“Well, if you don’t want my help…,” McGee responds in mock pique.
“Let’s hear it,” says Chief Bear. “We need an edge.”
“In seriousness, I have one for us,” McGee continues. “SAC Wendell Herndon in Phoenix and I have a history. I worked with him in an FBI corruption case back in the nineties which brought down a group of four rogue agents in the Santa Fe office. It was done with a minimum of publicity and a maximum of evidence. My partner, Caitlin, gathered enough evidence to put them all in prison for more than twenty years. More important for our present situation is that Herndon got the credit, and that propelled him into his present SAC position. His wife loves Phoenix; he loves the work there; and they both tell me they owe me. Even more than that, Wendell Herndon absolutely salivates at the prospect of bringing down bad cops. I can get hold of him in a few minutes. Barring something of national security importance, I would bet he can be here in Window Rock in a matter of hours. Then we can corner Douglas Stone, and he won’t be able to clam up because we are such nobodies in his eyes.”
Every head nods an okay, and McGee makes his call.
“Wendell, this is McGee.”
“I know that. I’ve gone modern and have a caller ID.”
Chapter Twelve
John David Carlsen, Jacoby GreyCohoe, and Leland Biakeddy receive great e-mail news from Navajo Nation Assistant Attorney General Douglas Stone almost simultaneously at four o’clock that afternoon.
“I have the whole package under control. The papers are drawn up. With the certainty of the outcome of the election, we have enough votes to sign the contracts between the Navajo Nation, the Native American Energy Group, and Desert Oil Corporation. There are a few details—like who gets what out of this negotiation—that shouldn’t be part of any discoverable document. Everyone wants you to be here in Window Rock to finish it up. Better be tomorrow, even if it is not all that convenient for you. The nuisance police people are on our heels, and we need to have the contracts signed, sealed, and delivered. And—I might add—we each have to figure out how we are going to be able to spend all of this money. I personally am going to like being rich.” Signed: DS.
McGee congratulates Caitlin on her adroit deception.
“Can’t be traced back to us?”
“Oh, boss, you hurt my feelings,” she says, laughing. “You could search for years without finding anything that indicates that anyone other than our esteemed reservation assistant attorney general sent the message.”
Police Chief Ney, Captain Hootsohnii, Snow Owl Lee, Flower Woman Little, Jacoby GreyCohoe, and Harrison Bitsui—the sitting Navajo Nation Council members under suspicion—all receive an invitation to the crucial meeting with the AAG. They are to meet in the Window Rock administration center conference room at noon.
Lt. Begay and Patrolman Dodge Maryboy receive a brusque call for the angry AAG.
“Can both of you hear me on this conference call?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” they both answer.
“I can’t tell you how upset I am about your investigation. It is obvious that you never intended to obey my orders or those of Hok’ee Ney, chief of the Navajo Tribal Police—your chief, I don’t need to tell you. You have been pursuing this stupid theory of yours that the killings we have so unfortunately have been seeing in the past week or so are being committed by the 1491ers against the Save the Minds advocates. I expressly told you not to make that association because it is certain to be disruptive to good relations in the Nation. You will meet me in my office tomorrow at ten on the dot. You two can try and show me why I shouldn’t take your badges and guns at that time.”
No courtesies like, “Hello” or even “Good-bye.”
Stone puts down his telephone receiver in what came through to Naalnish and Dodge as a loud bang and an intentional insult.
Phoenix Special Agent in Charge of the FBI, Wendell Herndon, lands in the parking lot of Asdzáá Yazzie’s Transportation facility in the outskirts of Window Rock. McGee, Naalnish, Dodge, Chief Kevin Tall Hunter, Chief Sherwin Bear, Notah Jaquez, Asdzáá Yazzie, Agnes Kieyoomia, and Nivol Shirley are waiting for him. Asdzáá herds them all into his cavernous semitruck garage where they can talk without being noticed or overheard.
“Glad you could come on such short notice, Wendell,” McGee says. “I think it will be worth your while.”
“I’m sure it will. If we can prove even half of what you told me, this will be a huge case; and, like a few others, it may prove to be one of those events that prove to make an historical change in the relationship between the feds and the tribe. I, for one, hope so.”
“As a matter of time, Wendell, you should probably hear from Lt. Begay. He heads up the investigation in this extremely complicated case.”
Naalnish first tells SAC Herndon that he and Dodge have been summoned to meet with the AAG at noon.
“So give me the short version from the beginning. Let’s concentrate on Douglas Stone, so I can interlope at your meeting at the most opportune moment. Never underestimate the impact of a little drama.”
Naalnish gives a quick overview; then Dodge, Caitlin, Ivory, and Chief Bear give the details with which they are most familiar. That leaves them half an hour to get Naalnish and Dodge to the AAG meeting on time.
“No doubts on anybody’s part about the validity and accuracy of your evidence about the murders and the financial conspiracy?” Herndon asks one last time.
“None,” is the answer from every member of the task force.
The Desert Oil Corporation Gulfstream G650 touches down in the main Window Rock airport, creating a stir in the city. The drilling company’s vice-president, John David Carlsen—he always uses his full name—and Jacoby GreyCohoe, the candidate for the upcoming tribal election and Desert Oil employee, are helped out by the first officer and directed towards the front entrance of the Window Rock administration building. Carlsen’s personal assistant carries his briefcase and extra hats and hiking boots in case Carlsen needs to go on an inspection. He and GreyCohoe are met by the senior geologist—oil-shale expert—Samuel Baird, and the vice president of the Navajo Tribal Council.
“Where’s Stone,” he demands.
“He’s in a meeting with law enforcement. Shouldn’t be a minute, sir. Let me get you a drink—still prefer tequila?”
“I do. I’ll need something to wet my whistle if I have to sit in this God-forsaken wasteland for long.”
GreyCohoe tags along.
For all of his massive girth, Carlsen is a vigorously active outdoorsman. He keeps his bulldog cut greying hair short; so, he won’t get mussed out on inspection sites. He is wearing a custom-made Safari outfit and lace-up hiking boots. The effect of his appearance is that he is an experienced African hunter on Safari, and that he has spent much of his lifetime in the wind and blazing sun of the desert for one enterprise or another. Someone provides him with a People magazine, which he detests, and his drink while he waits for AAG Stone to get out of his unimportant meeting.
The meeting with the two miscreant tribal cops is a nuisance for AAG Stone, and he drums his fingers on his desk as the witching hour of noon approaches. He has pretty much made up his mind to fire the pair of them out of hand and not even listen to their lame excuses. Besides, they seem to be getting close, and he would like to see another set of officers—hopefully, more pliant—take over the investigations.
Doli [Blue Bird] Nééz, his new secretary, announces the arrival of the two tribal police officers. She knows Dodge; he is a member of the same clan—the Bodeways. Naalnish and Dodge are wearing their best soda-cracker expressions, and their Indian faces do not reveal anything about what they know. Like good traditional Navajos, they avoid direct eye contact with the important federal official.
“Well, Begay, what do you have to say for yourself?” AAG Stone asks; it’s his way of greeting, apparently.
“Where would you like me to start, Mr. Stone?”
“We’ve had five murders in the last tw
o weeks. I don’t seem to be hearing anything new about the murderers; note that I say murderers, since the killings were not related; at least not by intra-tribal conflicts. What have you learned?”
“We have questioned several hundred potential suspects and a few witnesses. We have concentrated on the families because—as you know—all too often a family member is involved. We have questioned family members, business associates, people with whom the victims had confrontations. We have delved into records of telephone and internet interactions and activities that could indicate problems, looked for financials that indicate debt or questionable business practices, ongoing or potential lawsuits and anything that might provide a reason for murder of the people as individuals separately or if there is a connection among the victims.”
“My informants—including a fairly large number of people from different clans—have given me the distinct impression that you have been working over much on the possible conflicts between the members of the Navajos of 1491 organization and the Save the Minds of the Navajo Children NGO. I told you in the beginning that stirring up that controversy is like kicking a hornets’ nest, but you went ahead anyway. Did you find our killer by looking there, Lieutenant? Did you find even one killer by pursuing that avenue?”
“Not directly, sir.”
“What does that mean, ‘not directly’?”
“Patrolman Maryboy and I have come to the conclusion that the strong differences of opinion of those two groups on the reservation are not the direct motive for the murders. There would seem to be other factors involved.”
“So, your time and the federal governments and tribes monies were wasted. Regrettably, Lieutenant, and you, Patrolman, are more of a drawback to the fine Navajo Tribal Police and especially the NDCI. I am going to have to let you go. I want your badges and the guns you were issued at tribal expense.”
“We don’t plan to do that, Mr. Stone,” Dodge says flatly, this time looking AAG Stone directly in the eyes.
“Am I going to have to deal with the tribal police union? Is that how you want to play it? Because if you do, there will never be a letter of recommendation for you two, and I will make it my personal responsibility to see to it that you never get another job in law enforcement. We can be gentlemen about this, forget that you were impertinent, and you can hand over your guns and badges. Now!”
He raises his voice for the first time.
“We won’t be calling in the union, Mr. Stone, but we have secured a defense team.”
Stone gives Lt. Begay a bemused look as the tribal cop walks to the office door and opens it.
“Come in, Mr. Herndon,” Naalnish says.
At first, Stone does not recognize the SAC from Phoenix and looks from him to the two tribal police officers.
“Surprise!” says Wendell Herndon.
“Surprise!” chorus Naalnish and Dodge.
“What is the meaning of this? What is going on? I demand an explanation.”
“You are in no position to make demands, sir,” says the senior FBI agent. “Lt. Begay, let’s not keep this nice gentleman in suspense any longer. Tell him what we have on him.”
Douglas Stone pales and looks as if he is going to faint. He breaks out in a sweat and begins tugging at the collar of his shirt to relieve the chaffing of the skin of his neck.
Herndon smiles and says, “I love this part. See where he is tugging at his collar; that’s the sure sign of a guilty man who knows that he has just been exposed; and he can envision the rest of his life swirling down the flushing toilet.”
“You’re SAC Herndon, right? What are you doing here? I have no idea what is going on.”
He looks stricken.
Herndon gives Dodge a nod, and the patrolman walks to the door again. He admits McGee, Caitlin, Ivory, Dr. Todachine, Sgt. Soto, Chief Bear, Asdzáá Yazzie, Chief Kevin Tall Hunter, Notah Jaquez, and Nivol Shirley. It is getting crowded in the room. Stone is in a panic. He looks towards the door, then the window.
“You can’t run, and you can’t hide, Stone,” Lt. Begay says. “You are under arrest for the premeditated murders of Bertha Yazzie, Sialea-lea Biakeddy, Hyrum Kieyoomia, Jock Nakai, and Herb Eaglefeather. You will also be formally charged with conspiracy to murder, operating an ongoing criminal enterprise—that invokes the RICO statutes—fraud, and conspiracy to misuse Navajo tribe funds for illicit gain, illegal influence of a legal election on a federally protected Indian reservation, and obstruction of justice under color of authority.”
Naalnish turns to NDIC Chief Bear and gives him a small salute and a big smile.
“Douglas Stone, it is my duty to place you under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.” He applies the handcuffs with relish then continues, “You have the right to remain silent….”
After he finishes with the Maranda recitation, Chief Bear smiles and looks over at the chief tribal prosecutor, Nivol Shirley.
She smiles back at Sherwin Bear and at the latecomers to the room. “You will be placed in the holding cell with several other individuals whom you may know, Mr. Stone. After that, you will be delivered to the federal jail in Phoenix to await your arraignment. You may tell your lawyer that we have a full confession from a man named Shilah Squint-eyes/Haashkeneinii. He has implicated you and several other co-conspirators in a highly detailed and lucid confession for which he gained certain concessions in a plea-bargain arrangement. Note that no offer of a plea bargain is being made to you and never will be.
“Ms. Nééz, would you please open the office door; so, your former boss can see the little parade we have staged for him?”
The grim-faced girl opens the door, and Douglas Stone looks into the hallway in time to see a gathering of news media—Ádahooníłígíí, Navajo Times, KTNN, and KSL Radio, CNN, and Fox News—avidly observing a perp march of Police Chief Ney, Captain Hootsohnii, Councilwoman Snow Owl Lee, Council Woman Flower Woman Little, Councilman Harrison Bitsui, and tribal president candidates Jacoby GreyCohoe and Leland Biakeddy, all handcuffed and flanked by eight very stern-looking Navajo Nation Police and four angry FBI agents. Stone knows the building well enough by now not to have to be told that they are on the way to the elevator that leads to the holding cells.
“Let’s get in line, Stone,” says Dodge Maryboy, glad that he is a policeman on this auspicious day.
As soon as the arrests start to be made, a veteran Navajo Nation Police officer accompanied by an equally experienced FBI agent ask John David Carlsen to step into an interrogation room and have him take a seat.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the vice president of the wealthy oil drilling company demands. “Perhaps you bumpkins don’t know who I am and who I am here to see.”
“We do, sir, and it is not part of our concern.”
“Then, get someone who does care. You will realize that this is your last day on the job. I could buy and sell both of you ten times over, you rubes!”
The officers remain silent.
“Listen, you red….”
The Navajo officer puts his large and scarred face nose-to-nose against Carlsen’s face, “Were you about to use an ethnic slur against me as an Indian, sir?”
The man weighs about the same as the oil executive, but all of his weight is muscle, and most of Carlsen’s weight is fat. Carlsen thinks better of his impending outburst.
“No … Officer.”
They wait an hour before the door opens and the same tribal and federal officials who arranged for the other conspirators to be placed in the holding pen in the basement walk in.
“Mr. Carlsen, I don’t think you know me. I am the Special Agent in Charge of the Phoenix office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Wendell Herndon. I have some information that might interest you, and a few questions. The most significant thing you need to know is that your boy, Jacoby GreyCohoe, has turned state’s evidence against you.”
The fat man squirms, begins to sweat, and tugs at his collar.
“Don’t you all just love this part
, gentlemen?” he says, looking back at his fellow officers.
“I want a lawyer,” Carlsen says.
“That is a very good idea,” SAC Herndon says, and rocks back in his chair with a satisfied smile filling his entire face.
-THE END-
Death on a Pale Horse Page 9
