Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  While he would have much preferred to be tinkering on a carburetor, Fowler knew it would be worth his time if he discovered any of the beer-can prints matched those lifted from the corkscrew.

  Fowler also knew it was a long shot. Chances were the murderer was not one of the men at last night’s campfire. On the other hand, in his career Fowler had seen weirder long shots break the ribbon. Everyone in the group had known Doris. After last fall and the stag party, all were in a position to be compromised. Maybe a few had seen her later. Maybe she’d made some threats. Maybe there was something with the land deal that Fowler didn’t know about. This was a small community. Even Fowler, closer than most to the under-currents, didn’t understand all of what roiled beneath the surface. It wouldn’t hurt to eliminate the long-shot possibility – or to confirm it.

  Fowler continued his work. He knew full well that establishing a match would not give him the murderer’s identification, for at this point, of course, he had no way of confirming who had held which can of beer. Yet, if he did find a match on one of the cans, he would know for certain the murderer had been one of the men at the campfire. If the long shot came in, man by man, he would find a way to get each man’s fingerprints and narrow it down.

  Fowler took another deep breath and bent over the next aluminum can. Yes, if one of the seven had indeed killed the Flathead woman, the knowledge would be leverage of incredible value against men with far more money and connections than Fowler. If anything went wrong with the land deal, Fowler would have something with which to protect himself.

  Six more cans and nearly two hours later, Fowler banged his fist on the workbench in triumph. He’d found a match! One man out of the campfire’s seven was now only a sheriff’s report away from a conviction of deliberate homicide. And in Montana, that meant execution by rope or lethal injection. How much more power could Fowler ask for?

  5:20 p.m.

  Harold Hairy Moccasin led Johnny Samson to a grassy knoll above Flathead Lake. Two men stood in the clearing and waited in silence, each carrying a rifle.

  The first, Nick Buffalo, wore a cowboy hat, jeans, and a red-and-black flannel shirt. He was of medium height, with a body that was muscular, yet graceful.

  Sonny Cutknife, slightly taller and much slimmer than his partner, did not have the luxury of a hat brim over his face. A yellow headband covered most of his broad forehead; a choker of shells covered his neck. He’d woven his hair into two long braids, and he was dressed in buckskin leggings, a clean white T-shirt, and a buckskin vest.

  Two days earlier, Johnny Samson might have been intimidated by the two men, who were a good ten years older than he was; he might have been intimidated by their rifles and their silence. Not now. Yesterday had aged him. Miserable from a hangover, and much more miserable because of his sister’s death, he hardly cared that they wanted to see him and had chosen a lonely spot that was a two-mile hike up from Harold Hairy Moccasin’s truck.

  “Nobody followed you?” Nick asked Harold.

  Harold waved carelessly behind him. “You think maybe they can sneak up on us? Remember, we’re the redskins.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Nick said, unamused.

  “Cool it, Nick,” Sonny said. “Harold’s not the one that took out Doris.”

  Harold gave a lopsided grin of submission to both of them. He reached into his back pocket and took out a flask of rye whiskey. He unscrewed the cap, took a hit, and passed the bottle to Nick. Nick flung the bottle without watching its flight through the air.

  “Harry, get the party thing out of your head,” Nick said. “That’s not what we’re about.”

  Harold stared after the bottle, pulling nervously at his nine straggling chin hairs.

  Sonny addressed Johnny. “Don’t let Nick give you a bad impression. Normally, he doesn’t say much. Maybe you didn’t know. He was sweet on Doris. Helped her move into her apartment even. Did you know that?”

  “Shut up, Sonny.” Nick said to Johnny, “I was just being nice. Nothing happened between me and her. Sonny’s got a big mouth.”

  Sonny shrugged. He rested his rifle in the crook of his left arm. “So you tell him what we’re about.”

  Nick glared at Sonny and moved away from the three of them to sit on the grass and stare at the lake. Harold went in the opposite direction. He hadn’t heard the smash of breaking glass and was hoping the bottle had dropped through some bushes to land intact and upright.

  “Go ahead,” Sonny invited Johnny. “Sit down. Relax. I want to talk to you.”

  Johnny had a half-frown on his face as he looked at Sonny.

  “I know,” Sonny said, “Sometimes I sound different. Blame it on the university. I slip up and talk educated white.”

  Johnny’s frown deepened.

  “Bureau of Indian Affairs broke up my family when I was a baby. Sent my older brothers and sisters to boarding schools. Me, they put in an orphanage. I was adopted by a white family,” Sonny explained. “Christian do-gooders, determined to do mission work at home. They sent me to college.” He grinned. “But don’t worry. I’m no apple.”

  “Apple?” Johnny said. Events seemed to be happening all around him, and he was doing his best to keep them straight. Home schooling was good, he knew, but sometimes he had a difficult time with lingo that others took for granted.

  “Apple. Red on the outside, white on the inside. Someone who has sold out to the European colonizers. I ditched my family the day I graduated.”

  “Oh,” Johnny said.

  “Yeah. See, what I learned in school was how badly we’d been treated. The first step to freedom was to set myself loose. Get back to our traditions. That’s what we’re about. There’s not many of us yet, but give us time.”

  “Oh,” Johnny said.

  “Second step... well, that’s why we asked Harold to bring you here.”

  Johnny waited. What could they want from him? He didn’t have money. He’d worked at the McNeill ranch two summers now. So had Nick and Sonny, and they had never bothered to talk to him much. Not that Johnny expected it, being so young and all.

  “Are you angry?” Sonny asked.

  Johnny thought that through. Doris was dead. He still couldn’t believe it. He wanted to find the person who killed Doris. Then everyone would see how angry he was.

  “Of course you’re angry, Johnny. Ever heard of the American Indian Movement? The leaders, they got it right on. You live in a system that puts you in the ghettos, man. They throw a few material possessions at you and expect you to be happy. You see families on the reservation living in abandoned car bodies all winter long. There are boarding schools with teachers who abuse young boys. I could tell you things that would make you scream with rage. And the things they did to put us here. Broke treaties. Killed us with their whiskey and disease. When that didn’t work, they starved us and raped our women. Of course you’re angry.”

  Johnny Samson thought of his grandfather, of his slow, dignified ways, and his calm acceptance of life in the hills. Maybe the old ones didn’t see the world in the way that they should.

  “Not only have they have robbed us of our land, but worse, of our tradition. They want to Europeanize us. We, who have lived in harmony with the Great Mother Earth for centuries. We know that humans do not have the right to degrade Mother Earth. Europeans have not only abused us, they have abused the earth and poisoned the air. They do this and feel no sense of loss. They turn the mountains into gravel. The lakes become coolant for their factories, and we are shoved aside to live in ghettos.”

  Johnny wouldn’t ever brag he knew much, but he was willing to guess Sonny had made this speech a few times before. It had that kind of cadence. Still, it was impressive.

  “Europeans, they know nothing of truth,” Sonny said. “To them, truth is what they tried to teach me in college. Truth to them is the latest theory. But as soon as the theory is improved, the truth changes. So for them, the truth shifts. We know truth, Johnny. Our tradition teaches us truth. Truth of spiri
t, truth of the earth, truth of the ages. We are part of that truth. It does not change. Johnny, are you angry?”

  “I could be, maybe, if I work at it,” Johnny said because he felt some reply was expected. “Let me get a hold of the one who killed my sister. That’s where I’m mad.”

  Sonny wasn’t listening. “The do-gooders, they sent me to Sunday school. I learned about Moses. He had his own tribe, captive in Egypt, long ago when our people were free to roam this great land and hunt the buffalo and to fish clean lakes. Moses went to the pharaoh and said, let our people go. That’s what we have to say, Johnny. Let our people go. The pharaoh didn’t listen to Moses, not until the plagues. Well, you look around, you see plenty of plagues inflicted on the whites: Violence in the cities, people homeless, parents abusing children, hospitals filled with people dying of cancer from the poisoned air and poisoned water. Trouble is, man, those same plagues have been inflicted on us.”

  He shook his head in theatrical anger. “That train, man? The one that crashed last week? You know how bad it was, spilled those chemicals on reservation land.”

  “I know how bad it was,” Johnny said. “Some of it spilled on my grandfather’s land.”

  “See?” Sonny said. “See? A plague indicted right on you.”

  Sonny paused and beamed his wisdom at Johnny. “What’s right and true is that we find a way to inflict plagues on the whites. Until they set us free.”

  Sonny patted Johnny on the back. “We want you to join us, my young brother. Make them pay the price for what they did to your sister. Make them pay the price for taking our land. Help us set the plagues loose.”

  “How do I do that?” Johnny asked.

  “For a start,” Sonny said, “you don’t do anything different, except at the ranch. Hang out more with us instead of going back to your grandfather’s cabin every night. Maybe we’ll work it so you spend time with me and Nick.”

  “Nick?” Johnny wondered how much fun it would be to work with Nick.

  “Sure,” Sonny said. “We’re going to let you join our little club. All you got to do then is wait for what happens next. We promise, it will be worth the wait. Whites will pay. For everything – including your sister.”

  Johnny thought about it for a moment. He didn’t really want to be part of any war, but he’d be putting in his time as a ranch hand anyway. And if along the way Sonny and Nick happened to give him the chance to get the person who got Doris, so much the better.

  “Sure,” he said. After all, what harm was there in going along for the ride? He could always hop off later, couldn’t he?

  6:20 p.m.

  “Garner,” Flannigan said without preamble, “make any progress today?”

  “Sure,” Clay said. “This phone call.”

  “Eh?”

  “You called back. It’s the best I’ve been able to do today. You’d think I’d rolled around with a dead skunk as much as I could find anyone who wanted to answer questions.”

  Flannigan laughed. “Looked in a mirror lately?”

  “This motel wall is bad enough.” Clay was leaning forward at the small desk, frowning at the dull brown paint. “I don’t need my reflection to make it worse.”

  “Suit and tie and haircut, Garner. You might as well stamp FBI across your forehead. We’re not the most popular law enforcement agency in the country. And this is at a time when pig is the nicest name they’ll give anyone with a badge. If you’ve been asking questions of reservation people, that’s tougher yet. Wounded Knee is barely over, and they won’t have forgotten it, not by a long shot.”

  Clay sighed. “Thanks for telling me something I didn’t know.”

  “Ask Warner to free budget money for informers.”

  Paying for information was a common FBI tactic if the money were available or if the special agent in charge cared. Clay Garner wasn’t about to tell Flannigan that SAC Edward Warner was a not-so-secret drunk counting out his days until retirement. Many were the agents who wondered what Warner had on the boys at the top to be able to remain entrenched in Great Falls.

  “I appreciate the suggestion,” Clay replied. “But I’m not even sure how long Warner will leave me here in the field.”

  Flannigan laughed his raspy laugh. “The old souse won’t give you a penny. But next report, write some hogwash about the possibility of the American Indian Movement conspiracy. Make sure the report gets past him to Washington. Someone will find money quick enough. Nothing gets wheels turning faster than the threat of commies or revolution. And everyone is still nervous about Wounded Knee.”

  Clay found himself nodding and smiling.

  “Let’s get to it,” Flannigan said. “My wife has threatened to divorce me next time I’m in the office later than nine p.m. I might be able to get away with it twice this week but not three times.”

  “I’ve got the report in front of me,” Clay said quickly.

  “Forget the report. Tell me what you remembered. Reports are for later, when you’re out of gut reaction.”

  Clay began to describe the room and how the sheriff’s men had found Doris Samson, answering Flannigan’s occasional questions as well as he could. Bitter sadness filled him as he spoke. He could not shake his anger at seeing the dead woman, pain twisted on her face.

  “She was fully clothed?” Flannigan interrupted, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard Clay correctly.

  “Fully clothed. No signs of sexual assault.” She’d been bound to the bedposts with strips of towel, and her killer had punctured her clothes and skin with the corkscrew. The blood had seeped through her clothes and soaked the bed as thoroughly as if buckets had been poured on her. But there was nothing to show crazed lust.

  “That definitely points to a first-time kill then,” Flannigan said. “If there is a next time, he’ll be bolder, more sure of himself.”

  “Meaning?”

  Flannigan sighed. “There’s got to be something about the feather in her mouth. If there’s any key at all to understanding serial killers, it’s some kind of sexual frustration. Something in their past keeps them from being able to form a healthy relationship. Your man –”

  “Is that a safe assumption? That the killer is male?”

  “Ninety-nine percent safe assumption. Female serial killers are almost unknown. Figure on male until you see something to indicate otherwise.”

  “Sure,” Clay said. “Sorry for interrupting. This man –”

  “– is inexperienced,” Flannigan said. “He’s maybe fantasized about something like this for years. Then one day he has the chance and makes it reality. Only he was nervous. He didn’t prepare for it. He was afraid of getting caught.”

  “Didn’t prepare?”

  “You said her wrists and ankles had been tied with torn strips of towel. He improvised – did what he could with the material at hand. I’m guessing the same with the corkscrew. Maybe he found it in her purse or in the motel room. This first one, it’s almost like an accident. He gets a kick from it, begins to plan the next one better. He’ll make a killing kit to suit his style. Maybe throw in pieces of rope or a roll of duct tape. Murder weapon. Some we’ve seen make their vans an entire kit. The interstates have become a hunting trail. Once a serial killer pulls a woman inside, no one sees her again.”

  Clay swallowed hard. In the lecture, Flannigan’s theories had been interesting on an intellectual level. Now, however, with the vision of the dead woman so real in his mind, Clay felt chills of horror to think of human predators roaming the highways to pluck victims at random.

  “Can we be certain it will happen again?” Clay asked.

  “Pray it doesn’t. Don’t be surprised if it does. And don’t be surprised if it gets worse. With practice, he’ll be more relaxed, more sophisticated. He’ll have had time to think about it, and he’ll have new ways to experiment.”

  “Flannigan, I want to throw up.” Clay swallowed hard. “How can anyone be so twisted? So evil?”

  There was silence, filled only by the slight stat
ic of the long-distance phone call.

  “God only knows,” Flannigan finally said. The barrier of distance could not disguise the quiet anguish in his answer or the fact he meant his statement literally. “I’ve been asking Him the same question myself for years and still haven’t heard back.”

  More silence. Clay thought of the countless times he’d flung a single angry question upward in the past few years, only to be answered with the stone-cold silence of his own heart.

  “Here’s what you need to do.” Flannigan spoke quickly, as if regretting his lapse into emotion. “Find out as much about her back-ground as possible.”

  “I’m driving out to see her grandfather tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be surprised if he can help you with the questions you really need answered. Was she a barfly? One boyfriend? Or lots of men? Either way, you’re looking for a killer who is smooth with women. Someone smart and probably charming.”

  “The booking of the motel room,” Clay said. It had been one of Flannigan’s first questions earlier.

  “You catch on fast. She signed for the room and the key. Either he had talked her into doing it, or later he talked himself into her room.”

  “Any thoughts on the coin marks?”

  “Marks?” Flannigan repeated.

  “Three circles in the blood."

  “Oh. Right.” Short silence. “No thoughts. Look, send me all the photos and reports you can. I’ll do my best from here. In the meantime, you have a lot of old-fashioned legwork ahead of you. Let me give you three pieces of advice.”

  “Sure.”

  “First piece you probably know, and I hope the local law knows it. Don’t release anything to the public about the feather in her mouth or the three circles in the blood. More often than not, you'll have some loony making a confession. Hold back the details, and if the confession doesn’t match, you know you’ve got someone looking for attention. Also, that way you won’t be fooled by any copycat killings.”