A Killing in Zion

by Andrew Hunt

  “No need,” I said. “You did good. I’m glad. By the way, is Hi here?”

  “He’s with George. What’s wrong, Art?”

  I looked at Nelpha. “I need to talk to you. I was wondering if we could go in the kitchen?”

  “What’s this about, Art?” asked Clara.

  “I just need to talk to her,” I said. “It won’t be long.”

  “Is everything okay, Dad?” asked Sarah Jane.

  “I need a few minutes of Nelpha’s time. That’s all.”

  I put my arm around Nelpha’s shoulders and led her into the kitchen, with Clara and Sarah Jane standing by and watching nervously. Wooden chair legs groaned on the floor as I pulled out a seat for her and she sat down. From my rolltop desk in the living room I fetched a pencil and a few pieces of paper. I returned to the kitchen, sat down across from Nelpha, and pushed the pencil and paper toward her.

  “They’re coming for you,” I said.

  “Who is?” asked Clara, standing in the doorway.

  I turned to Clara. “The police are paying a visit to this house, tonight, to arrest Nelpha. She’s going to be in a lot of trouble if she doesn’t help me out.”

  Clara entered the kitchen, arms folded above her protruding belly. “When were you going to tell me this?”

  “I only just found out myself,” I said over my shoulder to Clara. I looked at Nelpha. “I need you to write down what happened the night of Uncle Grand’s murder.”

  She bit her lower lip and tensed up.

  “I think you saw what happened to Uncle Grand the night he was killed,” I said. “Listen, if you had anything to do with it…”

  She shook her head vigorously, as if protesting. Her features twitched with dismay.

  “If I’m going to protect you, I need to know what you know,” I said.

  I picked up the pencil and went to place it in her open palm, but she jerked her hand away. She placed her hands on her lap under the table and lowered her head, her way of withdrawing into that turtle shell of hers. I couldn’t let her do that. There was too much at stake.

  “It’s not a matter of locking you up in reformatory anymore. They want to try you for murder. Double murder. I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”

  She stared at the pencil I placed in front of her. Her fearful eyes met mine. Her jittery movements reminded me of a bird in a cage being attacked by a cat.

  “I know why you’re afraid,” I said. “I know about Boyd Johnston disappearing, and the other boys, too.”

  She shook her head when I mentioned Boyd Johnston.

  “No?” I asked. “No what? They didn’t disappear?”

  She didn’t respond. I began reciting the names of the lost boys.

  “Garth Christensen. Franklin Boggs. Chester Hammond. Any of those names sound familiar? Are they the reason you left home and came all the way up here to talk to Uncle Grand? I know for a fact that Boyd was your friend. You wanted to help him, and that’s why you went to Uncle Grand. Isn’t that true?”

  Her nod was slight, but I saw it.

  “His disappearance has something to do with the two murders,” I said. “Tell me this much: Am I right?”

  No more nods or headshakes came my way. If it weren’t for her trembling, I’d think she’d turned to stone.

  “Please,” I whispered, with a hint of desperation in my voice. “Write down what happened that night.”

  She did not budge. Not an inch. Her newly permanent-waved hair shook, along with the rest of her.

  “It’s too hard for her.”

  Sarah Jane stood next to me, looking at her frightened friend on the other side of the table.

  “She’s scared, Dad.”

  Clara approached Sarah Jane. “Why don’t you and Nelpha go to your room? I want to talk to your father, sweetheart.”

  “Okay,” said S.J. “Come on, Nelpha.”

  As Nelpha rose to her feet, I knew I was not imagining things when I saw her mouth the word “sorry.” She followed Sarah Jane to her room. The door at the end of the hallway closed. Clara and I were alone now.

  Clara pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. Her pregnant belly, now larger than ever, made her squirm in search of a comfortable sitting position.

  “Why do the police want her?”

  “They think she murdered LeGrand Johnston,” I said.

  Clara turned pale. “What—why?”

  “They found a gun that someone threw out at the fundamentalist church the night of the murders,” I said. “It has her fingerprints on it. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The phone rang. I went to the hallway, lifted the receiver, and brought it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “It’s me.”

  I instantly recognized Myron Adler’s voice.

  “Myron! Boy, am I glad to hear from you. How was your outing?”

  “I’ve never been to Branning’s,” he said, instead of answering. “Their chili is legendary.”

  “That it is,” I confirmed.

  “Are you hungry for a late lunch? I’d like to share the findings of my expedition, and I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone. You know, party lines and what have you.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “I’m calling from a telephone booth in the lobby of the Semloh. So I’m pretty much there. When can you be here?”

  “Can you give me some time?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “How about an hour?”

  I spied my wristwatch. 12:56. “Two o’clock it is. See you then.”

  I lowered the earpiece onto the cradle. Clara now stood in the hall, a few feet away from me, expecting me to share what I knew.

  “Who was that?”

  “Myron,” I said. “He was out of town for a few days. I’m going to meet him a little later to discuss his trip. But there are other, more pressing matters to attend to right now.”

  “What should we do about Nelpha?” she asked.

  “They’re going to charge her with murder,” I said. I looked at her. “If she’s here, they’ll arrest her. You think you can stay at your sister’s for a few days?”

  “Of course.”

  “Has she got room for the kids and Nelpha?”

  “Yeah. I could also stay at my parents’.”

  “Better make it your sister’s,” I said. “I love your mom and dad, but they ask too many questions. Maybe you could use your parents’ Ford for a few more hours. Give George’s mom a call. Tell her where you’re staying. Ask if she’ll drop Hi off there.”

  “We could get in trouble for this,” said Clara. “What if she’s…”

  Clara couldn’t bring herself to ask it.

  “Then I’ll do everything in my power to see to it that she’ll get a fair trial and decent legal representation,” I said. “But Clara, just as sure as I’m standing here, I’m certain she’s innocent. Even if she pulled the trigger that night, something terrible pushed her to that point, and we owe it to her to figure out what it was. We’ve come this far. Please, let’s just do this one thing.…”

  We embraced. I kissed her on the cheek and then our lips touched. We released each other and went to work packing. It is striking how quickly you can pack when you stay focused. Forty-five minutes later, I loaded suitcases into the backseat of her mother and father’s Ford Model A, mindful to carve out a space for one of the girls to sit. Clara waddled out to the car in a floral crepe dress, along with a hat to keep the hot afternoon sun out of her eyes. Behind her, Sarah Jane led Nelpha by the arm out the front door, down the porch steps, to the idling auto. I exchanged hugs with my wife and daughter, while Nelpha observed with uncertainty in her eyes. I walked up to her and gently put my arms around her and pulled her close. I briefly considered telling her that everything was going to be okay, but how could I say something that I knew might not be true? Instead I let go, stepped back, and smiled down at her. She returned the smile. I felt a wave of sudden happiness—a real relief from the stress I�
�d been under all day—to see her smile like that. I watched the car back out onto the road and speed downhill, eventually disappearing out of sight.

  Twenty-seven

  If one were to compile a list of the seven culinary wonders of the world, surely Branning’s chili would have to be included on it. People drove from as far away as Evanston, Wyoming; Fort Collins, Colorado; and Elko, Nevada, to partake of the steaming, aromatic delicacy. After the first bite, your mouth caught on fire and you began to wonder whether you’d live to see another day. By the time you reached the bottom of the bowl, you’d sacrifice nearly anything to figure out how to make it. The owner, Ralph Branning, kept the recipe a closely guarded secret. Rumor had it he wouldn’t even let his loved ones see it. Whatever ingredients he used, however he made it, his little tile-floored joint on the ground floor of the Semloh Hotel, with a big sign out front that spelled CHILI in lightbulbs, consistently drew a sizable noontime crowd. The menu contained a few other staples: hamburgers, steaks, tamales, and even a bizarre concoction called a Ham Waffle, which I avoided like the dickens, but it’s safe to say that two-thirds of the lunch clientele came for the chili.

  Myron Adler, as stone-faced as Buster Keaton and dressed in a suit that must’ve been much too hot for this weather, selected a table near the storefront window, which gave us a prime view of congested traffic on Second South. He set his hat on the table and began crushing saltines in his hand, sprinkling them over his chili. Next came the ketchup. Three whacks of the bottle’s bottom sent a red flood pouring onto his lunch.

  He capped the bottle and leaned it my way.

  “No thanks.”

  I kept my hat on, to cover the unpleasant wound on my freshly shaven head. We dined briefly in silence. At some point, Myron fished the familiar folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and passed it to me. I unfolded the tattered yellow sheet and read the words again. A NEW DAWN IN HOMESTEADING!

  “Have you figured out what this thing is about?” I asked.

  “I believe so,” he said, chewing his food and napkin-dabbing his mouth.

  “And?”

  He drank half of his glass of water and let out a little “ah” when he set it down. “I spent all day Friday going through the records at the land offices in St. George and Kingman. Get this. At least thirty thousand acres in Washington County, Utah, and sixty-five thousand in Mohave County, Arizona, all of it designated as Homestead Act land, has been given to applicants who listed room 308 at the Delphi Hotel, Salt Lake City, Utah, as their address on the application forms.”

  “How’d they find these dummy claimants?” I asked.

  “They printed thousands of those handbills. Blanketed the soup kitchens, hobo camps, and transient shelters with them. When the polygamists would get a response at their P.O. boxes, they’d tell the sap to meet them in their room at the Delphi on State Street. That’s how they persuaded the poorest of poor men to apply for homestead land.”

  “Aren’t these men expecting to get land out of the deal?” I asked.

  “I imagine not many of them read the fine print on the forms,” said Myron. “I’m sure some could barely even read the handbill.”

  “I don’t get how all of these men could be swindled out of their land without reporting it to the police.”

  “You raise an important point,” said Myron. “I was just getting to that. It didn’t take long for the polygamists to realize their original scheme was full of holes. It left too many loose ends, too many witnesses, and it could’ve easily backfired on them. That’s why they came up with a different approach.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Based on my research down there, that little handbill racket accounts for only a small portion of the illegally obtained land. The polygamists wised up and figured out a way to get their minions placed in these land offices. It’s not like they’re highly coveted jobs, even in these hard times. The polygamists switched from hoboes to dead people.”

  “You mean…”

  “I matched the names on the applications with lists from cemeteries in the region, including the one in Dixie City, and since the start of 1933, most of the land claimants had been dead long before they actually filed their papers. So either we’re dealing with ghosts that understand the complexities of government bureaucracy…”

  I finished his sentence: “Or the polygamists are taking names off of cemetery records and their lackeys in the land offices are signing off on all of these claims and filing them away, assuming nobody will ever notice.”

  I folded the handbill and gave it back to Myron. “If that’s all true,” I said, “then it’s the biggest land swindle I’ve ever heard of.”

  “And it’s not confined to Washington and Mohave counties, either,” he said. “These men have used similar loopholes to amass land in Garfield County, Colorado, not to mention northern Nevada and the border of Idaho and British Columbia. That’s in addition to the tens of thousands of acres they already own in Texas and Mexico. All told, we could be looking at upward of a quarter of a million acres of land in as many as eight different states and three countries.”

  I reared my head in surprise. “Don’t tell me you went to the land offices in all of those places?”

  “No. That information came from Harold O’Rourke, that field agent with the Federal Emergency Relief Administration who Jared mentioned. He’s been investigating these and a lot of other legally questionable polygamist activities.”

  “So you met this guy?”

  “Yeah, he got back into Kingman yesterday after being on the road for a while. We sat down in his office and he talked for close to three hours. I learned a lot.”

  “Such as?”

  “The polygamists are sitting on top of a multimillion-dollar empire,” said Myron, eating a bite of chili. He chewed for a moment. “They’ve got investments in oil, real estate, construction, radio stations, aviation, and even motion pictures. O’Rourke says these men are racketeers who go about their business under the cover of religious convictions. And on top of all that, they’re getting federal relief money coming into Dixie City. All of it is lining the pockets of rich apostles. They’re living high on the hog in big fortress homes, with all the luxuries. Meantime, most of the followers live in hovels with dirt floors and no electricity.”

  “What’s O’Rourke waiting for?” I asked. “Why isn’t he nailing the polygamists?”

  “He still needs more evidence,” said Myron. “It’s like we’ve said a hundred times: These men are nothing if not careful.”

  “If we could somehow get our hands on the financial records of the polygamists…”

  Myron shook his head while he ate. “It won’t be easy.”

  “How did O’Rourke come by all of this information?”

  “He has a connection on the inside,” said Myron. “He knows the accountant, who also happens to be one of the apostles. The fellow is feeding O’Rourke all kinds of information.”

  “Who’s the accountant?” I asked. “Maybe we can talk to him.”

  “O’Rourke won’t say. My guess is the fellow is disillusioned, probably found out about the investigation and secretly went to O’Rourke.”

  I snapped my fingers, and Myron noticed me glowing with excitement. “I bet I know who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “Carl Jeppson.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “With his business acumen, it wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “Let me ask you something. How is O’Rourke planning to use this information?”

  “He’s building a case at the federal level to charge them with fraud. While he’s at it, he’s going to move to cut off the relief aid going into Dixie City and Vermillion Creek. That’s the incorporated community on the Utah side, across the border from Dixie. The rich polygamists keep property on both sides. That way, if there’s a raid by state authorities, they can sneak over the state line and lie low until it all blows over.”

  “Did you get any sense of where Un
cle Grand fits into all this? I mean, he is the head of this church. I expect his hands are dirty.”

  Myron shook his head. “I get the impression he was a figurehead, a grandfather type who mostly stayed out of the shady dealings of his church. That’s why he preferred Salt Lake to Dixie City. He figured he’d let the young Turks do their own thing with the United Brethren experiment out in the desert while he stayed comfy around here, wooing new converts and visiting his local wives.”

  “So maybe—just maybe—when Nelpha came all the way up here to tell him about his missing son, it jolted Johnston into the realization that not all was well down Dixie City way.”

  “That’s one scenario,” said Myron.

  “How could Johnston not know, though?” I asked. “I guess the bigger question is: How is it that these men have gotten away with committing so many crimes for so long?”

  “It’s not hard to understand,” said Myron. “The polygamists use the same tactics as the mob. They operate in secrecy, intimidate their followers, and murder those who get in their way. They bribe judges, law enforcement, elected officials. They keep a low profile and try hard to stay out of the press. I can see why they get away with it.”

  I spent the next half hour filling Myron in on everything that had happened while he was gone. I went into detail about the trip to Dixie City, the meeting with Talena Steed, the funeral, Talena’s death, and my assault on Dorland Kunz. It made me feel better to talk about it, although I’m not altogether sure that Myron heard a single word I said. He appeared to be in a trance the entire time he was listening. No nodding. No “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” No questions or comments. He simply sat there, taking it all in. After I finished talking, he remained quiet for another minute or so, and I began to wonder if he had gone catatonic on me.

  Finally, Myron asked, “So are the newspaper reports true? Is the squad really going to be shut down?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, am I back in records?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “What’s next for Arthur Oveson, master sleuth?”

  “The Morals Squad,” I said. “This time Monday, I’ll be netting hookers and raiding secret slot machine joints.”