Coyote

by Rhonda Roberts

  It looked like it should’ve been sitting in the middle of some Wild West desert, except that water was gushing off its flat roof. And because five stone sculptures of Native American chiefs in full war dress perched on the battlements of the tower. They stared down at the busy, rain-soaked plaza as if waiting for their worst enemy to ride past.

  But that wasn’t what focused my attention.

  There were black and white San Francisco police vehicles parked in front of the library … And a crime-scene tape circled the entire building, preventing a crowd of irate students from entering.

  I edged my way to the front of the crowd, dodging dripping umbrellas. One of the wet-weather-clad cops on the inside of the tape was battling with a student desperate to get in to use the library.

  ‘You don’t understand. My dissertation is due at the binders tomorrow and I have to check that my references are completely —’

  ‘Look, son,’ growled the cop who was probably the same age. ‘No one is getting past this tape until I say so. The library is closed!’

  One of the lower windows in the pueblo tower was broken. Right next to it, two men in cheap navy suits, and holding matching umbrellas, stood arguing. The taller one was pointing to the pueblo tower with darting, angry movements.

  I got my leather wallet out and ducked under the crime-scene tape.

  The uniformed cop sidestepped into my path and grabbed my shoulder. I let him. ‘Look, girl, this is off limits!’

  I grimaced. Yep, my baby-face certainly was a handicap in this business. I flicked my wallet open. He froze, recognising the NTA certified detective’s licence but unsure of what to do next.

  Before the Uniform could lapse back into regulations, I nodded at the Plainclothes boys ahead and snapped, ‘Who’s in charge?’

  He pointed to the taller one. ‘Detective McBain.’

  I strode past him. He let me.

  The two detectives caught me in their peripherals and swung around, ready to bite. I could see the shorter one recognised me. McBain, caught up in his case, just scowled. I flipped out my licence again. The short detective was curious, but McBain was groping for a way to react.

  ‘Detective McBain, I’m Time Investigator Kannon Dupree and I’m here on a case. I need to talk to a librarian about —’

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ he bit out with perverse satisfaction. ‘All the librarians are busy answering questions.’ Obviously a morning spent out in the pouring rain had soured what good temper he’d brought with him.

  ‘Okay …’ I eyed the broken window in the strange adobe tower. ‘Then can you at least tell me what happened?’

  McBain gave me a searching look, as though weighing up whether I could be of any use. Then he decided to bait his hook and see what it reeled in. ‘Last night someone broke into the library and stole some extremely rare manuscripts.’ He studied my face.

  ‘Rare manuscripts?’ My antennae went up. If they came from the Kershaw Archives then these two boys were about to get my help — whether they wanted it or not.

  I gazed around at the number of police. ‘This is a lot of attention just for some missing papers, isn’t it?’

  ‘A librarian, who’d been working late in another part of the building, surprised the intruder as he was locking up for the night,’ replied McBain. ‘He died in hospital three hours ago.’

  ‘So this is a homicide.’

  ‘Very much so,’ he said dryly. ‘The librarian had his throat slit.’

  I stared at McBain. That was strange for a straight break and enter. But I put that thought aside. ‘Can you tell me more about what actually went missing?’

  The two detectives exchanged a glance. ‘First, I want to know about the case you’re working on, Miss Dupree,’ demanded McBain. ‘Exactly why are you here?’

  Fair enough. I’d want to know why a Time Investigator was knocking on a crime-scene door too. ‘I’m investigating the claim that Hector Kershaw kept a diary. I need to talk to someone about the Kershaw Archives.’

  Disappointment registered on their faces. McBain turned away to stare back up at the broken window.

  ‘Were the manuscripts taken from the Kershaw Archives?’ I prodded.

  ‘No,’ volunteered the short detective. ‘They were one-of-a-kind architectural plans of old San Francisco — but not worth a lot on the open market. Well, not enough to kill for anyway.’

  No wonder the two detectives were puzzled. But if the manuscripts didn’t contain Hector’s diary then the whole mess was none of my concern.

  ‘Good old Hector Kershaw …’ The short detective nodded over my shoulder. ‘So he’s the centre of attention again, after all this time.’

  I followed his gaze.

  There was a massive tableau, a cluster of life-sized bronze sculptures depicting a dramatic scene, right in the centre of the busy plaza. It sat on a raised stone pedestal, dominating the whole open space.

  Intent on my mission, I’d walked straight past it.

  It was detailed … too much so. Mutilated corpses lay sprawled around a horse-drawn coach. Only one figure was upright — even the horses slumped, dead, in their harnesses. A man, half kneeling, gave succour to a woman writhing in agony in the dirt.

  It had to be Dry Gulch.

  The two cops were intent on resuming their investigation and equally as intent on denying me access to any of the library staff, so I left them studying the break-in site in the strange pueblo library.

  That meant River was next. I checked my map. His office was just across the plaza in South Hall.

  But the epic bronze cluster of life-sized figures caught my eye and held it. I couldn’t just walk straight past again. I avoided the too detailed slaughter, forever frozen in bronze, to concentrate on the engraved plaque on the side of the stone pedestal. It said that the Dry Gulch Memorial was dedicated to preserving the heroic deeds of Hector Quale Kershaw in the name of Truth, the daughter of Time. I bent forwards to read the fine print. The memorial had been commissioned and donated by Rodrigo Juan de Vivar in 1868.

  Following a hunch, I grabbed one of the more studious-looking passers-by and asked them who this de Vivar character was.

  Rodrigo Juan de Vivar was Hector Kershaw’s business partner.

  That told me nothing, so I scanned around the drenched plaza. South Hall, the library, the bell tower … Yeah, the Dry Gulch Memorial was certainly centre stage. Whoever this de Vivar guy was, he certainly didn’t want Hector Kershaw’s heroics forgotten.

  Then I looked up at the five stone chiefs, perched on the very top of the pueblo tower. They refused to bend to the storm. I squinted up for a better look.

  They seemed to be waiting for something.

  South Hall was just across the plaza from de Vivar Library. It was a stately, old two-storey building, creaking with character. It seemed a fitting setting for the Criminology Department. Jackson River’s office was on the top floor.

  I knocked at his door. No answer.

  I knocked again … No answer.

  So I tried the doorknob. It opened.

  River was standing at the window, staring down through the rain. His spiky, jet-black hair was still tipped with red, white and blue streaks; but this time he wore a coat, tie and good pants. The combination didn’t look as weird as it should. He emanated enough sheer bravado to carry it off. I was betting his criminology classes had a preponderance of females.

  From this angle River had to be studying the crime scene in front of the de Vivar Library.

  Without turning he said, ‘Come in, Ms Dupree.’

  So he’d watched me walk across the plaza?

  I came up to his side. McBain and his sidekick were still looking up at the broken window in the pueblo tower.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ I scanned his face. His piercing blue eyes blazed out of his tanned skin.

  ‘I like seeing my enemies coming.’

  ‘You consider me an enemy?’

  ‘Not yet.’ River turned to study me. ‘B
ut why are you here?’

  I wasn’t going to tell him about Seymour Kershaw so I stalled. If I had to make up my mind about his story without any contextual details then I wanted more background first.

  I looked around.

  River’s office was stuffed full of old maps and curious artefacts. The maps were mostly of New Mexico. They were in Spanish and looked pre-American occupation. The rest of the space was covered in masks, statues and craftwork. Most of them were the same figure repeated in different styles: coyotes.

  I picked up a wooden figure — a howling coyote. It looked very old. ‘Interesting collection for a criminologist’s office … Sure you’re not an anthropologist?’

  River eyed me cynically, but my question still pulled him away from the window. ‘Coyote was the first criminal mastermind.’

  ‘Coyote?’

  ‘He’s our trickster god … but every culture has at least one.’ River pointed to a nearby shelf. It held African and Asian statues of different kinds of animals; I recognised a fox and a raven. There was even a weird-looking Nordic warrior. ‘Coyote is just one face of the Global Trickster.’

  I frowned. ‘You said Coyote was a criminal mastermind … so he’s evil.’ Several of the coyotes were fierce but most seemed benevolent. Some were even laughing.

  ‘Evil? No, not at all. But then you wouldn’t want to be on Coyote’s bad side either. Devious would be a better word.’

  ‘So who did he trick?’

  ‘Everyone — even the other gods.’ River shrugged. ‘He’s a trickster, he loves to play practical jokes.’

  I scanned around his collection. ‘So I guess your field is cross-cultural criminology?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right … There are as many kinds of justice as there are nations on the planet.’ He swung back to study the crime scene down in front of the library. ‘But I’m more concerned with natural justice than paper rules.’

  ‘And just why are you so interested in that crime scene?’ My tone was too sharp.

  ‘You think this time — this San Francisco — doesn’t have tricksters too?’ He was being evasive.

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ I replied.

  River shot me an assessing glance and smiled to himself. ‘There is a tale about Coyote — one that may help you understand my interest in tricksters.’

  River was changing the subject.

  ‘Yeah. Go on,’ I said dryly. I know when I’m being played.

  ‘One day, when Coyote was travelling through the desert, he saw a two-legged creature, a human, kill one of its own kind in order to steal a long wooden stick. It was a hunting flute that could call any animal in earshot to its side. This crime intrigued the ever-curious Coyote, so he followed the murderer to learn more of this strange species.

  ‘Coyote tracked the human to his village and, reluctant to let his quarry go, he shape-shifted from four onto two legs. Coyote watched the murderer lie to his fellow humans … telling them their hunting flute was gone forever, stolen by the missing man. And they, unable to smell the villain’s deceit, believed him.

  ‘So the trickster god decided to unmask him. While the murderer slept, Coyote stole the flute and wedged it in the sleeping man’s backside. The next morning, when the man woke, he farted and the flute called the whole village to his side.

  ‘And that’s how Coyote taught humans that a villain’s truth has a front and a back — a liar’s mouth and a more honest rear.’

  River grinned cheekily, showing sharp white teeth in his tanned face.

  I had to grin back. ‘So you’re saying Coyote teaches about truth.’

  ‘Yes. But Coyote is an unusual teacher. He always breaks the rules, does the unexpected. And he particularly likes tripping up anyone who needs a lesson.’ He shrugged. ‘Coyote’s appearance usually heralds great change, upheavals.’

  ‘And what does your nation think of Coyote?’ I eyed his red, white and blue hair streaks. They looked like feathers on a war bonnet.

  He evaded my gaze. ‘There are too many branches in my family tree to claim one single people, so I claim them all …’ River deftly changed the subject again. ‘Now. Are you going to tell me why you’re here?’ River’s faint smile showed his sharp white canines … and told me that he already knew the answer to that question.

  I got the feeling that River had taken lessons from his favourite deity.

  Okay … I’d play along. ‘Why are you so sure Hector Kershaw kept a diary?’

  ‘I’ve been on the trail of that diary for years now. Everything points to it, I’m certain he had one.’

  ‘Years? That’s a long time to search and not find something.’

  That roused his ire. ‘Dry Gulch is why I became a criminologist in the first place. Coyote Jack is a hero — yet another victim of the white injustice system!’

  When River saw I was listening sympathetically, his anger receded. ‘Five years ago I found letters written by one of Coyote Jack’s white friends just after the Dry Gulch massacre. A Franciscan friar living in Santa Fe. The friar said that Hector Kershaw’s diary would prove Jack’s innocence. So I’ve been searching for that diary ever since.’

  I frowned. ‘But how on earth does Hector’s diary fit into this? What do you think it could possibly show?’

  ‘I believe it’ll identify the real killer. Hector Kershaw was a greenhorn, a Boston banker’s kid in Santa Fe on his first trip west. He’d never seen Coyote Jack before …’ River snorted with contempt. ‘… and probably thought all Indians looked alike. Hector didn’t even accuse Coyote Jack of the killings. It was the commander of Fort Marcy — Captain Uriah Bull — who named Coyote Jack as the culprit.’

  ‘But how —’

  ‘I believe,’ River said, brooking no disagreement, ‘that Hector saw the real murderers but didn’t know who they actually were.’

  Hmm … maybe River had a point. ‘On what basis did Captain Bull make the identification?’

  ‘The corpses were scalped and mutilated, so Bull said it was an Indian attack and took Coyote Jack as a convenient scapegoat. But I believe Hector put a description of the real killers in his diary.’

  ‘But then who attacked the governor’s coach?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘Someone with a real motive to kill those specific passengers. Coyote Jack had no reason to kill them and everything to lose by it. He spent the rest of his life hunted by the US army.’

  That was interesting. If River was telling the truth … I shot a look around the room at his favourite role model, the trickster god. ‘So … do you have any idea where Hector’s diary is?’

  ‘It’s not over there.’ He nodded towards the de Vivar Library. ‘I’ve been through it all.’

  But I could tell he was leaving something out. ‘Then where is it, River?’

  ‘Do you really think I’d tell you that?’

  I waited.

  He waited too.

  ‘Why the paranoia?’ I asked.

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ River stared down at the crime scene below. ‘Since I’ve been in San Francisco there’s been a few too many coincidences — ones that indicate that someone else is looking for the diary.’

  9

  BURGLAR AT THE ZEBULON

  It was afternoon by the time I made it back to the Zebulon but the heavy rain made it as dark as night. The line outside the St Francis homeless shelter was no shorter than yesterday, but I noticed that none of the faces looked the same. The shelter had to be doing a cracking job because, unlike other parts of Prendergast Street, I’d never seen even one homeless person living on the pavement in our block.

  I’d rung Des from outside South Hall — he’d been just about to leave the office for an appointment in town. We would meet up after he was finished.

  I parked in Prendergast Street just as thunder began to crackle. I looked around for my umbrella but it was nowhere to be found. Damn, I’d lost another one. I hiked my black trench coat over my head and ran for the Zebulon.

  I cla
mbered up the stairs, unlocked the external office door and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened.

  Oh, crap! Des hadn’t mentioned the electricity wasn’t on yet.

  Then I stopped. What was that sound? The hackles on the back of my neck stood up and sang the national anthem.

  There was someone else here in the darkness.

  I felt under my coat for my holster but didn’t draw my gun. I’d almost left it off this morning. Of course, I had a permit, but I didn’t like wearing it. In Australia pretty much only the police were licensed to bear arms, and firearms were dangerously messy in confined spaces. At close quarters, I preferred using my hands.

  I reached into my satchel for the flashlight and then silently lowered the bag to the floor. Standing in the doorway they could see me but not vice versa and my eyes were still getting used to the dark. No home court advantage if I stayed here. I moved inside and swung the flashlight up and around.

  No one in sight in the foyer. Maybe I was too paranoid?

  I checked Des’ office — nothing was disturbed and no one popped up.

  Then I looked back to the external door. A tall shadow now blocked the light streaming in from the hall.

  A deep voice whispered softly, ‘Kannon?’ It was Daniel.

  ‘I’m here, Honeycutt.’ As soon as the words left my mouth, there was a crashing noise from my office.

  I raced in, Daniel at my heels, to see a black-clad figure slipping out my bay window and up. Daniel grabbed for his feet but the burglar was fast. Too fast.

  The rain drenched us as we hung out the window. The burglar shimmied up a rope to the roof, pulling it with him as he went.

  Damn, he could climb!

  Bam … Bang. Above the roof the thunder roared, promising that finally the real storm had arrived.

  Daniel started to go out the window after the burglar.