Ever calm, David keyed the radio mike. “Am I gonna find some coffee when I get there?”
Elliott blurted out a rush of Ojibway.
David keyed the mike again. “English, Elliott. You know the Bayfield County boys are listening. You’re only suppose to speak English when you’re on the air.”
Elliott Raven informed David in Ojibway that the Bayfield County deputies were all the sons of low-down stinky skunks.
Chuckling, David replied evenly, “Yeah, but your sister loves ’em.”
The dispatcher squawked irately. Over Elliott’s noise, David asked a sensitive question. “Have you sent a car to the … incident?”
“Niji (Two).”
David winced. Two units meant something big. Before Elliott could tell both him and the Bayfield County sheriff’s department just what that something was, David threw away his own rule about speaking only English over the airwaves.
Elliott quickly countered with “Nin nissitawendan. My lips is zipped. Over an’ out, an’ ten-four.”
A pained expression stealing over his handsome face, David replaced the mike.
Three game wardens were standing in the parking lot that fronted the plain single-storied station shared by the police department and the tribal game wardens. The rez cops and the wardens were not happy office-mates. The wardens’ main complaint was that the cops habitually parked anywhere they wanted to, only rarely in designated areas. The game wardens were fussy guys. Just for spite David rolled between the white lines, came to a stop in the slot marked CHIEF WARDEN, and shut off the engine. The furious wardens were on him the second he climbed out of the car. He was head and shoulders taller than any of them, but this was one morning when his superior height failed to intimidate.
“What are you doing here?” one of them asked, his tone incredulous. “Ain’t you supposed to be over at the Tribal Courthouse?”
With practiced calm, David checked his wristwatch, a Christmas gift from one of his nephews. Peter Pan’s stubbier arm was pointing to the eight while the longer one was pointing at the two. Eight-ten.
The Moccasin Telegraph was scary. If the game wardens already knew the strictly official police business, they’d likely already spread said strictly official business. Then too there was the problem of privately owned scanners. Every family on the rez owned one. They might not be able to afford TV, but man, they had a scanner. It had to be a nosy Indian thing. David didn’t know any white people who even wanted a scanner. Adjusting the baseball cap on his head, David ambled by the game wardens, felt three pairs of eyes glaring at him. He refused to appear rushed, keeping his long-legged stride even.
Elliott met him at the door, pulling it open with such force that David found himself being hurtled inside. The first sight visitors saw was the battered wooden reception counter, where the public met the police. Behind the counter was an open squad room furnished with five gray metal desks. The windows on the wall directly behind the desks were covered by partially opened Venetian blinds, the weak morning sun filtering through the slats onto the gritty linoleum floor. To the extreme left of the room stood a long cabinet and desk, Elliott Raven’s domain. The cabinet contained the bulky radio and telephones that comprised the woefully out-of-date com line. The desktop was a mare’s nest of thick books and papers.
The wall to the right of the counter had no windows, as on the other side of the wall was the game wardens’ haunt. This dividing wall was decorated with the obligatory Chippewa Nation Seal, framed photographs of Tribal Chairman Perry Frenchette and Vice Chairman Amos Baptiste, a group photo of the current ruling council members, and a shot of David dressed in a suit, white shirt, and tie.
Appropriately, next to David’s framed photo was a huge cork bulletin board littered with Wanted posters. The entire room was illuminated twenty-four hours a day by ceilinghung fluorescent lights concealed under aged opaque plastic squares. To the extreme right was the door to David’s cramped office, which also doubled—when needs must—as an interrogation room.
“Man, am I glad you’re here!” Elliott exclaimed. “Frenchette’s screamin’ his guts out. He’s been callin’ here every five seconds.” The phone began to ring. Elliott glared at the phone.
“I just know that’s him. You get it. I don’t think he likes me. And unlike some …”—he eyed David meaningfully—“I voted for him.”
David went for the telephone on the counter while Elliott checked on the progress of the coffeepot. As he lifted the receiver David heard the voice of the Tribal Chairman. The man sounded as if he were on the verge of a stroke.
“Would you mind explaining just what you’re doing over there when I specifically told that chucklehead to direct you straight to the courthouse?”
“Uhh, officers were dispatched—”
“Yes!” the chairman snapped. “They’re here right now. What I’m calling to find out is just where the hell my personally appointed police chief might be!” In a lowered, menacing tone, he said, “You’re making me look like a fool, David. And as you well know, I’m not the sort to forget anyone who makes me look like a fool.”
What David wanted to say was “It’s not even eightthirty. What the hell are you doing at the courthouse this early?” What he said was “I’ll be right over.”
“I hope you’re awake enough to remember to call Bayfield County.” On that sarcastic note, the Tribal Chairman slammed down the phone.
David no longer needed Elliott to tell him all that much. Which was good, because his dispatcher could handle only one thing at a time. At that moment Elliott was mentally and emotionally involved with the percolator, busily jiggling the cord in an all-out effort to encourage the appliance to accept electrical juice from the wall socket. One of these days they would throw the fixed budget to the wind and raid petty cash. Still, badly as his department needed something a bit more modern and reliable, today was not a good day to yearn for a new coffeemaker. If Perry Frenchette was anxious to have Bayfield County called in, that could mean only a major infraction of rez and civil law. And at the Tribal Courthouse, of all places.
David punched in the number. After two rings he heard, “Bayfield County Sheriff. How may I help you.” The latter was not a question, merely the end of a wearily delivered opener.
“Yeah, this is Police Chief Lameraux over here in Red Cliff. We have a felony.”
Completely interested now, the deputy sat straight up in the chair, gripped the receiver tightly with one hand as the other scrambled to find a usable pen lurking somewhere in his desk drawer. Finding one, then rapidly running the tip back and forth over the blotter to make certain the ballpoint had ink, he said crisply, “Exact location?”
“Tribal Courthouse just off Highway 13.”
“Exact nature of the crime?”
Oops. David recovered quickly. “Hang on for a second. My other line’s ringing.” He pushed the Hold button, turned, and yelled at Elliott: “Did Perry bother to say what the hell happened?”
Beaming with pride now that the percolator was finally making a satisfactory ploop, ploop sound, Elliott replied, “He didn’t need to. His sister-in-law Thelma told me straight from the get-go. It was her that found Judah Boiseneau with his brains blown out.”
“Ho-wah!” (Untranslatable.)
Elliott wasn’t finished. “According to Thelma, Benny did the shootin’.”
“Benny Peliquin?” David cried.
“That’d be him. Thelma said Benny showed up at the office late last night and that him an’ Jud started in to having a big old yelling fight. Got real ugly, so she left.”
Fuming, David yelled, “I wish you’d told me even just a little bit of this before I started fumble-gumming with Bayfield.”
“Well, I didn’t know you was callin’ ’em, did I?”
Elliott’s form of logic was just a little too tough to tackle first thing in the morning. Gazing at his dispatcher with a thoroughly beaten expression, David sighed and responded, “Elliott, get on the horn and call Me
l. Tell him to get over to Benny’s and pick him up.”
Elliott hurried to his desk, sat down to go to work on the com line. David went back on the line, sounding just as official as he could manage.
“What we have is a homicide. The victim is male, early thirties. His name is Judah Boiseneau and he was employed as our tribal attorney. He was killed in his office and discovered this A.M. by Mrs. Thelma Frenchette. I have two officers on site keeping the crime scene intact. Mrs. Frenchette has also named a possible.”
“And can I have that name?”
“Hey,” David replied cheerily, “you sure can.” But without giving the name, a tactic intended to ensure that someone from Bayfield County actually put in an appearance, David hung up.
In Washburn, Michael Bjorke, only recently arrived from Madison, looked at the receiver in his hand and swore a blue streak. Meanwhile, Elliott Raven was pouring steaming brew into a Styrofoam cup and then passing it to Police Chief David Lameraux as David turned away from the counter.
David kept his head down as he walked across the lot carrying his second cup of coffee of the day. He passed by the game wardens as they stood, arms folded across their chests, their interest riveted on the doings just over the little footbridge spanning the narrow creek that separated the parking lot for the Tribal Courthouse from that for the police/game warden department. The tribal ambulance was already in the other lot and pedestrian traffic was becoming brisk as people living in houses just across the way scooted back and forth from their homes to the courthouse trying to find out what was going on. From seemingly nowhere, folks who didn’t live anywhere in the immediate area were trotting across Blueberry Road in the hopes of having a gander, too. Boy-hidey. This morning’s activity sure beat the boogers out of the excitement generated a couple of weeks ago when a light plane put down on Highway 13. Lucky for the pilot that stretch was fairly straight and relatively untraveled at three in the afternoon. Otherwise … well, no one could really think of a really good otherwise.
Three
Richard Blankenship, M.D., born and bred on the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina, came to the small hospital on Red Cliff rez a decade earlier. Unlike the thoroughly modern and touristy Cherokee rez, Red Cliff had no neon signs, fastfood outlets, or hotels. Ricky Blankenship fell in love with Red Cliff for all of these reasons. The remoteness of the reservation worked to make Red Cliff one of the few unspoiled sections left in Indian Country. Remoteness and unspoiled scenic beauty suited Doc Ricky right down to his toes. After ten years, first as an intern, then as a staff doctor, Ricky became chief of staff.
Being chief of staff meant that when he wasn’t treating an overabundance of patients or acting as the lone medical examiner, he also worked the telephones, recruiting likely interns right out of med schools. Doc Ricky had to beat the bushes on a close-to-daily basis, as newly ordained doctors had a tendency to come and then go the very day their six months were up. Doctoring Indians looked a heck of a lot better on a resume than it was in actual practice, largely due to the quirk that even when sick or in pain, Indians don’t like to complain—most especially to someone they don’t know. This characteristic creates the worst patients ever known to Hippocrates. In the main, Indians going to a rez clinic must persevere until they are rewarded with a turn at a doctor. Then when their turn comes, they invariably sit like brooding lumps fully expecting that if the doctor is any good at all, he will be able to guess what’s wrong. Unfortunately, med schools aren’t in the business of cranking out good guessers, and as a result, non-Indian interns working for the Indian Health Services typically count the days and hours until they are free to flee the reservation.
To his tremendous relief Doc Ricky has never needed to recruit nurses, as a host of Chippewa women from Red Cliff and the surrounding Ojibway reservations are fully licensed RNs. There were an equal number still in training. And every last one of them wanted to work on her home reservation. The blessing was, Chippewa nurses weren’t in medicine to make big money, have a career. They didn’t mind the low pay or the long hours, as these women had gone off to nursing schools with the sole aim of giving back to their communities. Which made them excellent nurses. And when assisting a new staff intern thoroughly baffled by his first stone-silent Indian patient, great guessers.
A tall, stringy man, Richard Blankenship was nearly as blind as a black water turtle, unable, without thickly lensed glasses, to see anything beyond a blur. He was a good doctor with an incredibly busy life that made him habitually late for absolutely everything. Everyone on Red Cliff swore by Doc Ricky, were willing to wait in the clinic for as long as it took in order to have five minutes of the man’s time. Because Doc Ricky was a Shinabe, an Indian, he was the only doctor in the clinic able to look into his patients’ eyes, ears, noses, and throats and know the medicines that would make them feel better. All those young Chamook doctors knew how to do was talk, talk, talk.
But dealing with violent death, most notably a murder … well, the whole thing made Doc Ricky nervous as hell. And when he was nervous, Doc Ricky could be something of a wild card.
Doc Ricky was an entire pack of wild cards just at the moment, and because of this, the second he was escorted by a policeman back down the hallway and into the reception area of the courthouse, two secretaries were prepared to grab and mother the whey out of him, bringing him coffee, even allowing him to smoke, an action the two women under normal circumstances absolutely forbade. But Doc Ricky’d had a nasty shock, and God knew this wasn’t a normal morning. Once Doc Ricky was settled, the two went back to giving short shrift to the multitude of telephone callers. The secretaries weren’t allowed to talk about what was going on, and besides, with David Lameraux in the room, they’d rather look at him than talk on the phone anyway.
If ever there was a man born to melt female hearts, David Lameraux was that man. What made him infinitely more attractive was his obliviousness to his own good looks. In cowboy boots and tight jeans he looked even taller than he actually was, and as the two women allowed their gaze to linger on his wonderfully tight behind, their hands unconsciously fanned deeply flushed faces.
Tribal Chairman Perry Frenchette had David off in the far corner, giving him a healthy dose of his opinion, while apart from them Ricky sat sipping coffee, happily smoking one cigarette after another. It was supposed to be a private telling-off, but with over half of the building closed until the Bayfield County sheriff’s department arrived, there wasn’t any space for a private anything. So of course the two secretaries and Doc Ricky heard everything Perry had to say. Primarily because they were listening intently.
“I’m more than a little distressed by your lackadaisical attitude,” the chairman said flatly. “We have a murder and you just come moseying in here—”
“I moseyed?” David echoed, eyebrows raised.
Frenchette went on as if he hadn’t noticed David’s response. “ … wearing jeans and that damn baseball cap. And when are you going to get yourself a haircut? Regulations state that a policeman’s hair is suppose to be above the collar. You promised you’d have your hair cut, but as anyone can plainly see, it’s still hanging in a ponytail halfway down your back. You’re completely out of uniform, Lameraux. And that’s just what the Bayfield officers will think the second they clamp eyes on you.” The chairman exhaled deeply. He was winding down. “This is my last warning. If you don’t straighten up, you’re going to find yourself out of a job.”
David shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets. Coldly eyeing the chairman, he said evenly, “You want my job, Perry? Hey, you got it. No need to hem and haw. Just go ahead and speak right up.”
Frustration evident, Perry Frenchette cried, “Damn you—”
David drew his hand out like a gun, index finger solidly pressing against the shorter man’s chest. “No! Damn you for always putting the police department last. You can install new carpeting in all the tribal buildings, but you can’t spare a dime for the P.D.”
The chairman�
�s mouth tightened and he jutted out his chin. “The P.D. is practically moot. We have no crime here!”
“Well we have one now!” David scoffed. “And from what I hear, it’s a real beaut.”
The chairman flicked a tongue over dry lips. Resorting to IBM stuffy, he came back with “I have no intention of standing around here arguing the budget. What I expect is that you get on with your job and that you do that job in the most professional manner possible.”
“Of course you do.” David was quick to agree. “But just now I can’t do squat until Bayfield County decides to do me the tremendous favor of poppin’ on by. And you expect me to play dress-up for that bunch?” David sent the chairman a scathing look. “Man, that’ll be the day. I stay just as I am or you put out your hand for my badge. It’s your choice, Perry.”
His face red with anger, Perry Frenchette spun on his heel, storming off along the corridor. Everyone heard the door of the office he’d commandeered slam, felt the walls quake. When David turned his head, the secretaries in the reception triangle suddenly became very busy. With the blasted phones ringing down the ceiling, appearing busy wasn’t hard. But David knew every word that had been traded between himself and the chairman had been heard and soaked up faster than a biscuit sopping gravy. It was also a certainty that as soon as he went off down the hall, was out of earshot, the fleet-footed Moccasin Telegraph would again be sent into action.
Murder on the Red Cliff Rez Page 3
