A Killing in Zion by Andrew Hunt Page B

was aimed in the general direction of the south wall. I left it untouched.
    â€œThere’s a hole in the wall over there,” said Roscoe. “Who knows if this gun made it.”
    â€œWe’ll find out soon enough,” I said, finding the little black entry point in the wallpaper.
    â€œHe looks familiar,” said Roscoe, gesturing to Mason. “But I don’t know his name.”
    â€œMaybe he’s one of Johnston’s followers,” I said.
    â€œI’m betting he’s hired muscle,” said Roscoe. “I’ve seen him around, back when I was in that line of work.”
    The men weren’t going anywhere, so I sidled to a bathroom off Johnston’s office. Toilet, sink, and medicine cabinet, clawfoot tub with the white curtain closed. Towels hung on bars. Medicine cabinet: empty. I shut off the light.
    A sound in one of the neighboring rooms startled me.
    I aimed my gun and advanced stealthily. I peered into what seemed to be a guest room, complete with a four-poster bed, a bureau topped with a crocheted ruffled doily and washbasin, and a framed photograph of LeGrand Johnston hanging on the wall. I wondered if this was where the prophet’s concubines slept after auditioning to join his big family.
    I turned to leave, but a muffled movement coming from the closet stopped me. I crept toward it, using my handkerchief to grab the knob. I opened it and pointed my gun inside. I reached up inside and pulled a chain. An electric globe flashed on to nothing but a row of dresses that had been spread apart, as if somebody had already searched inside of it. My heart began to slow, and I turned to leave when I spotted a pair of black shoes with shiny buckles on the closet floor below the dresses. My eyes followed the shoes to a pair of ankles, then ankles to shins. I brushed the hanging clothes aside with my arm so that a girl came into view. She couldn’t have been any older than thirteen. Her calico dress must have been unbearably hot. She kept her brown hair woven into braids, her blue eyes reflected the light from above, and a dimple formed a tiny canyon in her chin.
    I knelt slightly and showed her my badge.
    â€œI’m Detective Arthur Oveson, Salt Lake City Police Department,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a policeman. What’s your name?”
    She didn’t respond. When I touched her arm, she didn’t pull away, didn’t budge at all. She continued to stare blankly ahead. I wondered what, if anything, she’d seen. What put her in this state?
    â€œWho is she?”
    I faced Roscoe, framed by the doorway, gun drawn as he sized up the girl.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said, blowing a sigh. “I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

 
    Five
    On the sedan’s driver’s-side running board, I sat hunched with my elbows on my knees, savoring a breeze, even though it brought smoke from forest fires. A line of police cars and the morgue wagon were parked in front of the mansion-turned-church. Sitting out here at two A . M . was preferable to getting in the way of the homicide dicks and lab boys doing their job on the second floor. My mind still had not fully absorbed the shock of finding the bodies of Johnston and his driver. I spent a while remembering those weeks of tailing Johnston around the valley, wondering if there was something I missed that should have led me to expect tonight’s awful turn of events. But nothing came to mind. My eyes burned with dryness and I wanted to be in bed at home instead of here. Roscoe had already caught a ride downtown with one of the prowlers that had left earlier. I told him I’d fill him in tomorrow. I stayed put, waiting for an update from Lieutenant Wit Dunaway of the Homicide Squad.
    Eventually Wit left the crime scene with his partner, Pace Newbold, and came to see me. Pasty-skinned and chinless, Newbold was my age, thirty-three, and he harbored