Turquoise Girl

by Thurlo, David

  Ella knew she had to intervene before the two groups met or the situation would spiral out of control. “Keep them outside the fence,” she yelled to Michael as she and Justine passed through the gate.

  When the man with the fire extinguisher tried to douse the fire, one of the protestors, a tall but fit-looking Navajo man, broke the stick holding his sign over the worker’s hard hat, then tore the extinguisher away from the worker’s hands. Without skipping a beat, he ran to the gate and tossed the extinguisher into the windshield of the company’s pickup.

  Ella took advantage of the distraction to grab the bolt cutters from the other worker’s hands, then motioned toward the vandal, who was about to bolt. “Detain him, Officer Goodluck.”

  The protestor ran into the darkness, Justine on his tail.

  Ella whirled around, checking to see what the construction workers were doing.

  Officer Cloud had closed the gate, and was blocking the way with his body now. “Touch the gate, and you’ll get a eyeful of Mace,” he said, the cannister in his hand.

  The redheaded security guard now came over to join Michael, a container of pepper spray in his hand. “Ya’ll back off!”

  “Benjamin Harvey!” Ella shouted, trying to find him among the remaining demonstrators, who’d moved forward to defend their two drummers. He’d been the organizer on the past demonstrations.

  “Yeah, I know. We’re under arrest!” He stepped forward so she could see him, then held out his hands, palms up. “Cuff me. But the Diné will be back!” he announced, turning toward the man with the camera. Unfortunately the guy had disappeared.

  Benjamin looked around, obviously upset that his big moment wasn’t being recorded for posterity. “Where’s the camera?”

  “You’ve made your point, people,” Ella said to the demonstrators. “Go home now, or spend the night in jail.”

  In the distance, she heard the sound of a motorcycle racing off. The perp Justine was chasing must have hidden his transportation elsewhere in the dark.

  “What about my windshield?” the Anglo named Stover asked, coming up to the gate, then stopping as Officer Cloud turned in his direction.

  “One problem at a time, sir,” Ella responded, her eyes searching in the direction Justine had gone. Then her cell phone rang.

  Motioning with her head, Ella gestured for the two construction workers to step back outside the gate, and, as the first one passed, she handed him the bolt cutters.

  “Yeah?” she said into the mouthpiece of her cell, still looking for Justine.

  “One of our officers called in a 10-58, Priority One,” the dispatcher said, giving Ella the address and the details. “We’ve also contacted Agent Blalock of the FBI, but he’s in transit down from Colorado. Your Crime Scene Unit and the ME will meet you on-site. Officer Marianna Talk is there now.”

  Ella took a breath. A 10-58 was a report of a dead body, and Priority One designated it as a murder victim.

  It was going to be one of those nights. Seeing Justine finally returning, alone, Ella glanced around once more, trying to locate the man who’d been filming. If he was trying to get a story, or record the incident, why had he left as soon as the action started? It didn’t make sense.

  “The vandal got away. Had a motorcycle stashed in an arroyo. I suppose you heard?” Justine said, shrugging. “I was able to ID the plate, though. I also called in a description of the perp, and they’re running down the tag already.”

  Ella turned to Michael. “I just received a 10-58 call. Once you get some backup, we’re leaving.”

  “It looks like we’ve got things covered here. Go ahead.” Michael pointed with his lips toward the highway.

  Ella looked past him to see that Officer Philip Cloud, Michael’s twin, had just stepped out of his unit and was walking toward the crowd. Sergeant Joe Neskahi was with him.

  As the officers approached the fence the protestors began to walk toward their own vehicles.

  Ella surveyed the scene. The gate was all the way open now, and two of the construction workers were shoveling sand onto the burning logs while the young security guard watched. Other workers were already climbing into their vehicles, knowing they’d have to move off the road to let the protesters leave. “The crisis here is over. It’s time for us to move on,” Ella said.

  Stover came up to join them. “If you catch the guy who busted my windshield, my company will be pressing charges.”

  “We’ve got a lead on him,” Ella answered. “One of our officers will get your statement, and you’ll be contacted.”

  Ella and Justine were on their way a short time later. Yet, knowing what lay ahead, Ella remained tense as they raced to downtown Shiprock.

  “Where did they find the body?” Justine asked, her eyes on the scant traffic. With a four-lane highway and the divider between east- and westbound lanes, they could make good time this time of night.

  “In the apartment just behind the Morning Stop,” Ella said. “Are you familiar with that café?”

  Justine nodded. “They fix a decent breakfast burrito. Stan Brewster, an Anglo, runs it these days. His wife is Navajo, and she actually owns the place.” Justine checked her watch. “But the place has been closed for hours. Brewster only caters to the breakfast and lunch crowd. I think they close at two or three P.M.”

  “We don’t have an ID on the victim, but the first officer on the scene was the rookie Marianna Talk,” Ella said. “She comes from a traditionalist family so she won’t want names mentioned if at all possible,” Ella said. “Just a heads-up.” Although tribal police officers adapted to the demands of the job, some habits were too deeply ingrained. “Apparently Marianna responded to an anonymous tip.”

  “Will Agent Blalock meet us there?” Justine asked.

  Ella shook her head. “He’s in transit from Colorado, so we’ll be working the scene on our own.”

  The relationship between the FBI and the tribal police had been very strained at one time. The law dictated that the FBI had to be involved in felony investigations because if prosecution followed, the case would be handled in federal court. Yet the Bureau’s presence had served to antagonize more than help. Special Agent Dwayne Blalock and she went way back and, after a few rocky years, they’d finally learned to work well together.

  Justine raced down the road with lights flashing. No need for sirens, they were too late to do anything for the victim. But crime scenes were fragile things, and they had no way of knowing what vital evidence might remain outside, exposed to the elements. Crucial evidence could already have blown away.

  “Has Ralph been called yet?” Justine said. These days their Crime Scene Unit was comprised of only three regulars—Ella, Justine, and their photographer, Officer Ralph Tache. Sergeant Joseph Neskahi often came in on special assignments, but the rest of the time he was involved in routine patrol duty.

  Ella nodded. “Dispatch made the call. He’ll be there. And so will Carolyn,” she said, referring to the tribe’s ME. Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse was one of a kind—a Navajo woman who was a forensic pathologist. The tribe had paid for her education and though that debt had been paid many times over, Carolyn had chosen to remain on the reservation, using her skills on behalf of the tribe. Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse served above and beyond New Mexico’s centralized OMI system, and was a valuable asset to the Navajo Nation. Yet fear of the chindi had made her a virtual pariah around many Navajos. Few wanted to be around someone who worked with the dead.

  Justine pulled into the small parking lot in front of the Morning Stop Café, located just east of the downtown junction with Highway 491. The officer at the scene had cordoned off the area with police tape, so they had to park about fifty feet away from the front entrance.

  Ella got out first, and went directly to meet Officer Talk, who was standing just outside the tape perimeter. The rookie officer had to look much younger than she was, since the department didn’t take sixteen-year-olds. Officer Talk was barely five foot two, and that height was enhanced by
the boots she was wearing. Although she was standing guard like a professional, protecting the crime scene, Ella saw the slight tremor in her hands as she raised up the yellow tape to let Ella pass beneath.

  “I don’t have much to give you, Investigator,” she said, turning to speak across the barrier but avoiding using Ella’s name. “I responded to an anonymous tip that came through Dispatch at twenty-two-fifteen. A man who wouldn’t give his name reported a break-in at this location and claimed he’d heard a woman screaming. The call has already been traced to the pay phone just down the highway at the Quick Stop. I was dispatched Code Three Priority One, and was promised backup as soon as possible.”

  Ella sensed the struggle going on inside Marianna Talk, who was fighting hard to keep a tight lid on her emotions. The jargon helped neutralize the reality sometimes, but Ella was willing to bet this had been her first Code Three—emergency—and Priority One—homicide—call. Although as an officer for the tribal police, Marianna must have known she’d quite possibly be the only one at the scene for some time, the reality of it must have hit her hard. Her upbringing as a Navajo told her that staying near a corpse was dangerous, yet her duty as an officer demanded the opposite.

  “When I arrived on scene, it was quiet,” she said in an unnatural but steady voice, as Justine passed by. “Nothing seemed out of order, and there were no individuals in the area. I checked out the doors and windows of the café, but there was no sign of entry, forced or otherwise. So I went around back to the other building, the apartment, I guess it is. That’s when I saw that the door had been forced. Inside it’s a mess and the body…well, once you go inside, the sounds reported by the witness who made the call will make a lot of sense.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “No, ma’am. I left everything as it was then came out here to secure the scene.”

  “Excellent. You’ve done a good job, Officer.”

  Officer Talk nodded, then glanced down the highway watching for additional units. “Unless you need me, I’ll remain outside the perimeter and provide security while your team works.”

  Ella stepped carefully into the apartment, what might have been called a cottage in other regions, pulling on latex gloves—two pairs—as she did. The extra set of gloves would insure she didn’t touch anything that had come into contact with the dead. Not that she was a traditionalist, but some teachings went too deep to ignore. The practice of wearing two sets of gloves was one followed by most of the officers in the force and, in particular, those in her Crime Scene Unit.

  Justine, who’d been taking photos around the entrance, followed Ella inside, evidence kit in hand. Ella paused, taking in the small, simply furnished three-room apartment at a glance. The place had been tossed and, judging from the blood splattered all around including the floral patterned wallpaper, Ella suspected the victim had been beaten, and probably hadn’t gone down easily.

  After doing a preliminary walk-through, she called back to Justine. “Body’s in the bedroom. From the wounds and the blood splatter it appears the vic was either knocked into the wall mirror or she fell into it during the fight.”

  Ella focused on the victim, her concentration total as she studied the way the killer had posed the body. He’d arranged her in a kneeling position against the side of the bed, as if in prayer. Her hair was still a bit damp, and had been dripping water discolored by blood at one time. A jish, a medicine bundle filled with pollen and soil, had been tied to one of her wrists and a closed Bible was on the bed in front of her, a handwritten note on top of it. Ella acknowledged the other evidence, but continued to concentrate on the victim.

  “Bathtub’s full,” Justine said, “the water is bloody, and there is a lot of spillage on the floor. Maybe a forced baptism—after at least some of the cuts were inflicted?”

  Ella focused on the immediate area around the body. It had been cleaned up…staged. Paper towels had been used to wipe away some of the spilled blood and water from the carpet. The wastebasket against the wall was full of bloody paper towels. Streaks on the carpet made it clear it hadn’t just been the perp’s intention to clean the blood off himself. Her initial impression that it had been a simple burglary gone bad faded as she took in the facts.

  Ella moved to the side of the bed to take a better look at the victim’s face. “I know—knew her,” she said, feeling as if someone had just knocked the wind out of her.

  Though her nose had been broken, and possibly some facial bones as well, Ella recognized Valerie Tso. Her daughter Boots—Jennifer—was Dawn’s babysitter. Deep cuts and bruises covered her naked arms, but she’d been dressed in her Sunday best. Her clothes were clean and undamaged and the absence of blood around her facial cuts told Ella that Valerie had been dressed after her death—once her body had finished bleeding out.

  Blocking the emotions running through her, Ella looked for defensive wounds on the body—torn fingernails and bruises on her hands. She was surprised to find only a few cuts on her palms and fingers, ones she might have easily inflicted on herself as she tried to rise off a floor littered with broken glass. Finally, she examined the note that had been left on top of the Bible.

  “‘The Lord has made all things for himself: yea, even the wicked for the day of evil. Proverbs 16:4,’” Ella read out loud without touching it. “If you’ve got enough photos now, bag and tag this, partner. Maybe the killer left us more than he intended.”

  Justine had already returned her camera to its storage bag. She placed the note in a transparent evidence pouch, then held it up and studied it for a moment. “What the heck is it supposed to mean? God made the wicked for a reason?”

  “I’m sure there are numerous interpretations. Maybe the perp was using Scripture to justify his own actions.” The scriptural passage teased her memory, but she couldn’t quite get a handle on where she’d heard it before. From her father? He’d been a preacher…. Yet she was sure it hadn’t been one of his favorite or often mentioned quotes. Her father had preferred to emphasize hope, faith, and good works rather than punishment and retribution.

  Pushing those thoughts from her mind for now, Ella looked around. “I don’t see any paper or pens around that might have been used to write the note, do you?” Ella asked, searching.

  “No, not in the bedroom,” Justine answered, bringing out the camera again to take more photos of the cleaned-up sections on the worn carpet. “It’s interesting that the killer didn’t just pose the body, he also tried to clean the immediate area up a bit, too. The only part of this room that’s not a mess is within four or five feet of the victim.”

  Ella saw the dried blood on the broken mirror and on the pieces of glass that lay scattered on the floor. Streaks showed where the killer had pushed some of the pieces out of the clean zone, probably with his foot. There was even some blood splattered on the ceiling. “Maybe the blood’s not all hers. She may have taken a chunk out of her killer,” Ella said, then took a deep, steadying breath.

  “Hey, you okay?” Justine asked.

  Ella nodded. “According to what I’ve heard, mostly from my mother, the victim worked here at the diner and got free rent. She was just starting to get her life together again and was hoping to patch things up with her daughter.”

  “Your mother’s best friend is the victim’s mother, isn’t she?” Justine asked.

  Ella nodded. “And my mother will be right beside the victim’s family, demanding answers, when she finds out what happened. This won’t be just another case. It hit too close to home. This one’s personal.” Valerie Tso’s life had ended, but Ella’s work was just beginning.

  Two

  Ella waited as Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse studied the body, then began the task of bagging the victim’s hands. “She’s been dead for about four hours, give or take—a wide range. The body’s muscles are starting to stiffen a bit now, suggesting the onset of rigor mortis. But the amount of work the muscles did before death can throw that off. The body temperature is in a range that supports my general
estimate, too, but that reading would be affected by the amount of time the body remained in cold water. The perp must have worked hard to put her in this position, though. Notice that the bed itself is propping her up. And take a look at this.”

  Carolyn lifted the body up a few inches, and Ella could see a shoestring attached to the victim’s collar, then to the mattress frame.

  “Kept her from falling back, or to the side,” Ella observed.

  “The lividity, the discoloration of the body—pink as you can see in areas where her clothes are still wet—means the perpetrator didn’t bother drying her off before dressing her. That cooled her body, too, as well. So the time of death is still shaky, thought I’d say anywhere from two to maybe five hours ago is a fair estimate. I’ll try to narrow it down a bit more for you when I do the autopsy.”

  “The bathtub’s full. She may have been drowned….” Ella said.

  “If she was alive when she was put in the tub, I’ll know when I examine the body back at the morgue. But considering the punctures on her hands and slashes on her wrists, with pieces of glass still imbedded there, I would have expected to see more blood in the tub. I took a look.”

  “There’s still a lot of blood around, but not on her….” Ella observed.

  “He may have changed her clothing, or dressed her, after the body bled out,” Carolyn answered.

  “That never ceases to amaze me. You can be dead and still bleed for a while,” Ella said.

  “Thirty to sixty minutes after death, the blood becomes in-coagulable. Fibrinolysins do the job.” Carolyn’s gaze was focused solely on the body. “I’ll have a cause of death to you by tomorrow.”