The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  Johnson refilled a plastic water bottle.

  “I was surprised to see you at the scene yesterday, Bernie. How have you been?”

  “Busy and hot. I’ll be glad when the rains come and cool things off.” It was always hot in the Four Corners in July. She should have said something else, but being with Johnson made her nervous and awkward. “How about you? Have you had a good summer so far?” Bernie thought about calling the agent by her first name but couldn’t do it.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. Busy and busier with the new body.”

  “Did you identify the dead guy?”

  Johnson moved toward the door as though she hadn’t heard the question. “Bring your coffee, and let’s get started.”

  Bernie followed the agent down an empty hallway to her cubicle. She put her coffee mug on the desktop, using a coaster with the FBI seal that matched the one on her cup. FBI—Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity. Johnson sat and motioned her to a chair across the desk. The agent pulled out a notepad and pen.

  “Thank you again for being here today. I’d like you to start at the beginning. You mentioned that you’d come to the trail for a run. Begin there, and tell me as much as you remember.”

  Bernie took her notes from her backpack.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, I jotted down some things I thought might be relevant to the investigation. I want to be as thorough as possible.”

  Johnson listened as Bernie started with her arrival at the trail, mentioning the cars she saw in the dirt lot, describing them as best she could. She recalled a sweaty middle-aged Navajo man, close to six feet tall, in jeans and a sleeveless shirt who stood slightly hunched with his hands on his knees at the trailhead. A woman with a blond ponytail had been unlocking a car, a small unleashed dog sniffing the dirt around the front tire. She noticed Johnson open her notebook and write something.

  “Did you get the names?”

  “No. That was before I knew about the body.”

  “Please continue.”

  Bernie mentioned that she had seen no other people until after she passed the dog, about ten minutes into the run. She detailed the initial dog encounter and continued chronologically.

  Johnson made the occasional notation but did not interrupt.

  Bernie described how the dog eventually led her to the red shoe and the black pant leg. “From the position of the body, I thought someone had fallen, maybe tripped and ended up in the bushes, knocked out by the fall. I called to the person, and when there was no response, I moved closer. That’s when I saw the plastic ties and the blood on his hand, and I assumed whoever it was was dead.”

  Bernie sipped her coffee. The memory made it bitter.

  “Did you check for a pulse?”

  “Yes. No pulse.”

  Johnson nodded once. “Go on.”

  Bernie straightened in her chair. She chronicled the people she saw while she waited with the body. She referred to her notes a few times to make sure she had the details correct.

  “I noticed that there weren’t any drag marks. I didn’t find sign of a struggle along the path. I examined the plants at the edge of the trail and took pictures. They weren’t trampled, and the dead person’s shoes and pants didn’t seem dusty. I didn’t spot anything that could have been a weapon and, except for the smear on his right palm, no obvious blood.” She mentioned that she had done a quick survey, looking for additional evidence as she walked back to the body after calling it in.

  Johnson put her pen down. “Would you like a break? We can start again when you’re ready.”

  Bernie shook her head and gave the woman credit. The agent had learned a few things—or perhaps recalled what she’d learned at the academy—compared to the last time Bernie had worked with her.

  “All right then, tell me what you did next.”

  “I went back to the edge of the trail to wait for my backup, Officer Bigman. Before he arrived, three people I’d already seen on the trail came by, returning to the parking area.” She mentioned that she had their names and contact information. “The dog continued walking up to me and then back to the body. Again and again. When Officer Bigman showed up, I told him the deceased’s location. He stayed there, and I went to the trailhead to wait for you and your crew and to bar anyone else from access.” She mentioned her encounters with a couple of ladies in their fifties and a teenage boy.

  “Then a man argued with me. Hold on. I want to make sure I get his name right.” Bernie glanced at her notebook. “Ed Summersly.” She gave the agent his description. “He told me he ran the trail every day and had already run it once before I saw him. He hesitated when I asked if he’d seen anything unusual and then mentioned the dog. He was the only person who asked to see my ID. After he left, I turned back a few more people. Then you and your crew drove up. That’s it.”

  “Do you have Summersly’s contact information?”

  “Yes. I made a list for you of everyone I talked to.”

  “Thanks.” Johnson turned back to her notebook and jotted something down.

  Bernie waited until she was done. “I have some questions for you.”

  “Before that, I want you to go through the chain of events for me again. Add any new details that come to mind about the first people you saw, the ones you encountered before you found the body. Take as long as you need.” Johnson paused. “You did very well with your report.”

  Bernie repeated the story. This time, it took a bit longer. She remembered a few more details: a fancy watch Summersly wore and a missing finger on the sweaty Navajo’s left hand. When she finished, her throat was dry and her coffee had grown cool.

  Johnson looked up. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “No, but water would be good.”

  The agent left the room and quickly returned with a cold bottle.

  Bernie unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “What do you know about the man I found out there?”

  “The deceased was a male, possibly in his forties, about six feet tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, slim build. He had no identification. The cause of death looked like a stab wound to the chest. We don’t know yet how long he had been dead or how long the body lay there by the trail before you found it.”

  “Officer Bigman mentioned that you seemed to know the victim. Did you?”

  Johnson didn’t react to the statement. “Anything else?”

  “What happened to the dog?”

  “Bigman took custody of it. More questions?”

  “Just the obvious. Who did it? And why?”

  “Those are our questions, too.” But from the way she said it, Bernie suspected Agent Johnson already had an idea of the answers.

  It was late morning when they finished. The agent thanked her for her time and said she might have some additional questions. Bernie called the station, and Sandra told her she was on duty until five p.m. and conveyed Largo’s assignments for the rest of the day. “He said you’re working for the rookie.”

  “No, I’m working for the Navajo people.”

  “You’re feisty today.”

  “I guess I miss having today off.”

  As Bernie drove back toward Shiprock, she ate her sandwich in the car and finished the bottle of the FBI’s cold water.

  She called Chee, hoping he’d have phone service. He picked up her call on the second ring.

  “Hey, beautiful.” He said something else, but his voice drifted into a dead zone and then she heard “. . . interview?”

  “I’m finished with the FBI, at least for now, but I’m on duty until five. So far things are slow. Where are you?”

  “Ute Mountain Rodeo. Cowboy’s nephew is in the team roping . . .”

  She could barely understand him. She knew the event arena sat about an hour north of Shiprock near Cortez, Colorado. “We’ve got a weak signal. You’re fading in and out.”

  He said something else she couldn’t decipher, but his laugh came through clearly. Then he said, “Have you talked to the Lieutenant?”r />
  “No. Should I?”

  “He called this morning about coming to the station . . .” His voice turned to garble and then “. . . the rookie can’t drive with one eye.” The reception was getting worse. “. . . so hot out here even the rocks are sweating . . .”

  “Tell Dashee ‘Hey’ for me. I can’t understand you, so I’m signing off.”

  “What? I’m losing . . . sweetheart.”

  She drove out to investigate a person walking unsteadily on the highway. As she cruised along, she called Mama on speaker. It took a while for her mother to answer.

  “So, are you and Cheeseburger coming to see me today?”

  “I’m working, but I might stop by later.”

  “I thought this was your day off.”

  “It was. Now I’m on until five or so, but you know how that can go.”

  “You work too hard. I worry about you. When will you ever have time to weave?”

  They’d had that conversation many times before. Bernie didn’t want to go there.

  “Mama, did Sister talk to you about helping find a little space in a booth at the flea to sell drawings?”

  “No. Come to the house today. We can talk to her about getting a job and . . .”

  As Mama talked, Bernie noticed a convertible ahead of her driving on the shoulder. As she approached, it came to a stop. She glanced at the California license plate and then saw a camera sticking out the window. Visitors taking photos. Nothing she had to worry about.

  Mama’s story continued to include an unexpected conversation with an old neighbor.

  “It was good to have time to talk to Mr. Natachi. His granddaughter brought him over and he stayed until just now.”

  “Were they going back to Chinle today?”

  “His granddaughter has to work, so if they stay, they will drive back early.” Mama made a clicking sound. “I told her they should leave now so she can sleep in her own bed before tomorrow. She doesn’t listen. She reminds me of your sister.”

  Bernie flashed her lights at a car that passed in the opposite direction considerably above the speed limit. She watched as it failed to brake and swerved across the center line. “I’ve got to go check on a bad driver, Mama. We’ll talk later.”

  She disconnected before her mother could protest and headed after the vehicle. As it turned out, issuing that ticket for speeding and distracted driving was the big event of her shift. The man walking in the road had strolled away by the time she reached the place he’d been spotted.

  She drove northwest toward the Carrizo Mountains to check on a missing elder, but the man returned unharmed while she was there and wondered why a police car had parked outside his house. His wife and daughter told her about a neighbor who, they said, was neglecting his horses. Bernie drove over to check and discovered that the father had been in the hospital. The son worked during the week but was there now and had arranged for his adult daughter to stay at the house and care for the livestock. Problem solved without her help. Something to celebrate.

  She had finished her shift, except for the paperwork, called the station, and then drove to Mama’s house. What was going on with Darleen now that they needed to discuss?

  Mama, absorbed in a television show, greeted her with a nod. “Sit here with me. I like this program. It’s funny.” The show featured home videos of cats falling into fish tanks and riding robotic vacuums, kids attempting daredevil stunts on bikes and the like. The fans were still on, and the house, while not exactly cool, was cooler than Bernie’s car.

  Mama commented on the program and the ads with equal enthusiasm. When a pitch for new cars came around a second time, she pushed the mute button. “You can bring me a cookie, daughter. Have one, too.”

  Bernie found the cookies on the counter. She brought two to Mama and one for herself along with napkins. They looked homemade.

  “That’s right. The neighbor lady brought them when she asked your sister if she would go over there and watch the baby.”

  “Is Mrs. Darkwater sick?” Bernie knew the neighbor doted on this grandchild.

  “She’s fine. She and her son went to a movie in Farmington, and then for groceries. They would be home too late for the little guy.”

  Bernie had seen the grandson. A cute kid. “Why didn’t the boy just come over here?”

  Mama shrugged. “That’s what I said, but his dad has his own ideas. He doesn’t want the boy watching TV.”

  Mama turned on the sound so they could listen to a commercial for perfume that featured only music and a very thin blond woman. Bernie thought about another blonde, Agent Johnson, and how Johnson had ignored her question about knowing the dead man. Few things made Bernie more curious than being denied information. Johnson hadn’t refused her request to help with the investigation, and Bernie planned to reinterview her witnesses, especially the folks who were on the trail when she had arrived.

  Mama ate the first cookie and hit the mute button.

  “When you start weaving again, you have to do it every day. Your hands can lose their place, lose the rhythm. Weaving keeps your mind from flitting around like, like . . .” Mama paused. “Like those little k’aalógii. You have to sit still. Then your hands and your brain can work together.”

  “I’m like one of those butterflies now, moving from spot to spot. I enjoy being busy.”

  Mama frowned. “Don’t let the loom sit alone too long.” She shifted on the couch and changed topics. “Now, we have to talk about something else. Your sister. That girl disappoints me. She’s not looking for a job. She found an idea on the computer about making money at home. She had to pay for something, a kit that tells how it works. It sounds bad to me, to have to pay to have a job. But you know how your sister is. You explain this to her.”

  Mama fiddled with the remote, turning up the sound for a spot about cruise ships. When she said she was ready for bed, Bernie told her good night and went next door to Mrs. Darkwater’s house. The dog started to bark as she approached, and Darleen came to the door. She shooed the animal away with a wave of her hand and smiled at Bernie. “Hey, you! Come on in. I want to show you something.”

  They sat at the table, and Bernie noticed her sister’s sketchbook.

  “What are you drawing?”

  Darleen smiled. “It’s the little guy who is in bed. I did it this afternoon to give to his dad and Mrs. Darkwater when they get back. What do you think?”

  Darleen usually didn’t show anyone her work until she had revised it many times. The picture was Spider-Man with a child’s physique and a sweet little Navajo face.

  “It’s wonderful. Really good, Sister.” She passed the pad back. “Why Spider-Man?”

  “The kid loves Spider-Man. I don’t have the chin quite right, but it mostly looks like him.” She put the pad down. “Hey, do you want some water? It’s warm in here.”

  “It’s cooler here than at Mama’s. Do you think Mrs. Darkwater would mind if I took a Coke?”

  “She doesn’t have any. Just tea, water, and juice boxes for the young one. It’s cooler because Mrs. Darkwater keeps the curtains closed during the day. Our mother likes to let the sun in even when it’s a thousand degrees outside.”

  They went to the kitchen. Darleen removed a water pitcher from the refrigerator, poured a glass for herself, and gave one to her sister. Bernie set it down on the table.

  “Mama told me that you bought a kit or something so you can make money at home. That could be legit, but you know there are a bunch of scams out there.”

  Darleen stiffened. “Mama didn’t tell you the good parts. I’ll save money on gas because I don’t have to drive to work every day. And clothes and eating out like you do at an office.”

  You could bring a lunch like I do, Bernie thought, but she didn’t interrupt.

  “I only had to pay for the supply kit, and when it comes, I’m in business.”

  “What will you be doing exactly?”

  “Easy-peasy. Stuffing envelopes.”

  “It
sounds fishy. What else do you know about it?”

  Darleen frowned. “Why are you and Mama always so negative? You never believe I can do anything.”

  “I’m not negative. I just want to make sure you don’t get ripped off, and right now it sounds like you’re paying to work.”

  “Back off. Give me a break, and treat me like an adult.”

  Bernie took a sip of the cold water. “It’s nothing personal. Scams are everywhere.”

  “Stop being a cop for a minute, won’t you?” Darleen picked up a pencil and went back to the drawing.

  Bernie finished her water. “You know, that portrait of the boy as Spider-Man gave me an idea. You could do quick sketches of kids and sell them. You know, maybe instead of school portraits?”

  Darleen focused on her sketch for a while and then put down her pencil. “How was that pie?”

  “I let the crust get too brown, but the fruit part was great.”

  “Mama and I ate the peaches you left. They were delicious. Did she go to bed already?”

  “Yes. I need to go, too. Can you keep an eye on the dog for me?”

  “Oh, he won’t . . .”

  Bernie frowned.

  “Sure. I’ll grab him so he doesn’t follow you to the car.”

  “I’m serious about that scam. You be careful, OK?”

  “You worry too much, Sister. You’re getting more like our mother every day.”

  Bernie let the comment go. She walked to her unit and looked up at the golden afterglow of the high desert sunset. It reminded her of days when life was simpler, when she was a child and spent the summer mostly outside with the sheep, and the long, warm summer stretched into forever.

  She took a few deep breaths and felt the calm course through her. Then she started the unit and headed toward home. She phoned Chee to tell him she was on her way.

  Ship Rock, Tsé Bit’a’í, the Rock with Wings, rose majestically from the desert floor. The stars had just begun to sparkle over the craggy volcanic monolith that played a role in the People’s sacred history. She lived surrounded by beauty, one of those rare, fortunate people who had a job she loved in a part of the world she treasured. Sure, it was challenging, dangerous, sometimes discouraging work. But she wouldn’t trade places with anyone.