Message Recieved

"Wait, what?" I whisper, furrowing my eye brow and leaning into photographer Nick Steffens, "Did he say the chief resigned?" I ask shocked, seeking clarification. Mayor Ralph Becker had just announced the resignation of popular Police Chief Chris Burbank, over his handling of a sexual harassment scandal involving one of the chief's top leaders. 

Becker's press conference

The bombshell caught me, and pretty much everyone in Salt Lake City, off guard. Minutes after the mayor's comments, news came that the former chief would, himself, address the media regarding the shocking news.

Becker's announcement was held atop the steps of the city county building, looking down on the gaggle of reporters and camera operators who were at a safe distance at the bottom of the concrete stairs, more than a dozen feet away.  Becker, from behind a podium, read from prepared remarks, and did not take questions after turning awkwardly towards the heavy historic doors of city hall and floating back into the sandstone structure.

Burbank addresses the media.

Burbank on the other hand, dressed in his customary blue police uniform, casually sipped water as a dozen reporters and photographers too aim at his meticulously shaved head with tape recorders, cameras and cell phones.  the former chief spoke extemporaneously and took a dozens questions after his comments.

Mayor Becker has always seemed aloof, and at times even disengaged, I remember in 2010, in the wake of the Red Butte oil spill which released 800 barrels of oil, polluting the water near homes a blackening the pond at Liberty Park and coating dozens of ducks with black ooze.

The Mayor had just held a press conference at about 5 PM, and afterwards I asked the Mayor's press handler if he would appear live on our news show at 10PM that night.  "Uh," she said reluctantly, "I think he's pretty tired." I squinted my eyes, and pulled my chin in back towards my chest, "Tired?" I repeated her words back to her, in an effort to emphasis how odd they sounded, "This is the biggest disaster of his administration, surely he can find the energy to talk to the city about how the clean up is going."  "I'll check," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.  A few minutes later she returned, "Yeah, he's not going to be able to make  it."  I didn't say a word, I was stunned.

Department of Environmental Quality

Chris Burbank, seems the opposite of that.  In 2006 he was up late as the street swelled with a crowd angry residents,  after the body of kidnapping victim  Destiny Norton was found in a musty crawlspace in the apartment of her neighbor.  The large mob gathered, seething over the way the police department had handled the case.  A riot seemed imminent.  Burbank, headed out into the night and directly into the angry sea of chaotic, emotional people.  He disarmed them with understanding and charm and at the end of the evening, 2 of the people who were most instrumental in instigating the gang,  actually went on TV and APOLOGIZED to the chief for causing problems.

Burbank's image was that of an open and approachable public servant, but that openness did have its limits I always felt.  Chief Burbank was also a ferocious protector of his and his department's public image.  When I started reporting in Utah in 1999, Salt Lake City's Public Relations department under Chief Rick Dinse consisted of one or 2 people.  

Burbank addresses angry Norton crowd (SL Trib)

After he was appointed Chief 9 years ago, Burbank expanded his PR department greatly.  At last casual count, there are at least 5 in the unit, all with the goal of disseminating information, but also, it seemed, protecting the shield.

  After I'd done an unflattering story about the police department, my relationship, which had, up to that point, always been jocular and easy, changed.  A few days after my critical story aired, I called the police PR requesting to do an interview on an unrelated story, The crew sent out 2 officers, one to grant me an interview, the other to video tape my questions.  "What's this?" I asked as the officer dutifully pointed his small handheld video camera at me, "just documenting everything," he said, staring blankly and uncomfortably at the postage stamp sized screen, occasionally glancing up, then quickly diverting his eyes back to the tiny square.  I wasn't exactly sure why they were pointing the camera at me.  Maybe it was a subtle way of saying, "we have this whole interview on tape, watch how you edit it?" Or perhaps the department was telling me, "see, two can play at this game."  Either way a message, no matter how unclear it was, was being sent.

The two hastily organized press conferences called on that historic day couldn't have been more different in tone and structure, and are, in many ways symbolic, of the way the 2 men operate.  One pulls you in close, both physically and emotionally, the other keeps you at a distance, but both have the same goal: Control the message.

Pain and Generosity

"No really, we can't," I decline politely as photographer Dave Yost and I make our way back in the dark to our news van.  After a few steps Dave whispers to me, "I think she's following us."  I glance over my shoulder, to see a smiling young woman in a sarong dutifully trailing behind us. "Again, really, we can't, you are too kind," I smile to the gentle face holding two heaping plates of food, "I'll get in trouble if you don't take these," she says grinning stubbornly.   Refusing the saucers filled with cake, turkey wraps, and homemade rolls would have been impossible.

The Asiata family, despite their stunning loss, still manage to pile mountains of food onto 6 separate plates and offer them to the three pairs of photographers and reporters who had just invaded their home.

Pita Asiata was killed Monday night when the charter bus he was driving rear ended a large industrial auger attached to a construction truck.  He was killed instantly, sending a shock wave through his close, Pacific Island family.  Perhaps most known to Utahn's, among his 5 children, is Matt Asiata, a University of Utah football star, who later, as an undrafted free agent, made the 53 man roster with the Minnesota Vikings.

The Asiata's have just directed our coordinated horde of journalists into a medium sized living room.  The furniture, we are told, had been removed, and the floor is lined with blankets, for a family ceremony.  Still remaining however, are rows of plaques, pictures, and trophies lining the walls, documenting the impressive sports career of Matt Asiata.  "His blood runs in my veins," says the bulky running back, in a purple Vikings T-shirt, his face punctuated by a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses, to shield his teary eyes, from the gaggle of strangers.

As we pack up our gear, Sega Asiata directs an army of nieces and nephews who are flooding out of the Asiata kitchen armed with plates of food.  "It's our culture," Sega smiles a grin comprised of one part pride, in her Pacific Islander background, 2 parts pain, over the loss of her father.

This is not the first time the Asiata's have fed us today. About 4 hours earlier, I stood on Pita's front stoop, visiting the family unannounced.  "We just want to give you the opportunity to talk about your father," I tell Sega. "Give me a second," she says kindly, "I just want to talk to my family for a minute."  As Dave and I stand awkwardly in the Asiata's yard, a pair of nephews hustle after a baseball, an aunt embraces another family member, and an uncle hauls a casserole dish, into the family living room.

Moments later 3 teenagers pour out of the front door, one with a pair of glass plates teeming with food, another with two chairs, and a third with 2 can's of Coke. My head darts from left to right as we are surrounded by unexpected generosity.  Sega follows, "will you come back at 7?" She asks kindly.  I agree, as I glance down at the giant plate of food, "oh," she says, "take them, give them to the D.I." she smiles, unconcerned about where these dishes, which have likely been part of happier family gatherings in the past, will eventually end up.

I've seen this sort of unabashed kindness many times before in the Pacific Island culture.  Several months ago, I found Myself in a very similar situation, as I stood in the garage of Sgt. Ivan Taufa.  His son Josh, while on an LDS mission, was electrocuted in Guatemala, while fixing a leaky roof for a family.  As Ivan collected himself for an interview, his brother, sat quietly next to a large, red and white cooler, mixing a concoction of watermelon juice and shredded coconut with a large wooden spoon.  "it's called Otai," he nods towards the swirling bath of red and white.  "it's for the family, when they all gather here tomorrow," He then snatches a red Solo cups from a stool nearby and scoops a healthy helping into the plastic and thrusts it into my hand, "Otai," he says nodding.  I take a large swig,  it is delicious.  I gulp down the last bit, then conduct my interview with Ivan.  As I'm leaving, Ivan's brother sloshes another ocean into the cup, and forces it into my hand, "Otai," he says, then gathers me up into his ample frame and gives me a bear hug.

Just moments before interviewing Matt and his sister Sega about their father, I hand those 2 family dishes, back to an Asiata aunt, "We cleaned them," I announce, She looks at them stunned, "you didn't have to do that," she shakes her head, "neither did you," I smile.

It could have been worse

"The only thing that could make this day any better, is if the truck broke down," Photographer Mike DeBernardo, hisses ironcially after a hard afternoon on the road.  He and I are assigned difficult story about the Vice-Principal of Vernal Middle School accused of sex crimes against a juvenile member of his family.

David Papadakos, accused of sex crimes

In addition to the distasteful subject matter, to do the story, we must drive 173 miles to Uintah County, some 3 hours and 30 minutes away.

As our deadline approaches we are plagued with mechanical and technical issues, all the gizmos in the live truck (I won't pretend to act like I know how they work) keep dying, thanks  to a lack of power.  My computer is also on the fritz, making it difficult to track down the mugshot of the vice principal accused of the crime.

We are able to get our story on the air at 10 PM but, cannot establish our live presence in Vernal.  As we shut down the systems, pack away the lights, and prepare for our long slog home, Mike is peeved by the inability to "make," our live shot, and that's when he utters those now fateful words,  "The only thing that could make this day any better, is if the truck broke down."

When the words float out of his mouth, I say what everyone says when someone utters something like that, "famous last words."

At 11:30 PM those "famous last words," begin to flash before our eyes,  as Mike engages his bright beams, as we barrel down a dark and frigid highway 40 just outside of Duchesne, the scratchy song on the radio, buzzes off.  The gauges begin to spin and whirl wildly, like the dials on a futuristic machine in a sci-fi movie, then relent before keeling over to the left.  According to our dashboard monitors, we are careening across the pavement at zero miles an hour, with zero gallons of gas in our tank, and zero oil pressure to propel us back home. "Are the lights dimming?" I squint into the darkness, as the once brightly illuminated pavement is now just a dull, slight yellow, quickly disappearing before our eyes.
It only takes a handful of minutes for our truck to follow the cue of the dials, and, with engine choked to death, we slowly drift along the gravel shoulder to a silent pause, 10 miles from the nearest town, and 2 hours from home in Salt Lake City.

"Well, you got your wish," I sing to Mike, as we sit, stranded, the temperature, dropping quickly, a he engages the hazard lights.  "Click, clack, click, clack," the ticking, keeping the monotone, heartless beat of our dark isolation.

"It's going to take the tow truck 2 hours to get here," Mike looks at the ceiling of the truck as he silences his phone with a finger tap   "Thank goodness, we have cell service," or we'd be screwed," I add, "I might have been forced to kill and eat you." I joke, "well," Mike interjects as he scrolls Facebook on his smartphone, "it's still early."

It doesn't take long for the temperature to drop inside the cabin of our truck.  It's about 25 degrees along this lonely stretch of highway.  After about 2 hours, we watch our smoky breath, prompted by the fridgid temperatures, float out of our mouths as we begin playing the futile game, I call:  "Oh, there he is, finally!"    Every 10 minutes or so, we spot the tiny flash of headlights in the distance, to which one of us will, say, mostly hoping that our words, will somehow manifest our tow truck, "Oh there he is, finally,"  When the Semi or sleepy traveler  rumbles past us, the second part of the game is to curse the driver and his vehicle for NOT being the tow truck driver.  This goes on for about an hour, and I have to say is a lot of fun, particularly when you get to hurdle obscenities into the night at perfect strangers who have no inkling of your presence.

"Oh there he is, finally!"  I shout, waiting for the payoff, of cursing him as he drives by, but wait, that really IS him."

The  tow truck driver is a waking fire plug, stout and burly with a shaved head.  Despite his gruff exterior, he's actually very kind.  As we watch him jack the heavy white live truck onto the flatbed truck, he encourages, "Go get in the cab, you must be freezing."

After some small talk, (he went to East High, graduated in 1996,) Mike and I both doze off, only to be awaken by the heavy downshift of the truck, as we cascade around a dog leg turn, I open my eyes to see a row of deer, frozen in our path, unable to move as three tons of metal march on them, our driver pumps his breaks, and lays on his horn, within about 5 feet, the startled creatures gather themselves and scamper out of our unstoppable path.  "whoa," I breath, "That was close," "yeah," the driver pants, "that scared me."  I ask, wouldn't we have just shoved them out of the way, to which he answers, "No, this cab is made of fiberglass, We'd of been stranded out here."

Thirty minutes later, my head gently resting against the cold passenger side window, my body is vibrated to attention, and my ears ring with what sounds like a thousand duffle bags being opened one after another with rhythmic succession.  Our exhausted truck driver has drifted to sleep, and the truck has in turn, floated gently across the highway rumple strips.  "As I shoot a look at him, he blurts with eyes wide, "sorry!"

As the truck grinds to a stop in front of my house, at 4 AM, I give both men a weary nod and fumble into the darkness of my warm bedroom.  Despite what seemed at the time , to be a disaster of a night, I click off all the things that COULD have gone wrong but didn't (no cell service, subzero temperatures, plowing into a family of deer, careening off the highway into an icy stream) and I mumble to myself, as I shed my coat, "heck, that wasn't so bad."

"I'm a Hooker."

Seeing her rush into my small office was perplexing, like glancing out a car window only to see an SUV resting on the roof of a house after a hurricane.   I'd seen her before, walking sadly and suggestively down Jackson Avenue in Pascagoula, Ms. late at night.  She was among a small cadre of prostitutes who prowl the 2 lane road,  book ended on either side, by a long-closed auto parts store to the north, and a questionable massage parlor to the south.

"I'm a hooker," she announces without fear of judgement as tears flow from her eyes, her thick, wet steams marbled with black mascara.  Inside the small office, she glances frantically, at the door she had just entered.  "I Just got out a jail," she roots nervously through her fatigued, faux-leather bag, I assume for a tissue, or a cigarette.   

Her dress is pretty, and modest.  It is blue with splashes of red and white flowers.  I can envision her sitting comfortably in a church pew in that ensemble,  but this is her work uniform, and she likely wears it most every day.  The blue and red, less brilliant than the day she received it, worn by the hot, Mississippi sun and faded by rainstorms that pepper the summer afternoons.  The shoes are even more telling.  The Dr. Scholl's are streaked with deep black scuff marks, and the flat wooden sole are rounded at the toe in heel, overworked grooves pressed away by hours and miles of endless walking. 

As I've mentioned in previous blogs, my time in Pascagoula is my first job in television news, and everyday, it seems is a new, mind blowing experience.  Like a man, blind at birth, given his vision well into old age, and this day in 1995, is no exception.

"The police just let me go," she cries dragging the back of her hand across her wet, runny nose, "but they spent all night raping me."  She quickly grabs at her bra strap placing it firmly on her shoulder, as if the memory alone had forced it to leap back to her bicep.  "What?  What happened?"  I'm  trying to comprehend what I'm hearing, "I gotta go," she digs both thumbs into each of her eyes, then pirouettes and bolt out the glass office door, "hold on!" I follow her a few feet, as she darts down an alley, jogs around a corner, and is gone. 

"I honestly don't even know if we arrested anyone for prostitution last night Chris," the shift captain will announce to me in his friendly, easy southern drawl, "and if we did Chris, man, I don't know how much stock you can put in them claims," he says as he tries to dismantle her charge, "ya say she said she was a prostitute huh?" he chimes trying to reinforce her credibility issues, as he tugs at his jowly chin,  "It seemed like she wasn't lying," I insist, "I wonder why she would make a charge like that and just run off?" he lifts his beefy paw from his chin and stroking the back of his head.  "I'll look into it for ya, OK?"  But I can't promise anything."  I will never hear another word from the captain on the allegation.  

On my way home from work, I will take the long way past Jackson Avenue, trying to locate her again.  I never do.

Several months later, my beeper buzzes alive, as I am summoned to a broken part of Pascagoula, populated by listing wooden fences, packs of meandering feral dogs, and houses topped with corrugated steel instead of shingles.  

Police have found the murdered remains of a prostitute inside one of the exhausted shacks.  I don't know if it is the woman who pleads with me for help that blazing August afternoon, but the description is similar. Either way, I think often about that day she charged into my office, how broken and helpless she seemed, and how futile my efforts were to do anything about it.

And...Begin!

The clicks and clacks bounce and echo off the tile floor and composite doors inside the airy, bright atrium of the Utah Highway Patrol's field office, as television photographers extend tripods and un-clip gear.

Major Michael Rapich, stands pleasantly and orderly at attention as 11 journalists buzz around him, perching lights nearby, clicking on cameras and phoning their stations with the latest information. 

Major Mike Rapich (Courtesy: Salt Lake Tribune)

In about 3 minutes, Major Rapich will be peppered relentlessly, aggressively, and in some cases, angrily with questions about one of his own.   His department's integrity will be questioned, the word "cover-up," will surface, and his management style will be harangued, but for now, it's time for light pleasantries.

"How are you?" I chirp as I clip a microphone to his thin brown tie," "I'm good!" he beams, "good to see you again," he retorts happily as the army of camera's form a claustrophobic half circle around him.

"Ok, are we ready?" the public relations officer for UHP, bobs his head into the scrum of reporters, checks each nodding head, "then we can start," he blurts as he dodges his body out of the way like a referee after he yanks, scratches and pulls two boxers out of a sweaty, tired, brutal hug. 

"Why hasn't Trooper Steed been fired given her checkered past?" I bolt out the first question.  Rapich will spent the next 20 minutes on his heels, as he searches for the right words, without saying too much.  Reporters will rat-tat-tat questions at him like machine gun fire, and the career trooper will field them all, but vaguely answer but a few.  

Rapich is from central casting.  The kind of man, the UHP might print on a recruiting poster.  He is slender and tall, his wide brimmed campaign hat (think Royal Canadian Mounties) is precisely perched upon his distinguished head of grey hair.  Rapich appears to be a man who joined the UHP, not with the intent of scribbling tickets, on a dark and desolate rural Utah highway in the freezing drizzle, but rather to lead those ticket writers.  He is charming, confident and poised, and you can imagine him at the Trooper's Ball, in his dress blues, shaking hands with the governor, and chit-chatting with ease with the top brass of the Department of Public Safety.  Although he is polished, his hardscrabble roots emerge occasionally in his vernacular  "I seen that," he will pronounce periodically.  He appears to be one part lawman, two parts politician, and at this press conference he is 100 percent of the latter, in the first 7 minutes of the press availability, Rapich will repeat, "I can't comment on that," 9 times.

Trooper Lisa Steed

"Are you asking me if I want to be standing here answering these questions, the answer is "No." he says  with firm conviction, unfortunately  it has come to this.  He is forced to face the horde, because one of his troopers just can't stay out of trouble

Trooper Lisa Steed's was once the pride of the Utah Highway Patrol.  in 2007 she is named "Trooper of the year," after making more than 200 arrests in a single year, that is a national record.  A record that the UHP's longest serving trooper says, is impossible unless you're doing something wrong. Martin Luther Turner is just the latest in a ever expanding laundry list of critics.

Here is the Cliff Notes on her notorious career in no particular order: 

1) Judges call her "not credible," 

2) Salt Lake District Attorney investigates her. 

3) She admits to lying on the stand. 

4) Shoots a man with a Tazer as he sits in his car. 

5) Davis County DA refuses to prosecute her cases. 

6) arrest a man on a bike for DUI for taking his Epilepsy medication. 

7) In Memo boss says 11 of the 20 people she arrest for DUI during one period of time are actually sober.

8) Same officer says, she pulls over a driver and claims his pupils are dilated, and he is moving uncontrollably, a sign of impairment, her boss who accompanies her during the arrest says neither assessment is true.

The major's head swivels from one reporter to the next as he is verbally accosted from the left, then center then right, then back to the left.

As the flood of questions begin to slow to a trickle, Rapich scans his adversaries awaiting another assault, I approach him, un-clip the mic from his tie, shake his hand, "so good to see you again I grin, "you too!" he squeezes my palm firmly and smiles.  As my photographer Nick slings the tri-pod over his shoulder and I shove my notepad in my back pocket, I hear Rapich exchange some jaunty patter with my colleagues  "that was a good question!" he says to one with awe, as he plucks his hat off his head, and retreats.  The match is over, both sides return to their corners. 

   

Six Minutes.

"Is that him?" I peer through the window or our news car, eyes squinting to shade the blinding glare of the sun refracting off the stark white snow, "It is.  That's Josh!"  The sun crashes into my pupils, unprotected by eyes popped open with utter surprise.

Josh Powell

Josh Powell's car, or rented car as it turns out, is crunching through the cold, dry, icy snow on this unseasonably frigid December day, and parking in front of his sister's West Jordan home.  The man every journalist wants to talk to, is about to do an infamous 6 minute interview with me, that will provide essential evidence to police, send other news crews scrambling, and will cause Internet sleuths from around the world, to analyze every word, tug of the cap, and hesitation.

After all these tragic, perplexing, twisting years, you likely don't need a primmer on the sad mystery of Susan Powell, but I'll give you the thumbnail sketch.

The West Valley, Utah mom of two little boys disappears December of 2009.
Her husband Josh, inexplicably says he and the boys went camping in unbearable subfreezing temperatures, at midnight the night before, and when he returns his wife is gone.  Everyone suspected him of having something to do with Susan Powell's disappearance  the police (although he was always officially just a person of interest) his neighbors, and eventually, even members of his own family.

Susan Cox-Powell

Susan has never been found, and last year, on Super Bowl Sunday, Josh, hacked his boys with a hatchet and burned his home to the foundation, killing himself, and snuffing out the lives of those two little guys.

On December 10th, 2009, when I meet a meek Josh Powell, in his blue cap and long out-of-style black leather jacket, I can't begin to fathom, that this story will erupt like a volcano into the nation's most tragically twisted tale of mystery and death.

Back in 2009, the story of Susan Powell is in it's infancy.  We know very little, simply that there is a woman from West Valley City, who hadn't been seen in a few hours.  Although things seemed odd, there is a conventional wisdom, based strictly upon conjecture, that Powell might have galloped off with an old flame, perhaps dozed off on a girlfriend's chaise lounge, or simply needs a breather from the pressures of marriage, work, and children.  All of these explanations seem reasonable, since as a member of the media, I've witnessed all three scenarios, and them some, play out in the past.

I am among those who assume Susan might wander home by the cold open and theme music of the 10 PM newscast.

As my colleagues and I discuss the case in our afternoon editorial meeting, questions are asked, and personal theories casually tossed out, but a laundry list of other stories need attention as well, and after some wrangling I insist that I should at least head to West Valley, and "check it out," I get feigning approval, couched with the caveat that, "if something bigger comes along we might move you."

"She would never just walk away from her kids, unless something was wrong," pleads Kiirsi Hellewell, one of Susan's Friends.

Kiirsi Hellewell

Hellewell, continues, off the record, that Josh and Susan are struggling with marital strife and in an aside, tips her glasses downward and confesses, that Josh's father has "problems."

Hellewell convinces me that Susan is not "OK," and she intimates that Josh might be responsible.

It turns out police are already focusing their attention on Powell, and are beginning to think, as you might expect, that Josh might have know more than he is telling police.  Which, as we will later learn, is nearly nothing.

"a small plane has crashed in Utah County," barks executive producer Jeremy Laird, as I click the "answer" button on my cell phone, minutes after stepping out of Hellewell's modest, kid evident, living room.  "You're the closest, we need to get you there immediately!" he demands.

"I don't know about that," I question, " I think I need to stay on this,"  Not willing to debate, and watching the clock, Jeremy, presses as he raises his voice, something he has rarely done with me in the past, "You're the only one, right now!  We need to get you on the road!"  his patience is thinning.  "Jeremy, this is going to be a big story, and if we miss it today, we will be playing catch up tomorrow, caught with our pants down, I guarantee it!"  I snap into my cell.  "Alright!" his voice, cutting through the airwaves, "we'll send Fields Moseley!"  He isn't happy, and is likely wishing he is jousting with me on a traditional land line so he can drive the clunky plastic receiver loudly down into  it's base.

As more suspicions mount in the collecting hours, and days and local TV stations are beginning to dedicate more resources to the story, and national media outlets, are noodling the idea, in their news meetings, of ginning up, the cranking, creaking national media machine, and book a flight to Utah.

Most of the proverbial bases are covered, with the exception of Josh, no one had talked to, or even seen Susan's husband since she disappeared.

There are hushed conversations in the neighborhood, and in news rooms about his audacious silence. "If it was me," I remember one colleague suggesting, "I'd be shouting from the rooftops for help finding my wife."  It was time to find Josh.

My photographer and I do a round-robin of possible places Powell might be tucked away. his home, the West Valley police station, his sister's house.  I recall the monotonous circle we travel this day.  Powell home, Police, sister, Powell home, police, sister, Powell home police, sister, for hours.  As we roll up on the sister's home one last time, a nondescript Chevy rounds in front of the house and comes to rest.  I squint and see a face that resembles the pictures I'd been looking at of Susan's husband, smiling with their two boys, holding a plate of food, or wrestling with his kids in the couple's back yard.

"Start rolling," I command in a low voice, "Hi, Josh?" I walk softly toward him.  Josh stares at me, caught flat-footed in the cold Utah snow. "Hey, I'm Chris Jones from 2 News, How are ya?"  "OK?" he sputters reluctantly, and lifts his hand to meet mine and shakes it.  as I ask him how he's doing, he nervously glances over his shoulder, like a riverboat gambler, whose just cheated a couple of desperadoes out of a weeks wages.

Despite his reticence, he begins to answer my questions, and I can recall, the beat of my heart, pounding deeply enough that I can hear and feel it in my ears as I walk a proverbial mental tightrope.

To date, Powell has met only once with police, and on the advice of his attorney, given a physical description of his wife, and a vague laundry list of the items she might have been wearing, but remains silent as a stone, about where he was that night, and particularly where his wife might be right now.

I know I must be placid, I don't want to spook him, if I do he will potentially vanish into his sister's home, and likely disappear from the public eye forever, just like his now missing wife.

I keep my tenor low and attempt to level my energy with his.  I start by setting him at ease with a question about his kids, and his own well-being.

then I transition genially to a line of questioning about what happened the night his wife vanished, why he didn't call in sick to work, and suggest that people think he might have hurt his wife, it is the query that elicits the response that will be repeated on TV sets, radios, the Internet and newspapers across the country.   "I didn't do anything, I mean, I don't know where she's at.  I don't even know where to start looking," he utters pensively.

I begin to pepper him blandly with more pointed questions, as he tugs on his cap, shuffles from one foot to the next, and averts his gaze to the home in which he desperately wants to be.  I realize, he is wavering, "Basically I need to figure out what to do, get into my kids," he interrupts as he transitions  towards the door of safety. Then I ask: "Where do you go camping?" I'm not certain, but I'm told some time later, that his answer of, near "the Pony Express Trail," will send a team of officers combing the frozen deserts of Southern Utah.

This ends up being the most comprehensive interview with Powell, until he finally speaks to national media outlets two years later.


A few weeks after my interview, an investigator on the case, spots me at a movie theater as I patiently wait for my film to begin.   He grabs my hand shaking it vigorously, "thank you," he smiles, "That interview, with Powell, really helped us,"  "oh," I say gently, trying to level my energy with his so as not to spook him,  "how so?" I ask in dulcet tones.   He laughs, chomps his popcorn with gusto, and wanders off chuckling, to his movie.

Oh, the places we will go.

"Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar!"  The little man in the dirty green sweatpants barks incessantly, almost manically, as we quickly disengage and turn back to our news truck.  Just a few seconds before I am rapping on the front door of what is the last known address of the mother of Curtis Allgier, Maxine McNeeley.  Allgier, who is about as despicable a human being as you might ever imagine, has just plead guilty to gunning down a Utah corrections officer, and we hope to get a comment from the woman who likely knows Allgier best.

I track down the address using old court records, and photographer Mike "D" and I find ourselves rolling into a neighborhood, inhabited by worn and weary apartment buildings near the end of a dead end street.  McNeeley's unit is #1.  The black entrance is framed by a wooden storm door  with three panels of mesh.  The top quadrant is torn and tattered, the second panel remains somewhat intact and the third has been kicked or stripped out years ago leaving a jagged, border of steel.

The access to the apartment is shrouded in an uncomfortable touch of claustrophobia,  The unit is planted to the right of a narrow, crumbling sidewalk, straddled to the left by a tattered, weather-worn wooden planked fence that lilts and leans, and strains to stay standing. As I knock on the door, that fencing to my back seems just a bit too close, like a customer pressing near you in the grocery store line, who lingers a little too long in your personal space as you finger the minty gums and magazines at the checkout.

The paint chipped awning overhead seems to press down on my head, as I wait for some response.  I can hear the muffled tones of the TV blaring inside, and with each pop on the door with my knuckles, I hear the shrieking bark of what is sure to be a tiny little pooch.

To my left are yards of used, but for some time, underutilized building supplies, old mops, ladders, buckets, and a pile of rags, tarps and towels, long discarded, and colonized by ants and rats and Box Elder Bugs, years ago.

The close proximity of the tri-plex to the fence makes for a spider web wonderland, as clear strands of silk criss-cross back and forth from the tattered, uneven boards of the listing fence to the broken rain gutter that jogs jaggedly across the eave of the home.

Somebody nearby has, or had a cat, and never fully potty trained the feline, because with each breath the slight scent of ammonia from cat urine lofts occasionally and uncomfortably into you olfactory.

The old man inside jerks, turns and pops the tired old medal door knob, and lifts, wrestles and jams the door open, but instead of standing inside his threshold waiting for my question, he darts onto his front stoop, and I find him quickly within inches of my face.  His grey mane of hair is wild and wispy, his beard is long and untamed, I can tell he is a smoker, his mustache is stained with a sickly yellow glaze of nicotine   His top is clad in a faint grey sweatshirt that was, years ago, a potent black.  He's been wearing it for a while, as evidenced by what appears to be the dribble from a meal enjoyed days ago.  His green sweatpants hike up high on his left leg exposing his hairy calf, and rides low on his right leg, the dirty, tattered hemline having been dragged under his right heel for days.

"I'm looking for Maxine McNeeley?"  I ask doubtfully, assuming now that she must have moved some time ago.  "McNeeley, McNeely, I don't know any McNeeley," he says moving in to me even closer, "Well ok," I turn to see Mike 'D' has received the hint seconds earlier and is already strolling back to the truck with his camera in tow.

"Well, wait, wait," the man says eagerly, and begins "hey, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar," He chants as I speed up my gate, "gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar,"  I've got to laugh as I wonder how long he will continue to holler these three words after we roll away.  Then I find, not too long as he changes tactics, noticing the camera slung over Mike's shoulder, "take my picture, take my picture, take my picture, take my picture, take my picture!"  As I glance back, I see he has choreographed a little dance to accompany his monotonous, monotone tune.  His hands are propped next to his shoulders, palms towards his audience, and he is hoping from one foot to the other, with each bark of the phrase, Take my picture," now to the right, "Take my picture," now to the left...

I was a bit taken aback by the whole scene, the oppressive surroundings, the manic chant and dance, Mike sees it a bit differently, as he hops in the truck, turns the key to crank the engine, he proclaims calmly, "that was awesome."