by John Turney
“I didn’t steal nothing from no museum. It was the crazy woman. A lawyer. I want—”
“I don’t care. Lawyers are for US citizens.” Rye had just stretched the truth again but figured the prisoner wouldn’t know American jurisprudence. “You’re one scrawny dude. I bet there’s more than one bubba in the penitentiary who’d love to make you his girlfriend.”
“No, no. That won’t happen. Demonio Amo won’t—” he stopped for several seconds, his eyes darting around the room. Then, Idiota continued with a defeated voice, “Allow it.”
Rye wheeled on the prisoner. “And who is Demonio Amo? ANSWER ME!”
The prisoner lowered his head and sobbed. He shook bodily from crying. When he looked up at Rye, tears stained his splotched cheeks and ran off his chin. “Please help me. Demonio is one very evil man. I fear him more than God. He sell drugs north of border and buy guns from some Americano gringo and bring south into Mexico.” Resignation filled the man’s voice. “Okay, my name I tell you. I am Rod Valdez, and I am now one dead man. Can I see a lawyer now? For my son, I need to make out—how do you Americanos say—my last will and testament.”
CHAPTER 6
LATE WEDNESDAY MORNING
“We’re done here. Do the pre-book,” Rye told Whitewolf. “Escort Mr. Valdez to lock-up.”
“Chief, we need to talk—” Whitewolf started to say.
“Start the deportation process,” Rye said, glaring at the prisoner one last time before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and measured his strides down the hall, his footsteps squeaking on the polished tile floors. The desire to punch a hole in the wall would have overwhelmed him had he not pushed it deep down into his soul. Finding Juan’s killer took precedence, gnawing at Rye’s gut like a coyote gnawing at a rabbit carcass. A handful of Tums sounded good, but it’d have to wait.
He pushed through a door on his right labeled Squad Room where six desks lined the walls. Teetering piles of paperwork buried Reese’s desk, whereas Whitewolf’s desk waited with neat stacks of paperwork arranged in OCD perfection. Two desks sat vacant, one used for collecting overflow papers and file folders. The other had been Juan’s. Neat stacks of paper and files awaited his return. Rye swallowed and shifted his focus toward two officers huddled around a monitor at the desk across the aisle from Zach’s.
“Uh-mm,” Rye cleared his throat. The two spun in their chairs like teenagers caught looking at porn. Rye leveled his gaze at the monitor.
The face of the young male officer reddened. “We’re just looking at the new surfboard I bought. It’s, like, a Channel Islands … I got it in the back of my SUV. If you’d like to take a look.”
Rye shook his head. “Right now I’m not interested in surfboards. I know you officers just finished your watch, but we’ve had several incidents this morning, so consider yourselves on overtime. Officer Heilo?” He nodded to the Latina female officer.
She stiffened and grabbed her notepad and a pen.
Rye said, “I need you to check for any deaths in southern Arizona where mutilation with a sharp instrument was used. Start by going back for the last two years.”
“Got it.” She clicked on an icon, typed in a password, and connected to the state criminal records. “Is this related to the crime scene out at the Batts’ property?” she asked over her shoulder while her fingers clacked away at the keyboard.
“Yes. The vic died hard. It involved … mutilation.”
“Is crazy Batts a suspect?”
“He’s just an interested party at this time. We’ll keep him in the suspect pool until we clear him. However, I don’t see him as doing this.”
Rye turned to DePute, a fresh recruit who looked like he should be surfing off Maui. “DePute, search for any illegals caught dealing drugs in surrounding counties. Correlate that with any previous record of deportation. I’m particularly interested in a Rod Valdez.” He removed the photo from his pocket. “See if you can find the name of the woman in this photo. Send an electronic copy to Yuma if necessary.”
“Dude, I am so on it.” DePute stood and took the photo from Rye’s hand.
Rye clapped a hand on the officer’s shoulder and squeezed. “Don’t call me dude,” Rye said, voice deadpan. “It’s not professional.”
Whitewolf entered the Squad Room and went to his desk. “I’m on the unsub … Chief,” he said.
No. Not that joke again.
Whitewolf chuckled. “My ancestors would cringe if they knew I called a white man Chief.” His laugh sounded hollow and strained in the silence from the others.
“Dude,” DePute said. “That joke was like old before your ancestors were born.”
“Okay, people, you’ve got your assignments,” Rye said above the ensuing chuckles. “Get me that information ASAP.” While I untangle a cryptic message from a dead man.
Whitewolf leaned over his chair, palms on the desk, a blank stare at the keyboard.
In two steps, Rye stood next to him, a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Noah?”
“You have yet to tell them.” The statement, though level and quiet, sounded like a shout to Rye.
He winced and glanced at the younger officers, whose lighthearted banter had evaporated the moment Rye had addressed Whitewolf by first name.
“You OK, Whitewolf?” DePute said, his gaze flickering between Rye and Whitewolf.
While Rye searched for words, Heilo said, “Tell us what?” She had swiveled her chair to face them.
Rye eased himself onto the edge of Whitewolf’s desk while Whitewolf straightened, standing at attention just behind Rye’s left shoulder, his face a stoic mask, unreflective of the grief in his eyes.
Rye took a deep breath. “This morning, Sgt. Juan Martinez was found murdered out on Batts’ property.” He held up a hand to forestall any questions.
Water welled in Heilo’s eyes. DePute stared at him, the color draining from his face.
“Right now, we don’t know much, but we’re cops, and we’re going to conduct a professional investigation. We will find whoever did this and bring justice to Juan’s memory. But I need all of you to back me on this. Can I count on you?”
At first, no one said anything.
Rye, seconds away from tearing the room apart, gripped the edge of Whitewolf’s desk. “Heilo. DePute. Can I count on you?”
Heilo jumped to her feet. “Yes, Chief.”
“Yes, Chief,” DePute echoed as Heilo rolled the chair behind him, grasped his arm, and sat him down.
“Good.” Unable to say much more, Rye pushed himself off the desk. “Let’s get to work.” And without meeting anyone’s gaze, he left the squad room and paused in the hallway.
He thought of the enigmatic letters scrawled on Juan’s fingers: gs ds DHL DA. So what was Juan trying to say? His last words. Probably knew he was going to be killed. So he had to get a message out.
Gs ds DHL DA. Rye dropped his head. The letters of the puzzle jumped around in his mind. DHL? Did he mean the airfreight company? Doesn’t feel right, but I suppose we need to check it out.
His cell phone rang. “Dawlsen.”
“Doc and Zach just pulled up out front,” said Gabby. “Thought you’d like to know.”
“I’ll be right out.” Now I’ll have to tell them.
At the exit into the front lobby, Rye pounded his password—four of the same number—into the keypad, and the metal door swung open. The painted theme of the lobby was administrative gray. The outside wall of smoky glass revealed Whiskey’s main street where Doc had parked his Dodge Ram pickup. A single door led outside. The lobby’s lone wooden bench waited to be used.
In the Dispatch Room, surrounded by computers and a phone system, Gabby smacked gum with a phone perched on her shoulder. Cute though on the heavy side, she wore her dye-aided red hair in Cher style, bangs hanging over darkly lined eyes. She held up a finger to tell Rye to wait and ended her conversation.
He spoke into the slatted hole. “Gabby, cal
l one of the local law firms. See if any of Whiskey’s fine lawyers would represent our latest guest.” Rye held up a hand as Gabby started to protest. “I know it’s not procedure, but he wants to make out a will. Thanks.”
Doc and Zach stood outside the front entrance, talking. Zach sported a white oval eye-patch and was staring at his reflection in the window. He rubbed a gentle finger across the patch.
When the two of them entered, Rye asked, “Hey, how’s the eye?”
“Scratched cornea. Just like I figured,” Doc answered. “He needs to leave the patch on for twenty-four hours. He’s got some antibiotic drops if the eye bothers him. It should be fine within forty-eight hours.”
“It hurts like a—” Zach started to peel off the patch.
Doc slapped Zach’s hand. “Leave it alone, son, you’ll only make it worse.” Doc turned to Rye. “You got my permission to handcuff him if he starts rubbing it. After the patch comes off, his vision may be impaired for a little while.”
Rye folded his arms. “What about work?”
“Give him the day off,” the doctor said, pulling his ponytail.
Zach gestured with his hands. “Doc, really, I’m fine.”
Doc ignored him. “He should be okay to work tomorrow. No heavy lifting. When it hurts, he needs to rest. Gotta go.”
“Wait,” Rye said. “Gabby,” he called over his shoulder. “Can you come out here?”
When she joined them, Rye had them sit on the bench while he paced the room for several moments.
“I have some bad news. Gabby received a call this morning from Johnny Batts. Seems he found a dead body on his property. I took a team, and we investigated it.” He stopped mid-stride and faced them. I hate doing this. “Turns out to be Sgt. Juan Martinez.”
Tears filled Gabby’s eyes. Doc lifted his head as if praying to heaven while Zach lowered his head as if a giant weight pressed down on him.
Zach looked up at Rye. “Do we know who?”
Rye shook his head. “But we’ve started the investigation. Now, Zach, you go on home ‘cause I’ll need you. I don’t want to see you until tomorrow.”
“I’m good enough to—”
“No,” Rye emphasized, his decision, final. “Go home, Reese. We also had a break-in at the museum, and I’m assigning you to the case. If you want, call Helen and Terrance. From home. Resting on the couch. Talk to them, and get up to speed. You can check out the museum tomorrow before you come in.”
Zach sighed, exasperation obvious.
Rye added, “And stay out of the bars tonight.”
Zach grunted and put his hands over his chest. “You really know how to hurt a guy.”
Rye pointed at the door. “Go.” I wish I could visit a bar right about now.
He rested a hand on Gabby’s shoulder. “I know this is hard, but I need you to pull it together and finish your shift. I promise you; we will find Juan’s killer.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
An hour later, Whitewolf walked into Rye’s office and dropped a folder on his desk. Rye looked up from his monitor.
“This is what I found out so far,” Whitewolf said. “Not much, but it’s a start. What about Juan’s family?”
“His mother died several years ago. His father was killed by one of the Fast and Furious rifles. His little brother is in jail for working with a cartel.”
“That’s pretty tough. Something in that folder might provide a clue.”
“Thanks.” Rye’s fingers tapped out a drumbeat on the folder. “I’ll take a look at it. Keep digging.”
Whitewolf nodded once and departed.
Rye looked at his Android waiting on the desk. He had called Chee, leaving a message at the food mart close to where his uncle lived. Chee had no phone, and the food mart served as a community-gathering place.
C’mon, Uncle. Call me.
Rye loved his uncle, but the Navajo sense of time often grated on his nerves. It seemed like they wasted a lot of it. After a noisy exhale of irritation, Rye turned his attention to the folder. He opened it and began to flip through its pages.
Colonel Demonio Amo. One grainy photo. Could be the guy I saw. A former officer in the Mexican army turned rogue, Amo had disobeyed a direct order. The commander threatened court martial, and Amo shot him in the head. Amo then assumed command of the company, engaged a small-time cartel, and wiped them out. Took over their territory and grew to be a well-oiled, albeit murderous, cartel. El Àguila. The Eagle.
Rye leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. So what does this have to do with our perp? If Mr. Valdez is an associate of Amo’s, then why is he here in Whiskey? Was he involved in the murder? The break-in? And what did he mean when he implied a woman stole the museum’s artifacts?
Rye sat forward and grabbed one of many Sharpie markers from the pencil holder Manny had made for him—black spray-painted soup can with a paper sheriff’s star glued on it. From a desk drawer, Rye took out a clean steno book. He began doodling free-associative thoughts and what ifs. Circles and squares with tags and lines connecting them.
He started with what he knew. When he finished, he read what he had written.
Museum Break-in. Occurred overnight. Activity confined to a single room of Skinwalker displays. Broken display case. Three items taken: 1) Leather shield; 2) Feather; 3) Amulet.
Evidence:
Fingerprint smudge
Length of hair. Whose?
No footprints outside. How did they enter?
Have Reese re-question everyone from the museum. Were the thief/thieves looking for Indian artifacts to sell on the black market? Check with FBI and the Federal Bureau of Land Management. Murder at Batts’ property. Vic was Juan. From decomp, he was killed overnight. More accurate TOD?
Evidence:
Smashed cell phone found near Juan. Check phone for addresses, etc. on memory card.
Markings on Juan’s fingers. Looks like a Sharpie pen was used. ds. gs, DHL. DA. ????
A photo. Juan with a woman. Who is she? Where was the photo taken?
Have several tire tracks. At least 5 sets of footprints. Whitewolf casted all.
Things to do: Send evidence to forensics at Arizona Criminal Investigation. Contact Juan’s brother.
His cell phone rang, and Rye jumped, banging a knee on the underside of the desk.
He grabbed the phone, recognized the food mart phone number, and pushed the answer button. “Dawlsen.”
“How is my nephew who refuses to walk the way of the Diné?”
“How is my uncle who refuses to acknowledge his nephew walks in two worlds?”
They chatted about family, events concerning the Navajo people, pow wows, dancers, and the weather. When the conversation faltered, Rye figured they had finished with the Navajo niceties and cleared his throat.
“I have some questions to ask you,” Rye said. “It has to deal with an investigation. What do you know of … Skinwalkers?”
Chee laughed and started coughing. “Cigarettes, the white man’s curse.”
“Actually, Uncle, Indians originally sold tobacco to the white man.”
“Glad we got something over on the round eyes. Getting back to your question, the white man doesn’t believe in … Yeenaaldooshii. Navajo myths, they claim.”
“No.” Rye’s voice grew quiet. “What I need to know is … what do the Navajo believe?”
Chee’s voice became a whisper. “We don’t talk about them when night approaches the Dinetah. It’s not safe.”
“It’s daytime,” he reminded his uncle.
Several seconds of empty air passed between them. Rye waited for him to say more. From the times he spent with his uncle on the Res, Rye knew Navajos never rushed in to fill silence like a white person would. He tapped his fingers on the desk, waiting.
The silence drew on.
Rye rubbed his forehead and tapped his foot in rapid fire. With a tskking noise, he broke the silence. “Look, I’m investigating a murder, and I need some info on Skinwalkers.�
�
Chee’s end of the phone remained quiet. Rye opened his mouth to prod his uncle into talking, when Chee whispered, “Yeenaaldooshii walk the witchery way. To gain the power to travel in animal form they must kill a family member.”
Rye rubbed his chin. “What do these Yeen … all … Ye-nay … um … Skinwalkers do?”
“They curse people to sickness. They attack or scare people in their hogans or in their cars. If they lock eyes with you, they can steal your skin.” Chee paused, and his words came out like a wintery hiss. “They are evil, nephew. How do Skinwalkers enter in to your non-Diné investigation?”
“Can’t go into detail right now. But Iona suggested it.”
Chee laughed, breaking the tension. “Iona is a good woman. She’s a friend of the Diné. I read her books. I think she writes about you.”
“Get outta here. They’re just stories.” Rye felt the blush rise on his cheeks. “Don’t get off topic. Anything else you can add?”
“Yeah. Don’t make yourself so scarce, nephew. Visit me. And bring me a new pair of jeans when you come.” He paused. His voice dropped again. Fearful as if he thought someone might be listening. “There’s trouble in Navajoland.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Chee’s next words came out as a strangled plea. “Eight Diné have died in the last few weeks. People have been attacked.” A long pause. “By a Skinwalker, nephew. A Mexican Skinwalker. Now listen to your Uncle Chee … if you pee outside, cover your water with dirt, or the Skinwalker can hurt you. Real bad.” His voice became an urgent whisper. “Nephew, please be very careful. This is one bad witch.”
CHAPTER 7
WEDNESDAY EVENING
Rye swung the Tahoe into his driveway and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle slid for several gravel-spitting feet, coming to rest in a cloud of dust. He glared at the glowing numbers on the dashboard clock.
8:45.
“Juan, why did you have to go and get yourself killed?” Rye yanked the keys from the ignition, allowing heat to saturate the interior. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the headrest, a long sigh escaping his lips. “Dee says that all things happen for a purpose, so what purpose did Juan’s death serve? Huh?” The tears Rye could not allow until now overwhelmed him, and he swiped them away. “God, if this is your purpose, then just leave me alone.”
