little, instantly fearing I might’ve offended Covington.
“Did I say something amusing?” he asked.
“A breakaway sect of a breakaway sect? Is there a word for that?”
His grin was subtle, but there. “Who knows?”
“So you think this Babcock might have had something to do with Johnston’s murder?”
“I really don’t know. Some of his attacks on Uncle Grand have been harsh. Be that as it may, it’s a big leap from saying bad things to doing bad things. I guess you’ll have to look into that yourself.”
I nodded. “What happens now? Does Rulon Black take the helm?”
“Pending the approval of the apostles,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll vote to confirm him.”
“He’s a rather mysterious fellow.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, nobody’s ever seen him.”
“He’s an elusive man, no question.”
“So he’s real?”
“Of course. What sort of question is that?”
“You can’t blame a fellow for asking.”
“I can count on just two hands the number of times I’ve been in his presence, and only from a distance or in dark surroundings. He’s self-conscious about his appearance. I imagine it must have something to do with the attempt on his life.”
“You mean somebody tried to kill him?”
“Oh good heavens, yes.”
“Who?”
“The assailant is still unknown. The attack left him disfigured and confined to a wheelchair, I’m sad to say.”
“When was this?”
“Years ago. You’d have to ask him the exact date. Dear Uncle Grand always had a real soft spot for Rulon. After the attempt on Rulon’s life, the prophet declared that Rulon could stay an apostle and keep living in seclusion in his compound on the Arizona border.”
“I don’t recall seeing anything in the police files about him being attacked.”
“He didn’t report it to the police.”
“Why?”
“The police aren’t exactly sympathetic.”
“Well, you people are lawbreakers.”
“There are unjust laws, Detective Oveson.” Covington smiled, and when he squinted, crows’ feet formed at the corners of his eyes. “Although I suspect a man of your zeal does not stop to consider that.”
Another comment best ignored. “When you say Rulon was disfigured and wheelchair-bound, what happened to him?”
“There’s no point in describing it. It’s all gossip.”
“Do you think whoever his attacker was might’ve had a hand in murdering LeGrand Johnston?” I asked.
“It’s been so long,” he said. “I don’t see how there could be a connection.”
“One last question?”
“Sure.”
“The night Uncle Grand was murdered, there was a young woman there, at the fundamentalist church. Do you know who she is?”
He shook his head and made a slight pout. “The prophet knows a good many people, male and female. Did you bring a picture of her?”
I showed him my eight-by-ten of her.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“Do you know her?”
He looked up from the photograph as he pushed it back to me. “I’m afraid not.”
“To answer your question, she’s in protective custody.”
“Oh. Why don’t you ask her her name yourself?”
“She won’t speak. Something frightened her and she isn’t saying anything.”
“Do you suppose she saw…” His words trailed off, as if he could not finish his sentence.
“Who knows?”
It wasn’t my imagination: He seemed genuinely stunned by the news of the girl. He knew something he wasn’t saying, I could tell that much. I asked again, “Do you know her?”
He grinned. “Does anybody really know anybody?”
“Do you know her?” I repeated.
“She looks familiar,” he said. “Beyond that, I can’t say.”
“Who were all those women?” I asked.
“Which ones? You mean back at my house?”
I nodded.
“That’s my production staff on the newspaper,” he explained. “A real dedicated bunch.”
“How many of them are your wives?” I asked.
“I have but one lawfully wedded wife to speak of,” he said, now sporting an ear-to-ear you-can’t-fool-me grin.
“Uh-huh. Got any children?” I asked.
“Only daughters.” There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice, but that smile spread across his face once more. “Perhaps the Lord will one day bless me with a son.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said. “This has been helpful.”
I leaned forward, extending my arm across the table, offering the hand of friendship. He shook it, without hesitation.
* * *
Carl Jeppson squirmed in his chair and turned his glass of water around and around in circles. He blinked rapidly. He cleared his throat repeatedly. When he felt like I was not saying enough or staring at him too much, he’d get irritated and ask, “What?” No question, the man was agitated. The room’s bright lights added to his discomfort, and he kept pressing his fingers into his eyes and rubbing.
“I don’t appreciate being dragged out of my place of business, in full view of passers
by,” he said. “I’ve a reputation to uphold.” He paused a few seconds and looked me up and down. “I think the police are using this crime as a pretext to come down hard on our community.”
“That’s not so,” I said. “All we’re trying to do is figure out who murdered your prophet and his driver. You people ought to be helping us. Instead you’re treating us like we’re your enemies. I don’t get it.”
He puffed his cheeks and blew air. “I’ve been advised by my attorney not to—”
“Let me show you something.”
I handed him the photograph. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly when he saw the girl, but then he tried to conceal his surprise. He flicked his fingertips at the picture and it slid across the tabletop.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“If you say you don’t know her, then yeah.”
“She’s not somebody I recognize.”
“Maybe she’s one of Johnston’s wives?” I guessed aloud.
“Grand only had one wife in his time on earth, his dear Lucinda, who he met and married back when he—”
“Cut it out,” I said. “Look, I know the man’s a polygamist, no matter what you and the others say. He’s the head of the Fundamentalist Church of Saints, a church that openly advocates plural marriage. And he is—or was—the kind of fellow who lived by example. I know he had many wives. I’ve been following him around for nearly three months and I’ve seen him stop at their various houses. I’ve counted at least fifteen here in Salt Lake, and I know for a fact he’s got more in Dixie City. So you might as well come clean and let me know how many wives the old bird had, because I’m tired of playing these guessing games.”
“I object to your line of questioning,” protested Jeppson. “Grand was a respected businessman and a brilliant theologian. He was a self-made man, raised in dire poverty. Any other man born into those circumstances would’ve come out of it with a hardened heart, but he didn’t. He stayed generous until the end. I find it offensive in the extreme that you’d reduce this man’s life to how many wives he was sealed to during his earthly existence. Of what concern is that to the police, and how does it relate to the murder of our prophet?”
