Charlie looked down the short row of trees and nodded agreement. “Already had a few last year…and they were covered with blossoms this spring. You might be right.”
Peaches and apricots were some of the first fruit trees the Navajo learned to grow and some of the few that would grow in the harsher conditions on the reservation. The fact that the fruit could be dried and would last the winter was a major advantage.
“Sue thinks she’ll have enough to can this fall.” Charlie’s forebears originally took to the fruit because they could be grown along the washes taking advantage of runoff. Some varieties were able to survive with very little care: an important consideration when a family had to be off to the higher pastures all summer, at times, staying away from home until the corn ripened in the fall. A few families might occasionally send boys back to weed corn, and ditch around the trees. But, as often as not, that didn’t happen and the trees had to fend for themselves.
When Kit Carson’s Ute scouts brought soldiers against the Navajo in 1864; the fruit trees, cornfields, and those boys, were first to suffer the government’s wrath…and the ensuing scorched earth policy that followed. Consequently, those trees were some of the first things the government helped replace when the people returned after the Long Walk.
“Anything else, Billy…or you came all the way out here just to keep me in the loop?” Charlie smiled as he said this, but not long enough for Billy to catch it.
Billy Red Clay grinned, “Not really. I was on my way into the Sheriff’s Office in Farmington anyway, and being’s how I had to go right by here, I thought I might as well stop in.”
“Sheriff’s Office? Not to see Dudd Schott I hope?” Charlie Yazzie had long been at odds with the new sheriff and didn’t hesitate to say so. He knew Billy didn’t care for the man either. As a deputy, Schott had constantly harassed those Indians he thought he could intimidate and made many of their visits to town unpleasant, to say the least. The deputy’s later election to the office of sheriff had shocked everyone, including Dudd, who put his name on the ballot mostly at the insistence of his wife who had family in high places. There were apparently enough people who didn’t know him to allow him to be elected.
“Yep, I’m off to see the High Sheriff himself,” Billy joked. He knew most everyone on the reservation felt the same as he and Charlie Yazzie did when it came to Dudd Schott, and so didn’t bother to belabor the point. It did, however, lead him to the real reason for his visit. “Apparently some indigent was found dead up in Farmington this morning. Navajo, they think, so they notified us. They’re calling it a probable ‘natural causes’ and the FBI has already been there, done their little forensic dance, and left. The Sheriff’s Office has a copy of the preliminary for Tribal and, of course, they wanted us to notify next of kin. The dead man might be anyone from anywhere. All they know is, he’s an Indian. They haven’t been able to pull up anything on him as yet.” Billy made a noise in his throat, “That doesn’t surprise me one damn bit either. We’ll have to wait for the FBI to update us on this one...probably first thing in the morning. The remains are going in for autopsy sometime in the next few hours.”
Charlie showed less interest in this new case than Billy had hoped, and after a few more minutes of small talk, Officer Red Clay said his goodbyes: waving a final farewell from his vehicle as he pulled out––this time, vigorously honking his horn at the collection of guineas who had gathered to peck at their reflection in the unit’s shiny hubcaps.
As Charlie stood in the early morning sun he listened to the muted roar of the river across the highway––the San Juan––gathering itself after taking on the clear cold waters of the Rio de Los Animas Perdidas––The River of Lost Souls: an appropriate name, Charlie thought, for a river flowing from the upper canyons of the earliest Anasazi.
The investigator’s thoughts turned again to the untimely end of the old silversmith from Teec Nos Pos. Now there was something else nibbling at him, and when it finally came to him hours later, he was appalled; he knew then what he must do.
6
The Autopsy
Billy Red Clay only waited on the bench outside Sheriff Dudd Schott’s office long enough for boredom to set in––then decided a coffee might help. He had seen a breakroom just up the hall as he entered and thought he might slip in for a quick cup. He’d be back before anyone noticed.
The room was empty except for two young deputies at a back table; the pair appeared to be deep in discussion and paid him little mind.
As Billy doctored his coffee he couldn’t help overhearing the deputy with his back to him, say, “They’ve been in there over an hour now. I should be out on patrol already, but the Sheriff left word for me to see him in his office. He wants me to take some Navajo cop to look at a body.” His companion nudged him and raised an eyebrow in the direction of Billy Red Clay.
The Navajo policeman didn’t look their way or offer any sign he’d overheard. He left concentrating on stirring his coffee. Why in the hell would Dudd Schott want me to see the body; do they think I can verify he was a Navajo? As though someone can tell by looking.
Billy was back on the bench and nearly finished with his coffee when an older, officious-looking Sheriff’s officer opened the door and beckoned him in, motioning for him to bring his coffee along with him. It wasn’t Dudd Schott and the young Navajo policeman was pleased to see it; he couldn’t help considering it a stroke of good luck.
The older deputy put out a hand and Billy shook it. “Sorry about the wait.” The deputy moved around to the big leather chair behind the desk after motioning Billy to a plainer wooden one in front.
“Officer Red Clay, is it?” The older deputy was looking at a set of papers. Billy guessed they were the FBI report from the investigation of the indigent’s death. “Sheriff Schott was called to a Commissioners’ meeting this morning and regrets he missed you.” He paused and looked at Billy, seemed to assess the young Navajo, but not in the judgmental way Billy was used to seeing from white lawmen. “I’m Under Sheriff Bob Danforth. The sheriff asked me to sit in for him this morning and asks your indulgence in having a look at the victim’s body. It seems the man had some unusual tattoos. The FBI thought they might have some tribal significance and hoped you might be able to help us out.” The Undersheriff tapped the stack of papers. “We understand you are the new FBI Liaison Officer for Tribal and already know Federal Agent Smith, who by the way, will be meeting us there. There’s a deputy standing by to ferry us over there as we speak but only if you have time of course.”
Billy Red Clay toyed with the thought of saying “No, I actually don’t have time…not after waiting outside a good portion of the morning.” But he had not become liaison officer by turning down FBI requests. And this undersheriff seemed a cut above the pompous Dudd Schott. “I’d be happy to help anyway I can––though I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to tell you about any tattoos.”
“Well, we’d appreciate any input you might have to offer.”
The young deputy, the one Billy had overheard in the break room, was waiting just outside the door. The Deputy was red-faced, and unable to meet the Tribal policeman’s gaze, as he led them to a back entrance and a waiting patrol car.
~~~~~~
Later in the afternoon, on his way back to Shiprock, Billy Red Clay felt sick––part of which he attributed to the morbidity of the autopsy––and partly to the discovery of the dead man’s identity which the FBI had figured out well before he got there. Billy, at first, did not recognize the man by name, though he later realized they were related. Nez was quite a common name on the reservation. The connection only clicked into place when he studied the person’s face––usually so different in death––not with this clan uncle who looked remarkably like he had in life, possibly even younger, as though the stress of living had been lifted from him.
Gilbert Nez was known to have been in town only days earlier, asking after various family members, mainly his wife, who had now been dead for seven or e
ight years. She was Thomas’s mother, Billy’s great aunt, who wound up in a mental facility toward the end. Thomas blamed that on his father, too. Now Gilbert was dead and it turned out he’d only wanted money, according to talk.
The medical examiner pointed out a small series of numbers tattooed on the man’s arm. “As it turns out,” he said, “it’s the man’s Social Security number which led to the identification of the body.” The doctor gazed thoughtfully at the tattoo. “It’s something a man who leads a reckless life might do, perhaps to ensure his remains make their way back home.”
That made sense to Billy Red Clay. Where a person was born and grew up was important to a Diné. It was where their umbilical cord was buried, and where some thought they should end up when everything was said and done. No matter how far away life might take them, most Navajo have the hope they will, someday, return to the Dinétah, if only in death.
The doctor went on about the numbers, saying, “Social Security, should you younger men not be aware, was instituted in the waning days of the Great Depression when hope, and money, was still in short supply.” He scratched his head and said he hadn’t seen such a tattoo in many years––and never on a Navajo.
According to the coroner, men who ‘rode the rails’ or otherwise associated themselves with chancy occupations sometimes employed the practice as a safeguard against winding up in a potter’s field somewhere. “Back in those days such people often didn’t live to sixty-five––not long enough for them to receive regular benefits.” The doctor chuckled, “This may have been the only good some of them ever realized from the program.”
When Billy Red Clay made himself look more closely at the deceased’s tattoos he saw only the typical jailhouse art––common to a man who led this sort of life. A few of the tattoos might possibly be of a cultural nature, he thought, but he was unable to say what significance they might actually have. There was one he thought might represent the Salt People, mostly because he knew Gilbert Nez was of that clan. There was yet another of what he took to be Navajo Mountain; a holy place where a great many of the Salt Clan have lived for the last hundred years or so. Billy knew the images, crude as they might be, were part of Gilbert’s personal power––or ‘medicine,’ and not to be discussed with billiganna. White people didn’t understand this kind of medicine…or what it might mean to a Diné. There are people who might know what all these symbols are, he thought to himself, but none of those people would ever tell.
Eventually, the other law enforcement personnel, including Agent Fred Smith, left the autopsy room. Billy Red Clay stayed behind and when the medical examiner followed the others out for a last word; Billy had a chance to look a final time upon his great-uncle. The leathery left hand showed those particular disfigurements associated with a horseman—one who makes his living with a rope––more common in later years when an almost imperceptible decline in ability may catch him unaware. An appendage might be caught in a dally between rope and horn, to be lost forever. The first joint of Gilbert Nez’s thumb and index finger were missing––bearing mute testimony to the fading of a man’s reflexes––as life and luck run their inevitable course.
~~~~~~
On his way back to Shiprock, Billy Red Clay was nearly to the Yazzie’s turnoff, when it suddenly occurred to him he should again touch base with the tribal investigator before making the depressing trip out to see his Uncle Thomas. Maybe Charlie would go with him to break the news. That might make it some easier––knowing full well there is no easy way to tell a man his father is dead.
Even before Billy was out of the car, Charlie appeared at the door with his keys in his hand, seemingly surprised to see the policeman back so soon.
“I was just on my way to see you,” the investigator said. “Dispatch let me know you were on your way back to headquarters.” The pair stood on the front porch, each man with hat in hand, as Billy filled the investigator in on his interagency meeting in Farmington, finally getting around to the autopsy of Gilbert Nez.
Charlie shook his head. “After you left this morning it occurred to me that might be who it was.” He saw confusion cross the policeman’s face at this and hesitated a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. “Your Uncle Thomas and I were in Farmington last night, Billy. He ran into Gilbert at the Social Club, purely accidental…he hadn’t seen the man in thirty years…hadn’t heard from him at all in fact.” Charlie went on to tell Billy everything that took place at Rosie’s and then admitted, “I called Thomas after you left this morning and told him what I suspected––I told him I would run by your office and see what the autopsy report had to say.” Charlie threw up his hands. “That’s where I was heading when you showed up.”
Charlie hesitated once more. “Thomas said he was just leaving for Harley Ponyboy’s place to check on him but said he would hold off until I got back to him about Gilbert…one way or the other.”
Billy Red Clay gave the investigator another strange look, and the irritation in his voice was clear when he asked, “What in hell were you and my Uncle Thomas doing at Rosie’s last night? Poking around in the Benny Klee case? The FBI, and by that I mean Agent Smith, will be very disappointed to hear you two were digging around in this thing.” Billy turned and looked out across Sue’s garden; the guineas were nowhere in sight. “I was hoping we could get off on a better footing with the Bureau this time around and now this!” The officer rubbed the back of his neck, “This isn’t good Charlie… this is not good at all.” The young officer sounded just like Samuel Shorthair when he said. “You are going to have to stay out of it. It isn’t your jurisdiction and damned sure not your investigation.”
Charlie, somewhat embarrassed, shifted from one foot to the other but looked directly at the Tribal officer when he finally agreed. “You are absolutely right, Billy, we shouldn’t have gone. I’m the one who talked Thomas into it; he only went to help me out. But it’s done and there’s no fixing it now. If you want, I can go on out to Thomas’s and let him know about his father. I had planned on that anyway. Thomas might take it better from me than anyone else…even a nephew.” He looked straight at the officer. “Your Uncle Thomas tries to let on he didn’t care about his father…but he did…and he feels guilty about leaving him down there last night; it was written all over him when he dropped me off.” Charlie canted his head slightly, “Do they know what killed Gilbert Nez?”
Billy sighed, “Not yet. The medical examiner thinks maybe natural causes. So that’s all anyone knows until they get the lab results back.”
Billy Red Clay was not yet ready to let go of Charlie’s meddling and went steely-eyed as he continued. “I’m not going to say anything about this just yet and just hope the bureau doesn’t get wind of it. From what you say, Rosie never saw you and the only other witness is dead now. Hopefully this will be it.” Billy stopped for a moment and thought about Charlie’s offer. “Maybe it would be best if you went out to Uncle Thomas’s place. I’ve blown my entire day in town and still have stacks of stuff on my desk; some of it has to go out this afternoon. And you’re probably closer to him than I am. I’ll catch up with you later and see how it went.” And with that, Officer Red Clay, still visibly upset, stomped down to his vehicle and drove off––secretly hoping to catch a guinea hen crossing the road.
Charlie stood watching the policeman go and for the first time felt the full burden of what he’d done–– especially for the involvement of Thomas Begay. Neither of them had broken any law but protocol had been abused and that might be even harder to fix. This was the second time in two days Billy Red Clay had been right and he had been in the wrong. Am I slipping? he wondered to himself. Maybe I’m not doing any of this just to be helpful. Maybe I’m starting to believe in all the hype. Charlie Yazzie… ‘Investigator’.
~~~~~~
When he eased up the rain-rutted track to Thomas Begay’s, Charlie had already reconciled himself to the fact that his involvement in the Klee murder investigation was less than proper, but he st
ill wasn’t sure it had been harmful. He still might be able to offer insight by virtue of legal experience. But even that would not justify crossing the lines of jurisdiction.
As the Investigator stepped out of his truck he saw Ida Marie Begay and her brother Caleb, peering out the kitchen window of Lucy Tallwoman’s new house. The pair thought the sound of the truck to be their stepmother returning from town. Still they were not disappointed to see Charlie Yazzie instead; the investigator had gone to great lengths in the interests of both of them over the years and they had developed close ties to him and his family.
Charlie stood, seemingly perplexed, one hand still on the door handle of the truck, as he mulled over what he had come to tell his friend. It was then Thomas’s father-in-law, old man T’Sosi, came from the direction of the family hogan now eclipsed by the newer structure. The old singer lived out there alone now which was how he preferred it. He took his meals at his daughter’s table but spent less and less time with the family.
Charlie waited for the old man to approach. Paul’s hearing was failing and should he call a greeting now he would only have to repeat it when Paul drew nearer.
Paul T’Sosi had the dust of the corrals on him and took off his hat to hit it against his leg leaving a small greenish cloud on the evening air. The old man smiled at his visitor but skipped the greetings. “What brings a Tribal man out this way?” He gestured over his shoulder at the sheep milling in the holding pen. “I brought them in a little early today. Thomas has to do some doctoring on the lambs. Two have infections where he docked their tails last week.” He raised a finger and shook it. “I told him we should just let them keep their tails; it’s how we have always done it. But he’s been talking to the county agent again––and that one thinks this new way is best.” The old man smiled grimly. “Now, maybe Thomas will admit I was right.” Paul and his daughter’s husband were in constant disagreement since the county agent began dropping by with his fresh new ideas and devious ways to change things. Paul had done those things a certain way for more than half a century; it made no sense to change now.
The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7) Page 5
