THIRTY-SEVEN

Abbie opened the top drawer of her desk and took out Brittany’s pastel box of tampons, the one she’d brought back from Colonia Juárez. She studied the wedding photo. When she’d first seen it, Abbie had focused on Brittany, the happy bride. It didn’t look like coercion, at least not coercion the way most people thought of the word. Then Abbie thought of the Church’s eschatology, its focus on marriage and family in the afterlife. The only way for a young woman to reach the highest levels of exaltation in the Celestial Kingdom was through marriage.

Heber had been smart to come to her dad. Professor Taylor’s graduate students were among the most devout unmarried LDS women there were: certain of their beliefs and committed to living according to the principles of the restored Gospel. They would not question a Church leader.

Abbie held Brittany’s diary, reverently. Before the young mother had died, it hadn’t seemed important. Abbie had read the mostly adolescent G-rated musings about sex, pregnancy, and motherhood with a jaundiced eye. But Brittany adored her two children. She wrote in excruciating detail about their milestones and their personality quirks. She was deeply in love with the man she’d been sealed to in the temple, and she was frustrated with how infrequently she saw him. Instead of blaming him, Brittany blamed herself and her own lack of faith in the face of adversity.

Instead of reading the diary for insight into why a woman would choose this life, Abbie now read each daily entry in search of some clue, some statement that would directly link Port to the Mexican experiment.

I was feeling so alone. I wanted to go back to Utah and live with Dallin. I didn’t want my children to be with another family. Then TSC visited. He was sealing another woman to Dallin. He told me not to let my faith waver. TSC reminded me of my covenant and of the glories that awaited me in the Celestial Kingdom. He gave me a blessing and my heart felt light again. I’m so grateful for the gospel, for the Restoration.

TSC. In the nineteenth century, when the members of the Church had first practiced plural marriage, women had used code when referring to their husbands in journal entries. Not without reason. Plenty of LDS men had been jailed for practicing polygamy. Abbie’s own ancestor, the third President of the Church, John Taylor, had spent the last years of his life in hiding to avoid prison.

Abbie tapped on her keyboard. She gazed at the page of General Authorities and General Officers, the leadership of the Church. Dozens and dozens of nearly identical looking stamp-sized photos of men stared back at her. All of them were dressed in dark jackets, white shirts, and conservative ties. All but a few were white. Her eyes carefully scanned each row of men from left to right. There must be someone named Theodore Stanley Clayton? Thomas Steven Clark? Tad Samuel Callister? By the time Abbie got to the bottom of the page, where nine women beamed back at her—the leadership of the Relief Society, Young Women and Primary—it was clear that there would be no such easy answer.

“Taylor?” Abbie looked over her computer to see Clarke standing in the doorway.

“Yes?”

Clarke looked like someone had run over his dog. “Chief Henderson, well, there was a POST meeting.” POST was the acronym for Peace Officer Standards and Training, the body authorized to discipline police officers. Abbie inhaled and held her breath.

Clarke continued, “It just happened. I wasn’t there, but Henderson made some accusations about professional misconduct against you. Word is there’ll be an investigation. You’re being put on unpaid leave of absence until the matter is resolved.”

Abbie slumped in her chair.

“I’m supposed to escort you out of the building,” Clarke said with the enthusiasm of a child heading to the dentist.

“Okay. May I grab a few things before I leave?” Abbie asked.

“I’m not supposed to let you take any official police property.” Clarke cleared his throat. “Oh! I think I hear my phone ringing. I’ll be back in a few minutes to see you out.”

Thank you, Clarke.

Abbie inserted a thumb drive into her computer, and then went to the conference room and took pictures of everything on the tables. Finally, she put the box of tampons into Brittany’s bag and slung it over her shoulder. Anyone who knew Abbie well would have immediately known she would never own a handbag like Brittany’s. Luckily, it didn’t seem that anyone knew her that well.

Clarke waited while Abbie asked Hazel to look after her plants until she got back.

“This isn’t right,” he said once they were standing by her car and no one could hear.

Abbie forced a smile to her lips. “Thanks, Jim.” That was the first time she had called him by his first name. He smiled back, but his eyes were sad.

She climbed into her Rover. It was nice that Clarke wanted to help, but if all it took was an unhappy phone call from Bragg to get her kicked off her job, she wasn’t very confident that he, or anyone for that matter, would be able to fight for her.