by Rich Curtin
“Okay if I take photos? I’d like to send pictures of the cars to my brother.”
“Sure. No problem.”
Atcitty returned to his work. He was replacing the chrome headlight rims on a 1963 Studebaker Lark, presumably a recent Dryden acquisition. Rivera walked down the first row of vehicles, snapping photos of each vehicle with his cell phone. When he reached the end of the row, he spotted an old gray Volkswagen minivan in the back of the garage. It was polished and shiny and looked like a model from the 1950s or 1960s. A large daisy was painted on its side. Each petal of the daisy was painted a different color and a peace symbol was painted on the front of the vehicle. Rivera wondered if this could be the same vehicle in the photograph that Linda Mason Hart had sent him. It had no license plates, so a DMV check of its ownership history wasn’t possible. He took a picture of the vehicle.
His laptop was in his pickup. He would check to see if the two photographs were of the same vehicle. He’d seen similar VW minivans with daisy designs—in the movies, on television, on the internet—but he had a hunch he’d just found Michael Bennett’s old van. If Sam Dryden had bought it from Bennett, maybe the rancher knew how to contact him. And if Rivera’s luck held, maybe Bennett would know how to find Woody’s family.
Rivera finished taking photos of the vehicles and thanked Atcitty for letting him take the tour.
Atcitty opened the garage door, and both men stepped outside.
“That’s quite a collection. Where does Mr. Dryden find his vehicles?”
“He goes to car shows in Moab and Grand Junction, reads the want ads in newspapers, and subscribes to antique car magazines.”
“Where did he find that old VW minivan?”
“I don’t know. It’s from before my time. I’ve only been working here three years.”
“Well thanks for letting me see the collection.” Rivera was ready to leave, but he sensed that Atcitty wanted to talk some more. He paused.
“I hear you’re investigating the Nez homicide.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And you’re also investigating the deaths of that California couple.”
“The Masons. Yes.”
“I’m a Navajo. Grew up in Shiprock. I don’t know the Nez family, but I have a lot of friends on the Rez. They’re worried that maybe the investigation will concentrate on the bilagáana couple and not so much on Nez. That maybe no one will worry too much about a dead Navajo. That’s just the way most Navajos feel. It’s been that way for a long time.”
Rivera couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The comment made him angry. “Well, I don’t feel that way at all. And I don’t work that way.”
“I’ll pass that on to them,” said Atcitty. “They’ll be glad to hear that. Any idea why Nez was killed?”
Rivera shook his head. “I’m still investigating it. Trouble is, it’s hard to get any useful information from anyone out here. Either no one saw anything, or they don’t want to talk to me. I couldn’t even get any information from Mr. Nez when he was alive. I drove to his place on the Rez. It took me half a day to find it. I asked him—through his daughter who translated—if he’d seen anything unusual the morning the Masons were killed, but he refused to answer my questions. All I learned was that when Nez returned home that day from grazing his sheep, he told his daughter that a coyote had killed one of his Churros. I wasted a whole day just to learn that.”
Atcitty looked at Rivera with an expression of surprise. “That what he said? A coyote did it?”
Rivera looked at the man, curious about his reaction. “Yes, a coyote.”
Atcitty looked past Rivera and nodded almost imperceptibly, as if in thought. “In the world of the Navajo, the word ‘coyote’ has more than one meaning. It can refer to the animal, of course, or it can refer to the trickster, an important character in Navajo mythology, or it can refer to a witch or skinwalker in Navajo folklore. Someone who causes trouble. Someone evil. Someone to be avoided.”
“So he could have meant someone had killed his Churro. A person.”
“I’d guess that’s probably what he meant.”
As soon as Rivera was settled in his vehicle, he opened his laptop and searched for the photo Linda Mason Hart had sent him. He compared the vehicle in that photo to the image of Dryden’s vehicle on his cell phone. The color patterns on the daisy’s petals were identical. His hopes that he’d be able to find Michael Bennett had just ratcheted up a notch, but only a small notch. That vehicle could have changed hands several times between the time Bennett sold it and Sam Dryden bought it. Next time he met up with Dryden, he would ask him, but right now he wanted to take another look at the remains of that dead Churro.
He started the engine and drove off the ranch. Bill Converse’s foreman Slim Keegan had said he heard four shots the morning the Masons were killed. If Rivera’s thinking was right, the handgun that was used to kill the Masons might also have been used in an attempt to kill the Navajo sheepherder. The first two shots killed the Masons, and the next two were fired at the sheepherder to eliminate him as a potential witness. Because the distance from the Masons’ bodies down to the spring was about sixty yards, the probability of striking the sheepherder with a pistol shot was low. But the probability of striking a single sheep in a flock of sheep was high, especially if they were huddled together on the hillside near the spring. The fourth bullet might have buried itself in the ground somewhere.
That scenario seemed plausible to Rivera. After the first shot in his direction, the sheepherder would have hustled his flock out of the area and headed back to the reservation. There were no direct roads between the spring and the part of the reservation where the Nez family lived, so the shooter could not have pursued the Navajo by vehicle. He must have decided to wait until the sheepherder returned on a subsequent visit to the spring and then finish the job with a rifle shot.
22
RIVERA PARKED HIS vehicle in front of Herman’s dwelling. There was no smoke rising from the stovepipe chimney and no dogs there to greet him. Herman was probably on a trip to the grocery store to re-supply his cupboards. Rivera hopped out of his vehicle and headed toward the spring.
A dead juniper along the trail supplied him with the tool he needed to probe the Churro’s remains. He broke off a four-foot branch and snapped off its twigs. He hiked past the spring and over the hill and saw the carcass of the dead Churro up ahead. The vultures had abandoned it. He took advantage of a gentle breeze by circling around and approaching the remains from the upwind direction. The carcass looked smaller now—desiccated and empty. The skin had collapsed around the bones as the coyotes and vultures had eaten their fill.
He pushed against one of the animal’s four horns with the juniper branch to rotate the head, searching for a bullet wound. He found none. He jabbed the carcass with the branch, stirring up the flies, maggots, beetles, and other assorted creatures that were there to finish the job the coyotes and vultures had started. Now, for the first time, Rivera wished Nick Lathrop had come along. Finding the bullet and digging it out of that stinking carcass would have been an excellent assignment for a young and aspiring investigator. Good training for the real world. Something he couldn’t learn from his online college courses.
Rivera probed the sheep’s woolen coat, lifting it in matted sections and looking for an entry wound. He started at the neck and worked his way toward the rump. Just behind the animal’s right shoulder, he discovered a circle of dried blood about two inches in diameter. In the center of the circle was a small round opening in the skin. He flipped the carcass over to see if there was a corresponding wound on the other side. There was not. So the bullet had entered the animal but did not exit. The desert creatures who dine on carrion would not have eaten the bullet, so it had to be in there somewhere. He used the juniper branch to roll the carcass over on its back.
He probed the area behind the wound looking for a bullet and found nothing. He searched the remaining innards of the animal around its shoulder.
Nothing. He explored the rest of the remains, but there was no bullet to be found anywhere. Then he noticed a peculiar thing. Where the skin had been severed across the shoulder, through the abdomen, and down the thighs, the cuts were in straight lines. That wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected the tears in the skin to have jagged edges, the result of canine teeth and sharp beaks ripping it open. He backed away, realizing that the slices had been made with a knife. For a moment he was stumped. Then it hit him. Someone had harvested the meat—the shoulders, the loins, the racks, the chops—probably shortly after the animal had been killed and before the scavengers and flies had arrived. Had the Navajo sheepherder done it? No, with someone firing bullets at him, he would have been in a big hurry to get out of the area.
That left Herman. Herman was a hunter. Mostly rabbits. He’d know how to dress out an animal—he’d gutted plenty of them. He’d sewn together at least thirty cottontail skins to make the comforter Rivera had seen on his bed. Herman would have cooked the Churro meat on his wood stove immediately since he had no refrigeration. He’d probably given some to the dogs first. If the meat passed the dogs’ smell test, they would eat it. Then Herman would know it was okay to eat some himself. The cab of his pickup would have served as a refrigerator during the first cold night. By the end of the third day, the meat would likely be inedible.
Rivera photographed the Churro carcass and then hiked back to Herman’s place. Three dogs greeted him like an old friend. Herman had returned.
“Back again, Deputy?” said Herman, unloading plastic grocery bags from his pickup.
“Herman, did you butcher that dead Churro?”
“Sure. Why not? It was still warm. Why waste it? I went to the spring to refill my water jug. It was a nice day, so I walked up that little hill to sit awhile, and that’s when I spotted the animal. I figured a hunter’s bullet had accidentally hit the Churro and killed it. The Navajo left it behind, so it belonged to whoever found it.”
“Did you eat all the meat?”
“No. There’s still some left. Not sure how long it’ll be good, though.”
“Did you find a bullet in the meat?”
“Matter of fact, I did. I added it to my collection of miscellaneous metal parts. I find stuff out on the road all the time—bolts, hinges, springs, nails, screws, nuts, oil cans, you name it. Parts come in handy for fixing things or building things. You’d be surprised what you can find if you keep your eyes open.”
“I need to see that bullet.”
“Sure. C’mon in.”
They entered Herman’s dwelling. Herman removed a glass jar from a collection of similar jars resting on a plank shelf. Dozens of food jars had been filled with miscellaneous parts from half a lifetime of ‘keeping your eyes open.’ He handed the jar to Rivera. There were thirty or so parts in it, one of which was a spent bullet.
Rivera retrieved the bullet and inspected it. It looked to be the same caliber as the bullets that had killed the Masons. He would send it to the State Crime Lab to see if all three bullets had come from the same gun.
He felt a mild sense of satisfaction. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. But the key question remained unanswered. Why were the Masons killed in the first place? Had they seen something they shouldn’t have seen? Was the drug-running theory correct or were they killed for some other reason?
23
RIVERA LAY ON the bed in his motel room, exhausted after a long day. He’d been unable to find anyone in the sheriff’s office who was available to take the bullet to the State Crime Lab in Provo, so he’d done it himself—about a six hour round trip. He’d requested an expedited test to determine if the bullet had been fired from the same gun that was found in Matthew Mason’s hand. If it was, that would mean the shooter who had killed the Masons had also tried to kill Nez that same day, presumably because he witnessed the Mason shootings. Theory would become fact. If the bullet didn’t match the gun, that would suggest an entirely different scenario, one about which he was too tired to consider now. He eagerly awaited the results of the tests.
He dozed off while he waited but was awakened after a short time by the sound of his cell phone buzzing. He hoped it was the crime lab calling. He jumped up, grabbed his phone off the desk, and looked at the caller ID. It was Ellen Yardley.
“Ms. Yardley, thank you for returning my call.”
“How can I help you, Deputy Rivera?” It was the voice of a strong and confident woman.
“I’m calling about a trip you took fifty years ago with some friends from the University of Maryland.”
“Yes, what about it?”
“Do you recall that trip?”
“I certainly do. I’ll never forget it. We were headed to San Francisco—a bunch of would-be hippies on their way to the Summer of Love.”
“There have been some recent events involving some of the people that were on that trip. Do you remember the names of the people you were with?”
“Yes, I do. There was Michael Bennett, Matthew Mason, Wilma Green, and Virginia Stolte. We were traveling in Michael’s VW minivan.”
“I’ve spoken with Virginia and she told me about Woody, the hitchhiker you picked up along the way.”
Rivera heard a sigh. “Yes, we picked him up somewhere in Kansas.”
“She said he died one night in the southeast Utah backcountry. You folks decided to bury him out there.”
There was a long period of silence before she responded. “Deputy Rivera, that was a long time ago. We were just kids. We were frightened and didn’t know what to do. There was marijuana in the van, and we were afraid of getting arrested. We buried him respectfully.” Another period of silence. “I’m a mother of four and a grandmother of seven. I’m an executive vice-president with Gallion-Duncan, and I’m about to retire. Nobody harmed the boy. He was kind of sickly looking, and his time had come. He just died. We did what we thought was right. I don’t want my reputation damaged because of something that happened fifty years ago, something that wasn’t my fault.”
“I’m not interested in damaging your reputation. All this turned up during an unrelated case I’ve been working on. I’ve been trying to learn Woody’s real name.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you there. I only knew him as Woody.”
Once again, Rivera met with disappointment. His only hope of finding Woody’s family now was to locate Michael Bennett. Maybe Bennett would remember something.
“Do you know how I could get in touch with Michael Bennett?”
“I haven’t seen him or even heard his name since that trip.” She paused. “Is there anything else, Deputy?”
Rivera’s curious nature and his tutelage as an investigator-trainee under former-sheriff Leroy Bradshaw had made him a stickler for details. He wanted to learn more about the day five would-be hippies had decided to bury a stranger—who had made the decision, how had they gone about the burial, what happened afterwards. “Uh, yes. Could you tell me what happened after you found Woody dead? Please try to remember the exact sequence of events.”
“Hard to forget, actually. During a group discussion, we decided to bury Woody. After that, Michael Bennett took over. He had a trench shovel in his minivan. He dug the grave himself. The rest of us were so sick about what had happened, we were useless and unable to help him. All of us had gotten attached to Woody. In fact, I remember thinking I was falling for him, even though he was two years younger than me. Looking back on it now, it seems kind of silly. But he was so cute and funny. Maybe it was the pot, I don’t know. Anyway, Michael buried him with his belongings, then told us all to find flat rocks to cover the grave. He was concerned about animals digging up the body. We found the rocks, covered the grave, and even arranged some of the darker rocks in the form of a cross. After that, we talked about what to do next. I wanted to go back to Maryland. For me, the trip was ruined. Michael felt the same way, but Matthew, Wilma, and Virginia decided to continue on to San Francisco. So Michael and I drove them to the bus statio
n in Blanding. They took their share of the pot with them.”
“What happened after that?”
“Michael said we should try to find Woody’s family, tell them what happened, and tell them where the grave was. All that without revealing our identities.”
Now Rivera’s hopes spiked. Maybe the family already knew about Woody, and Rivera wouldn’t have to worry about informing them. “Were you able to locate them?”
“Yes. Woody had a letter with him which contained a hand drawn map showing how to find his family’s place. Michael had removed the letter and Woody’s wallet from his pockets before burying him.”
“So you found the place?”
“Yes. Well, Michael did. I was so exhausted from stress, I fell asleep during the drive from Blanding. It was out in the country somewhere. When we arrived there, Michael parked a good distance from the house so they couldn’t see the van’s license plate. He told me to wait in the van while he brought them the bad news. I gladly agreed to do that.”
“How did they react?”
“That was the strange part. An older man came out of the house, saw Michael, and gave him a big smile. He embraced Michael and they talked for about ten minutes. Then the man went into the house and Michael came back to the van. He told me the man lived there alone, and his eyesight was impaired by macular degeneration, so Michael decided he was going to stay for a few days to help him out. I said I wanted to return to Maryland right away. So he drove me back to the bus station and I went home.”
“And you never heard from him again.”
“I never heard from any of them again. None of them returned to the university that September. I had no idea what had become of them.”
“And you never learned Woody’s real name.”
“That’s right. I’m sure Michael knew it because he had the letter and the wallet. But we all just referred to the boy as Woody. It was a cute nickname we gave him because of the Woody Woodpecker shirt he wore.”
