No one took the bet.
“Jeepers,” Bignight muttered, “it looks like that Navajo just faded away into nothing.”
Moon studied the spot where Yazzi’s head should have been. There was a thick layer of coarse gray-white powder. He used the tip of the knife blade to lift a sample.
Whitehorse leaned close to see. “What’n hell’s that?”
The Ute investigator frowned at the specimen. Better not to say it out loud. Ashes. And a scattering of bone chips.
Bignight backed two paces away from the whatever-it-was, crossed himself, and muttered a prayer for the soul of the Navajo.
A graveyard silence hung over the parlor. Finally, the Northern Cheyenne spoke to the Ute. “What do you make of this?”
Moon did not care to speculate.
“Yazzi was a Navajo,” Daniel Bignight said. From the Taos Pueblo man’s point of view, this was sufficient explanation.
Wallace Whitehorse’s steely glance at his subordinate made his position clear—the chief of police was not interested in Officer Bignight’s superstitions. Again, he directed his comment to the Ute investigator. “It’s got to be some kinda damn prank. Somebody’s made a—a scarecrow.”
Moon held his silence.
The Northern Cheyenne’s intense thinking twisted his face into a painful grimace. The skillful administrator reasoned that if this turned out to be a serious crime, it would not be his responsibility. It would be the Bureau’s problem. He turned to Bignight. “Radio those FBI agents.”
Bignight—who shared his boss’s view on the matter—was eager to carry out this order. He turned quickly and almost tripped over Yazzi’s homely dog. The animal—which had entered the parlor unnoticed—stood a few yards away staring at what little was left of its master.
“Go way,” Bignight ordered. “Shoo!”
The animal raised his head. And bugled a long, mournful blue note.
The pair of FBI agents arrived in fifteen minutes flat after Bignight’s call. They stood with brows furrowed, staring at the garish figure lying spread-eagled on the Navajo’s floor.
George Whitmer turned to the odd trio of tribal lawmen. His gaze passed slowly over Wallace Whitehorse. Hung briefly on Charlie Moon. Then settled on Officer Daniel Bignight. Newman stared hard at the tribal policeman.
Bignight’s hands went ice-cold. As if the owl were about to call his name.
The fed called his name. Softly. “Daniel.”
“Yeah?”
The FBI agent jerked his head. “C’mere.”
The tribal policeman approached the suit.
Whitmer’s tone was soft. Casual. “Daniel, I understand you were the one to discover the…ahh…body.”
“Not exactly,” Bignight said quickly, “I was just the one that saw his boots through the window—”
“This could turn out to be a big break in our homicide investigation.” Whitmer had a hard set to his jaw. “I need to verify proper police procedure has been followed.”
Bignight swallowed hard. “Yessir.”
“Upon approaching the remains, did you touch anything?”
The tribal policeman shook his head so hard it made him dizzy. “Not me—I didn’t touch nothin’.”
Whitmer leaned forward, positioning his face within inches of the policeman’s. “You did not check the victim for a pulse?”
Bignight’s mouth gaped open.
“Then how did you verify that he was dead?”
The tribal policeman pointed at the remains. “Well, anybody but a blind man could see that—”
Special Agent Whitmer guffawed, slapped his victim on the shoulder.
The amiable Bignight grinned back at his persecutor. Silly bastard.
Stanley Newman shook his head at the thing on the floor. It was a grave affront to his notion of an orderly universe. He turned on the SUPD chief of police. “Great balls of fire, Wallace, what’n hell is this supposed to be?”
Wallace Whitehorse cleared his throat. “I don’t exactly know.”
Newman, who had not had any serious sleep in forty hours, was not the soul of patience. “You-don’t-exactly-know?”
The chief of police had also been awake all night—and was not about to take any smart mouth from this pasty-faced Easterner. “According to the rules, I’m just a glorified traffic cop. You federal guys are the experts on serious crimes.” He stood nose to nose with the fed. “So you tell me—what is it?”
The special agent smiled coldly at the ex-Army cop. “Haven’t forgot how to pass the buck, eh?”
Whitehorse reflected the nasty grin right back at him.
Newman looked at the floor. Truth was, he didn’t know what to make of it. The federal policeman searched for something sensible to say. Anything. “Any sign of forced entry?”
“None.” Whitehorse looked over Newman’s head at the door lock Moon had mangled. “After Officer Bignight spotted Mr. Yazzi’s boots through the window, we had to force the front door.”
We? Charlie Moon appreciated the favor.
Being weary, Newman spoke without thinking. “You made a forced entry—without a search warrant?”
Whitehorse clenched his hands into fists. “Damn right we did—to find out whether Mr. Yazzi was dead or alive. You got a problem with that?”
Newman opened his mouth to reply, then—having nothing to say—shut it. He knelt to inspect Yazzi’s almost-empty clothing. He started with the fancy boots, worked his way up gradually, finally stopping at the place where a face should have been. He stared.
The empty spectacles stared back.
Newman’s lips drooped into a petulant frown.
Yazzi’s dentures grinned at him.
Damn. What is going on here? “I wonder if there’s anything in the pockets.” Newman looked up at his partner. “We’d better get forensics out here.”
George Whitmer was already punching the number into his cell phone.
The two-person FBI forensics team was already present at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site to investigate the April Tavishuts homicide, and so they arrived promptly at the Navajo’s home. Photographs were made, samples taken and stored in labeled containers. The initial work done, they proceeded with a detailed examination of the clothing.
The younger man seated himself on a pine bench, a laptop computer balanced precariously on his knees. The senior member of the team began to search Yazzi’s pockets.
The congregation of curious lawmen moved closer.
The senior scientist spoke in a clipped monotone, seemingly imitating a computer-generated voice. “Al, make an inventory.”
The subordinate poised his fingers to tap on the keyboard.
His supervisor proceeded with the search. “One pouch of Virginia pipe tobacco from the shirt pocket. Three-blade Case folding knife in the right-front jeans pocket. A few coins in the left—let’s see—two quarters, a dime, four pennies. Wallet in the rear pocket.” He opened it. “Visa card issued to Alvah Yazzi. Colorado driver’s license in the same name. Ditto for a Social Security card.” He recited the number. “And a wad of folding money big enough to choke that goat in the barnyard.”
The solemn technician with the laptop was a certified public accountant; he politely requested a more quantitative assay.
His supervisor counted out the bills. “Three hundred and eighty-four dollars.”
Officer Bignight shook his head at the sight of so many greenbacks. “Old man Yazzi was a tight fella with a nickel. He’d never go off and leave that much money lying around. Not on purpose.”
Whitmer’s knees protested painfully as he kneeled by the forensics expert. “That dark powder and chips where his head and hands should be—”
“It’s in his clothing too. All the way into his socks—which are in his boots.”
“But what the hell is it?”
The forensic scientist stood up. “Ashes. And small fragments of bone.”
The special agent pointed. “What about that stuff—uh—where his h
ead should be.”
The expert gave a poker-faced response. “That is what we highly technical types call—hair.”
“Human hair?”
“Most probably.”
Whitmer withdrew to join his friends.
Newman, feeling tolerably better after consuming a stale doughnut he’d found in Yazzi’s pantry, returned to the scene of the presumed crime. He muttered to his partner. “George, we’re like the last survivors of a wagon train. Got what’s left of a Navajo at our feet. And we’re surrounded by a Ute, a Cheyenne, and a Pueblo Indian.”
“Southern Ute,” Moon corrected.
“Northern Cheyenne,” Whitehorse added.
“Well, excuse me.” Newman eyed the third member of the Native American triad. “Bignight—you got nothing to say?”
The policeman grinned. “Taos Pueblo.”
Special Agent George Whitmer had noticed that Charlie Moon had been unusually quiet. Even for a man who saved his words like silver dollars. He squinted at the Ute investigator. “Charlie, you got any thoughts to share with us?”
“Thinking is delicate work, like sewing beads on leather. Takes time.” Moon gazed at the thing on the floor. It suggested a deflated man. As if someone had pulled Yazzi’s valve, let all the spirit spew out.
Whitmer turned away to look out a porch window, which nicely framed Yazzi’s old Chevy pickup. The antique truck didn’t look so lonely now. Not with a half dozen official cars and Moon’s F150 pickup for company. He slipped away into a melancholy silence.
Stanley Newman rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Consider the big picture, fellas. What we’ve got is a dead Ute woman. Murdered, buried up there on the mesa. And if that ain’t enough to spoil your day, her corpse is set afire. This peculiar piece of arson happens after a dozen cops show up.”
All eyes avoided Bignight, but the Taos Pueblo man’s back stiffened at Newman’s blunt reference to his apparent inability to manage a simple assignment—like keeping watch over a crime scene.
Newman waved both arms at his small audience. “And now you guys come to Mr. Yazzi’s home to break the news about what’s happened to his stepdaughter—and all you find is—is this.”
Charlie Moon felt considerable sympathy for the FBI agent. Things had taken a pretty strange turn.
THE PALEOASTRONOMER
The lawmen had withdrawn to the Navajo’s front porch. The FBI special agents listened with scant interest while Wallace Whitehorse gave Daniel Bignight detailed orders for sealing the premises from the public.
Yazzi’s mixed-breed dog barked once. He did this to announce the arrival of a visitor.
“Excuse me.”
Five pairs of eyes turned to focus on the new arrival. Special Agent Newman approached the newcomer, and was followed closely by George Whitmer and Chief of Police Whitehorse. Moon and Bignight watched from the porch.
“Sorry to interrupt. It’s me again—Terry Perkins.”
Stanley Newman hitched his thumbs under his belt. “Yeah. The pilio—uh—astrologer.”
“Paleoastronomer.” Perkins enunciated each syllable, as one attempting to communicate with a creature who had just sufficient mental ability to eat and excrete.
Newman eyed the scholar suspiciously. “I wonder how you manage it.”
The scientist took the bait. “Manage what?”
“Showing up wherever there’s trouble.”
Perkins responded with wide-eyed innocence. “Is there trouble here?”
The FBI agent ignored the professor’s question. “What brings you to the Yazzi residence?”
The academic’s expression hardened. “It never occurred to me that I would be asked to explain my presence here.”
“Humor me.”
“I should have thought it obvious. I am merely stopping by to express my regrets to the father of the deceased.”
“Stepfather,” Newman corrected, and looked around the yard. “I don’t see any transportation. How’d you get here?”
“Walked upright.” He raised one booted foot for the FBI agent’s inspection. “In biped fashion.” Perkins grinned smugly at the federal policeman.
Newman glanced at the well-shod foot, then at the academic’s happy face. “You hoofed it all the way from the archaeological site?” This seemed unlikely.
“It’s not such a long walk—for a man in good condition.” The trim scientist eyed the hint of a bulge around Newman’s midsection.
The special agent sucked in his gut. “This morning when you showed up on the mesa, you were driving a yellow Mercedes.” Newman had the license-plate number in his notebook.
“Indeed I was.”
“Then why’re you afoot—fancy car break down?”
Perkins was beginning to enjoy the exchange. “Allow me to clear up a minor bit of confusion on your part. I did return from the Chimney Rock site in my expensive automobile, which is currently parked at the cabin.”
“Cabin—where?”
Perkins jerked his head to indicate the direction. “Approximately two hundred yards up the road. Just over yon ridge.”
Newman’s accusing tone was that of a poker player who suspects he has been cheated. “When we talked this morning, you didn’t say anything about having a cabin around here.”
“Nor did you inquire about where I was staying. And before you do ask, it is not mine own domicile. It is a rental.” The professor smiled at his adversary. “I returned from the mesa only a short time ago. Took a moment to wash up, then walked over here to see Mr. Yazzi.” He aimed a curious glance at the closed door. “How is the old man taking it?”
This question was met with an uneasy silence.
Perkins tried again. “April’s death, I mean. Is Mr. Yazzi holding up all right?”
Newman didn’t meet the academic’s frank gaze. “I couldn’t say.”
“I don’t quite understand—you have not spoken to him?”
“I have not. But I would like to.”
“I assume by these somewhat cryptic remarks that Mr. Yazzi is not at home.”
“You may safely assume that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about him. He’ll show up sooner or later.” Perkins looked over his shoulder at Alvah Yazzi’s antique Chevrolet pickup. “His truck isn’t running. Distributor problem, I believe.” His gaze shifted to the barren hills behind the Yazzi homestead. “He must be on one of his walks.”
“Where does he walk to?”
The academic shrugged. “Wherever he wants.”
Newman wondered what kind of smart-aleck answer this was supposed to be.
Charlie Moon directed a remark at the scientist. “Mr. Yazzi has a dog that’ll need looking after.”
“I am well acquainted with Bugle.”
Pleased to hear his name, Bugle wagged his tail.
The Ute glanced at the barn. “And there’s some livestock. They’ll need to be fed and watered.”
Perkins looked down his nose at the horse and goat. They gazed placidly back. “I’ll be glad to look in on his animals.” He frowned at the Ute. “Is there something you are not telling me? Is Mr. Yazzi not expected to return promptly?”
Newman shot Moon a warning glance, then scowled at Perkins. “When’s the last time you saw your Navajo neighbor?”
“Let me see.” The professor closed his eyes as if this would aid in the recollection process. “It was just yesterday morning—probably about eight-thirty.”
“You two visit every day?”
“Hardly. Yesterday, I came to pay the rent.”
“Wait a minute—you tellin’ me you rent from Yazzi?”
“If I did not,” Perkins said with a sting of sarcasm, “I would hardly be bringing him greenbacks every month.”
The lawman’s antenna went up. “Yazzi asked you to pay the rent in cash?”
“That was his preference.”
“Did he give you receipts?”
Perkins regarded the federal agent with an annoying smile. “Am I to assume that Mr. Yazzi
is being investigated for tax evasion? I should think arresting a single malefactor would not require such a gaggle of coppers.”
Chief of Police Whitehorse kept a straight face. Charlie Moon didn’t. Officer Bignight grinned ear to ear. Special Agent Whitmer laughed out loud.
“We already got us a comedian on staff.” Newman glanced meaningfully at his partner. “I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer my question.”
“No,” Perkins said stiffly. “He did not provide me with receipts for the rental payment. Mr. Yazzi and I have a very informal business relationship.”
“So how much is the rent?”
“I do not see how that is any of your business.”
“I am making it my business.” Newman’s mouth twisted into a dangerous smile.
Perkins hesitated. “Three hundred dollars. Per month.”
There was an exchange of looks among the lawmen. This accounted for the wad of bills in Alvah Yazzi’s wallet.
“Three hundred bucks,” Newman said. “Sounds like quite a bargain.” As if there might be something sinister in the arrangement.
Professor Perkins allowed himself a rueful smile. “You have not seen my cabin. It is the sort of dwelling euphemistically described by rental agents as ‘rustic.’ A bevy of beady-eyed rodents boldly insist on sharing the premises with me. Cockroaches the size of terrapins eat my victuals. But,” he added by way of balance, “it is conveniently close to the archaeological site. And therefore suitable for my modest needs.”
The light breeze, which had been westerly, shifted to the south.
Newman changed tack. “You see anybody else over here yesterday?”
“I did not, but that is hardly surprising. As I have pointed out, my cabin is situated on the opposite side of the ridge. I cannot see Mr. Yazzi’s residence from the rental. He could have been throwing a barbecue for the Denver Broncos and the Dallas Cowboys—I would not have noticed.”
Special Agent Whitmer took up the questioning. “My partner means did you see anybody else when you came to pay the rent.”
“No. I only saw Mr. Yazzi.”
Whitmer’s interrogation took the form of a friendly conversation. “How’d he seem?”
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