by Aimée
Justine ran back to join her. “What did you find?”
Ella pointed to the damaged bumper. “See those circles where water droplets dried up? It hasn’t rained in this area since the murder.”
“Maybe the car was driven past a sprinkler,” Justine speculated.
“Or washed off with a hose.” Ella got down on her hands and knees and looked up under the front of the damaged area. “Here it is,” she exclaimed.
“What are you looking at?” Justine got down beside her and peered up.
Ella pointed to several dark drops that had been washed down from above but had not fallen off the car completely. “These look like blood that the Packrat hastily tried to wash off the car. Make sure you get a good sample of this to check before the vehicle is towed. I don’t want to lose it in a scrape or a puddle.” Ella stood and brushed the grit off her slacks. “I have a feeling this is Haske’s blood.”
While Justine stayed behind to collect the dried droplets into an evidence container, Ella drove to Wilson Joe’s office. Although lab science wasn’t one of his courses, he would be able to get the information they needed faster than if she went through channels. She found him walking down the hall as she went around a curve.
“Coming from or going to class?” she asked.
“Coming from,” Wilson said. “It’s good to see you. But am I ever going to get to see you when we’re both alone?”
Ella glanced in both directions. “We’re alone now.”
“I mean really alone, for more than twelve seconds,” he answered as another member of the staff strode quickly past them. “One of these days, I’d like to take you to dinner or a movie.”
“And one of these days I’d love to have a chance to go,” she answered with a wistful smile.
“But right now, you’re in a rush for something,” he observed. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to check and see if you have chloroform in the lab or storeroom. If you do, I want you to verify that all your bottles are accounted for.”
“You need this right away?”
“It would help. Can you manage it?”
“Sure. Let’s go. I have a key to the storage room.”
A few moments later, after a walk around the circular hall to the other side of the building, they reached a room the size of a large walk-in closet, blocked off by a half door. CHEMICAL STORAGE read the sign overhead, and there were various other warning signs as required by the fire marshal.
Wilson flipped on the lights, then glanced around. “Here is the inventory list,” he said. He stopped to check it, then walked along the metal shelves stocked with reagent bottles until he reached the end of one row. “We’re supposed to have five bottles on hand, but there are only three.”
Ella glanced at the shelf below. “Here’s another one, misplaced. That’s four, so you’re still one short.”
Ella and Wilson searched all the shelves. Fifteen minutes later, they hadn’t turned up the missing bottle.
“I’m afraid it’s not here. Of course, it could just be an error on the inventory, but we’re all usually quite precise about this. It’s an occupational trait, you know,” Wilson added with a tiny smile.
“You asked about the murders before. Now let me ask you a question. Is there any kind of professional jealousy among the staff?”
Wilson looked shocked. “I’m surprised at your question. I’ve never encountered a more pleasant work environment than this one. The competition that’s so prevalent in most colleges is totally absent here. There’s a spirit of cooperation that is so—well, Navajo.”
“It’s not a reflection on the staff. I’m simply trying to determine who might have had something against the victims.”
“Professor Morgan was well liked by everyone here. I’ve never even heard students complain about her. She went out of her way to be fair to everyone. Those who flunked her classes did so because they didn’t work. She was always available to anyone, staff or student, who needed her,” Wilson replied staunchly.
“That piece in the tribal paper this morning, have you seen it?” Wilson added.
Ella tried not to cringe. “Which one are you referring to?”
“The editorial. They’re really pushing the common denominator, that all the victims were experts in Navajo culture, and that the People are under attack. Groups are getting together, ready to fight. Many feel that this is the biggest threat to our people in a hundred and fifty years.”
“Vigilantes are the last thing I need. An article like that could incite people to go off half-cocked, and maybe spur the killer to find another quick victim. When the press starts putting their speculations in print, it always causes trouble.”
“Is it speculation?” Wilson asked. “I’d say it’s a sound hypothesis.”
“The crimes have been carefully staged. That’s not general knowledge, but it’s true. Roughly what that means is that someone is trying very hard to manipulate people’s thinking.”
Wilson gave Ella a long, thoughtful look. “I’ve seen the response to that article. You’re right about major trouble brewing. People are starting to lose faith in the police and are thinking that they have to defend themselves.”
“You’re in a unique position to help the college and the community as a leader. Ask people to stay cool and levelheaded and to avoid undue speculation. Encourage your students to really think about their actions and not to go off half-cocked.”
“I can try,” Wilson answered carefully, “but young people aren’t known for their infinite patience. The only answer is for your department to solve the case quickly.”
“We’re bringing all our resources to bear on this case. I expect to have a break very soon. Remember, my own family is on the line.”
Wilson walked Ella back to her car. “I’ve heard about the guards posted around people considered to be at risk. Some of them really resent it, are you aware of that?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Old Samuel Pete and Herman Cloud took it as a personal affront, a verification that you believe they’re too old to take care of themselves.”
“They’ll calm down, and when they think about it they’ll see it has nothing to do with their age. I also have one on Victor Charlie, and he’s younger than I am.”
“So that’s how Jaime Beyale of the tribal paper knew about it. Victor works for her. She said in one of her editorials that there’s got to be a better way for the police to handle this crisis than imprisoning innocent people in their homes and letting the criminals go free.”
Ella rolled her eyes. “Oh, terrific. Just what I needed. Peterson Yazzie is probably laughing his fool head off.”
“And there are other letters in there, too, that essentially say what’s on most people’s minds. Every time one of our cultural leaders is killed, it triggers more casualties of some kind.”
Wilson paused thoughtfully, then continued. “It doesn’t matter if there really is a connection or not, you know. If the Navajo people lose their culture through this attrition, we really will cease to exist as a tribe. All we’ll have is a lost history, and fading memories that cannot be restored.”
Ella slipped behind the wheel. “That’s why catching this packrat killer is so important. I better get going. I’ve got some people to interview this afternoon.” Ella checked with the dispatcher and got the address of Reverend Curley’s home. She wasn’t surprised to find that the preacher lived in the center of Shiprock, where more amenities were available, rather than on the outskirts.
Ella found the man outside watering his vegetable garden, and he smiled and waved as she approached. He was a well-proportioned man in his early forties, with well-groomed, wavy black hair.
“I expected you earlier,” Reverend Curley said. “I heard what happened last night, and my prayers are with Sister Morgan.” He put the hose down and dried his hands on his jeans. “I knew you’d want to talk to me, but I really know nothing of this.”
“Tell me about Anton Lewis,” she suggested.
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“I always thought the man needed serious help—not just religious, but psychological. I believe anyone can find himself through Christ, but to Lewis, Christ was nothing more than a word he used as a curse, or to emphasize a point. Then again, most of what Anton does is simply for effect. I really don’t believe he’s a murderer.”
“Were you at the church last night?”
“Only for an hour or so. My presence wasn’t necessary at choir practice. Sadie handled everything. Since many of the hymns had been translated into Navajo, she devoted quite a bit of her time to the chorus. She was a good Christian woman. I have no doubt that she’s found her place in Heaven.”
Ella said nothing, but noted that the reverend was watching her speculatively. He must have known her father had been the last preacher of his congregation. Perhaps he was wondering why she wasn’t a member too. “Did Sadie have any enemies that you know of?”
“Not at all. She was a good Christian, and very well liked. She never married, you know. Teaching her native tongue and working for the church were her world. She led a fulfilling, though I suspect lonely, life.”
Ella wondered if that had been meant as a special message for her, but then decided it hadn’t been. “Thanks for your help, Reverend.”
“How soon will it be before we are allowed to go back into the church? I would like to resume services there as soon as possible.”
Ella paused. “Are you sure people will come?”
Doubt flickered in the man’s eyes. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to try, for Our Lord’s sake. With all the trouble and the deaths recently, we’ve got a lot of praying to do.”
Ella met his eyes, and saw the sadness there. He was as alone here on the Rez as she’d ever been on the outside. Her father, too, had found his religious convictions cut him off, but at least he’d had his family. Reverend Curley was alone. Perhaps that explained his comment about Sadie’s lifestyle. He also knew the cost of an all-consuming job. Without glancing back, Ella got into her vehicle and drove away.
TWENTY-TWO
Ella arrived at the station a short time later. It was already midafternoon, and she still hadn’t eaten lunch. Her stomach growled in protest.
As she walked down the hall, Justine stepped out of her small lab. “I’ve got some news. I’ve confirmed your suspicions that the vehicle used to hit Haske was the one we found on campus. If you’ll come outside, I’ll show you what else I’ve discovered.”
Justine led the way to the fenced-in area where the towed vehicle had been placed. This impound area was kept under padlock twenty-four hours a day. Ella followed her assistant up to the car.
Justine crouched by the turn signal light and brought out a taped-together section of plastic pieces they’d found on the road at the crime scene. Ella’s assistant held it up to the car, and the edges fit exactly, except in the spots where a few pieces were still missing.
“You see this?” Justine asked. “It fits perfectly. The paint chips also match, and the dried-up drops you found on the underneath of the bumper are blood, the same type as Haske’s. Further results that could cinch the identification are still pending. I need the crime lab to process those.”
Ella nodded. “Good job. Did you find any fingerprints inside?”
“Too many; almost all are smudged or degraded to nothing from the heat inside the car. That was a dead end. But I did find two other things that are noteworthy. On the front seat I found a long, reddish yellow thread that I’m almost certain comes from an expensive brand of designer jeans. Those cost a bundle, and the color is distinctive. The crime lab is verifying that. I asked Blalock for a priority, and they’ve given it to us.”
“Most of the students and the faculty wear Levi’s, Lee’s, or Wranglers. Nobody I know is exactly rich around here. How sure are you of your findings?”
“I’d bet on it. I only asked the state lab in order to confirm it. They have comparison samples of thousands of fibers.”
“Maybe the thread was left by a college official—what do you think?” Ella speculated. “Somebody who makes the big bucks.”
“Well, that would explain the use of the fleet car. But how does that fit the profile? It would have to be a pretty young executive,” Justine said. “I asked around, but the administration couldn’t tell me who used that car last. They said they’d have to have a secretary check the records and leave a message at the station.”
“I think we should go back to the college tomorrow if we haven’t heard by then and knock on doors until we get an answer,” Ella said. “You’re right about the profile. I find it hard to believe that the Packrat would use his own job car to kill Haske, then simply return it when he was done. We should learn how the college assigns and uses their vehicles. If the last person to legally use this car is not our killer, then we need to learn how the Packrat got hold of the key.”
“That’s an important point.” Justine nodded. “I do know that there’s a garage near campus that services the vehicles. It’s a small operation, but the owner gave the college the best bid, and so he got the contract.”
“I’ll go over there and talk to the owner. What do you know about him?”
“His name is John Begay. He doesn’t have any record, except for a few speeding tickets. But I remember something interesting. Several years back John and Daniel Tsosie got drunk and decided to get even with old Henrietta Johnson for something or another. They broke into Henrietta’s home, smashed her things, and scattered ashes over everything. The charges were dropped, because the boys’ parents made restitution. Nowadays, though, John is a good citizen. He’s really too busy with work to have much free time. The garage is a two-man operation. It’s just Darrell Begay and his son John. Darrell has been sick for a long time, so John runs the operation practically by himself. In fact, he lives over the garage. John’s in his mid-twenties, and single.”
“Does he have any other connection to the college?”
“I checked and found out that he used to be a student. I spoke to Furman earlier, and he said he remembered John from one of Kee Dodge’s classes, but that he flunked out.”
“Keep digging. In the meantime, I’m going to pay him a visit.”
“I’ll talk to Furman and try to track down a few of Begay’s professors.”
“Good. I’m on my way.”
“Before you go—” Justine cleared her throat. “There’s something you should know. It seems that Anton Lewis went from jail to the press. He claimed we’re persecuting him because of his religious beliefs.”
“That’s a crock of—”
“I know, but he was quoted as saying that he’s no different from others who have special powers, like you and your brother.”
“You’re not serious. They printed that?”
“Yeah. I’ve pretty much covered the gist of what they wrote, but I can get you the paper if you want to see for yourself. It’s still in my lab, I think.”
“I better read the whole article, but I’ll buy my own copy. Don’t worry about it.” Ella walked to the newspaper box at the front of the station, dropped in two quarters, and retrieved the latest issue. At a glance she could see that the murders were the top story of the day. Unfortunately the crimes had been linked by the author to the accidents and coal mine closings under the headline “NAVAJO TRIBE UNDER SIEGE.”
Ella returned to her car and dropped the paper on the seat next to her. As she drove away, she couldn’t resist snatching quick glances. Sadie Morgan’s death had started an outcry about the police department’s inability to catch the perp. Ella, in particular, was under fire because of the prediction that the Dineh would continue to suffer heavily until the killer was stopped.
Ella thought of Begay. Here at least was a lead she could follow up right now. Ella drove down the highway, exceeding the speed limit by a good fifteen miles per hour. She still hadn’t had anything to eat. After she finished with Begay, she’d stop someplace and grab a quick meal.
A short while later, El
la pulled up beside a newly painted auto repair shop about three miles down the road from the college. She recognized the place. A long time ago, before it had been within miles of anything, men would meet there to shoot craps and drink beer, both illegal on the Rez. Then Shiprock had expanded outward from the river, and now a modernized building with a two-service-bay garage had replaced the ramshackle tarpaper shack.
Ella left the Jeep and approached the office, where a man sat behind a desk reading a newspaper. As she walked inside the small air-conditioned office, Ella braced herself, determined not to let the article undermine her in any way. “I need to see John Begay.”
The young man glanced up and gave her a wary look. “Who are you?”
Ella flashed her badge. “You’re John Begay?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.
“Yeah. What do you want?”
Ella noticed his shoes. He wore dirty cross-trainers, and they appeared to be about the right size. “I’d like to ask you about the fleet cars you service. Who brings them in and keeps track of their maintenance records?”
“I do. Is there a problem?”
Ella ignored the question. “How do you decide which cars to service? I’d like you to tell me the process you follow.”
“Did one of the cars I repaired break down again?” he demanded. “I swear, the college gets me for peanuts, but holds me responsible for every little thing. I do all my work to factory specs.”
“Just tell me the process you follow.”
“It’s no big deal. I keep track of each car’s mileage, and I go by there at least twice a week to check them out. When they need oil changes, or tune-ups, I bring them here.”
“What if the car needs body repair work?”
“If it’s minor, I bring in someone, like my cousin who works in Farmington. Otherwise it’s not part of what they contract me for.”
Ella was wondering why the car’s damage had not been discovered by Begay. “Do you do a walk-around to check the body every time you record mileage on the vehicles?”
