The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  He shoved those thoughts aside. “Ryana, the hospital has traditional healers who can help with this. Tell me who Arthur Green Yazzie is and why he would shoot your grandfather.”

  She stared at the floor.

  “You have to help so no one else gets hurt. Including you.”

  When she looked up, he saw the shiny tear streaks on her face. “I need to be with my shicheii.” She moved away, toward her grandfather’s bed.

  Chee raised his voice. “You said this was on you. You need to help fix things.”

  Ryana started to sob. A nurse who had been watching them took a step closer and gave him a stern look. “Mr. Natachi is going to surgery in a few minutes. They need time alone. You can wait in the hall.”

  Arthur Green Yazzie. The name drummed in his head, reverberating like a soundtrack in a B movie. He went to his police unit, radioed the station, and talked to Black.

  He relayed the story of the shooting in detail, providing a better description of the car, including a roundish dent in the rear bumper.

  “You said earlier a white license plate. Arizona?”

  “I just got a glimpse, but no. I think California.”

  He added Ryana’s reaction and the name she’d given up.

  “How’s the victim?”

  “Still alive. They’re taking him to surgery. Have you heard of this Yazzie guy?”

  “Green Yazzie was the go-to guy for bad news out here for a long time. It followed him like a stench. But he never got violent. I haven’t thought about him for a while. If he’s back in the area, he’s been a good boy.”

  Chee remembered Ryana’s reticence to give him the name. “It happened pretty quick and the car had tinted windows. I didn’t get a look at who was in the vehicle, but my gut tells me at least two people. The driver and the shooter.”

  “Somebody needs to see if Ryana has more to say.” Black paused. “You want to work this case.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but Chee responded anyway. “You bet. Can you get a search warrant for Ryana’s place and Mr. Natachi’s home? The tracks I saw might match those of the shooter’s vehicle, and I noticed blood on the door frame of her house.”

  “Will do. I’ll talk to Largo, tell him what’s up and that I’d like you to take charge of this.”

  Attempted murder—or homicide, if Mr. Natachi died—took precedence over nabbing speeders, dealing with drunks, and even shutting down meth labs. Largo understood how what looked like a minor incident could evolve into something bigger. And, of course, the FBI also could be involved.

  “I’ll call now.” Black sighed. “I like that old man, and if he has a chance to survive, it’s because of you.”

  After that, Chee thought about the best way to make the phone call he’d been dreading and arrived at no conclusion. He dialed the number before he could talk himself out of it.

  Leaphorn answered on the third ring. “Yá’át’ééh. Make it quick, Chee. I’m on my way out.”

  “So, I was at a house outside of Chinle, working a burglary case. The man I went to interview got shot while I was there. His granddaughter ID’d the shooter as Arthur Green Yazzie.” From his years of working with the Lieutenant, Chee knew better than to add his speculation and opinions.

  “Arthur Green Yazzie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s wrong. He’s still incarcerated. Besides, he was an addict with a history of burglaries and even some robberies but no violence. The case I worked that sent him to prison was a few years ago. He got a long sentence.” Leaphorn told him where the man was serving time. “Are you the investigator on the shooting?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call Mona Willeto—she’s Yazzie’s sister, remember? The call you told me about a few days ago. Let her know I asked you to find out what she has to say. Tell her I’m slammed on the case I’m working now. Use your judgment to decide if she knows anything about what happened in Chinle. Got it?”

  Chee thought Leaphorn had ended the call, but then the Lieutenant was back. “And if you decide it is important, don’t wait three days to give me the message.”

  Chee called Mona Willeto and left his cell number as well as that of the Shiprock substation for follow-up on her voicemail.

  He returned to the room where he had left Ryana, Mr. Natachi, and the nurses. It was empty. At the desk, he found the nurse who had been with them and asked about the old man.

  “He’s in surgery, then he’ll be in recovery. He won’t be able to see anyone for quite a while. I’d estimate four or five hours from now at the soonest.”

  “Do you know what happened to the young woman who was with him?”

  “After you left, she answered some health questions about him and waited until he went to surgery and the doctors determined that he didn’t need a blood donation right now. I haven’t seen her since. She was eager to get out of here.” The nurse pushed a strand of hair back in place. “A lot of people aren’t comfortable in hospitals.”

  “I was making some phone calls in my car, facing the building’s exit. I never saw her leave.”

  “She didn’t want to talk to you, did she? I know you have a job to do, but you badgered that poor girl. Couldn’t you see she was heartbroken?”

  Chee thought of several responses, none appropriate.

  He called Ryana’s cell phone but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t answer. From his unit he radioed Black with an update, including Leaphorn’s statement that Yazzie should still be in prison. “I’m going back to Mr. Natachi’s house. I want to take another look at the place where he was attacked.” In the rush to get the injured man to the hospital, he could have missed something.

  “OK. We’re working on a search warrant.”

  On this second trip along the rim of Canyon de Chelly, Chee encountered more traffic. The Navajo families who sold souvenirs to visitors had set up at the scenic overlooks with the canyon’s buttes, ruins, and natural sandstone architecture as their backdrop. The rebuke from Leaphorn still burned. He’d made a mistake in not giving the Lieutenant the message right away, but Leaphorn hadn’t wanted to talk to the woman anyway. The Lieutenant was acting grumpier than usual.

  He thought about Mr. Natachi’s situation. Why, near one of the most sacred places in the world, would a man be abducted, returned to his home, and then shot? Why had Ryana accepted responsibility for the incident? He couldn’t put the pieces together, but he sensed that the beautiful young woman was deeply involved.

  The officer dispatched to limit access to the site of the shooting sat in his unit at the junction of the main road and the rutted drive that led to Ryana’s house. Chee introduced himself, and the man, Ralph Slim, did the same. “The lieutenant told me to expect you. No one has been by since I arrived. He wants me to wait until the search team got here and we get a warrant. Was the incident by the main road?”

  “No, closer to the house. Is there a back way in?”

  Officer Slim grinned. “You know there is. Everybody has a back way and an alternate to that and then the way you can walk up, come on horseback, or with a four-wheeler. I haven’t heard any vehicles since I arrived except those on this road.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “A while ago. If I’d known you were coming, I would have ordered lunch.”

  “I hope I won’t be here that long.”

  Slim turned down the music on the radio. “Yeah, me, too. Black expected to hear from the judge within the hour.”

  Chee parked next to the patrol car. He stood in the shade to make a call. When Ryana had not answered after the sixth ring, he heard the beep of an incoming call and picked it up.

  Bernie’s voice was tinged with concern. “I just heard from Sandra that you’re investigating a shooting out there. What happened?”

  He filled her in. “The man who got hurt is that friend of your mother, Mr. Natachi.”

  “Wow. It was bold to shoot the old man in broad daylight with you there.”

  �
�Whoever did it might not have noticed my unit, and I was inside when it happened. I wasn’t able to see the shooter or the license plate number.”

  “So, does this mean you were in the wrong place at the right time? Kind of like me and the body yesterday.” The brightness in her voice lightened his mood. “You’re lucky you could ID the car. And Mr. Natachi probably wouldn’t have survived long without you.”

  “I hope he will be able to say who did this to him.” Chee felt sympathy for the victim well up and transform into anger. He changed the subject. “What’s happening out your way?”

  Bernie’s voice had energy in it. “I’m chasing the flea market guy who fenced the stolen bolo. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing exciting. I spent a while serving papers and arrested a dude for public intoxication. Now I’m on my way to a collision that involved a cow.”

  “People should never let their cows drive.”

  She groaned.

  Chee told her about his conversation with Leaphorn and the newly accused Green Yazzie. “If Green Yazzie’s sister calls for me at the station, can you talk to her?” He gave her a little background.

  “No problem.”

  He saw a Navajo Police car approach. “Thanks. Gotta go.”

  “You be safe out there.”

  The two crime scene investigators were officers he’d worked with before, solid professionals. They gave him a copy of the warrant to read while they took out their gear. Chee explained what he had seen.

  While the officers knocked on the door of Ryana’s house and then entered to leave a copy of the warrant and begin their search, Chee walked slowly down the dirt driveway. He ambled toward the main house, eyes on the ground, looking for tracks, bullet casings, anything to help the investigation. He stopped near the spot where Mr. Natachi had emerged from the car before being shot. The hard-packed soil had sandy pockets that helped preserve the tracks. He saw a few shuffling impressions from Mr. Natachi, his own boot prints, other shoes that were probably Ryana’s, and, to his delight, tire tracks that matched those he had seen outside Mr. Natachi’s house.

  He took photos of all of it, careful not to disturb the impressions. Then Chee used his cell phone again to take a picture of the tire track in front of the old man’s house. The afternoon was calm, not even a whisper of a breeze. For now, the still air and dryness preserved the evidence.

  He searched for shell casings and eventually found one among some rocks, the brass glinting in the sun. He took a picture of it. He found two more, accounting for every shot he remembered.

  He told the investigation team about the casings and the tracks and his photos. They would retrieve and preserve the evidence. Time to go.

  Chee drove back to the Chinle station, updated Lieutenant Black, and then called the prison. After several transfers and long minutes on hold, he learned that, as Leaphorn had said, Arthur Green Yazzie remained incarcerated.

  He passed the information on to Black.

  “So, either Ryana lied, or the man who shot her grandfather looked enough like Yazzie to confuse her. Too bad we can’t pin this on Yazzie. It would have been great to wrap up this shooting.” Black twisted his wedding ring. “You mentioned that you wanted to take a look at the other recent burglaries. Mark Adakai from dispatch pulled the files for you. I don’t think you’ll find much that will be helpful, but he will set you up on a computer back there.”

  In the next room, Chee noticed that one of the tables had three kinds of cookies, some chocolate-dipped strawberries, a dish of nuts, and a plate with cheese and crackers in several shapes and flavors. “Looks like someone’s having a party.”

  “Had a party. Mark’s nephew graduated from Miyamura High School down in Gallup over the weekend. He helped with food for the celebration, and he brought us the leftovers. There’s water and sodas in the cooler.”

  Chee helped himself to an oatmeal cookie, a strawberry, and a napkin. “I’ve been thinking about Mr. Natachi’s burglary. Why do you think it’s connected to the other cases?”

  “Good question. First, the timing. He came in to report it during the recent rash of burglaries, and even though he couldn’t say for sure when the bolo disappeared, it made sense that he was another victim of the crime spree. The reports all mentioned the usual items—jewelry, guns, electronics, cash if it was lying around—and, again, the bolo fit the pattern.”

  Black rested his hip against the edge of the desk. “All the homes were isolated, no neighbors to hear anything. None of the victims reported any vandalism. Not like what we see sometimes when a place is disturbed, destroyed really, from anger or meanness. These dudes are neat; no couches slashed, no kitchen drawers dumped out, none of that.”

  “How many incidents?”

  “Nine in the past three weeks. And no fingerprints at the scenes.”

  Chee paused at the number, exceptionally high for an area of about 5,500 residents.

  “How do the burglars gain entry?”

  Black shifted position. “You know how it is with some of these elderlies. They grew up in a safer world. A lot of them leave their doors unlocked or windows open. In a couple of cases a lock was jimmied.”

  “Did Ryana’s place get hit when her grandfather’s jewelry was stolen?”

  “If it did, she didn’t report it. Come on, I’ll show you the reports and you can tell me if you get any bright ideas.”

  In a back room, a few uniformed officers sat at computer monitors. Chee’s entrance drew some nods of recognition. Black motioned him to an empty desk, and a young man came over to them.

  “Hey, Sergeant Chee. I’m Mark Adakai. I’ll set you up here.”

  Black smiled. “You’re in good hands with Mark. Have a seat.”

  Chee adjusted the chair to suit his height.

  Adakai rolled up the empty chair next to Chee’s and brought the computer to life. He clicked on an icon, and the burglary information appeared as a vertical list of files. He showed Chee how to access the reports and pictures of the stolen items. “This should be what you need, Sergeant.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m working at the desk over by the window, so come and get me if I can help.” Adakai started to leave, then hesitated. “I heard about Mr. Natachi getting shot. Do you know how he’s doing?”

  “He’s at the hospital now. Is the gentleman a friend of yours?”

  “I remember him from when I was a kid and he’d visit our school to see his granddaughter, Ryana. The teacher might get him to teach us a little Navajo, tell a story, you know? I met him again when he came in to file the burglary report. He still knew my name.”

  “Well, Mr. Natachi got his bolo back.”

  “No kidding?” Adakai’s eyes widened. “How did that happen?”

  Chee told the story.

  “Did the police find the guy who was trying to sell it?”

  “We’re working on it. What do you know about the gentleman’s granddaughter?”

  “Let’s see.” Adakai picked up a pencil from the desktop and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Ryana grew up here, but her family originally was from the Toadlena area. Her mom and dad both worked for the tribe. She went to Phoenix after she graduated from high school.” He stopped. “You wanna hear stuff like that?”

  “Whatever you’ve got. Her aunt lives near my wife’s mother’s place. I’m curious about her.”

  “So, when her parents retired, they bought an RV. They’re traveling, seeing the country for a year or two. Cool, huh? Ryana came back to take care of their house and to be with her grandfather.

  “Evidently Ryana hit a rough spot in Phoenix. Drugs, booze, whatever.” Adakai paused. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard, OK?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “When she came back, she looked up some of her old friends here and someone helped her get that job at the senior center. That must have been about twelve months ago.” Adakai tapped the pencil’s eraser
against the desk. “Have you met her?”

  “Yes. I talked to her this morning when I went out to interview her grandfather about the robbery. She’s certainly a beautiful woman. What did she do in Phoenix?”

  Adakai hesitated. “She claims that she did some movie work.”

  “She’s pretty enough to be an actress. Are you two friends?”

  “Acquaintances. When she got back here, I asked her out a couple of times, but she decided I wasn’t her type.”

  Chee waited, but Adakai didn’t offer any stories.

  “Ryana says her grandfather’s burglary never happened and claims he’s getting forgetful. But the old man seemed sharp to my wife, and she’s familiar with old folks. And then Ryana blamed a man who is in prison for shooting him. I’m having a hard time figuring out what’s up with her. What do you think? Is she telling tales?”

  Adakai rolled the pencil down to his palm and then back to his fingertips.

  Chee said, “This is just between us.”

  “Well, even in high school, Ryana went for the bad boys, left us nice guys in the dust. Right after graduation, she got serious with an older dude who moved here from Nevada. His wife showed up, kicked Ryana out, and made a big stink. Everyone in town knew about it. Mr. Nevada went home, and that’s when Ryana moved to Phoenix.

  “When she came back, like I said, I tried to befriend her, ask her out to dinner, but she had that attitude. I hear she’s with some weird white dude now. They say he got busted in Fresno, but there was some problem with the evidence. All this is just rumor anyway.” A phone rang in the other room and Adakai looked toward the noise. “That’s about it. I gotta catch that call.”

  “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Something like Micky, Nicky, Ricky.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for bringing those cookies.”

  Chee filed the information away and turned back to the computer. He wasn’t optimistic. From his training, he knew that burglars hit more than 2.5 million homes each year in the United States, and police solved fewer than 15 percent of the cases. He opened an electronic report. A handful of the Chinle victims had included copies of the receipts for their televisions or computers, paperwork that would make it easier for police to return the items if they were ever found. Some of the reports had pictures of the stolen jewelry, usually with someone wearing it. The most recent burglary had occurred six days ago. Chee studied the picture of an elderly woman wearing a squash blossom necklace, an outstanding combination of silver, turquoise, and good design, easy to identify if it turned up at a flea market or online. He glanced at some of the scans of victims’ handwritten descriptions of the items, most of them in Navajo in the wobbly penmanship that sometimes comes with age. It saddened him that a person would steal these irreplaceable family treasures, most likely to feed an addiction.