Jeremiah’s Revenge: A Liv Bergen Mystery

by Sandra Brannan

  My plane to DC would be taking off from DIA right about now.

  I smiled.

  I sent a quick text to Christian Doonsberg that I wouldn’t be on the flight so not to bother sending someone out to pick me up. I told him I appreciated the offer, but I was staying put in Denver.

  His reply was quick. It read, “I told Streeter you’d never get on the plane. But I have to admit, I really wish you had. Be safe.”

  I had so much to do.

  I was working from my apartment. I told Kelleher I had the stomach flu and planned to stay in bed all day. But instead, I had a million things to do before Streeter came back from his trip. I’d asked Laurie Frumpley to quiz Jill Brannock about when Streeter planned on returning. She had told Laurie he wouldn’t be back until Monday.

  But Laurie called me back and said she had taken advantage of the opportunity when Jill took a powder room break and noticed on the calendar that Streeter’s flight returned Friday around four o’clock. He had no appointments in the office after that, so he’d probably head home.

  I’d grown quite dependent on Laurie’s skills.

  I heard someone cough outside my door and peeked through the peephole. It was a uniformed officer with his back to my door. Kelleher had posted a guard to protect me. Or to make sure I didn’t leave the apartment on my own.

  I logged onto the work computers, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I pulled up one archived file after another. I read every word of every file dealing with Jeremiah Coyote Cries. I scanned the national newspaper archives for any article ever written about him. So much had been written, it took me hours to take it all in. I had a huge stack of printouts from my home printer.

  I glanced at the clock. It was just past one. I dialed the Englewood Correctional Institution in Littleton. “My name’s Liv Bergen, Special Agent for the Denver division. I’m calling to ask someone about Jeremiah Coyote Cries.”

  “Hold please,” the woman said, not asking twice about the prisoner’s name. I heard a series of clicks and my call being transferred.

  “This is Warren Holden.”

  I told the man who I was and that I was looking for information about Jeremiah Coyote Cries.

  The man hesitated before saying, “I need to transfer you to his case manager.”

  And I was off surfing the series of clicks again.

  “Daryl Blackenship.”

  “Are you Jeremiah Coyote Cries’s case manager?”

  “Who is this?”

  I told him who I was. And again, I was met with a very long and awkward pause. Finally the man said, “Look, I’m just a unit officer. You really need to talk to his case manager. Let me put you on hold and transfer you.”

  Before I could protest, I was off on another sea of beeps and clicks.

  “Romeo Ortega. How can I help you?”

  “By not transferring me again.”

  The man chuckled. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Someone who can talk to me about a prisoner. I’ve heard I need to talk to his case manager. Are you a case manager?”

  “I am. We take a team approach for each prisoner. We call them Unit Programs. The team includes a unit manager, a case manager, a case management coordinator, an education representative, a correctional counselor, a correctional officer, and a unit secretary.”

  “And who would I ask for if I were trying to interview someone about a prisoner?”

  “Depends on what it’s about.”

  “His overall well-being, behaviors, patterns, fit within the prison population, how he reacts, his disciplinary log, his release plan, any issues you might have with him,” I said.

  “Let’s start with me, and we’ll see if I can help. Who’s the prisoner?”

  “Jeremiah Coyote Cries,” I said.

  The line went quiet again—for a third time. I quickly said, “Please don’t transfer me. Please. I just want to ask you some questions.”

  Another long pause.

  “Can you just tell me in general, what kind of prisoner he is?”

  The man sighed. “Exemplary. For twenty years.”

  That took me off guard.

  “Do you know him? I mean, you have eight hundred prisoners in that place. Are you reading this from a computer report or do you actually know Coyote Cries.”

  Again, a pause. “I know the man well. He’s been here a long time. We’ve had no problems with him in the past.”

  “Any incidents that stand out? Any threats to other inmates? Any fights he’s had?”

  “No fights. No incidents. Never sent to solitary confinement. Never disciplined, that I know of. Always attended any educational opportunities, counseling, voluntary work programs. Like I said. Exemplary.”

  “Any threats? To other inmates, staff, guards, or quirky off-handed comments about people outside the prison?”

  “What are you getting at, Agent Bergen?”

  I had to fess up. “Look, I’m concerned about his parole hearing. Worried he might come after one of our agents if he’s released.”

  “Ma’am, I need to let you talk to our unit manager. Let me transfer you.”

  “Romeo, wait. Romeo?”

  The unit manager wasn’t much help. And this was the run-around I received for the next hour, gleaning little, transferred a lot. At one point, one of the folks I talked to called Coyote Cries “The Reverend,” which I found odd.

  Another called him a 102, but he didn’t stay on the line long enough to explain what a 102 at Littleton meant. And I couldn’t recall any reference, in bureau terms or police slang that referred to such a number.

  I finally gave up trying to talk with anyone at the correctional facility, although I left my name and number with the warden, the assistant warden, a correctional counselor, and the unit manager. Just in case any one of them decided to talk.

  I looked at the clock and decided I’d better try calling Streeter to tell him I hadn’t gotten on the plane, before Phil told him—or someone else did. I dialed his cell phone number, but it went straight to the message center. I didn’t leave a message.

  One last attempt at research, and I finally hit pay dirt.

  A series of articles by Nolan Buffington written about Jeremiah’s life story in Civil Writes magazine chronicled a case study that stated that the Lakotan was a political prisoner deserving of the Pulitzer Peace Prize rather than a life sentence as a convicted murderer.

  A series of quotes from Coyote Cries peppering his life story made the man come alive for me. Sadly, the author believed Coyote Cries had been convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed, he was the poster child for “horrid travesties of the US justice system,” and that Coyote Cries’s prosecution and conviction were solely driven by his participation and exercise of his First Amendment rights: his freedom of speech. Incarcerated only to silence him, he was the victim of racism, oppression, and bigotry.

  In between articles, I studied the photo of Paula Pierce to remind myself what this monster had done, because Buffington was a creative writer—enough so to make even the most hardened heart bleed for Coyote Cries’s plight.

  But not me. I had experienced firsthand the damage this monster had caused to Streeter.

  Buffington suggested letters be sent to the correctional facility to free Coyote Cries on behalf of all Native Americans who had suffered as victims of war, disease, poverty, oppression, and racism. The journalist went so far as to state that Coyote Cries was in poor health, having been beaten several times by fellow inmates and denied medical help by the staff.

  I jotted down a note to ask for confirmation or denial of such accusations by the case manager or unit manager, should they ever decide to call me back.

  Buffington reported that Coyote Cries wasn’t given a fair trial and denied a jury of his peers, citing none of them were members of the Oglala Sioux Tribe, even though four were Indians living in South Dakota. He was convicted on perjured testimony that accused all the agents and tribal officers of lying under oath; then ra
ilroaded, after it was revealed that the judge had met with federal agents before the trial.

  Beyond the irritatingly naïve presentation of unsubstantiated factoids by Buffington, I was most struck by the tragic story of Jeremiah’s childhood—assuming it was true.

  I had been fortunate to have such a loving, caring family. To hear that he had no father, that he was oldest of five children born to a mother when she was only fifteen years old, and that he was beat to near death by his stepfather, it was no wonder Jeremiah was expelled from all schools by age nine and was dealing drugs by thirteen to provide for his family.

  But for a man to recall his last evaluation in school with a teacher describing him as “vacant of human emotion,” “numb to the pain he inflicted on other children,” and that he “regarded life as valueless” and agreeing with their assessment of that nine-year-old child, I found the entire situation sad.

  The horrors he had committed as an adult—the degradation of young children, spoiling innocence through drug addiction, profiteering from others’ pain and suffering, the beatings, the murders—were all unforgivable, all unjustifiable no matter what his childhood had been. Paula Pierce had not deserved to be beheaded.

  By all accounts, Jeremiah Coyote Cries may have taken responsibility for nearly a dozen deaths, at least from what I could read between the article lines. Deaths he would never be held accountable for in court because there was not enough evidence.

  So incredibly sad.

  And like a pebble thrown into the still waters, each one of the deaths had a rippling effect on so many others—including me.

  I had to get out of here. I had to slip past the guard at my door and drive to Littleton to talk to someone. I called my neighbor downstairs to see if he was home. He wasn’t. I grabbed my grappling gear and simply climbed out my back window and lowered myself to the ground. Unstrapping the rope and harness, I darted around the corner of the building and slammed smack into a man in a leather jacket.

  Mully.

  He grabbed me before I hit the ground. He was wearing his Lucifer’s Lot colors. “Princess, what did you do to your head?”

  As head of an MC gang, he was certainly more polite and caring than I’d ever imagined a criminal organization leader to be. And I’d forgotten all about being clocked on Sunday night. I reached up and touched the stitched and tender goose egg. “Oh, just a little accident. Ran into somebody.”

  He lifted my chin with his fingertips and examined the wound. “Looks more like you ran into someone’s fist.”

  I nodded and scanned the parking lot.

  “Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

  “No, I …” Then I had a thought. “I was looking for a ride to the Englewood Correctional facility in Littleton.”

  If I could get a ride from Mully, the police officer wouldn’t be alerted by my Jeep being missing.

  Mully motioned me toward his motorcycle. “Your carriage awaits.”

  “Are you sure? Am I interrupting anything?”

  He didn’t answer. He just smiled and mounted his Harley.

  STREETER STOOD NEAR THE corpse lying behind the bushes by the front step.

  “Poor Florence,” Roger said through unmoving lips as they stood in the front door. “I tried to warn her this might happen.”

  Florence had greeted them before they’d ever reached her door. Her short, massive body, draped in a simple, one-size-fits-all maroon dress, filled the entire doorway. The moccasins on her wide, bare feet were tattered, and her grey-streaked hair was short and ratty. She hadn’t bothered to put in her dentures this morning, nor had she bathed—probably since her husband’s death two days earlier.

  In an even tone, she said, “Garnett isn’t here yet.”

  Roger whispered to Streeter, “Tribal police.”

  They followed her to the living room and found a place to sit.

  Roger replied, “He’s right behind us. He said he’d be just a minute.”

  The thick and pungent odor of stagnant death clung to Streeter’s lungs like a heavy, musty blanket. He disciplined himself to take infrequent, shallow breaths. He thought he could smell the aftermath of greasy meals cooked on the open range, stale cigarettes, spilt whiskey, and bad hygiene.

  Streeter shot a glance at Roger, who sat on the couch across from Florence. He wondered why the odor of two-day decay didn’t offend Roger as much as it did him. Then he remembered: Roger had swiped some cream or salve on the inside of each nostril just before they arrived. Streeter realized he’d forgotten his jar of medicated rub in Denver.

  Roger said, “How long have I known you and Neil?”

  “A long time,” Florence answered, wringing her hands and staring at her feet.

  “Nine years,” he replied.

  “I should have listened to you. I should have left him. But I told you, I love him. I still do.”

  Streeter figured that Roger had anticipated the tragedy. He’d probably been called in by the tribal police numerous times to help them with the domestic disputes. He’d probably warned Florence that it might end this tragically if she didn’t do something about Neil’s abuse.

  As Roger leaned forward with his elbows propped casually on his knees, Florence spoke evenly and calmly, “I knew you would be here sooner or later. I’m ready to go now.”

  Roger replied, “Well, Flo, you know we have to arrest you.”

  “Yeah,” she answered without emotion. She propped her flabby arms across the rolls of her stomach and forced her thick legs together enough to link her ankles. “I know. But thanks for giving me a few days to get my things here at home in order first.”

  Roger answered, “Sure, no problem.”

  Streeter knew Roger hadn’t given her a few days. He wouldn’t have ignored his duties. A man was dead, and if Roger or the tribal police knew about Neil’s death, his murder, they’d have come sooner. It was Florence who had called Roger, and Roger had called Garnett.

  Light-headed, nauseated, Streeter longed for fresh air. He wondered how Florence had remained in the home this long with her husband’s corpse just outside the door.

  “Tell me something, Flo. Why now, after all these years of putting up with him? You’ve been married to him forever. What in the hell made you shoot him?”

  Florence shrugged her shoulders like a little girl and curled her lips into a bashful smile.

  Roger leaned back on the couch and glanced out the living room window. The two tribal police officers, Wayne Garnett and Vern Chasing Elk, were making their way slowly up the driveway. Roger knew that Florence wouldn’t answer any of their questions in front of the tribal police. She and Neil had told Roger on several occasions that they had no use for them and that they didn’t trust them—especially Chasing Elk, who was allegedly molesting his own young teenage daughter.

  Roger encouraged her. “Come on, Flo. Wayne and Vern are coming. You can tell me before they get here. Please. What did Neil do to you to deserve this?”

  Shrugging again, Florence answered, “Wouldn’t give me the channel changer. I wanted to watch my soap opera. He wanted to watch something else.”

  She snapped, Streeter thought. Couldn’t take the man’s abuse anymore.

  The knock on the screen door was followed by Garnett’s low growl, “Hello. Anybody home?”

  Florence puckered her lips with disgust and answered without raising her voice, “Come in, Wayne.”

  She did not resist the arrest. She’d anticipated it, even prepared for it. She expected to be incarcerated for a long time and hadn’t planned on coming back to this house. Florence Short Eagle had arranged for her nephew to move into the house and gave him all of her and Neil’s possessions, including the goats, the discarded truck bed in the weeds, and the gutted pickup.

  Before she was led off in handcuffs, Streeter asked, “Florence, we weren’t here about Neil. We came by to see if you’ve seen your grandson. Jimmy Blue Owl.”

  She nodded. “Someone came by yesterday looking for him. I’l
l tell you what I told him. My guess? He’s probably pitched a tent down at Oglala Lake.”

  Once in the car, Streeter drew a deep breath.

  Roger said, “You’ve lost your edge.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Roger tried not to smile. “There are two things you’ve forgotten about being an agent in Indian Country, Streeter.”

  “What’s that?” Streeter asked. “Never trust you? And what else?”

  “No. First thing you need is to remember to do your job.” Roger held up his index finger, then two. “And secondly, you need to remember to not take it personally.”

  Streeter shook his head. “Lives on the rez are so hard.”

  Roger sighed, “I hate to say it, but you get used to it.”

  Streeter jerked his head in Roger’s direction. “What do you mean you get used to it? You’re joking, right? Tells me you’ve worked IC too long.”

  Roger shrugged one shoulder. “Eventually, you get used to Indian Country. The odd way that life seems to have no—or at least little—meaning on the reservation with some of these folks.”

  “Most Lakotans embrace life more than the rest of us. It’s not everyone on the reservation.”

  Roger jerked his chin skyward as if he agreed, but then he said, “I was on a case right before you came back where an eighteen-year-old knifed his uncle to death for eating the last piece of chicken from the bucket; snapped for the uncle touching him up for years. Same thing happened again at another home when a woman shot her uncle for taking the last beer. She mizzed out after too much meth. I watched an intoxicated man celebrate a victory, arms flailing overhead with fists clenched, because he had beat his buddy in a swimming race. Both men had been drinking excessively, and the reason he beat his buddy was because his buddy had drowned. He was floating facedown in the water.”

  Streeter stared out the window in disbelief. “Like I said, this is a tough life on the reservation. Many have so little hope because of the few who have little respect for life.”

  “Some of them don’t give a damn about life. Not even their own.”

  He realized how important Jeff Two Bears’s efforts really had been on the reservation and how much he’d be missed.