The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  At least I was relaxed and my mind had cleared. I decided to retrace my movements on the night of the murder. I remembered Martin telling me how his grandfather taught him to see himself as a bird would see him, how he learned to drift out of his body up into a bird’s body and see down on his human body through the bird’s eyes. I imagined myself as a bird looking down on myself as I walked east on Central the night of the murder. For me it was just a technique to focus my memory. Maybe Martin’s grandfather believed it was an actual migration of his spirit into the bird’s body.

  I chose a hawk. If I was going to be a bird, why be a sparrow or a wren? By the time I saw myself arrive at the Hyatt, I had become comfortable in the hawk’s body and I followed myself inside. I watched myself ride the elevators and walk the halls. I concentrated on seeing every detail no matter how small. I saw the elevator buttons. They were the size of quarters with bronze edging around a white circle. I spotted the camera, a white rectangle on a white mounting arm with a black cord disappearing into the wall. I saw myself going back down to the lobby to call Wilkes. As I started to dial Wilkes’ room, I used my bird’s eyes to zoom in on the number pad and saw my finger touch the three numbers.

  Then I stopped thinking, turned around, and walked back home to shower and walk to the police station. I did not go to turn myself in.

  40

  “You come to turn yourself in like a good citizen, Hubert?”

  Well, you already know that was not the plan.

  I said, “You remember you told me you had a piece of evidence that tied me in with the murder at the Hyatt?”

  “Course I remember, Hubert; I’m the one told you that.”

  “I think I know what it is.”

  “You was always good at makin’ up stories. Give it your best shot.”

  “I know the security camera near the elevator on the eleventh floor taped me coming and going. That’s how you knew I was on that floor. I never entered the murder room, but there’s no camera in the hall, so you don’t know that. But there are cameras everywhere in the lobby. Immediately after I left the eleventh floor, I went down to the lobby to call the person I had come to see. Here’s your secret piece of evidence: I think you have a tape of me dialing. You think I’m placing an anonymous call to report the murder. But in fact, I was calling the person I came to see in the first place. I can understand why you thought I was calling about the murder because I dialed 9-1-1, but I wasn’t making an emergency call. I was calling room 9-1-1.”

  He didn’t even blink. “Did the person in 911 answer?”

  He was testing me.

  “No, I realized as I was dialing that it was a pay phone, not a house phone, so I hung up.”

  “That’s pretty good, Hubert. But maybe you just figured out we had that tape and made up the part about the room. Who was in 911?”

  There was no reason not to tell him; he could get the registry if he had to. “His name is Carl Wilkes. He’s a dealer in antiquities.”

  “Why did you want to see some guy who sells brass beds and old wash stands?”

  “No, he buys old pots.”

  “Then why don’t he call himself a dealer in pots instead of a dealer in antiques?”

  I stopped trying to improve Whit’s English years ago, so I just said, “I guess he likes old pots.”

  “Real old? Like a thousand years?”

  I saw where he was going but said nothing.

  Fletcher continued, “Sounds like you were probably planning on selling him that pot from Bandelier. You know the one I mean, Hubert, the one you didn’t steal.”

  “That’s right; I didn’t steal it. I have many pots for sale.”

  “That’s a fact. But if he wanted a pot from your shop, why not just go down to Old Town? Why meet in a hotel room? Of course if I was buying or selling stolen goods, I’d probably want to do it in a place no one else would be at.”

  “I’ve already told you that if I happened to get the Bandelier pot, I would give it to you to turn in for the finder’s fee.”

  “What I figure, Hubert, is the sale to this Wilkes person fell through, and then you decided to salvage what you could and settle for the finder’s fee, and that’s where I come in. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me much. What do I care if you steal a pot from Bandelier? I’d be glad to get half the finder’s fee, let them put the pot back for the tourists to see, and nobody’s got any beef. But on the same night you were trying to make this sale, someone got murdered in the same hotel, and you were on the floor where it happened.”

  He put his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Now, I’ll level with you; I don’t think you did it. But I think you know more than you’re telling me. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I can’t do business with you while this murder case is open.”

  “I understand that, and maybe I can help. Can you at least tell me the name of the person who was killed?”

  He did, along with a few details.

  Then I pulled some hinges out of my pocket and asked him to have them checked for fingerprints.

  “Sure, Hubert. We can do that. Got any blood samples you want analyzed? How about comparing bullets? We do that, too.”

  “Just the fingerprints, Whit. It could help solve a murder.”

  41

  “Guvelly’s alive,” I told Susannah as I sat down at our table.

  “Alive?”

  I nodded. “At least he was at 3:35 morning before last. He was captured on film by the security camera Tristan installed for me”

  “I don’t think it uses film, Hubie.”

  I shrugged.

  “So someone else was dead in Guvelly’s room,” she said.

  “Right. Except it wasn’t Guvelly’s room.”

  “But he wrote that room number on his card.”

  “Yeah, which I don’t understand, but I know it wasn’t his room. Remember I tried to get Fletcher’s help the first time by telling him about Guvelly? But he’d never heard of him at that point. Obviously, the police would have checked the registration for the room the body was in, so it couldn’t have been Guvelly who signed in.”

  “Well,” she said, “he may not have been in that room, but he was in your shop, so he really does think you stole the pot.”

  “He must,” I agreed. “I can’t think of any other reason why he’d be snooping around my place.”

  “Did Fletcher tell you the name of the person we thought was Guvelly but wasn’t who was in the room we thought was Guvelly’s but wasn’t?” She hesitated for a moment. “Did I say that right?”

  “I think so. Anyway, his name was Hugo Berdal.”

  “What kind of a name is Berdal, Hubie? It sounds like a generic bird call for hunters.”

  “So it does. Why don’t you look it up on the internet and tell me what you find.” I was beginning to develop a theory.

  “I will,” she said.

  “Fletcher also told me Berdal lived in Los Alamos and worked as a security guard at Bandelier.”

  “I’ll bet he stole the pot.”

  “Almost certainly,” I agreed. “But for whom?”

  “Why not for himself?”

  “If he took it himself, what was he doing in Guvelly’s room?”

  “Maybe he had agreed to give it back. That’s what Guvelly wanted you to do. He even hinted at a finder’s fee. Maybe Berdal was trying to get the finder’s fee.”

  “Maybe. But why kill him?”

  “Maybe Guvelly never learned to share.”

  “Somehow I can’t see a federal agent killing someone for half a finder’s fee.”

  “People have killed for a lot less.”

  “Unfortunate, but true.”

  “So what are we going to do, Hubie?”

  “We?”

  “Yes. We’re partners in crime, remember? Now that we have this new information, we need to do something. I just don’t know what.”

  “I think I do, but I don’t like it.”

  “Sounds exciting.
What is it?”

  “I need to break into Berdal’s house.”

  She plopped her drink down on the table. “Geez, Hubie, for someone who isn’t a burglar, you’re becoming quite a break-in artist.”

  “I’ve never broken in to anything,” I protested.

  “I guess that’s true. You didn’t break into the Valle del Rio Museum, you just tricked the director into letting you walk in after hours and steal the pot.”

  “I suppose it comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I’d have a hard time seeing it as mining the riches of the earth. And I’d have to say the same about Berdal’s house.”

  “I’m not breaking in as a burglar, Suze. I’d be going in to look for clues, not to steal anything.”

  “And what if you just happen to find the Bandelier pot?”

  “I’m sure the police have searched the place; the pot can’t be there.”

  “But suppose they missed it. Just hypothetically, Hubert, what would you do if you found it there?”

  “I’d take it.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Well, the guy’s dead, Suze; he has no need for a pot.”

  “He has no need for furniture either; are you going to take that?”

  “Could you use a new couch or lamp?”

  “Hubie!”

  “I see what you mean, though.” I took a sip of my margarita. I must not have been paying attention—that happens when Susannah and I get caught up in conversation—because I had run out of salt on the rim and still had liquid in the glass. “Maybe I’m just a common burglar who tries to rationalize away his thievery.”

  “Would you ever do something you thought was really wrong?”

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t murder, rape, or pillage?”

  “No to the first two. Does taking pots from protected sites fall under pillaging?”

  “I’m not sure. You don’t hear much about pillaging these days. When do we go to Los Alamos?”

  42

  The trip to Los Alamos had to be postponed because Layton Kent summonsed me to his table at the country club. I had been demoted from a lunch appointment to a cup of coffee, maybe because my celebrity status as a murder suspect was yesterday’s news.

  “I know this is unpleasant for you, Hubert, and unseemly for me—I never discuss fees with clients—but I find I must make an exception in your case.”

  “This latte won’t be added to the fee, will it?” The coffee was $4.95.

  “Certainly not,” he said and smiled. “You can pay for that separately.”

  Layton folded his napkin neatly and placed it on the table next to his cup. I noticed that my napkin was nice—white cloth and larger than normal. His, on the other hand, was light yellow, seemed to me made of linen, and was the size of a pillowcase.

  He pushed his chair back from the table and laced his fingers together on the mound of his belly. “The annual action for the Duque de Alburquerque Foundation draws near, Hubert, and because this is the fiftieth anniversary of the organization, Mariella has decided to donate the Anasazi pot she purchased from you several years ago.”

  “That’s very generous of her; that pot must be worth at least fifty thousand by now.”

  “I’m sure it will fetch more than that at an auction for a good cause. And my lovely bride will no doubt get more pleasure from the donation than she ever could from fifty thousand dollars.”

  I nodded.

  “The problem, Hubert, is that there will now be a considerable lacuna in her collection. If you could see your way to clear to give her a suitable pot, I can waive my fee.”

  “Do you have one in mind?”

  “A fee or a pot?”

  “A pot.”

  “My fees are outrageous, but not excessively so. I don’t expect anything so rare or valuable as the Anasazi she is parting with. I leave it to your judgment. And hers. If she is satisfied, I am satisfied.”

  “Will you also waive the cost of the latte?”

  He just smiled. I took that as a yes and left without paying.

  I walked back to Old Town—it’s only a couple of miles—and was honked at by several drivers angered by the effrontery of my walking on the edge of the pavement, despite the fact there were no sidewalks along that stretch of road. Being a pedestrian in a western city is challenging.

  Indeed, pedestrians are rare almost everywhere in this country. People go to gymnasiums and indoor malls to walk for exercise, but they won’t walk to the grocery store or the doctor’s office. Walking is a delightful means of transportation that allows you to see what’s around you. I saw lizards, a baby gopher, Indian paintbrushes about to bloom, and the tips of new tumbleweeds just starting to sprout. Also, pull tabs, broken glass, and scraps of fast food that looked perfectly preserved, probably because they were.

  I guess as an anthropologist I should be happy about our pervasive use of preservatives; it will give future generations of diggers more things to analyze when they try to figure us out. Good luck to them.

  You can think while you walk and smell the flowers along the way. Provided, of course, that you aren’t overcome by exhaust fumes.

  I am a simple man with simple thoughts and, for the most part, simple tastes. I am certainly no philosopher. I don’t know the answers to the questions that Susannah takes as philosophical—How did the universe begin? What happens to us when we die? And since I know I can’t figure out the answers, I almost never think about the questions.

  My reflections are more, excuse the term, pedestrian. I think people today live life at too quick a pace. All the drivers who passed me on my way back from Kent’s club were speeding, and at least half of them had phones in their ears. Why are they in such a rush? Why do they have to talk while they drive? Because it gets more done. Because they can make more sales, finish more reports, increase their contacts. Then they can make more money and buy bigger, more powerful cars and fancier cell phones so that speeding and talking both become even easier.

  Martin Seepu lives nine miles from Albuquerque, and although he owns an old pickup, he often walks to town when he’s not on a tight schedule. He doesn’t have what Tristan calls a landline much less a cell phone; you can reach him via the pueblo office if you need him. His house has electricity, but he doesn’t use it for much besides lighting to read by and power for his radio. The list of electric conveniences he doesn’t have is lengthy: no microwave, television, blender, clothes dryer, crock-pot, computer, dishwasher, or vacuum cleaner.

  Martin lives a fuller life than most Americans who run their SUV’s around town with a cell phone to their ear. Here is what Martin has that they lack: time to reflect, a knowledge of the small plants and animals that share the earth with him, awareness of the smell of the air and how it varies every day, cardiovascular wellness, a strong back, a slow pulse, and fitless sleep. Martin’s life is richer not in spite of lacking possessions but precisely because he lacks them. An ancient philosopher once said that knowledge is to be preferred over all possessions because things can be taken from you, but what is in your mind is yours forever.

  Of course, they didn’t know about Alzheimer’s in those days, but I think you’ll agree that the point remains valid.

  I entered my adobe through the back door and passed the next hour at my desk with a old-fashioned telephone placing calls to the West Coast, the Midwest, and several other places. I’m not totally adverse to technology when it makes life better. I had a cordless phone for a while because I could have it at hand in the shop for business purposes and then carry it back to my living quarters when the shop was closed. But being required to punch numbers after placing a call became so common that I gave up and went back to the old desk phone where you can at least see the number pad while keeping the receiver to your ear.

  You know how it goes. You call the 800 number of the credit card company, and you get a cheerful recorded voice saying, “Thank you for calling MegaBank. Your call is important to us.
[Here, you think to yourself, if I’m so important, why am I being made to listen to a machine.] Please listen to the following menu and make your selection. If you are calling to check your balance, press 1. If you want to know the date and amount of you most recent payment, press 2. If you have a question about a charge on your monthly statement, press 3.” You press a number and the voice says, “In order to serve you more accurately, please enter your account number.” At this point, you have to take the phone away from your ear because on a cordless phone, the keypad is on the same piece of plastic as the earpiece. While you are fumbling for the card and starting to key in the sixteen numbers of your account, you exceed the allotted time for the task, and the voice says, “If you need more time, press 1. If you want to hear the main menu again, press 2…” But you don’t hear that because the earpiece is in your left hand in front of your face while your right hand is punching numbers. Blissfully unaware that it is too late to enter your account number, the first number you punched sent you to a sub-menu for people wanting a new account, and when you finally put the device back to your ear you hear the voice saying, “Do you wish to have a Visa or a MasterCard? Press 1 for Visa and 2 for MasterCard.”

  At which point I hung up and bought a regular phone. Susannah says no one likes automated phone systems, but that I’m the only person she knows who can’t work them because I’m so slow at punching in numbers. I say it’s just my training as an accountant; I’m very deliberate when entering numbers. She says thousands of accountants use automated phone systems every day with no problems. The woman is relentless.

  I finally opened for business, of which there was none, so I sat at the counter looking at my wares, trying to identify a suitable pot for Mariella. It was more difficult than I had suspected. Some were too expensive; others probably too cheap. Still others were too similar to pots she already owned while others were not her taste. I thought to myself that giving something away was more difficult than you would guess.