Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

Manny rubbed his eyes and stared at the alarm clock. Is Pine Ridge in another time zone? If not, why the hell’s Willie calling at 5:00.”

  “I found Carson Degas.”

  Manny clapped twice and the overhead chandelier came on. Super finally fixed the damned thing. He swung his legs over the bed and grabbed his socks stuck into his boots. “What did he say when you interviewed him?”

  “I haven’t yet. Last night I found out from your old chief . . .”

  “What’s Chief Horn got to do with you finding Degas?”

  Willie laughed. “If you left it up to him, he’d come out of retirement and work the case himself. Acting Chief Looks Twice suggested I talk to Horn, as he knows everyone living on the rez. And most everyone that traveled the Spirit Road within the last century.”

  Manny cradled the phone in the crick of his neck. He moved over away from the spring poking him through the mattress and slipped a sock on. “So where’s Degas?”

  “Sitting down?”

  Willie the drama queen. “Just tell me . . .”

  “Degas works for Wilson Eagle Bull at his ranch south of Oglala.”

  Manny shook his head and stood on wobbly legs, stretching. It didn’t work. He was still operating in sleep mode. “The same guy running for Senate? Chenoa Iron Cloud’s boyfriend?” “Boyfriend” came out of Manny’s mouth as if it had been lying in wait somewhere in the back of his mind to escape into the light of day. Whenever the light of day finally arrives.

  “The same. Degas is Wilson’s horse wrangler. Lines up stock for the Big Foot Memorial Ride for folks that don’t have mounts. Rents horses to dude ranches in South Dakota and Wyoming, some in Montana and Nebraska. And—get this—he supplies ponies for actors at both Little Big Horn reenactments.”

  “You getting all this from Chief Horn?”

  Willie chuckled. “When he’s not raising hell with the other residents at the home, he talks to people. All sorts of people. Including Wilson’s former neighbor, who told him about Carson Degas.”

  “So Degas would be familiar with both Hardin’s and Real Bird’s reenactments. He’d have their times down pat?”

  “No doubt.”

  “Where’s Degas now?”

  Rustling against the phone and Manny pulled the receiver from his ear. “Sorry,” Willie said. “I’ve been living on MoonPies and root beer since last night. I’m sitting on Wilson’s ranch house waiting for some lights to come on. As soon as I see some life around the bunkhouse, I’m driving down there and interview him.”

  A MoonPie, complete with a day’s worth of sugar, would help kick-start Manny right about now. “Sure he’s there?”

  Manny could imagine thick, black hair falling over Willie’s forehead as he nodded. “A couple of Wilson’s ranch hands I let slide for public intox last month clued me in.”

  “They work for Degas?”

  “They were adamant they worked for Wilson. They want no part of Degas. He scares the hell out of them.”

  Manny put the other sock on before he realized he needed to shower first. He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face in an effort to wake up from this sleep fog, thankful the phone cord had stretched ten feet. “Wilson’s hands have problems with Degas?”

  “Not yet. They’ve only worked for Wilson two months, but they expect to have a run-in with Degas eventually. They heard stories from a couple other hands Degas run off that he’s way over the top.”

  “Over the top?”

  “Stories. Rumors. About how Degas educates ranch hands in the back of the bunkhouse. People that got in his way. Or men that didn’t do just what he wanted. Or just didn’t do it fast enough.”

  “Sounds like he makes his own form of entertainment.” The cold water helped Manny at least see his face through red-rimmed eyes. “Degas the foreman?”

  Willie’s voice was muffled as he scarfed down another MoonPie. “He’s not, but it doesn’t matter. Even Wilson’s foreman gives him a wide berth.”

  Willie dropped his cell phone, but came back on the line. “Gotta run. Looks like that green Dodge dually Degas drives just pulled out from Wilson’s equipment shed.”

  “Get backup before you drive down there,” but Manny’s warning fell on a dead line. “Be careful, my friend,” he said aloud. He hung up the phone and turned to grab his shaving bag when the phone rang again. “Forgot to tell me something?”

  “I didn’t forget anything,” Stumper said, talking fast. “I called to let you know Sam’s been found. Better meet at his house in Lodge Grass pronto.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Even before Manny turned onto the street leading to the cul-de-sac and Sam’s house, thick smoke filtered through the vents of the Oldsmobile and found their way to Manny’s nose, the taste of charred wood, siding, and electrical wiring making him retch. He pulled his car behind a Crow tribal fire tanker parked crosswise blocking the street. A Suburban sporting one crushed fender and COMMAND VEHICLE on one door sat next to the water truck, the red and blue flashing lights cutting through the smoke. The door of the command vehicle stood open as if someone had abandoned it there in a hurry.

  Manny stepped over a deflated fire hose and stopped at the open window of the ambulance. “Someone hurt inside?”

  An EMT behind the wheel tilted his hat back and glanced at Manny for a moment before replacing the hat over his eyes and resting his head back on the seat. “Someone’s beyond hurt. Someone’s dead. We’re just sticking around in case one of the firemen sucks smoke or the roof falls in.”

  Manny walked around a smaller truck with a hose reel stretched across the road. He covered his ears to the hissing of water dousing charred wood, and wished he could cover his nose as well. He’d smelled enough burned corpses to know one waited somewhere inside Sam’s house.

  Stumper stood with a bandanna tied around his nose talking with a fireman wearing yellow bunker gear. He spotted Manny and turned on his heels and ran toward him. Stumper motioned for them to walk upwind away from the house. When they were half a block away, Stumper pulled his bandanna away and spit into the dirt. “Just shoot me if I ever say I want to be a fireman.”

  Manny forced a smile. “That I can do. Give me the headline version of what happened.”

  Stumper hocked up phlegm before grabbing his can of Copenhagen and stuffing his lip. He replaced the lid and held the can in front of him. “I can fall asleep with this in my hand and still be alive in the morning. Now I were a smoker with a cigarette . . .”

  “That what you figured happened?”

  Stumper brushed the excess snuff off onto his jeans and pocketed the can. “That’s what the fire investigator thinks. It appears that Sam fell asleep with a cigarette.” He chin-pointed to the house. “Looks like they’re done.”

  Manny and Stumper walked to the command vehicle. Manny leaned against the dirty fender, black soot rubbing off onto his jeans and polo shirt, while Stumper stood away from the Suburban. “Getting a little filthy, ain’t ’cha?” He smiled.

  Manny smiled back. “Not as dirty as we’re going to get once we go inside the house.”

  Stumper’s smile faded. “We? I thought firemen investigated all arsons?”

  “They do. We investigate homicides.”

  The color drained from Stumper’s face as he looked over Manny’s shoulder at the house leaking smoke and steam from windows and doors. “But the firemen said it looks like Sam fell asleep smoking a cigarette.”

  Manny sat on the running board and looked up at Stumper. “You’ve never investigated a fire-related death before, have you?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “When?”

  Stumper kicked the dirt with his boot and spit tobacco juice on an ant struggling with a tree leaf. “Okay, I’ve never actually investigated one.”

  “Or seen one?”

  Stumper shook his head. “Just pi
ctures.”

  Manny stood and patted Stumper’s shoulder. “Then this will be your first. You’ll do fine.” He turned to the house, where firemen walked around stringing yellow crime scene tape.

  At the front fender of the command vehicle, a heavyset fireman wrote on a clipboard, his THREE BITS name tag barely readable under the soot and dirt. Manny badged him, and he nodded to Stumper. “Is it clear inside to have a look?”

  Three Bits turned his back and continued writing on the clipboard, and Manny thought he hadn’t heard him.

  “We need to go inside and . . .”

  “I heard you,” Three Bits said over his shoulder.

  Stumper tugged on Manny’s shirt and led him to the back of the command vehicle. “I’d like to say this guy’s a prick, but that would be giving pricks a bad name,” he whispered. “Hates everyone. Especially me.”

  Manny’s eyebrows came together. “Problems with Three Bits?”

  Stumper turned and looked at the fireman. “Went to school with him. We used to tease him . . . called him Three Tits, and the fight would be on. Mostly, he wanted to fight me ’cause I was the smallest guy in school. The only thing he learned is that my smaller-size boot up his ass didn’t hurt like it would with one of the bigger kids.”

  “Well, we got no choice. We got to work with him.”

  “You guys ready?” Three Bits called over his shoulder as he started for what used to be the front of Sam’s house. “We don’t have all night.” Water, black char from the effects of the fire, ran into the street and mixed with mud. Manny stomped his feet, knocking off the mud before he entered the house.

  “You won’t get this place any dirtier than it has been,” Three Bits said.

  “Just don’t want to introduce any more contaminants into the crime scene than we have to,” Manny answered and stepped over the threshold. Stumper stomped his feet before entering as well and followed them inside.

  Manny paused just inside the door, and Three Bits stopped. “I thought you wanted a walk-through?”

  “In a moment.” Manny stood in the center of what had been Sam’s living room. The fire had destroyed much of the roof, and light flooded in. He turned to Stumper. “A lot of this contamination was introduced by the firemen . . .”

  “What the hell we supposed to do when we get a fire? Take our shoes off?” Three Bits had turned to face them, anger spilling into his fists balling up. “We got to get inside. Save lives. Property . . .”

  “It’s sometimes referred to as spoliation.” Manny ignored Three Bits as he continued instructing Stumper. As he had with Willie, Manny took the opportunity to teach Stumper about criminal investigation. And this might be Stumper’s only chance to learn about arson the right way.

  Three Bits stepped between them. “What’s this bullshit about us firefighters?”

  Manny turned to Three Bits. “Not a value statement, Captain . . .”

  “Lieutenant,” Three Bits corrected, his face losing some of the redness. “And we can’t help it.”

  Manny smiled. “Never said you could. Just commenting on what’s been introduced to a homicide scene.”

  “Homicide?” Three Bits looked quickly around, but no other fireman was close, and he lowered his voice. “Who said anything about a homicide?”

  Manny shrugged. “I’m sure your assessment was correct—that Sam fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand and caught his ratty old mattress on fire. But we have to treat it as if it were a homicide. Don’t you agree?”

  Three Bits nodded. “Of course. It’s just . . .”

  Manny waved his hand. “Not to worry. Show us the body.”

  Three Bits put a bandanna over his nose as he led them into the bedroom.

  “My God.” Stumper turned away and Manny was certain he was going to heave, but he breathed deep and faced the body.

  Little more than a skeleton with charred skin attached here and there, pieces of red flannel shirt sticking to burned muscle, lay on its back. The unmistakable stench of burned hair mixed with seared flesh reached Manny and he turned away. When he turned back, he had regained his composure and he squatted beside the body. The victim’s hands were bent and held in front of his body, fingers burned back to reveal bone.

  “What was he doing, fending someone off?” Three Bits asked.

  Manny shook his head and pointed to the man’s arms. “Coagulation of muscles from the intense heat causes the muscles fibers to constrict. Makes victims look like they’re fighting. Called Pugilistic Attitude.”

  “We figure he was just laying there when the fire caught,” Three Bits blurted out. “He wasn’t fighting no one.”

  “Didn’t figure he was.” Manny stood and looked about the room. “How long was the fire going before your crews arrived?”

  “Quite a while, the way I figure.” Three Bits’s voice was muffled through his bandanna. “We got here fast as we could.”

  “Of course you did. Just tell me how long.”

  Three Bits turned away from the corpse and stood as if talking with the wall. “No neighbor close to call the fire in until the house was engulfed. Then it took us fifteen minutes to get here. We did the best we could.”

  Manny put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We know you guys responded as soon as you could. But I need to treat this like a homicide.”

  Two Bits nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

  Manny gestured out a charred window. “We’ll need a building engineer here to see if it’s safe to work in here.”

  “Got it.”

  “And your guys did right by running crime scene tape around the house. I’ll request a crime tech to process the scene, but it might be a few days. I’ll call the Billings office as soon as I’m finished here and put in the request. I’d like you to get enough plywood to seal off the house.”

  “You got it.” Three Bits left, and Manny was certain he was grateful to be gone from where the seared body seemed to fend off his attacker with upraised arms. Hell, Manny wished he were somewhere besides smelling the odors and stepping around the filth that was once Sampson Star Dancer’s house.

  Manny waited until the fireman left before turning back to the victim. Stumper stood looking over his shoulder, unsure if he wanted to get any closer. “I think you may be right about this being a homicide.” Stumper pointed to the man’s head. “By the amount of blood in his skull—and the way his head came apart—we’ll probably find an exit hole where the bullet came out.”

  Manny shook his head. “Intense heat often cracks the cranium, filling it with blood. It looks suspicious, but there’s no bullet hole in his skull. But we won’t know for sure until the autopsy.”

  Stumper nodded to the wall and window in Sam’s bedroom. “It looks like the accelerant traveled from there.” He indicated a spot on the floor beside the mattress.

  Manny bent and patted the burnt carpeting, pulling fibers up and bringing them to his nose. “We’ll make a note for the crime scene tech to take the carpeting for testing, but I don’t believe there was any accelerant used to start the fire.”

  Stumper threw up his hands. He brought his bandanna away just long enough to stuff his lip with snuff before covering his mouth and nose again. “Then what started it? Look at that fire pattern . . .”

  “Twenty minutes ago you were so certain it was an accident.” Manny smiled. “It’s like you want your first crispy critter to be a homicide.”

  Stumper shook his head. “I give up, oh Master. What the hell caused the fire? Spontaneous combustion? ’Cause if that’s what you think, you’re nuts.”

  Manny studied the fire pattern, the way in which the window in the room had been blown out, the mattress where the victim lay. “I think the fire was caused by a cigarette igniting Sam’s dried-out old mattress.” He pointed to the pattern of the flames traveling to the solitary window in the room. “Just like
Three Bits thought. Prior to flashover, fires grow by using fuel: wood, wallpaper, carpeting. Flesh. Once flashover is complete, the fire can only live with sufficient ventilation. It goes from a fuel-controlled fire to a ventilation-controlled fire.”

  Stumper nodded. “Good. At least we know it was accidental.”

  “Not so fast. It may be murder. We’ll know more at autopsy.”

  “Then there’s nothing left for us to do.”

  “We need to pay Chenoa a visit. If that’s her brother . . .”

  “If?” Stumper backed up and stumbled over what remained of the bedroom wall and knocked over a pike pole one of the firemen had forgotten. “That’s Sam, all right. Look at that damned big turquoise ring that melted to his finger. His dad gave him that. He never went anywhere without it. It’s Sam all right.”

  “Saw that.” Manny stood and stretched his legs. “But you can buy those kinds of rings in most jewelry shops, not to mention tourist traps. We’ll know more when we talk with Chenoa.”

  “What’s this we, Kimosabe? I want no part of Chenoa when she finds out Sam’s dead.”

  “I’m sure she’ll take it as hard as most sisters would.”

  Stumper shook his head. “It’s not that. She needs Sam’s signature to make ranch business legal. Including sale of those heifers. Now what does she do?”

  “She’ll find a way around that. She’ll involve the courts for temporary business dealings, at least until Sam’s been positively IDed.”

  “So now you know why I want no part of telling her.”

  Manny studied Stumper eying the body. “Okay, I’ll give you a choice—come with me to talk with Chenoa, or babysit that poor BBQed bastard until the ME arrives.”

  Stumper’s eyes darted between the corpse and Manny. “It’s no choice at all. I’ll stay with Sam, though our conversation won’t be any more productive than when the rummy was alive.”

  “You’d rather stay here than come talk with Chenoa? You that scared of her?”

  Stumper nodded. “I’m scared of what she can do. I want to keep my job, and pissing her off won’t endear her to me. Or you when you give her the bad news. Let’s say there’s going to be some fireworks between one Crow lady and one Lakota FBI agent that might rival the old days.”