Roscoe. He charged shoulder-first, breaking the door open. Wood snapped, splinters flew, and we entered a high-ceilinged foyer. We passed through a chapel with enough rows of folding chairs to accommodate two hundred or so worshipers. A pulpit and an impressive pump organ dominated the front of the room. Hymnbooks filled a bookcase against the wall.
I motioned to Roscoe to follow me upstairs. I advanced through an arched doorway that opened up to a hallway with a set of carpeted stairs. Up the stairs I went to the second floor, where I found a dimly lit corridor with doors on either side. One bore the name LEGRAND JOHNSTON . Entering what appeared to be his office, I got my first whiff of a familiar, sickening odor that always triggered my gag reflex. No mistaking the scent of human blood, with its hint of iron and decay, like beef that had been left out in the summer sun. My cotton hankie went over my nose and mouth.
I found Johnston flat on his back by a coffee table. His driver lay on a davenport.
Uncle Grand was dressed in the same dark suit he had worn earlier in the day. I headed over to him and stooped to get a better look. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling. A dark pool, the color of ripe cherries, formed a perfect circle on the hardwood beneath his head.
The bullet hole in his forehead left nothing to the imagination. Another bullet had struck him at the base of his neck. His upper shirt and necktie were saturated in red, but I suspected most of his blood had drained to the floor. My eyes stopped at another hole in his stomach, a crater that was black in the center surrounded by red. Billowing drapes moved like ghosts, blown by wind from the open window. I skirted the body, taking each step slowly until I reached the curtains and hand-parted them. I leaned my head out the open window. Side yard. Treetops, but nobody down there.
I returned to Johnstonâs body, and Roscoe began examining the driver. With my handkerchief, I fished a billfold out of his front pocket and checked its contents. The murderer had not stolen his cashâsixty-eight dollars by my count. The wallet contained other items: a motor vehicle operatorâs license; an Intermountain Indemnity insurance card; a University of Utah football schedule for 1933; a Zionâs Bank 1934 card calendar; an IOU dated 2-23-34 from L. Boggs for the sum of $1,278; and a business card from the Delphi Hotel, 233 South State. I stuffed it all back in the billfold and placed it in his pocket in the same position itâd been in when I found it. Next I went over the rest of the body. The assailant had left a fancy watch on Johnstonâs wrist. Careful not to touch it, I lifted the cuff to get a better look. Black-faced Elgin with art deco gold numbers. I let go of the cuff and spent a whileâI donât know how longâgazing at that trio of bullet wounds.
âI got his wallet.â
I turned to Roscoe, who handed me the driverâs billfold. First thing I saw inside: OPERATOR â S LICENSEâ1934âUT DEPT . OF REVENUE . The license said his name was Volney Chester Mason. It listed him as residing at a Garfield Avenue address. I put the license back. The wallet contained a five and several dollar bills. I found a few cards: Seagull Photography Service on West Temple. Deseret Gymnasium membership card. GRANVILLE SONDRUP (and below that) ATTORNEY - AT - LAW . The bottom left-hand corner said: MCCORNICK BLOCK , SALT LAKE CITY . I tucked the cards back in the wallet and slipped it in the manâs pocket.
I stooped to get a better look at the driver. Shot in the left eye. Blood all over his head and face. Blood covered his shirt and seeped into the davenportâs upholstery. His right hand still held a pistol. It was an M1911 single-action, semiautomatic, black as the night. Tempted though I was to pull it out of his hand and get a better look at it, I left it alone for the homicide detectives to examine. I noted that his pistol
I motioned to Roscoe to follow me upstairs. I advanced through an arched doorway that opened up to a hallway with a set of carpeted stairs. Up the stairs I went to the second floor, where I found a dimly lit corridor with doors on either side. One bore the name LEGRAND JOHNSTON . Entering what appeared to be his office, I got my first whiff of a familiar, sickening odor that always triggered my gag reflex. No mistaking the scent of human blood, with its hint of iron and decay, like beef that had been left out in the summer sun. My cotton hankie went over my nose and mouth.
I found Johnston flat on his back by a coffee table. His driver lay on a davenport.
Uncle Grand was dressed in the same dark suit he had worn earlier in the day. I headed over to him and stooped to get a better look. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling. A dark pool, the color of ripe cherries, formed a perfect circle on the hardwood beneath his head.
The bullet hole in his forehead left nothing to the imagination. Another bullet had struck him at the base of his neck. His upper shirt and necktie were saturated in red, but I suspected most of his blood had drained to the floor. My eyes stopped at another hole in his stomach, a crater that was black in the center surrounded by red. Billowing drapes moved like ghosts, blown by wind from the open window. I skirted the body, taking each step slowly until I reached the curtains and hand-parted them. I leaned my head out the open window. Side yard. Treetops, but nobody down there.
I returned to Johnstonâs body, and Roscoe began examining the driver. With my handkerchief, I fished a billfold out of his front pocket and checked its contents. The murderer had not stolen his cashâsixty-eight dollars by my count. The wallet contained other items: a motor vehicle operatorâs license; an Intermountain Indemnity insurance card; a University of Utah football schedule for 1933; a Zionâs Bank 1934 card calendar; an IOU dated 2-23-34 from L. Boggs for the sum of $1,278; and a business card from the Delphi Hotel, 233 South State. I stuffed it all back in the billfold and placed it in his pocket in the same position itâd been in when I found it. Next I went over the rest of the body. The assailant had left a fancy watch on Johnstonâs wrist. Careful not to touch it, I lifted the cuff to get a better look. Black-faced Elgin with art deco gold numbers. I let go of the cuff and spent a whileâI donât know how longâgazing at that trio of bullet wounds.
âI got his wallet.â
I turned to Roscoe, who handed me the driverâs billfold. First thing I saw inside: OPERATOR â S LICENSEâ1934âUT DEPT . OF REVENUE . The license said his name was Volney Chester Mason. It listed him as residing at a Garfield Avenue address. I put the license back. The wallet contained a five and several dollar bills. I found a few cards: Seagull Photography Service on West Temple. Deseret Gymnasium membership card. GRANVILLE SONDRUP (and below that) ATTORNEY - AT - LAW . The bottom left-hand corner said: MCCORNICK BLOCK , SALT LAKE CITY . I tucked the cards back in the wallet and slipped it in the manâs pocket.
I stooped to get a better look at the driver. Shot in the left eye. Blood all over his head and face. Blood covered his shirt and seeped into the davenportâs upholstery. His right hand still held a pistol. It was an M1911 single-action, semiautomatic, black as the night. Tempted though I was to pull it out of his hand and get a better look at it, I left it alone for the homicide detectives to examine. I noted that his pistol
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