Snow crunched beneath my boots. The wind bit the exposed skin of my face and yanked aside the steamy plumes of my exhaled breath. I halted and squinted at what the medical examiners heaved onto the shore of the JordanRiver. It was January 2008.

Roughly two weeks ago, a drunken man had called Salt Lake City Police, muttering nearly incoherently about a body in the Jordan River, something about pushing her in and wanting police to find her and tell her husband. Officers searched later that night, but found nothing.

Not long after that, two boys playing near the Utah State Fair park after school spotted what they thought was a mannequin bobbing along the river.Naturally, the boys threw rocks at it. One of the boys started to believe it might be a real body. He later stopped a policeman who was driving through his neighborhood.

Now we were here. I frowned at the bluish corpse and wondered how the boys had ever believed that was anything but a real body. My trainer, Officer Zabian, appeared beside me. He nodded at the deceased.“Good thing that water is near slush or there’d be little more than gelatin on a skeleton. Preserved like that, I bet we ID her.” Disgust twisted my lips nearly to a snarl. I wanted to find whoever had done this to that poor woman.

A few days later at our start-of-shift lineup meeting, our sergeant announced that the woman found in the Jordan River was forty-year-old Barbara J Roland, a transient who sometimes stayed at homeless shelters. Autopsy showed the cause of death as blunt force trauma to the head. Her husband, BradfordRoland, was a person of interest, but was M.I.A.

After the meeting, while I waited for my training officer, I crossed paths with one of the veteran motorcycle officers, affectionately nicknamed Dudley.He had moved from Oklahoma with an accent to prove it. He was one of the shortest officers in the department but, man, how he could ride a motorcycle.Incredible on and off the road. We got along fantastic, both of us playing guitar and singing country music.

We chatted for a couple minutes, then I asked, “You hear anything about that homeless woman found in the river, or her husband?” Dudley opened his mouth as if to speak, but then looked at the ground between us. I waited. And waited. I glanced both directions, then opened my mouth to ask if everything was okay, but he finally looked up and spoke. “Moutsos, you ever prayed to find a bad guy?”

I blinked, unsure what to say. I thought maybe he was kidding, but his expression was earnest, his gaze unwavering. I cleared my throat. “Uh, what do you mean?” “I mean exactly what I said. You ever prayed to find a bad guy? It works.Look, I know you believe in God. I do, too. I swear He wants to help us.”Dudley shrugged and lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. “If we let Him. You pray, right?” I nodded.

Dudley said, “Before every shift, I ask God to lead me to people who need my help. I plead with the good Lord above to help me find the bad guys. Make the world safer for all His children.” We stood together in silence for a moment and then Dudley glanced past me. “I’ll see ya around, Moutsos. Be safe.” “Thanks,” I said. “You, too.”
Dudley left, but his words remained with me. Officer Zabian slapped my shoulder. “You ready, greenie?” I grinned. “Of course.”

That night, driving home, my thoughts slipped back to what Dudley had said about praying to find the bad guys. I thought again of Chief Jacobsen telling us at the academy that we work for God, not for him or the department or even the community. Never forget that.

A sliver of guilt poked at my insides. Dudley was right. I should’ve been praying that same type of prayer since the day I started. Sure, I often asked myHeavenly Father for help with my job, but I’d never been so specific, so focused.

After arriving at home, kissing Stacey, and changing into my sweatpants, I sneaked to the bedroom where my kids slept. Assigned to the swing shift, my two girls were usually asleep by the time I arrived. I peeked inside and studied their peaceful faces; I listened to their soft, consistent breathing. Something within my chest swelled and warmed. In a way, when I worked to keep Salt Lake City safe, I was really trying to keep these sleeping angels safe.

I returned to my bedroom where Stacey sat up in bed, reading. “I had this conversation with Dudley today.” “Dudley?” she said with a quizzical grin, and lowered her magazine. “Like Dudley Do-Right? Perfect name for a cop.” I snorted a laugh, shook my head, and told her about our conversation.

 “Dudley is wise,” Stacey said, smirking, then turning a bit serious. “You should do it. More often than not, God works through people to answer other people’s prayers, right? Why wouldn’t God help you when what you do is so important?” I grinned. “You’re so very wise.”

Stacey shrugged nonchalantly. “I am the best thing to ever happen to you.”“Can’t argue with you there,” I said. “Are you ready for bed? I’m exhausted.”Stacey set her magazine on the nightstand and said, “Your turn to say prayers.”

I paused for a moment, deep in thought. My voiced edged to heaven through the silent room. I ended my prayer with, “Father, please, help me find the person who killed the lady in the river.”

The next couple of days as part of our lineup meetings, Barbara Roland been located. I kept a prayer in my heart that I, or someone else, would find him.

February 7, 2008, Officer Zabian and I were in our car. As Zabian drove and I peered out the window at the passing cars, I experienced the inexplicable.I could see in my mind the sudden picture of a cafeteria at a homeless shelter. I knew the place and I knew Bradford Roland was there. I was as certain of that as of the fact that I was sitting on a seat in a moving car.

“Go to the homeless shelter on Rio Grande,” I said. Zabian glanced sideways at me, his forehead furrowed. “Now? Why?” Despite my trainer’s expression and the note of incredulity in his voice, I didn’t back down. I couldn’t doubt the quiet certitude of that whisper in the back of my head. “We need to go there. Now. They’re serving dinner. We need to get there before they finish.”

Zabian stared ahead for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said, then muttered, “Nothing better to do.” But he didn’t speed up. My fingers drummed against my knees. I wanted to flip on the lights and sirens and shout, “Go, go, go!”

My mood finally infected Zabian. He sped up a bit, then a bit more. We rushed along 200 South, then turned down Rio Grande Street and parked in front of the shelter. My heart drummed at the base of my throat. Was I crazy? Was this a mistake? No. I knew he was there. Bradford Roland was there. Inside. Right now.

I released my seatbelt and sprang from the warm car into the frigid winter. Zabian locked gazes with me and cocked an eyebrow as if to say: Go ahead.This was your bizarre idea. I swallowed, nodded, and strode towards the entrance. Clumps of homeless in winter gear and multiple layers of clothing stood or sat along the sidewalk. Their suspicious eyes seemed to drill holes in the sides of my head.

If I was wrong, I’d look like a fool. No. He’s in there. People of different races, sexes, and degrees of hygiene stepped aside as we entered the shelter and walked down the hall, some muttering, some glaring.At one time or another, a high percentage of these people had been arrested or cited by Salt Lake City PD, by officers like us.

We entered the clinking and clanking, rustling and bustling of the cafeteria.The odors of boiling pasta and simmering sauce with an underlying stench of body odor clogged my nostrils. I scanned the rows of people sitting on benches at the tables, eating their dinner. Those nearest and facing us froze and then it spread, like ripples in a pond — that startled look, then a mix of reactions from curious to hostile.

I headed to the nearest table, focused on two scruffy, older men sitting side-by-side, hunched and wheezing with laughter. A few feet away, I hit a potent wall of alcohol fumes and stale sweat. I hesitated, and considered approaching someone else, but now the two were blinking up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

I nodded to the men, rounded the table, and stood across from them. “Do you guys know Bradford Roland?” They blinked at me. They blinked at each other. And then they burst into raucous laughter, one of them slamming his fist down on the tabletop, again and again, rattling cups and plates. I sighed and looked around for someone else I could approach.

A blue latex glove reached around my right shoulder. I flinched. My right hand jerked to my gun and I thought, He could’ve grabbed my gun. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Stupid. The hand grabbed an abandoned tray beside the two men I’d spoken to and I twisted to look up at the man in the gloves. “Have you guys found my wife yet?” the man asked.

A chill ran up my spine and goosebumps pricked my arms. No, I thought. No way. I said, “You’re Bradford Roland.” “Yeah,” he said. “Put the tray down and put your hands behind your back.” “But have you found her?” he said. Officer Zabian, his expression incredulous, almost comical, crept up behind Roland. He glanced at me then back to Roland and shook his head.  I raised my handcuffs. Roland offered me his wrists. The cuffs clicked and ratcheted tight. I exhaled a deep breath and wondered if this was a dream.

We called for the homicide detectives to come and interview Roland, then Zabian and I escorted him to our car. Along the way, my trainer kept glancing at me from the other side of Roland, his expression saying, “What the crap just happened, Moutsos? Is this real?” I could only give a little shrug, unsure how to explain this.

We placed Roland in the back of the car, got in ourselves, and started our report. Homicide arrived shortly and we turned Bradford Roland over to them for questioning. He would confess that night to murdering his wife and tossing her body into the Jordan River.

After a sincere prayer of gratitude for God’s help and inspiration, I called Dudley. He deserved to know the truth of what happened. “Dudley,” I said, “you’re never going to believe this.” I was wrong. Dudley did believe, and that felt good.