Death Along the Spirit Road

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Manny closed his cell. Maybe some soothing Six Fat Dutchmen riding with him to Rapid City would ease his anger. And his confusion.

  Two hours later, Manny walked into the Rapid City Police Department building. He badged the receptionist, and she buzzed him through the security door into the inner office.

  “Harold Soske.” Soske’s smooth, well-manicured hand applied just the proper amount of pressure to let Manny know there was strength in that grip, yet not strong enough to cause pain to his bandaged hand.

  Manny smoothed his white shirt and bloodred tie. The bureau required agents to dress as if they were going to a business meeting, but Manny always felt stiff and out of place, like he was dressing for a wake. He fidgeted, awkward, standing in front of this young detective. Soske wore a dark blue herringbone suit that complemented his amber shirt and maroon tie, all of which exuded effortless professionalism. Professional, hell. The kid looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ.

  “An honor to meet you.” Soske dropped his hand to the manila folder he carried. “You’re here to speak with Ricky Bell.”

  Manny nodded. “Your evidence techs matched his prints to those found on the bone whistle from the Prairie Edge burglary. What did he tell you about that?”

  Soske shrugged. “Nada. The kid clammed up tight when I asked him about the stolen artifacts. He invoked Miranda right off. We can’t even ask his name without his lawyer.”

  “I have no intention of asking questions. I’ll just be talking to him. Does he have a lawyer?”

  “No. Kid don’t have squat. He’ll end up with some public defender.”

  As Soske led Manny to an interview room, he filled him in about Richard Bell from notes tucked away in the file folder. “We got more than a few contacts on Ricky. Minor contacts: shoplifting, public intox, joyriding when he was a juvie. But Pennington County nailed him on an agg assault three years ago, and he did a stint in Sioux Falls for that stunt.”

  “Parole?”

  “Served and released. He did just enough hard time to learn the tricks, like we can’t question him without an attorney.”

  They came to a door separating the long hallway from another set of offices, and Soske held it open.

  “How did Ricky gain entry to the Prairie Edge?”

  “The kid’s pretty stout. He just pried the back lock off.”

  “Alarmed?”

  “Not then, but Brinks installed a system yesterday.”

  “What do you make of the items just being left on the doorstep?”

  Soske stopped. When he finally answered, he chose his words carefully. “I figure someone is trying to set Ricky up. Ricky’s prints coated the stuff we found. He’s been through Criminal College 101 in Sioux Falls, and he’d never leave prints all over it like that.”

  “I understand the bag was a Sioux Nation brown bag.”

  Soske nodded, and opened a file. He took out a stack of photographs. “This is just how the bag was found, with the items stuffed in there in no particular order.” Manny studied the photo. The bone whistle was resting on the star quilt that covered up and hid the other items. And the quilt was folded strangely, in a unique way of tucking the edges into one another to keep the material together. He would ask someone about that later. Soske unlocked interview room two. Two large fluorescent bulbs overhead looked like overkill in the tiny room. The only furniture was two straight-backed metal chairs and a card table. Pens and a stack of statement forms sat on the table.

  A muscular man younger than Soske sat in one of the chairs, arms folded as he eyed Manny sitting across the table. He leaned back against the wall with the front two legs off the floor. Soske leaned against the opposite wall.

  “I already told you a-holes I wasn’t going to talk without my mouthpiece.”

  “And who might that be?” Manny asked. “F. Lee Bailey? Gerry Spence? Fact is, Richard, you’re looking at some snot-nosed public defender, who just squeaked by the bar exam, getting between you and a murder rap. You’re going to end up playing leapfrog with some horny cellmate for a long time. You want to put your future in the hands of some flash-in-a-bedpan right out of law school?”

  Bell smiled. “Murder? Who am I supposed to have murdered?”

  “Jason Red Cloud.”

  “Jason?” Bell laughed. His voice wavered and his eyes darted between Manny and Soske. “Now why would I murder my own boss, kill my way out of the only job an ex-con can get in this town?”

  Manny looked at Soske and motioned him into the hallway. “Bell worked for Red Cloud?” he asked when the door was closed.

  “Bell’s a janitor at the Red Cloud Development building. The victim hired him fresh out of the penitentiary two months ago.”

  “Any more surprises?”

  Soske shook his head. “But don’t be shocked when this kid comes up with an airtight alibi. Cons have been tutoring him the last three years.”

  Manny nodded. He didn’t like surprises, and this one in particular. He led the way back into the interview room.

  “Take a hike, Indian,” Bell said before Manny could speak. “I’m invoking my Fifth Amendment rights, and I ain’t speaking to you or anyone else.”

  Manny pulled his chair around the table and scooted it close to Bell. “Good. Exercise those rights and sit still while I do the talking.” Without waiting for a response, Manny continued, “The tech found your prints all over the artifacts stolen from the Prairie Edge two weeks ago. One of those items, a Lakota war club, was found buried brain-deep in Jason Red Cloud’s skull.”

  Bell dropped the chair onto the floor and leaned closer to Manny. “So I heard, but I ain’t killed no one, so go screw yourself. I got nothing to say to you.” His voice broke. Perspiration formed on his brow. Bell folded and unfolded his hands and studied them as he avoided looking Manny in the eye.

  Manny shrugged and turned to Soske. “We’re done here. Have your detention officers prep Richard here for transport.”

  “Transport?” Bell asked, his voice breaking once more. “Where the hell to?”

  “Pine Ridge, of course. You’ll be spending some time there in the lockup until I can house you in a regional federal lockup.”

  Bell stood abruptly and his chair fell against the wall.

  He stepped toward Manny, but Soske stepped between them and shoved Bell back into his seat. “He can’t do that, can he? He can’t just take me out and lock me up, can he? I’ll be the only White dude in that jail.”

  Soske picked up on the ruse. “Of course he can. His murder case takes precedence over our burglary. And the murder was on the reservation. Federal jurisdiction.” Soske started for the door. “I’ll have the detention officer grab the belly chains,” he called over his shoulder. “I take it you’ll be transporting?”

  “Wait!” Bell yelled at Soske’s back. “You can’t let him take me to Pine Ridge. Those Indians will kill me in there.”

  Soske’s face drooped in an exaggerated display of sadness. “Sorry, Ricky, but that’s your choice. You invoked your Miranda rights, and we can’t ask you a thing without your attorney.”

  “Hold it. What about if I tell you guys what I know?”

  Beads of perspiration widened and ran across Bell’s forehead. Sweat dripped into one eye, and he wiped at it with his hand as his eyes darted between Manny and Soske.

  “I uninvoke,” Bell pleaded. “Whatever I got to do, I’ll do it. I don’t want an attorney. Just let me tell you what I know.”

  “We’re listening,” Manny said.

  “Let me talk with that public defender first. Then we’ll deal.”

  Manny picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Brief the transport officers.”

  “Wait!”

  “When I go through that door, the offer evaporates and you take your chance on the reservation.”

  “All right. All right.” Ricky ran his fingers through his hair. “What you need to know?”

/>   Manny reached into his briefcase and placed a recorder in the middle of the table. After noting the time, date, and place of the interview, he asked Bell to state that he had received an explanation of his Miranda rights and had voluntarily waived them. “Now we can begin.”

  Manny sat back in his chair and patted his pocket. Whenever he had scored a victory in the interview room, he would grab one of his little buddies from his pack and light up. He would have to find some other way to celebrate later.

  “Jason Red Cloud hired me to steal the stuff.” Bell must have read the doubt in their faces. “It’s true. I’m a night janitor at the Red Cloud Development building. Jason got hold of me a couple weeks ago. He says, ‘Ricky, I need you to do me a special favor.’ He hands me a list of shit to steal from the Prairie Edge. I spend one afternoon inside the store looking around. They got no alarm. No guards. It’s a cakewalk, and the next night I waltz into the place.”

  “And you stole these items for him out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Not hardly. Jason paid me ten percent of what the stuff was worth, two hundred bucks. Not bad for a few minutes’ work one night.”

  “The things you copped were worth at least forty thousand dollars,” Soske said.

  “That bastard,” Bell breathed.

  “No honor among thieves,” Manny added.

  “Now I don’t have to go with him?” Bell jerked his thumb toward Manny. “I can stay here in the Pennington County lockup, right?”

  “As soon as you tell me why you brought the artifacts back.”

  Bell looked from Soske to Manny. “You talking trash? I never brought anything back I stole. Ever. What would I do that for?” Bell hunched over. He cupped his face in hands as he stared at the floor, silent, offering nothing else. When Soske told Bell he would remain at the Pennington County jail, he slumped in his chair with relief, like he’d been granted an eleventh-hour pardon from the governor. Outside the interview room, Soske asked if Manny thought Bell had been truthful.

  “What do you think?” Manny asked.

  “He was so scared he nearly fell off the chair. He knew that if he jerked you around, and you caught him in a lie, you really would take him back to Pine Ridge.”

  Manny nodded. “I think he was truthful, too, but I had a problem when I asked him if he had killed Jason. He hesitated when he denied it.”

  “But what would he gain by killing him?”

  “Jason could finger him for the Prairie Edge burglary. With prior pen time, it would be enough to get five years added to the sentence.”

  “But that would mean Jason would have had to testify he’d hired Bell.” Soske shook his head. “That would have ruined his business. What was left of it.”

  Manny fumbled for the key to the rental car.

  “If Ricky killed Jason Red Cloud, he isn’t telling us all he knows about the burglary,” Soske said as they walked to the parking lot.

  They shook hands again before Manny opened the door.

  “It was a pleasure watching you work,” Soske said. “Where are you off to now?”

  “Shopping for artifacts.”

  Manny pulled out of the parking lot, and failed to see a city garbage truck driving in the same lane he turned into. Brakes squealed. The odor of burnt brake lining drifted inside the rental car as the truck driver laid on the horn. From the rearview mirror, Manny watched the woman driving the truck mouth obscenities as she stabbed her middle finger out the window. Manny smiled and waved, then sped to get out of her path. Once again, his wopiye saved him, and he patted the medicine bundle tucked deep into his jacket pocket. Perhaps there was something to the powers of the old ones after all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Manny draped his coat over his arm as he enjoyed walking in downtown Rapid City. Old Town’s touch of the West reminded him of the area’s roots. Bronze frontiersmen stood mute, guarding the corners, symbols of the hardy souls who had first settled here. Or rather, had driven the Lakota off their rightful land, away from their sacred Black Hills to the desolate reservations they occupied today.

  Since coming back to Pine Ridge, Manny fought the cynicism. Hadn’t the bureau been good to him, hiring a Native American? Except for the reservation assignments, the bureau treated him as an equal with White agents. He kept telling himself that all Pine Ridge meant to him was a childhood full of painful memories, yet with each passing day he wished there were something he could do to change things there. He fought the feelings, convinced that they would subside once he returned to Virginia after this assignment.

  Manny smiled at each person he passed. Each one would look him in the eye and throw out a genuine “Good morning” or “Good day” or “How’s it going?” as if they were actually interested how life was treating this stranger from another place. They couldn’t tell he was a temporarily displaced FBI agent from the East. All they knew was that they had spoken to an Indian man in passing. Indian-White tensions of the early 1970s had indeed eased, and he looked forward to the next person who wished him a good day so he could return the gesture.

  The Black Hills air was crisp and clean, and he picked up the pace, walking without being winded thanks to his stepped-up road regime every night. He thanked Jenny Craig for his diet, and he thanked those young agents who took time from their workout at the bureau gym to help and encourage him. And oddly, he thanked Niles the Pile for sending him out here, even though he’d have to hustle to solve this homicide in time for the next class. By the time Manny walked the mile to the Prairie Edge, it was late afternoon, and the heat of the day faded into a cool puff of air that followed him into the store.

  A bell tinkled above the door. He stopped just inside and listened to the mellow music that surrounded the room. He closed his eyes, and cherished the falsetto of the flute, the bass drum in the background setting the beat of the song. How many powwows had he attended where such music was sandwiched between the Shawl and the Jingle dancers? How many had he missed being away so long? Maybe that’s why he liked polka, with its distinctive beats reminiscent of his native music.

  He opened his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. Sage and sweetgrass burned somewhere in the room. It was another thing he missed: the fragrance of sacred, burning grasses.

  A rawhide war shield hung from one wall, and Manny stepped closer to examine it. A traditional geometric pattern was beaded in the colors of the sacred winds: black, red, yellow, and white. Each row of beads was perfectly aligned, too perfect to be an original. The price of two thousand dollars was steep for a replica. But an original Sioux war shield would have cost ten times that amount.

  He turned to another wall where a brain-tanned deerskin shirt hung. The pale, milk-supple hide had been beaded on every inch. Like the war shield, it detailed intricacies that original artifacts never possessed. Beaded rattles and drums and knife sheaths hung beneath the shirt, awaiting buyers wealthy enough to afford them. “If something moved, an Oglala woman would bead it” was a saying he had heard often growing up.

  In an adjacent room were gifts that tourists, not purists, would buy. Knives and mass-produced beaded purses and pouches sat in glass display cases. Their quality was shoddy compared to the art made by native hands, which the price difference reflected. People unfamiliar with the culture would parade these things in front of their friends to show they had something genuinely Sioux and say they supported Indians by buying them, perhaps taking off the “made in Hong Kong” stickers before showing their friends.

  In the back room, bins of beads waited for artisans to purchase them. Trade beads, they were called in the days when the White man traded the pieces of glass made in Europe for valuable fur to sell in the cities. Two old women stood hunched over the bins. One squinted through reading glasses missing one bow, while the other fingered a small leather coin purse as she dug for enough to cover the price of their beads.

  Manny returned to the main room and spoke with a young woman behind the counter wearing an elk-hide vest adorned with imperfect row
s of beads. It was ancient, beaded perhaps a hundred years ago by a Lakota woman on a winter night. When the clerk spoke, a distinct Brulé accent greeted him, thicker and more inclined to draw out the nasal vowels than the Oglala dialect.

  “I’m looking for the manager.”

  “Ms. Horkley is upstairs.” As she spoke, she cut strips from a piece of suede with a razor blade. She saw him watching her. “For moccasins,” she said. “We can buy commercially made moccasin strings, but these are authentic. Besides, they last longer.”

  He thanked her and walked upstairs. The books for sale were arranged with Western settler history separated from Indian history separated from books about the Dakotas. The room had the air of a well-organized, albeit small, research library. A plump lady who could have passed for Manny’s grandmother squatted beside CDs marked “Language.”

  “Ms. Horkley?” Manny opened his ID and badge wallet.

  She gasped as she pushed her gray hair behind her ears. “Don’t tell me I have to go to the police station and identify that Mr. Bell again?”

  Manny shook his head. “I’m just here to ask you some questions about the break-in.”

  “The thefts could have been a disaster for us.” She set the CDs on a table, and used the side of the bookcase for support to stand. She turned to a desk and took three Oreos from a pack, and offered Manny a cookie. He hadn’t eaten this afternoon, and he accepted two cookies. “We deal in replications by a select group of artists, mostly local and mostly Lakota, though sometimes we acquire some Cheyenne and Crow pieces. All those are replaceable. But not the artifacts that were stolen. They were all original Oglala and Sicangu.”

  “Detective Soske said you remembered seeing Ricky Bell in here before.”

  “He showed me a whole page of pictures, and I spotted Mr. Bell right off. He browsed the store the day before the break-in. I understand he worked for the Red Cloud Development Corporation, which is a coincidence.”