“Sure. But when a felon is cornered, he tends to get scared. And violent. So bad stuff happens. And now he has a fresh corpse to dispose of. But hey, he’s also got a freshly dug grave. Small, but it’ll do. So he folds the victim up, stuffs her in, proceeds to bury the body.” Newman, feeling marginally better, adjusted the knot on his red tie. “Then the second student shows up. Sees Miss Tavishuts’s car on the side of the road. She stops to have a look, sees a dog. Which tells us the perp has a mutt with him. Then she hears the sound of somebody digging, figures it’s a pothunter. Maybe the perp is already burying the body. So Miss Castro hotfoots it over to the campsite, tells Dr. Silk what she’s heard, they go to investigate. Catch the bastard red-handed. And he runs like a deer.”
“So all you got to do is find him,” Moon said.
“Oh, we’ll find him.” Newman’s mouth twisted into a self-satisfied grin. “By the way—what are you doing here?”
The Ute draped his arm around the fed’s shoulders. “Having a nice talk with my favorite Bureau cop. Except,” Moon added in deference to the other half of the FBI team, “for George Whitmer.”
Whitmer chuckled. “Thanks, big fella.”
Newman ignored this flippancy. “You’re a rancher now, Charlie. Ranchers raise cows. They chew on straws and kick at cow pies. They do not hang around at murder scenes like homicide was their business.”
“Wallace and me was having a meal over at Arboles when the call came in. He asked me to come along.”
“Now why would he do that—because you used to be acting chief of tribal police?”
Moon pretended to think about this. “Could be.”
Newman glared at Wallace Whitehorse. “Is Charlie jerking me around?”
The Northern Cheyenne’s face had as much expression as an empty pie pan. “Could be.”
Whitmer, who enjoyed such diversions, chuckled again.
Moon found himself staring at the charred bones. “I got a part-time job with the tribe.”
Newman grunted. “So you’re a cop again. Working for Wallace?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly a cop or not exactly working for the Southern Ute chief of police?”
“Not exactly neither.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Excuse me,” Whitmer interjected, “but I believe I know what Charlie’s trying to tell you. I’ll interpret if you like.”
“I am wan and weary,” Newman said to his partner. “Please spare me the crapola.”
“Okay. Consider yourself spared.” Crabby little grouch.
“I’m a consultant to the tribal council,” Moon said. “Report directly to the chairman.”
“Doing what?”
Moon thought about saying “none of your business.” But there was no percentage in annoying this local representative of the FBI. Wallace Whitehorse had to work with these guys. And Stan Newman was a first-rate cop, doing his job. The Ute chose his words carefully. “I’ll be conducting…inquiries.”
“Inquiries, huh?”
The Ute investigator nodded. “Into issues of interest to the tribe.”
Newman smiled. “You should never try to bullshit the Bureau, Charlie. I know you’re working as a private investigator.”
Moon tried not to look surprised. But he was.
“I know you’re wondering how I am able to deduce this,” Newman said. “It is elementary, my novice gumshoe. Paperwork for your PI license was submitted last week. As a service to the state of Colorado, the Bureau reviews all such applications. For the purpose of weeding out petty criminals. Con men. General misfits.”
Whitmer couldn’t resist. “Dang, there goes his license.”
“In Charlie’s case, we’ll make an exception.” Newman frowned. “You packing, cowboy?”
The Indian shook his head. “Momma told me to leave my guns at home.”
Newman snorted at this. “Well, if you’re gonna be snooping around amongst the violent low-life element, I’d advise you to arm yourself.”
“My gun-toting days are over. Anyway, I don’t intend to arrest any desperate criminals.”
It was at this moment that an unfamiliar voice materialized behind them. “I beg your pardon.”
The lawmen turned to eyeball the new arrival, who looked as if he’d stepped right out of a magazine advertisement for expensive sports jackets.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’m Terry Perkins.”
Newman stared uncomprehendingly. “You some kind of reporter?” Television most likely. This guy looked like a second-string anchorman.
“Hardly, I’m Dr. Terry Perkins.”
“Oh—you’re standing in for Doc Simpson.” Newman didn’t wait for a confirmation. “Well, I’m glad to finally see a medical examiner. Bad news though—the murderer is also a damn firebug. As you can see, he has incinerated the corpse.”
Moon could have cleared things up. He decided to let Newman find out for himself.
The newcomer pulled nervously at his earlobe. “You misunderstand; I am not a medical examiner—nor am I a physician.”
“Then what the hell are you?”
The academic thought that short sentences might work best. “Professor Terry Perkins. My doctorate is in physics. I teach at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic. My specialty is paleoastronomy.”
Newman was weary and irritable. “Wonderful. I was just saying to Charlie Moon—Charlie, I said, we’re in deep trouble here. This homicide investigation is too complicated for us simpleminded cops. What we need here is a sure-enough…a…pileo—”
“Paleoastronomer,” Whitmer said with a poker face.
“Yeah,” Newman snapped at his snide partner. “One of them.”
Perkins’s face glistened pinkly in the morning sun. “I did not mean to intrude. When I heard about the tragedy, I merely thought I should report my presence to the proper authorities.”
George Whitmer smiled at the miffed scientist. “Don’t pay any attention to my partner. Stan gets sorta testy when somebody burns up all his evidence.”
“Yeah. It’s been a long night.” Newman attempted to match his partner’s amiable smile; the unaccustomed effort called upon little-used facial muscles. “So you knew Miss Tavishuts?”
“Certainly,” Perkins said. “She is a graduate student in anthropology—that is Professor Axton’s department. But April is—was—taking my spring seminar. Elements of Southwest American Paleoastronomy. She was an excellent student. Showed great promise. So I am naturally crushed by the terrible news.”
All the lawmen shared more or less the same thought. You don’t look crushed.
“So,” Newman continued casually, “you just arrived at Chimney Rock?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“The other people from the university showed up last night.”
“My research at the archaeological site is independent of the survey team working under Professor Axton. I come and go as I please.”
“What exactly is your professional interest here?”
“Astronomy—as practiced by the Anasazi. As they didn’t have the luxury of optical telescopes, my task is mostly a matter of deducing the probable means by which they observed such heavenly objects as are visible to the naked eye. It’s about points of observation.” To demonstrate, Dr. Perkins raised his thumb and made a sighting of a distant mountain peak. “Lines of sight. Angles.” He lowered the thumb. “All of which boils down to simple geometry.” Perkins presented his most disarming smile. “Plus a few brilliant insights.”
Newman smirked. “I find myself truly fascinated by this information.”
Knuckle-dragging oaf. The academic’s grin had a sharp bite in it. “It is always gratifying to find an interest in science among the masses. If you care to educate yourself, I would be happy to provide you with reprints of a few of my published papers. Or perhaps—something less challenging would be more appropriate. May I suggest Dick and Jane Visit the Planetarium.” It was an unkind cut. But all of Dr. P
erkins’s audience save one were highly amused.
Stan Newman returned the sharkish grin. As well as he was able. Smart-ass egghead.
Charlie Moon declared that he would be pleased to read about the professor’s research. And having done so, instantly made a friend among the scholarly set. The Ute tribal investigator walked away with the paleoastronomer. “May I offer some friendly advice?”
Perkins kept his eyes on the path. “Feel free.”
“There’s nothing to be gained by annoying a federal cop.” Especially when he’s looking for somebody to hang a murder on.
Perkins sniffed. “Despite their exalted status in the popular culture, I am neither impressed nor intimidated by representatives of the FBI. I see this fellow as an irritable law-school graduate burdened with an unfortunate career choice.”
“Try seeing him as an irritable lawyer burdened with an automatic weapon.”
The academic considered this sobering image. “Sir, your point is well made.”
Charlie Moon had withdrawn to the relative isolation of his pickup. He was trying to decide what to do. I accepted the job as special investigator for the tribal council. So I ought to hang around and see this thing through. On the other hand, there were already enough lawmen here to investigate a half dozen homicides. And it wasn’t like Wallace Whitehorse needed his advice. So maybe I should just crank up the engine and head for the ranch. Now there was an appealing idea. He was reaching for the ignition switch when someone tapped on the door.
It was Whitehorse. Moon lowered the window.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“H’lo, Wallace.”
The police chief seemed mildly embarrassed. “Guess I should go see Mr. Yazzi about his stepdaughter.”
This was Whitehorse’s first encounter with a major crime since he’d taken over as chief of Southern Ute police. Maybe a reminder was in order. “Somebody will have to tell Alvah. But make sure you let the suits know what you’re intending to do. Newman and Whitmer are decent enough fellows. But if you mess with the FBI’s homicide, they’ll cause you all sorts of grief.”
“That’s sound advice.” Whitehorse grinned. “But from what I hear, you were always kinda independent when it came to cooperating with the feds.”
“And look where it got me.”
“Yeah. Retired from the force. And now you own the finest beef ranch in the whole state.”
“I was lucky. You should be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me. I spent a long time in the military—I know all about chain of command.” The chief of police glanced toward the small FBI contingent. Newman and Whitmer were reinterviewing several sleepy-eyed graduate students. “Would you come with me to Mr. Yazzi’s place?”
Moon had been expecting this. And wanted to say no. “Sure. If you think it’d help.”
Whitehorse reached into the pickup cab to give the Ute a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Good. Count it as a part of your consultant services. And charge your time to the tribe—starting with when we left Arboles on the call.”
Moon thought about it. Don’t mind if I do.
ASHES
It was a short trip on Route 151, less than four miles south from the entrance to Chimney Rock Archaeological Site. Daniel Bignight led the procession. The Northern Cheyenne chief of police was within three car lengths of Bignight’s bumper. Moon’s Ford pickup trailed well behind the matched pair of SUPD squad cars.
Bignight’s big Chevy slowed, the turn signal flashed. He made a hard right onto a dirt lane made muddy from the past night’s rain, then led the procession of vehicles up a slight rise, winding through a thicket of juniper. They entered a clearing, where Alvah Yazzi’s 1957 Chevrolet pickup was parked in the shade of a red willow. The hood was up, the tailgate down. The door on the plywood shell was propped up with a broomstick. A large dog—which looked to have some German shepherd parentage—emerged from the pickup bed and shook off bits of straw. The animal croaked out three obligatory, deep-chested barks, then slowly wagged a drooping tail at the visitors.
Moon peered into the plywood shell, which evidently served as a doghouse. Inside was a bale of straw and a galvanized metal tub, half filled with water. There was also a sack of dog food, torn open at one end. The animal whined an appeal to the visitor. Moon rubbed the beast behind the ears. The tail wagged faster; the Ute got his hand licked.
The planked porch fronting the modest home was provided with a single straight-backed chair. As if Yazzi did not wish to encourage visitors to stay long enough to sit down. The Navajo was something of a recluse.
Off to the right was a sturdy barn with a new metal roof. Appended to this structure was a small corral made from creosote-soaked timbers. A swaybacked roan mare hung her long head over the crude fencing. A spotted goat stood beside the horse, his horned head poking between the greasy rails. The goat made a peculiar sound. Something between a belch and a hiccup. The mare tossed her head, as if to indicate that she was unimpressed by the visitors.
Bignight approached the house, then paused to glance back at his supervisor.
Wallace Whitehorse jammed an expensive gray felt hat over his burr-cut head; he stomped resolutely past his subordinate and mounted the front porch with steps that jarred the pine planking.
Charlie Moon, unsure of his official capacity, followed in Whitehorse’s wake. April Tavishuts was not Alvah Yazzi’s natural daughter, but the old Navajo would take her death hard. He would have preferred to leave this sad duty to the Northern Cheyenne, but reminded himself—I am on the tribal payroll. One way or another, a man always earned his money.
The mixed-breed dog stood in the yard, panting as he watched the men mount the porch steps.
Whitehorse raised his fist to knock. For an instant, it stopped, as if governed by some subconscious hesitation. The chief of police set his jaw and rapped his knuckles on the oak door. They waited. There was no response.
He turned to Moon. “It’s early. Maybe the old man’s still in bed.”
“Maybe.” But the Ute didn’t think so.
Whitehorse sighed. He knocked again. Harder this time.
A hollow silence echoed within the Navajo’s house.
“Well,” the chief of police muttered, “looks like he’s not here. Guess we might as well give it up.” He smiled amiably at the round-headed Taos Pueblo man. “Daniel, you come back this afternoon. See if Mr. Yazzi has come home yet.”
“He’s here.”
“How do you know that?” Whitehorse snapped.
“His truck is here,” Bignight responded.
Whitehorse shot a dark look at his subordinate. “Maybe he’s got another vehicle.”
Bignight shook his head. “Alvah’s only got that old Chevy pickup.”
“Well, maybe he’s gone for a walk.”
“His dog is here,” Bignight said stubbornly. “If he was out on a hike, that old fleabag would be right there with him.”
The chief of police looked at a wasp nest attached to the porch ceiling. “His truck is here. His dog is here. That’s enough to convince you he’s absolutely got to be at home?”
“Well, not altogether.”
Whitehorse’s neck was swelling dangerously. “Then what makes you so damn sure?”
Bignight was squinting through a curtained window. “I can see his boots.”
Whitehorse looked over Bignight’s rounded shoulder. “Where?”
The Taos Pueblo man pointed. “There. Sticking out from behind that couch.”
The chief of police muttered a Cheyenne curse under his breath. The boots were lying flat on the floor. Toes up. Most likely, there were feet in them.
Whitehorse tried the door. It was locked. He barked an order at Bignight, who hurried to the rear of the Navajo’s home. The chubby man returned in less than a minute, breathing hard. “Back door’s locked too—and the windows are either locked or stuck.”
“We’d best go inside,” Moon said. “Alvah might be sick or something.”
Bignight knew what something was. He tried the porch windows. They were also locked.
The chief of police shook his head. “I sure hate to break into a man’s house. If that’s just a pair of empty boots, he could make big trouble for us.”
Moon decided to take the matter in hand. “I’ll try the door.”
“I already tried it, Charlie. It’s locked.”
“Maybe it’s just stuck.” The Ute wrapped his big hand around the knob. And turned. Metal strained against metal. Didn’t give. He turned harder. There was a sudden snapping when the stem broke, a metallic rattle as shattered parts clattered about in the cast-iron mechanism. “I think it’s loosened up a bit.”
Whitehorse groaned. “You busted it!”
The Ute, being a charitable soul, chose to overlook this unseemly remark. He pushed on the door. It opened, swinging smoothly on oiled hinges.
Daniel Bignight grinned. Charlie Moon always got the job done.
The lawmen, standing like a mismatched trio of bronze castings, stared without comprehension at something on the floor. It looked like what was left of a man. Where the Navajo elder’s head should have been, there was a band of red cloth, several thick clumps of gray hair. No eyes looked through the steel-rimmed spectacles, but a set of dentures grinned pinkly at the intruders. Below this empty face was a blue cotton shirt, arms outstretched. A lump of turquoise the size of a hen’s egg rested on the third button. This impressive pendant was attached to a leather cord that passed under the collar. The shirttail was tucked into a faded pair of OshKosh B’Gosh jeans, each leg terminating in a fine pair of ostrich-skin boots.
“Look at that,” Whitehorse said. The chief of police was pointing at a spot just beyond the left cuff of the cotton shirt. There, where Alvah Yazzi’s hand should have been, was a wristwatch. Still ticking. The imitation-leather band was neatly fastened, the timepiece resting on the oak floor in the fashion of a small hoop. As if the man’s arm had turned to vapor.
The Ute squatted for a closer examination of the remains.
“We’d better not touch anything,” Whitehorse said.
Charlie Moon unfolded a pocketknife. He used the blade to lift the shirt collar, moving the cloth just enough to reveal what was underneath. An undershirt. The skin was prickling on the back of the Ute’s neck. “Five’ll get you twenty, there’re socks in the boots.”
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