by Aimée
Turning the tape back and forth, she tried to guess what the key unlocked. It wasn’t a house key; it was the wrong shape. The impression was long and relatively narrow, like that of a key used on a safety deposit box or a car. Perhaps lab experts could enhance the impression using laser technology and give her more information.
Ella carefully placed the tape into an empty computer disk box and placed a rubber band around it to hold the flap shut. Labeling and initialing the box, she placed it into a manila mail pouch. This had to be sent out for analysis tomorrow. Only Peterson Yazzie or one of his skinwalker cohorts would have known about the key and been able to retrieve it right under the nose of the department.
Ella looked around, wondering what else had been touched, or tampered with. She searched the entire office methodically, going through every drawer, including underneath and behind each piece of equipment or furniture. Nothing seemed missing or out of place. Finally all that was left to search was the closet. She opened the door and glanced inside, but what she saw made her jump back instinctively, reaching for her pistol.
Slowly Ella relaxed and returned the handgun to its holster. The small rattlesnake coiled on the floor of the closet was missing its head, and the smell told her it had been dead for hours.
Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, Ella turned around. Tache stopped at her door, holding a manila folder in his hand. “What in the heck is that?” He stared at the snake with obvious distaste.
“A present,” Ella said in clipped tones. “Will you go and make sure all the evidence taken from the murder scene is secure?”
“I can assure you it is. It’s all kept in a vault, and any attempt to open it would be obvious.”
“Check anyway.”
Ella picked up the dead reptile with the mop handle, locked the door, and walked to the Dumpster outside. Snakes were said to be messengers, but the only message this one carried was the sign of death. By the time she returned, Tache was standing just outside her door, waiting.
“Everything’s accounted for,” he said.
“Good.” She unlocked the door, went back inside, and handed him the envelope. “See if the experts can track down what kind of key this is.”
“I’ll make sure Ute gets it,” he assured her.
“And lock your offices from now on.” She glanced at the folder in his hand. “Do you have something for me?”
He nodded. “I developed the shots of the crime scene. I had a feeling you’d want to see them.”
“That’s why I came back,” she admitted. “Thanks for expediting this. I especially need the shots of that dry painting done in ashes.”
He handed the file to her. “They’re in here along with the others. By the way, I took a real close look at it. I’m no expert, but I’ve studied our ways and I didn’t recognize any of the figures. Of course, that may just mean the killer’s a lousy artist.”
“Or the figures may not be traditional. I’m planning to look into it tonight.”
“Will you let me know what you find out? I’m really curious.”
She nodded once. “Have we had any press nosing around yet? With the murder, then that bus accident, I expect a lot of traffic. But the reporters really shouldn’t get some of these details, especially the tribal newspapers. I want to release a prepared statement for them, and keep the details under wraps. I’m afraid people will panic, and that’s the last thing we need.”
“Word has already started to spread. My cousin called earlier and wanted to know if the rumors that skinwalkers were behind the murder were true. Everyone’s scared. They think that evil is gaining strength now with one of our teachers dead. To many, that also explains the bus accident. The way I figure it, it’s just a matter of time before the press shows up demanding answers we don’t have.”
“Okay, thanks for the warning. I better get to work on that release right away.”
“I have some books on dry paintings in my cubicle. You want me to bring them to you? I didn’t really have time to study them all, but you might be able to find some matches and decipher out what those figures mean.”
“I’d appreciate that a lot, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Ella sat down in front of her computer and began to draft a statement. Before long Tache returned holding two large volumes.
“These are out-of-print books that some anthropologists compiled many years back,” he said. “For generations our people relied solely on the spoken word and much has been lost. These are practically invaluable now.”
“I’ll take care of them, don’t worry.” Ella took them from him carefully and returned to her desk.
Ella ceased work on the press release and began to look through the books. She was scarcely aware of the passage of time as she pored over the drawings. She searched methodically for similarities, taking into account the lesser skill of whoever had done the figures in ashes at the crime scene.
It was completely dark outside by the time she finally stood up and stretched. There was no way around it. She’d given it her best shot, but none of the drawings in the book appeared to be even remotely like the figures in the ash dry painting. With reluctance, she picked out the close-up photos and stuck them inside a large manila envelope. Getting nonauthorized personnel involved in a case went against her training, but she needed her brother’s help now.
When Ella walked across the building to the side entrance, only the dispatcher and a couple of evening-shift officers were still around.
As she stepped out the door, a flicker of movement caught her attention. A figure was walking between the few cars that were still parked outside. Halting in the shadows, Ella watched for several moments. The person was holding something under his arm as he went from car to car, peeking inside. Ella slipped back inside and called out to the dispatcher sitting at the other end of the hall.
“Find another officer and have him join me in the parking lot. Someone’s sneaking around out there and I’m going to take a look.”
Leaving the envelope with the photos propped against the wall, Ella went back out noiselessly, intending to stalk the stalker. It was a man; she was virtually certain of that from the way he walked. He was wearing a cowboy hat and that, coupled with the darkness, made it impossible for her to discern any details of his features. She inched closer, trying to get a better look at what he was holding. It wasn’t a gun. It was shaped like a small shoe box, or a loaf of bread.
As the figure came out into the open briefly, the parking lot floodlight illuminated what it was that he carried. It appeared to be several sticks of dynamite bound together. Suddenly the figure ducked down, disappearing from her view.
Certain she’d been spotted, Ella moved in quickly, gun in hand. She checked underneath the cars as she moved. Her quarry’s feet would be visible from that angle, and she could use them to get a fix on where he was heading.
Suddenly a flash of light from the building caught her attention. She saw two armed officers step out quickly and duck behind cover.
As she shifted her gaze back to the cars, she caught another flicker of movement and saw the figure dash away from the parking lot. One of the officers still standing near the doors yelled for him to stop and aimed a powerful flashlight in his direction.
The elusive figure picked up speed instead, and Ella heard the thump of something hitting the pavement. The officers took off after him as Ella scrambled over to where the man had been to see what he’d dropped. Her breath caught in her throat as her worst suspicions were realized. Between two cars was the bundle of dynamite, held together with electrical tape. A digital timer was connected to the primer and a flashlight battery with wires. She carefully lifted it so she could read the timer in the glare of the floodlight and was startled to see it was counting down. It had fifteen seconds to go.
“Bomb!” Ella yelled, in case any officers were still close by.
Holding her breath, she grabbed her folding pocketknife. With
no time to decide if the bomb was booby-trapped, Ella quickly slashed the wires leading to the battery. The timer went blank.
Feeling shaky all over, she leaned against the nearest car. This shouldn’t have happened, not here on the Rez. This was a big-city-type crime. She stared at the disabled bomb still in her hand, then set it down gingerly, trying not to disturb it any more than necessary.
Hearing footsteps rushing up from behind her, she spun around and steadied her weapon against the hood of the car. The two Navajo cops stopped in their tracks.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Did you get him?” She moved toward them, motioning for them to keep their distance from the bomb, while keeping it in sight.
“No. He knows the terrain around here really well. Even in the dark, at a run, he chose the shortest way back to the road. He had a pickup waiting.” The sergeant was talking to her, but his eyes were on the bomb.
“License plate?” she prodded.
“Too dark to make out.”
“Make and color?”
“Ford, late 1980s, tan color or close, and covered in dust.”
“Just like practically every other vehicle around here.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant answered.
The patrol officer’s gaze shifted from Ella to the bomb. “What do you think he was aiming for? The station?”
Ella hesitated. “No. He was going through the vehicles here. I guess he was searching for one in particular.”
“Whose Jeep is this?” the patrol officer asked, gesturing to the one beside Ella.
“Mine.” Not giving them time to engage in any more speculations, she said, “I’ll stay here. Go call whoever handles ordnance disposal and get them over here.”
* * *
An hour later, the bomb had been checked, photographed, and disassembled. Ella finished her report to Big Ed recommending security cameras be set up in the hallways leading to their offices and the evidence room. She’d also completed the carefully worded press release. With the bus accident, which had resulted in four deaths, the murder might get less attention, which would serve her purposes. For now she’d keep the bone found in the victim’s eye a secret. The students probably had not taken a close enough look to have spotted it. Maybe later it would become her ace in the hole.
Ella sat back in her chair. She stared absently at a fly buzzing around the room. A moment later it landed on her shoulder. She stared at it, lost in thought. In ritual, Big Fly was said to have knowledge of many things and places, since he was free to travel everywhere. He was said to warn and inform Holy Man.
She stared at the iridescent green insect, remembering the way of the Dineh and trying to reconcile herself to her own past as part of the tribe. Skinwalkers, although they had been with the Dineh since the beginning of time, represented an evil that had no place in the present. It was up to her to use all the modern police techniques at her disposal to bring them, or whoever wanted to impersonate them, to justice.
Ella brushed the fly off and stood. She’d combine knowledge with experience and bring both to bear on this case. She’d solve it, relying on logic to guard her against superstitious fears.
She picked up the press release and the envelope she’d retrieved with the photographs of the dry painting and walked out. Locking the door, she strode down the hall, her thoughts racing. Tache had spread the word, and all the offices were closed and locked. Crimes steeped in lore and tradition evoked deeply rooted fears, but it was no different anywhere else. People on the outside laughed when they read their horoscopes, or saw a black cat cross their path, but some part of them wondered. What the bilagáana world feared went by different names, that’s all.
She’d nearly passed the evidence room when, almost as an afterthought, she decided to go in for one last look. Fishing the keys out of her pocket, she unlocked the door and went inside. Harry Ute had tagged most of the evidence for delivery to the FBI tomorrow, and she’d added the bomb to the shipment. There was nothing new here, but something continued to nag at her. She stared at the pouch containing the evidence from the ash painting and saw the small attached note Harry had left for the techs. Although the particles were minuscule, he was almost certain that what had looked like ashes had actually been nothing more than ground-up charcoal briquets. The discovery made a bell ring in Ella’s head, and questions leaped to the foreground of her mind.
Ten minutes later, Ella was racing down the nearly deserted highway toward her brother’s home. Clifford had been accepted and welcomed by the tribe after last year’s trouble. In fact, in the eyes of some, he was a hero. Public sentiment had shifted in his favor since it had been learned that he’d successfully battled the skinwalkers and had protected the tribe as well as his family. She envied his new status, wondering if the same would ever be true for her.
As she passed the Chapter House, she noticed there was only a small gathering of teenagers hanging around outside the entrance. The well-publicized accident today had cost many Navajos a loved one. Maybe this explained the uncharacteristically poor turnout. A country-western band was playing inside, and she caught the rhythmic thumps of ground-shaking bass. Both the Anglo and Navajo culture had staked their footholds. But unlike gatherings of young people on the outside, there was no liquor on the Rez to complicate teen activities, at least officially.
After another thirty minutes, Ella slowed to take the turnoff that would lead to Clifford’s. He and his wife Loretta were going to have another child, but the pregnancy so far had been troubled. Loretta was constantly ill, and had taken several falls. In Ella’s opinion, the death of their first child still weighed too heavily on them. Their son had died during Clifford’s fight with the skinwalkers, one of many casualties.
Her brother had been doing a Blackening Song to purify the land when Loretta had unexpectedly gone into labor. She’d delivered the child stillborn. In those days, Ella hadn’t really believed that the two incidents were related, but she’d learned a few things since then.
The porch light up ahead flickered through the gloom of night as she turned down the well-worn path to her brother’s home. The small adobe structure had a new addition to it, built in preparation for the family they hoped to have.
She parked a polite distance from the front door and waited with the headlights on to be invited in. She didn’t have to wait long. Loretta came to the front door and waved, recognizing Ella’s vehicle even in the dim light that came from the porch.
Ella grabbed the file with the photos, then went inside.
Loretta led the way to the kitchen, offering Ella some stew and fry bread. The tantalizing aroma made Ella’s mouth water, and suddenly realizing she had skipped lunch and dinner, she found herself unable to decline. It was more than her appetite though; she needed the familiarity and the normalcy of food just as badly as the nourishment. “I’m still working, but I’d love some.”
Loretta smiled. “Sister-in-law, work or not, you have to eat. How can you ever attract a man of your own if you’re just skin and bones?”
Ella grinned back, knowing that the comment was Loretta’s way of teasing her, more than an actual observation. “I don’t want to attract any men. I want to intimidate the bad guys. And I can do that best by being a lean, mean, fighting machine.”
Loretta laughed. “Not exactly the way I’d describe you, though I’m sure it’s the way you love to see yourself. In my opinion, you’re too thin. You’re lean from lack of eating, and if you keep skipping meals you’ll be too weak to be a fighting machine.”
Ella looked greedily at the food Loretta placed before her. At least some fences had been mended. There had been a time when her sister-in-law and she hadn’t had much to say to each other. “I gather my brother isn’t home?”
“He’ll be back in a little bit. He went over to see Betty Natoni. She still lives alone in that hogan out near Dry Wash. Betty said that she’d been struck by a whirlwind and hadn’t been feeling well. She wanted your brother to do a Wind Chant.”
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p; Ella nodded. Betty was in her eighties, a proud woman who adhered to the old ways. She would no more go to the PHS hospital than she would move out of the hogan she’d lived in since she was a child.
Ella ate her mutton stew, lost in thought. There had been a time when she would have claimed it was foolish to turn down the progress that had come to the People from the outside. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She still resisted clinging only to the old ways, but she had also learned that there was much to be said for them.
To walk in beauty, to find harmony—that carried a value all its own. Nowadays most people agreed that one’s mental state affected health. Navajos had been saying that since long before Columbus was even born. Progress wasn’t as easy to define as Ella had once believed.
Loretta recognized the roar of a pickup’s engine and went to the window saying, “Here’s my husband now.”
Loretta met Clifford at the front door. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said.
“It took longer than I expected,” Clifford said softly.
Ella came out of the kitchen, bowl still in hand. She could see the weariness etched on her brother’s face as he took off his denim jacket and placed it on a big hook beside the door. “Hi,” she said, greeting him with a wave of her spoon.
Clifford looked past Loretta and smiled at her. “Good, I see you’re finally eating something that isn’t smothered in ketchup. But it’s Friday night. Why aren’t you out with one of the men from the tribe?”
Ella rolled her eyes. “I’m working.”
His eyes clouded for an instant. Then as if sharing his wife’s concern, he forced a thin smile. “You’re always working.”
“Just like you,” Ella countered with a smile.
“Good point,” he agreed.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes? I need your help figuring something out.”
Loretta took the empty bowl from Ella’s hands. “You two go ahead,” she said gesturing to the sofa. “I’ll be in the kitchen making some coffee.”
