Abe forced his hands to be still. He had better keep his cool, get this cleared up, and get out of here. “No, I don’t mind.”
The state cop didn’t look any older than Abe, probably in his early thirties. Most likely, he barely met the minimum requirement in height, but he packed the black uniform with muscle and a military-like demeanor. He didn’t smile when he looked at Abe with flinty eyes and flipped on the recorder. “August nineteen, 1987, two fifteen p.m. I’m Officer James Harrigan with New Mexico State Police and this is Officer Emily Etcitty, Navajo Tribal Police. State your name for the record, sir.”
“Abraham Freeman.”
“Mr. Freeman, we are conducting a criminal investigation. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . . Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Abe nodded. He answered their questions truthfully and caught the raised eyebrows of the officers when he couldn’t provide a permanent home address or destination. The state cop continued drilling him while the Navajo sat back looking relaxed.
“I’m going west, stopping along the way to see the country. Yes, that 1982 Toyota truck is my vehicle. Yes, I spent the night of August eighteen at Clayton Lake State Park. Yes, I’m traveling alone, except for my dog.” This made him stop. He looked down at his muddy clothes and shoes, frustrated by the day’s events. “Where is my dog?”
The lady cop gave him a conciliatory look. “Your dog is fine. He has food and water and he’s outside in a large pen in back of the building. Lots of shade. Patch, right?” She picked up the empty can. “You want another Sprite, Mr. Freeman?”
He saw how it worked—good cop, bad cop, and him in the middle. Let them play their little game, he thought. I haven’t done anything. But he felt a cold sweat and, despite the drink he had downed, his mouth remained desert dry. “Yeah, thanks.” Abe sat up straight and expelled a gust of air. He wanted to keep it together.
The questioning continued, trying to establish his time of arrival at the campground, his departure time, and who, if anyone, he’d talked to. “I don’t know for sure what time I got there—seven thirty or eight. The sun had set . . . Easy Jackson? Yeah, this guy walked into my campsite. I’m pretty sure he said his name was Joe Jackson, but to call him Easy . . . He wanted a ride to Arizona, but I like to travel alone, so I left early the next morning, the radio said four thirty to be exact, before Jackson had a chance to come around.”
Officer Harrigan leaned over the table, his face close enough for Abe to catch a whiff of peppermint breath mints. “Easy Jackson is dead. Murdered—his throat slit from ear to ear. You wouldn’t know anything regarding that, would you Mr. Freeman?”
“Murdered?” He felt the blood drain from his face and a knot form in the pit of his stomach. Abe swallowed hard. “Look, you don’t think I . . . He was alive the last time I saw him.”
“What time was that, Mr. Freeman?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t have a watch. It must have been close to ten. We talked awhile, I told him I had to get some sleep, and he left.”
Harrigan pierced him with his icy stare. “Do you own a knife, Mr. Freeman?”
“Yeah. I bought one before I left New Jersey.” His mind raced. My knife—where is it? Then he remembered the last time he’d used it, whittling that night in the park to pass time before he went to bed. He must have left it on the boulder.
“Some campers discovered Jackson’s body at Clayton Lake State Park the morning you say you left. He had been stabbed with a five-inch switchblade and his throat slit,” the cop answered. “What kind of knife do you own, Freeman?”
Abe felt a sick feeling wash over him. “I own a switchblade, but I lost it. I mean I forgot it when I packed to leave the park.” So this is what it’s about. “I didn’t have anything to do with a murder. Easy Jackson was alive when he left my campsite.”
The pro-bono lawyer assigned to Abe arrived from Farmington the next morning. Frank Stockett had the ruddy face and slow speech of a man who drank for a living. Frank had squeezed his corpulent body into a shabby suit resplendent with polyester shine that matched the dome of his head. He took off his jacket, displaying a rumpled shirt that carried clues to last night’s dinner on the front panel. He wore scuffed loafers, run down at the heels, but Abe greeted him like a returning hero. Yesterday the cops had fingerprinted him, and he’d spent last night in a cell with drunks and petty criminals, held as a possible suspect in an ongoing investigation, and Stockett would get him out. He hoped.
“They can’t hold you without charging you and they don’t have enough evidence. But, you need to stick around for a while. No traveling until you’re cleared. Let me hear your story now.”
Abe told Stockett everything he remembered about his meeting with Easy Jackson and the exact time of his departure from the park the following morning. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I don’t think you did it either, son. I’ve been doing my homework. A park ranger swore he saw you leave around four thirty yesterday morning, which verifies your story. And witnesses say they saw Jackson walking toward your campsite at six a.m. Coroner hasn’t determined time of death yet, but I’m willing to bet it was sometime after you were a ways down the road. Besides, they dusted that knife for prints, and someone else left their calling card on top of yours, though they’re smudged and it’s hard to get a good read. So get your dog, and get your ass out of here.”
A tsunami of relief washed over Abe. He gulped, then grinned and shook the lawyer’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Stockett. I don’t know how I can repay you.”
“The county will take care of that. Just remember, don’t go far. The Staters aren’t ready to cut you loose completely. They still think you might have been involved somehow. I’ve worked out a deal with Officer Etcitty—she knows a place nearby where you can stay awhile. Talk to her.”
He found Etcitty when he went to the desk to sign for his personal property. He still wasn’t happy about having been held overnight in jail, but was mollified by the fact he had been released. It could have been much worse considering it was his knife that had killed Jackson. The lady cop flashed him a smile like nothing had happened and passed him a form.
He read over the inventory, relieved he didn’t see any mention of a flashlight or a cache of marijuana on the list.
“Your clothes, keys, wallet, everything you had on you is here,” Etcitty said, handing him a sealed plastic envelope. “Restroom is down the hall. You can freshen up there if you want and I’ll meet you in a few minutes by the gate in front of the compound.”
Abe took his package and headed for the men’s room, but stole a quick glance over his shoulder before he went in. She had been following him with her eyes, but ducked her head when he caught her in the act.
“Don’t even think about taking off, Mr. Freeman. You’re still a material witness.”
4
Patch, followed by Emily, bounded up to him from behind the building, looking like he had spent a far better night than his owner. The little mutt ran in circles on his three legs and periodically jumped in the air while attempting to lick Abe’s face. “Come here, boy. Am I glad to see you.” Abe picked up the little dog and ruffled his fur. Looking around, he noticed his Toyota inside the open compound and carried Patch to where it waited, relieved again to spot the flashlight on the seat where he had left it. He quickly returned it, along with the envelope, to the glove compartment and opened the door for Patch. When the dog jumped into his usual place beside him, Abe turned the key in the ignition. The old truck groaned, shook, and finally started on the third attempt. He drove out of the fenced enclosure into the parking lot where Officer Etcitty waited in her Blazer, and pulled alongside her.
The Navajo cop rolled down the window. “My brother, Will, has this trailer, an old Airstream, on the other side of the mountain. It’s a long ways out, real isolated. Sometimes Will or our grandfather stay there to graze the sheep. It’s a good place for you to hang
out a few days. Follow me.”
He glanced at the box containing canned beans, coffee, and bread on the seat beside her. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why not? At least I’ll know where I can find you.” She spoke softly with little inflection in her voice, then rewarded him with a smile that transformed her serious-looking face into a momentary burst of sunshine.
“Sometimes, when I need to get away, I go there myself. It’s not fancy, no electricity, no MTV, no Oprah, but it doesn’t leak, it’s peaceful, and there’s a spring nearby.”
The peaceful part agreed with him, and if he had to stay someplace it might as well be out in the boonies, away from everyone.
“Okay. Lead the way, officer.” Before he rolled up the window, he added, “And thanks for taking care of my dog. I appreciate it.”
“My name is Emily Etcitty,” she said. “You can skip the officer part when we are away from headquarters.”
She took him onto Highway 44, backtracked awhile, then cut to a dirt road on the north side, following it as it twisted around the bottom of the majestic mountain he had seen the day before. A milieu of puffy gray clouds fringed the horizon to the southwest, but for the most part, sky as blue as a jaybird’s wings stretched from end to end.
The Toyota lurched over washes, ruts, and potholes that could swallow a less determined vehicle. Abe swerved to avoid the largest of these, cussing as he bounced along, trying to keep up with the four-wheeler in front. He was concentrating on the narrow road as it traversed an arroyo bottom when the brake lights of the Blazer flashed and it came to a sudden stop. Abe slammed on his brakes and looked around—nothing but desert scrub, sand, and the steep, rocky wall of the mountain.
Officer Etcitty got out of her vehicle and walked toward him.
Abe rolled down the window. “Why’d we stop?”
“Coyote crossed my path.”
“So what? A coyote crossed your path. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we have to turn back. If we keep on this road, something’s going to happen. That coyote came from the north.” She gave him a serious look. “It’s a bad sign.”
Abe shook his head in disbelief. He had been eating her dust for nearly twenty miles. “Look, you’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s just some crazy superstition.”
But Etcitty didn’t smile, and her expression remained adamant. “Back up until you can turn around. We’re not going any farther,” she said, before turning to go to her vehicle.
“This is some crazy shit,” Abe mumbled before putting the truck in reverse. “Where are we going then?”
Before he could get an answer he heard a rumble that he thought at first must be thunder, but the clouds were far away. The rumble became louder, then quickly transformed into an exploding roar. Abe looked up barely in time to see a wall of water rushing down the arroyo toward them. “Jesus Christ. What . . . ?”
“Flash flood,” yelled Etcitty. She sprinted back toward his Toyota, pulled the door open. “Quick. Get out. Up the bank.”
Abe jumped out and tried to scramble up the steep sides of the slippery arroyo. A narrow stretch of flat land, too narrow for a vehicle but wide enough to walk on, waited six feet above him. Patch had already reached the top and stood barking at the two humans, already caught in the sudden onslaught of rising water. The current pulled at Abe, dragging him back, but he struggled until he could reach a root near the top of the bank and hung on. He turned his head, looking for the woman, and saw nothing but debris—entire trees, branches, rocks, everything ferried along by the incredible force of an instantaneous raging brown river.
He scanned the surface of the murky water. “Officer Etcitty, Emily. Emily!” Abe tugged on the root and managed to crawl to the top of the arroyo, then ran along the bank and continued calling her name. Both vehicles were nearly submerged, the Blazer on its side wedged up against his truck. Only the top half of the camper remained visible, though the rising water meant it could be swallowed in a matter of minutes. His eyes searched the length of the arroyo, looking for some sign of the woman, and spotted a logjam fifty feet downstream, a blockage of brush and logs encircled by an eddy of swirling water—and maybe something else—another branch, or maybe not. Abe ran in his heavy, mud-sodden shoes until he stood parallel to the debris. “Emily. Are you out there, damn it?” Then he saw her, obscured at times, her head bobbing in and out of the water, her arm grasping the root of a tree.
“Freeman, over here,” she said through gritted teeth, mud-matted hair streaming down her face.
“Don’t let go,” he yelled, and immediately began searching for something to use as leverage. He wanted a branch long enough to reach her from the bank—not easily found in this high-desert country. Situated near the center in a mass of tangled roots and brush that looked like it could break free any moment, Emily struggled to hang on. He knew he couldn’t swim out to her and that they would both be swept downstream if he tried. He picked up a branch, but it proved to be too short, and he tossed it aside. The second one he found, actually a twisted root, showed more promise. Abe took off his shirt, glad for the long sleeves, and tied one sleeve around a knotty end. The shirt would provide the length, if she could let go long enough to grab it with one hand. “Are you hurt?”
“My leg, but I don’t think anything’s broken. Don’t know how much longer I can hang on,” she shouted over the noise of crashing debris.
Abe positioned himself on the edge of the gully, directly across from her. “Okay, Emily, I’m going to try to reach you with this branch. I want you to grab onto the shirt with one arm if you can. Don’t let go of that tree until you have hold of the shirt.” He used the root as a casting rod, his arms as an extension, and the shirt as his line, and tried to land it as near as possible to the woman. The first few tries were off the mark, either short or behind her.
Emily clung to her tether with one arm and with the other reached desperately for the shirt. Finally, after several attempts, she had it in her grasp. “Got it. Now what?”
“Try to work your way up to the root. When you get a good grip with both hands I’m going to pull you in.” Abe prayed the shirt would hold, and the root wouldn’t snap when she had both hands on it, and that he wouldn’t be pulled into the quagmire with her.
As soon as Emily released her grip on the logjam and grasped the shirt she was swept into the swift current, her body submerged under the brown water. Abe’s arms jerked with a force that felt as if they were being yanked out of their sockets, his hands scraping across the rough surface of the root, but he held tight and took a slow step back, then another.
A moment later her arms and then her head emerged. Emily took a gasp of air, coughed, and sputtered. “Hurry up. I can’t . . .” she croaked before the swirling water pulled her under again.
Abe spotted a large log upstream moving their way and knew he had to work quickly. He planted his feet and, hand over hand, inched his way down the root. He moved close to the bank and crouched. When she came out of the water again, he lay on his stomach and grabbed her arms. With an enormous burst of will, he pulled her halfway out, while she clung to him and pulled herself the rest of the way onto the slippery red clay. They rolled onto their backs, gasping for air.
After a few minutes, Emily coughed and caught her breath. “First time I ever felt glad to see a white man.”
He didn’t say anything, just gulped in the fresh, clean air. Patch raced to him, tail wagging, whimpering, and smothered him with wet dog kisses. A smile passed over Abe’s face as he reached a bloody hand out and stroked his dog. In that moment he considered himself lucky to be alive.
5
Though a jagged tear running down her right pant leg exposed a nasty cut, Emily Etcitty appeared intact. In fact, she looked beautiful: her dirty, scratched, and bruised face, her long black hair streaked with mud and leaves, now undone from its neat bun and hanging in rivulets around her shoulders. “How’s that leg?” He caught his breath and met her eyes.
She wiggled her legs, tried to lift her right, and grimaced in pain. “Nothing’s broken, a few cuts and bruises.” She reflected his tight smile. “Thanks, white man.”
“No problem.” Abe blinked, staring at what was once a road, the silence deafening in the sudden absence of the roaring torrent, the two vehicles tucked in logs, branches, and rubble like eggs in a nest, the Blazer laying on its side. “How much farther? To your brother’s I mean . . .”
“Three miles, a sheep path will take us there.” She let a slow breath escape. “Coyote caused this, you know. He’s up to his tricks.”
Even though she smiled, he knew she believed it.
Emily pulled herself to a sitting position and stared at the arroyo. The calmness in her face belied Abe’s frustration—his truck stuck in a muddy arroyo, probably totaled, and he still a prisoner. With growing annoyance, he wished again he had never come to this part of the world.
“Both vehicles are no doubt out of commission, but maybe the radio will work.” Emily turned away from the patrol car and glanced at the clear, blameless sky. “Shit. Wait till headquarters gets wind of this. I can see it all coming down now. You should have done this—you should have done that.” She tried to stand, but the pain in her leg pulled her back. “No one will come looking for us because I have the weekend off, and my mom knew I wanted to spend time at the sheep camp.”
Abe gave a helpless shrug. “Stay here. I’m going to see if there’s anything we can salvage.” His palms were raw and bleeding from his grip on the rough piñon root, but he knew he was in better shape than she. He clambered to his feet and worked his way down the muddy arroyo. Patch took off after him until Abe shooed him back up the bank, where he sat down beside Emily, keening softly.
“There’s a first aid kit under the driver’s seat,” she yelled at his receding back.
Key Witness Page 3
