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  “Where’s the body?” asked Wit. He didn’t say it so much as he snarled it.

  “In that clearing over there,” I said, pointing where we’d been. “Tom Livsey is having a look at her before the morgue wagon—”

  Roscoe cut me off. “You boys are outside the city limits. Which means you’re outside of your jurisdiction.”

  “We’ve reason to believe the victim’s from Salt Lake,” said Buddy. “So, technically, this case falls under our jurisdiction.”

  “We couldn’t find any ID on her,” I said. “Do you know who she is?”

  Buddy removed his hat and held it by the brim. “We’re not at liberty to say, until our information has been confirmed by the coroner and the next of kin has been notified. Leaving so soon?”

  “We’ve been here a while,” I said. “I’ve got to write a report before I head home.”

  He tipped his head back to see the sky, and snowflakes dabbed his face. “Lonely place to meet one’s end, the Pole Line Road. Experience has taught me that in most cases, the more isolated the spot, the more heinous the crime.” He leveled his head at me. “Is that so here?”

  “She’s mangled, something terrible,” I said. “She got hit by a car. Repeatedly.”

  Buddy nodded. “Do you mind sending me a photostat of your report?”

  Roscoe winced. “Dig up your own shit, lazy bastards.”

  He grinned at Roscoe, then at me, and put his hat back on. “Don’t let us hold you up any longer, fellows. See you at church tomorrow, Art.”

  “Sure thing, Buddy.”

  Two

  In 1904, Dad built a homestead near a stream in American Fork, a stretch of fertile farmland in Utah Valley, south of Salt Lake City. He purchased fifty acres in the shadow of the snow-capped Wasatch Mountains and, just days before my birth, moved the family into the white wood-frame structure that had green shutters on the windows and a long porch. The rail fence Dad put up ran the length of the land, and he was real particular about keeping the tall grass trimmed around the posts. I was weeks away from turning thirteen when an unknown assailant shot and killed him in the line of duty in 1914.

  We buried Dad in the southwest corner of the land, beneath some shade trees. Toward the end of his life, he had obtained a permit from the county to create a family cemetery on the property. He built a white picket fence around the chosen spot and planted a flower garden in the center. A year later, this would become his final resting place.

  Ever since Dad’s death, my family had maintained the tradition of sitting down to Sunday dinners together at the homestead. At first, the ritual simply involved Mom and us four Oveson brothers. In time, the family expanded as we each married, and the weekly gatherings evolved into a huge affair. Automobiles would begin arriving at half past four, and little kids leaped out of the backseats to scramble inside the house and greet Grandma. Each wife prepared a dish, and Mom insisted we start dinner promptly at six o’clock.

  Clara, my wife, had bobbed hair the color of honey and bee-stung lips. She was renowned for her baked beans and homemade frosted sugar cookies, but she could also put together a mean casserole if the occasion called for it. Whatever she made, she had to make it big. By 1930, the house was packed with children running in all directions, wives sharing housekeeping pointers, and the four of us brothers, making small talk.

  Dad had been assistant chief of the Salt Lake City Police Department, and everyone who knew him thought the top spot on the force was his for the taking. Our maternal grandfather had served as Provo’s chief of police, and our great-grandfather had gained notoriety locally as Utah’s earliest territorial sheriff. My brothers and I gravitated to law enforcement.

  One by one, we followed in the footsteps of our forebears. My eldest brother, Frank, became an agent with the Bureau of Investigation and rose to the position of special agent in charge in the Denver field office and lived there four years. Director J. Edgar Hoover admired and respected Frank and knew my brother wanted to go back to Utah, so he personally promoted Frank to SAC/Salt Lake City in the summer of 1928. Frank never forgot this gesture of kindness, and he named his son John Edgar Hoover Oveson.

  The next Oveson brother, John, was elected sheriff of Price, a mining town in central Utah. Before John’s tenure, Price had been a rough-and-tumble place, full of hard drinkers and impulsive shooters. John swiftly achieved a reputation as a stern disciplinarian who reined in the bad element, and the people of Price rewarded him with reelection to a second term.

  Then there was Grant. His rise to captain of detectives in the Provo Police Department was nothing short of meteoric. Unlike Price, Provo—a city forty-three miles south of Salt Lake—did not have much of a bad element to speak of. From time to time, Grant would get a call to investigate a homicide or assault case, but such incidents were rare.

  Grant and I were born rivals. We seldom agreed on the issues of the day, from politics to weather, and our frequent verbal sparring dated back to our childhood. Years of butting heads had taken a toll on our relationship.

  I was the youngest of the Oveson boys, and no question, I was the runt of the litter, the frail one of the bunch. I suffered from everything you could imagine: asthma, fallen arches, dyspepsia, heart murmur, rheumatism, a mild case of polio, and a deathly pallor. I almost passed away in the epidemic of ’18; in fact, Mom drove to Loftus Mortuary in Orem and ordered a pine casket for me. I vaguely recall coming down with it in the fall, feeling the first symptoms while seated in the back row of the one-room schoolhouse I attended. As I gazed out the window at snow-covered Mount Timpanogos, my vision blurred. Then everything went black.

  I regained consciousness in the spring of ’19 with a tube in my arm to keep nutrients flowing into my body. My hair had grown long, and my rib cage protruded. Mom wept with joy to see me alert again, and she told me I had been in pain for months, flailing, sweating, and ripping off my pajamas. I could not remember any of it. All I knew was that fall had transformed into spring in the snap of a finger.

  That was eleven years ago. So much has changed.

  My brothers and I grew into manhood and each served an LDS mission—Frank to London, England; John to Montreal, Canada; Grant to Frankfurt, Germany; and I landed the warm spot, Los Angeles, probably due to my poor health.

  We all looked alike—prominent chins, tousled reddish hair, blue eyes, big smiles. The Oveson boys had something else in common: We married young, after coming home from our missions. We all had temple marriages (meaning we were married inside of the Salt Lake Temple, the LDS Church’s main temple). All of us except John married women we’d been sweet on since grammar school. John, the exception, met a lady named Eliza Nichols after he returned from Montreal and, like the rest of us, wasted no time in racing to the altar.

  Despite the overlap in our careers and lives, I couldn’t relate to my brothers on any level. Their competitiveness never let up. Even idle banter escalated into quests to outjoke each other. Without fail, I would excuse myself and wander off in search of solitude. My walks often took me outside, where I leaned against a fence post and scanned the valley and mountains beyond.

  On that particular Sunday, the day after I found the woman’s body lying in the snow, I returned to work as soon as church let out so I could finish writing the crime scene report I’d started the previous morning. Truth be known, I’d more or less finished the report on Saturday, but I wanted to find out more about the murdered woman. What was her name? Where was she from? Were there any suspects? The sheriff’s office was deserted, with a skeletal crew of deputies out on patrol. Coroner Nash told me there wouldn’t be any autopsy information released until Monday at the earliest. So I drove home, preoccupied with that gruesome crime scene. The instant I walked in the front door, Clara steered me to the garage, with Hyrum in my arms and Sarah Jane skipping joyfully. “Hurry,” Clara said, herding us into the car. “We can still make it on time to family dinner.” Once at my mother’s house, I could not sit around the living room and liste
n to my brothers discussing the challenges of building detached garages and cursing the slowness of mail order catalogs. I had to get away to a solitary place where I could gather my thoughts.

  Over time, the faded tractor seat in the barn had become my favorite place to be alone. I sought that place out to get away from my brothers, to preserve my sanity and to calm my nerves. The icy air on that late Sunday afternoon soothed my slightly asthmatic lungs.

  “I thought I might find you out here.”

  Her voice startled me. Clara huddled in the doorway, shivering in the wind.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was starting to feel cooped up, with all those kids running around, and my brothers babbling on and on. I needed to get away.”

  She approached, squeezed my hand, and pecked my cheek. “I understand. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

  I saw her arms were empty and wondered where my son, Hyrum, was. She read my mind. “He’s inside. Sleeping. He’s almost too big for that bassinet now.”

  “I know. What about Sarah Jane?”

  “She’s playing with her cousins. I was hoping I’d find you out here. I can only take so much before I need a break, too.”

  “Are the ladies getting on your nerves?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “They don’t get why in the world I’d ever want to go back to teaching high school English instead of staying home. Bess told me I was being selfish.”

  My eyebrows dipped down. “You’re kidding. Bess called you selfish?”

  “Well, not exactly. She didn’t say I was selfish. She said I was being selfish.”

  I hopped off the tractor and threw my arms around her. She wrapped hers around my waist. We smiled at each other, rubbed noses and kissed, the way married people do when they’re still deeply in love. I was so smitten I even loved her few freckles. “Always the English teacher,” I said, “making the distinction between ‘was’ and ‘being.’ Did you tell her to go jump in a lake? Utah Lake is just down the road, you know. I’ll be happy to give her a ride if she needs one.”

  “I’ll let you do the honors.” We both laughed. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “What’s eating you? Something’s been on your mind since yesterday. You’ve been preoccupied. I want to know why.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a homicide I’m thinking about. It was the reason I left the house so early yesterday morning. And why I went back to work this afternoon.”

  We were both quiet for a moment.

  “I figured as much,” she said. “Care to talk about it?”

  We loosened our embrace, letting our arms fall to our sides, and I leaned against the tractor, watching the snow fall outside. I had no intention of telling her about the homicide, but the image of the mangled body flashed in my mind whenever I blinked, and I had a hard time concealing my pain when I gazed into Clara’s beckoning eyes.

  “A car ran over her,” I said, “and not just once. It happened several times. I knew if I tried to pick her up, her entire body would’ve gone floppy. My guess is every bone in her body was broken.”

  “What was her name?”

  “She didn’t have any ID. She had a fur and a nice string of pearls, though, so she must’ve had money.”

  “Maybe the pearls were fake,” she said. “You can get some decent-looking ones at the costume store for two bits.”

  “I don’t think they were fake. I think she’s somebody important, somebody with connections.”

  “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”

  “It was the way she was killed,” I said. “It was the ugliness of it, the indignity.” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “It makes me wonder about people, about the depths they’re capable of sinking to.”

  “Why don’t you talk to the bishop about it?”

  “I know what he’s going to say.” I imitated his deep voice. “Doubts are a normal part of life. Everybody has them.”

  “And you don’t want to hear that?”

  “Just once, I would like to hear him say it’s OK to act on those doubts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes as I searched for the words. “I don’t know if I have the stomach for this line of work.”

  “Nobody says you have to be a lawman, Art. You’ve got a fine head on your shoulders.” Her face lit up, and she squeezed my hand. “Become a teacher! Like me!”

  I laughed.

  “I’m being quite serious,” she said, flashing a smile. “It would be splendid. We could have lunch together every day! And you’re a natural. Kids love you. Your mind is always ticking, like a clock. Remember when you read Scarlet Letter because my class was reading it?”

  I nodded.

  She said, “Or you can get a loan from the bank and start your own business. I know the banks aren’t giving out loans the way they did before the crash, but the radio says the tough times won’t last forever. You’d make a fine entrepreneur.”

  I appreciated what she was doing, trying to cheer me up, but I actually wanted to wallow in my pessimism. Besides, I thought it was only right that I remain shaken up by what I saw yesterday.

  “Look, I’m freezing, Art,” she said with a shiver. “Why don’t you come inside? Have some dinner.”

  “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Suit yourself, but don’t stay out here too long.” She smiled and pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I need reinforcement in there.”

  She walked out into a blizzard, and her silhouette faded into the blowing whiteness. Moments later, I trudged up the same path, closing my eyes as snow fell sideways into my face, heading in the direction of my childhood home.

  Three

  The Salt Lake County Jail, a four-story monstrosity topped with a smokestack almost as tall as the building itself, was the grimmest-looking thing in town. This heap of dark bricks and barred windows stood on Second East and Fourth South, across the street from the more elegant City and County Building, an impressive example of Romanesque Revival that could’ve passed for a fancy university building. To my regret, the county sheriff’s department wasn’t housed in the City and County Building. Our offices were attached to the county jail, and out back was a gravel parking lot full of county Model A’s.

  The blizzard that had moved in over the valley the previous night was still dropping snow. Enough had fallen to close all schools for the day, sending joyous throngs of kids to Liberty Park with sleds in tow.

  Deputies never got the day off. We were actually doing pretty well when our paychecks arrived on time and were for the full amount. Hard times made everybody feel uneasy about the future, and at that point in my life, I was just happy to be employed. Most of the other deputies felt the same way, but there were plenty who disliked Sheriff Fred Cannon, and that morning you could see it in their grim expressions as they filed into the basement briefing room.

  We waited for Cannon to deliver the big announcement. Maybe this morning I’d finally be able to attach a name to the dead woman. I sat on the back row, next to Roscoe Lund, who smelled of cheap aftershave and had refused to put on a tie yet again.

  Into the room walked Cannon, followed by Assistant Sheriff A. M. Sykes. Cannon was a stocky man with closely cropped brown hair, ruddy cheeks, and a rounded chin that threatened to disappear into a turkey neck. He always seemed to be smiling, even when tragedy struck.

  Sykes—smaller, leaner, and more intense—had a bald spot on top of his head. Like Calvin Coolidge, he rarely spoke, letting Cannon do most of the talking. That’s how he got to be assistant sheriff. Cannon hated to be contradicted, and many ex-deputies learned that lesson the hard way. By contrast, Sykes allowed Cannon to hog the spotlight without a single objection.

  Cannon stepped up to the lectern, put on his wire-frame eyeglasses, and cleared his throat. The sheriff bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  “Our bel
oved Father in Heaven,” he began, and a good two-thirds of the men in the room—including me—closed our eyes and lowered our heads. The other third kept their heads upright and stayed quiet. “Thank you for your blessings of family, nourishment, and employment in these difficult times. You have indeed been kind to us, and we are truly grateful. We ask that you extend another blessing unto us, oh Heavenly Father—the blessing of safety. Please continue to guide us, to help us to do what’s right, to always seek justice and uphold the law. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

  Prayer time always spotlighted divisions in the sheriff’s office. Only the Mormons—Sheriff Cannon, Assistant Sheriff Sykes, me, and a number of other deputies—participated in the morning prayers. The non-Mormons, even the very religious ones, refrained. A Catholic deputy named Jim Boyd once told me he didn’t pray because the morning prayers were “Mormon prayers,” and he said a lot of the other religious men who weren’t Mormons felt the same way.

  Sheriff Cannon lifted his head. A soft chorus of amens echoed across the room.

  “Gentlemen, I am sure by now most of you have heard the news,” he said, lifting a copy of this morning’s Salt Lake Telegram so we could all see the story and photo. From where I sat, I had to squint to see the headline. WIFE OF S.L. PHYSICIAN SLAIN. Below that: SOCIALITE RUN OVER BY OWN AUTO, FEW CLUES FOUND. The picture next to the story showed the victim in happier times, wearing a cloche hat and fur coat.

  Cannon continued. “The body of Helen Kent Pfalzgraf was found by Deputies Arthur Oveson and Roscoe Lund on Saturday morning out at Pole Line Road. I don’t need to tell you all that a resolution to this case is a top priority for this office. I also need not remind you of Hazel Hamilton’s murder on New Year’s Day of last year. We had four suspects before the trail went completely cold. Well, I assure you, gents: That will not happen again.”

  He dipped his head, tightened his mouth, and momentarily seemed too choked up to speak. Then he raised his head again and summoned the strength. “This past New Year’s Day marked the first anniversary of the Hamilton murder. And guess who had to sit down with her parents and explain why the sheriff’s office hadn’t found the killer yet? Believe me when I say it was one of the worst moments of my life. I hope none of you ever have to do that. I hope I never again have to experience anything remotely like that.”