A Killing in Zion by Andrew Hunt

I’d promised her I’d stop working these late nights when summer arrived.
    It really bothered me that tonight, Monday, was Family Home Evening, a Mormon custom in which each family got together for a night of fun and games and, in warmer months, evening strolls or auto treks to the ice-cream parlor. So much for Family Home Evening , I thought. Was I turning into Buddy Hawkins—my ambitious friend who had swiftly climbed to the position of captain of detectives—willing to push everything aside for my job?
    I tried to steer my focus back to the present. Myron was right : Johnston—or Uncle Grand, as his followers called him—was careful. He had come back here to his church after a two-hour-long meeting with his apostles at a house belonging to one of them, Alma Covington, on Third Avenue. I had waited in front of Covington’s, puzzling over what these codgers could possibly be jabbering about so long. The meeting presumably concluded and the tireless old man left. His driver whisked him to this place, his sanctuary out in the shade trees, the place he stayed on nights when he was busy sorting out church matters until the wee hours. By this time of night, most of the cars at the church were gone. Only Johnston’s limousine remained in the driveway.
    I thought about calling it a night, dropping Roscoe off at his apartment, and heading home myself. Why was I killing myself for a salary that still required my wife’s second income in order to meet our monthly expenses? Had I become one of the police department politicos who I so distrusted, scrambling as fast as I could to get to the top of the ladder? What had the polygamists ever done to me? The keys dangling from the ignition beckoned. The temptation to turn them was great. Yet I held back, for reasons I did not understand.
    Time passed. The neighborhood was silent, except for a distant locomotive whistle. I veered in and out of wakefulness, shaking my head and fluttering my eyelids every few minutes to keep awake. I pressed my fingers into my burning eyes and rubbed.
    Movement interrupted the stillness. A black Model T truck swerved into the driveway. The light was poor, but I thought I spotted two figures sitting in the vehicle’s cab. I switched on the interior light and checked my watch: 11:57. I switched off the light. With the wall of hedges blocking my view, I could not see the new arrivals getting out of the truck, but I heard doors slamming. Now I was more alert than ever, wondering who that was in the truck and why they picked this late hour to drop by. More time ticked away. I stretched my arms and cracked my knuckles. I squirmed in my seat and fidgeted. I drummed my fingers on my knees. Anything I could do to keep from dozing off.
    A series of muted cracks startled me. I was pretty sure they were gunshots, coming from inside the church. A dog barked in the distance.
    I fumbled for the interior globe. Switched it on. Checked my .38. Full. I snapped closed the cylinder, glanced at the time, 12:12 A . M ., and gave Roscoe a shake. He sucked air in through his nostrils, sat up straight, pushed his hat back on his head, and looked around groggily.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œI heard shots,” I said. “Coming from the church.”
    An engine revved up. Roscoe and I looked at each other, then at the imposing building, partly hidden from view behind the foliage. Rubber tires sprayed gravel and the Model T truck came barreling out of the driveway, screeching around a corner and disappearing into the night.
    â€œWho the hell…”
    â€œLet’s go,” I said.
    I got out of the car, not even bothering to pull my keys out of the ignition, and ran across the street toward the house. I balled my hand into a fist and pounded on the front door of the church.
    â€œThis is the police,” I shouted. “Let me in!”
    I rapped on the wood repeatedly with the palm of my hand.
    â€œStand aside,” said