Magpie Speaks

by R. Allen Chappell

  “Billy, you’re welcome to go in there now and satisfy yourself that we interlopers have done all we could.” He was smiling as he came up to the car, but Billy thought he detected some slight air of annoyance in the man’s tone. The agent had mentioned earlier it was his son’s birthday and that he wanted to make the party back in Albuquerque––he needed to be there, he said.

  Billy Red Clay got out of his Tahoe, winked at Charlie, and held out a hand to the FBI man. Billy was a winker, and while Charlie didn’t always know what he meant by it, he did take it as a sign he was in the policeman’s confidence. He was not a winker himself and didn’t respond past an occasional nod.

  Billy put on a sad face when he said, “Sorry about your son’s birthday, Fred, I thought sure you were going to make it… for a while.”

  “Yes, well, I guess Senior Agent Mayfield didn’t think it was a priority.” He smiled again, ruefully this time and turned toward Charlie, whose badge hung on a little flap outside his belt. The agent glanced at the shield but couldn’t really tell much. He thought he already knew who the investigator was by the tribal logo on his truck.

  Billy indicated Charlie with a push of his chin and introduced him to Agent Fred Smith. As they were shaking hands, Charlie thought to himself, what a fine name Fred Smith is for an FBI man.

  Like his name, Agent Smith was nondescript, short, a little overweight, and with a voice no one would remember. No one would think for a moment this man was FBI. Charlie surmised that to be a good thing in that particular line of work.

  Fred nodded. “Legal Services, huh?” and offered his hand. “I believe Mayfield might have mentioned you… you’re not actually in law enforcement, right?”

  Billy Red Clay couldn’t help but snort and break into a chuckle. “Charlie’s an investigator for Legal Services. Tribal likes to keep him in the loop. We tend to work together here on the reservation.”

  Charlie gave the agent a cautious grin. “Our office has a good many ties to the people in these outlying areas… we like to help when we can.”

  The FBI man again nodded and returned his attention to Billy Red Clay. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you about what we’ve found out here Billy. Mayfield prefers any pertinent information be passed along by way of official channels.”

  Charlie and Billy looked at one another knowing full well how true this statement was and felt no need to comment.

  The agent measured the two Navajo for a moment. “Forensics, however,” he said, throwing a quick glance at the government car, “thinks there’s reason to believe a third victim might have been asphyxiated in the trailer. The gas oven had apparently been turned on at some point, but had run out of propane. The outside vent had a rag stuffed in it.” He turned and pointed at the trailers door and then to a two-by-six lying on the ground. “All the signs point to someone propping that board up against the door handle to keep someone else inside.”

  “Well, that is a little suspicious, isn’t it?” Billy Red Clay let on like he wouldn’t have guessed it and Charlie Yazzie had to suppress a little smile as he looked away.

  The FBI Agent himself chuckled, and couldn’t help but think more of the policeman. Agent Smith shook his head and half-turned to go, then thought better of it and redirected his attention to the two Navajo. “I know the bureau doesn’t let you guys at Tribal in on everything they come up with, and I think that’s a damn shame” Fred Smith had grown up in Aztec, and sometimes took a different view of things than the bureau. He paused and glanced over at the trailer. “This is probably a little more than I should mention, but the lab boys think someone was dragged out of there… dead or alive, they can’t say. They found some long black hair snagged on a rough spot low on the doorframe––could have been the victims… or his rescuer. They won’t know for certain for a few days yet, but that’s what they think right now… and don’t let on any of this came from me… I’d have to deny it.”

  Charlie thought back to just that morning when Billy Red Clay had cautioned him in nearly the same way. This made him think of the prison movie in which a guard said to one of his charges: “What we have here, is a failure to communicate.” It had become an interagency catch phrase over the years when information sharing had bogged down. Charlie wasn’t quite ready to let this go and fixed the agent with a steady gaze and asked, “How do they know someone was dragged out of there?”

  The FBI Agent paused before answering as though wondering if he hadn’t already said more than he should, then sighed and went on. “The victim had lost control of his bladder. Our people could see where he had been drug through the puddle. It was pretty plain to them what had happened.” He paused and mentally checked his facts. “Apparently, when a person is overcome by carbon monoxide, they often lose control of bodily functions and at that point seldom recover without help.” The agent rubbed the side of his nose with a thumb. “There wasn’t a body left lying around, so it’s logical to assume someone dragged the victim out of there.”

  ~~~~~~

  As they watched the government car become enveloped in its own cloud of dust, neither Charlie Yazzie nor Billy Red Clay said a word. They’d been given a lot to think about, and some of it didn’t set right with either of them. They only looked up when they heard Thomas Begay’s diesel engine start. In a few minutes the truck pulled into the yard and the driver’s side window rolled down.

  Thomas grinned at his clan nephew and asked in Navajo, “What the news, officer?”

  Billy Red Clay fixed his uncle with a calculating gaze; it was impolite and he knew it, but thought Thomas wrong in being there and wanted him to know how he felt. “You are a long way from home Uncle,” he said finally, replying in English.

  Thomas hooked a thumb at Paul. “My father-in-law here forced me to come. I had better things to do at home.”

  Paul T’Sosi rolled his eyes, but remained stone faced, stared straight ahead, and said nothing.

  Harley jumped off the bed of the truck, and without smiling, threw the tribal officer a half-salute. Looking around he asked, “Any dead people left out here?” When Charlie shook his head no, and assured him there weren’t the little man seemed satisfied and wandered off in the direction of the old stock-truck. The yellow crime scene tape flapped smartly in the cold wind, as though trying to attract attention to some forgotten clue before it blew away.

  While he certainly had the Navajo’s deep-seated fear of the dead, Harley also had their natural sense of curiosity and wanted a look around, just to satisfy himself nothing important had been missed by the authorities. Harley was a tracker by nature, a skill no longer practiced to any great extent on the reservation, and certainly not by law enforcement, as far as he had seen.

  When Thomas got out of the truck, Paul T’Sosi stayed put, but called to Charlie from his window as he indicated the trailer with his chin, “Any sign of Edward Bitsinnii in there?” He and Thomas had watched from the hill long enough to know something had gone on inside.

  Charlie walked over to the truck and after greeting the old singer went on to say there was no sign of Edward Bitsinnii anywhere. He didn’t go into detail about what was thought to have happened in the trailer and only mentioned the two brothers.

  “That is too bad,” Paul said, almost to himself. “I was hoping Edward was one of the dead people.” The old man gave the stock truck a sad look and remained silent… Paul was a man who often preferred to keep his own counsel.

  After a few parting words to his Uncle Thomas, Billy Red Clay said his goodbyes and left his tribesmen in a spray of windblown dirt. The breeze was kicking up, sending clouds of dust sweeping across the camp. Paul T’Sosi searched the darkened horizon and thought the Wind People might get reckless that night and bring a frost or even some snow to the powder-dry Gobernador Wash. The cold brunt of the approaching weather system was already flowing down off the rim. He could sense it in his bones and it made him feel even older.

  Silently, the three men watched as Harley Ponyboy made a wide and
cautious circle around the abandoned death truck, stopping to examine the ground every few feet. They knew what he was doing. He was doing what Harley did best. He was letting the sign tell him a story.

  The Mistake

  Charlie watched Harley Ponyboy from the corner of his eye and couldn’t imagine what was going on in the man’s head. He wasn’t the old carefree Harley now; his wife’s death… combined with the ensuing bout with alcohol, had wrought a change in his friend that Charlie wouldn’t have thought possible. He had seen the little man go on benders before but never saw him so subdued in mind or spirit. Attempts at conversation were useless, and as he watched him peering out the truck’s side window, could see he was lost in some other time and place. He hoped Harley would find his way back before being permanently branded by these dark days.

  Nearly thirty minutes passed before Harley finally spoke, not turning, his voice barely audible, “Anita wouldn’ had no reason ta be out there at Johnny Deboe’s unless she was looking for me. It feels now like I’m the one what killed her.”

  Charlie was so surprised at this he wasn’t sure what to say. “Harley, you’re not thinking straight. We have no idea what Anita was doing there that night… maybe someone lured her out there. You can’t blame yourself for something you had no part in.” Charlie knew he sounded like one of the social workers in his office, but had no better advice and only later thought it probably would have been better just to say nothing.

  They were almost to Waterflow, and home, before he finally thought to ask if Harley had run across anything interesting back at Gobernador. The portly little man had spent a good bit of time searching the vicinity of the stock truck, including that brushy area back of the corrals. He had only abandoned his inspection when Thomas called to him that Charlie was in his truck and ready to leave.

  Harley turned now and spoke softly, “I didn’ find too much, I guess. I didn’ really get ta go as far off as I should have.” Here he gave Charlie a reproachful look, as though saying he might have done better had he been allowed more time. He turned back to the window before murmuring, “I don’ know why someone would spend so much time walking around in that old broken-down corral––it won’t even hold sheep anymore.”

  “Maybe it was one of the investigators.”

  “No, this person’s shoes were all wore-out. I wouldn’ think an FBI man would have worn-out shoes.” Harley turned to his friend and lifted an eyebrow. “Whoever it was had been out there several times in the last week or so. He has a left foot that turns out a little. Most were old tracks… couple of days maybe, but still it was a little funny ta see them there… just wandering around in that same little space, as though looking for something. There were some rocks laid out on the ground like markers but they didn’t make any sense either.

  Charlie concentrated on the road and didn’t find anything extraordinary in any of this. “Hmm,” he nodded, not really paying attention.

  Then Harley’s voice fell to a whisper, “Come to think of it, I seem to recall Edward Bitsinnii’s left foot turned out a little.”

  It took a moment for this to sink in, and when it did, Charlie once again had the feeling there might be more to Harley Ponyboy than met the eye. “It’s been a long time since you saw him.”

  “I know, but some things you don’t forget, not about a witch, you don’t.”

  “So you think the guy that got dragged out of the trailer was Edward Bitsinnii?”

  “That’s how it looks ta me, yes. He was headed this way last we heard, so why not… and it was his mother’s trailer.”

  Charlie mulled this over and nodded. “Billy Red Clay thought Bitsinnii might have been there too. I didn’t tell Paul T’Sosi that; I didn’t want to upset him without knowing for sure. So, you’re thinking maybe Edward Bitsinnii might have been the one who shot the two brothers, too?”

  “Could be… there weren’t no whole helluva lot of other people running around out there, from what the neighbor told us.”

  “The neighbor told Billy Red Clay he heard a car come and go. Did you see any car tracks?”

  “Any other car sign would have been covered by all the law’s cars coming and going. There weren’t no sign of any cars… other than the law’s. Not as far as I could see.”

  “Who was it that helped Edward out of the trailer then? The forensic guys were certain the victim was too far gone to help himself. Someone had to get him out of there and maybe revive him. I don’t know many Navajo people that would try to help someone they thought might be dead… or even worse, was a witch.”

  Harley smiled for the first time that day and shook his head. “Witches don’ need no help Charlie.”

  This is how it is, Charlie thought to himself. Harley makes a good case for what happened and then throws it all away by thinking someone is a witch and has supernatural powers. This is the sort of thing holding my people back.

  ~~~~~~

  Thomas Begay knew he and his father-in-law would be late getting home. They had not only talked to the neighbor who found the bodies, but Paul insisted on taking time to enquire of the man’s wife––who, being of a more diligent nature, was able to tell them a few things her husband had neglected to report. For one thing, she said, she had known Edward Bitsinnii since he was a boy and knew he had returned to his mother’s old home place, but she had only actually seen him a time or two. One of those times was when he had driven off in his cousins’ truck one evening. Even that, she said, was more than she preferred seeing him––his reputation was still well remembered there in Gobernador Wash.

  The neighbor woman had not, however, seen the mystery car her husband reported on the fateful day, only heard her husband’s somewhat meager account of it. The upshot of the conversation was that Thomas Begay and Paul T’Sosi left the neighbor’s place with little new information, but the little they had learned was important. They were now certain of one thing––Edward Bitsinnii was back, and in Paul T’Sosi’s mind, at least, intended to do someone harm… if he hadn’t already.

  The thing that had bothered them most was the lack of any real evidence that the man was still alive, or if it had even been him that escaped the trailer, and assuming it was him––who would have helped such a person. Thomas thought they might be on the wrong track altogether.

  Back in the truck he glanced at the old man before asking, “So, Shizhé’é,” Thomas used the more respectful Navajo word for father, though he knew the old man didn’t like being referred to as such by him, “do you think Edward Bitsinnii is still hanging around out there at his mothers?” The old man was said to have a sixth sense when it came to the aura people left behind. Thomas had heard his wife speak of it many times and even said her daughter Alice seemed to have inherited the same ability.

  The old singer didn’t answer right away, and that indicated to Thomas he might be giving the question serious thought. “No, he’s not there. I’m pretty sure of it now. If he’s still alive we’ll hear soon enough where he is.” Paul went stone-faced. “There is one thing I know about my brother Edward––he came back to hurt someone, and nothing will keep him from it.”

  Thomas felt a little chill go through him at that, and wondered what further harm the witch of Ganado might be capable of, and more importantly, who might suffer the consequences of his evil work. He couldn’t help but think of his friend Harley… and then there was the matter of Charlie Yazzie’s son. Who knew what damage the boy had already suffered because of the curse? Charlie wouldn’t talk about it, told him he didn’t believe in such things. Thomas wondered how true that could be. He was certain all Navajo believe to some extent, even educated ones that are away a long time. They never really forget––it’s still there, down deep inside them somewhere.

  Paul T’Sosi seemed to read his son-in-law’s thoughts. “I think Edward has already killed someone we know, and now maybe those two brothers, also. The real question is, who else is on his list and where will he strike next?”

  “You think it was Ed
ward Bitsinnii who killed Anita?” This had not previously crossed Thomas’s mind, and he was perplexed at how the old man might have arrived at such a thought.

  Paul lowered his head. “I think maybe that was the way it was. In Edward’s mind he had plenty of reason to kill Anita. Especially if he thought Harley Ponyboy might be blamed for it.” The old man sighed. “This has been a long time coming and I had always hoped I would not live long enough to see it.” Paul then began mouthing a silent chant and did not look at his son-in-law again.

  When the pair arrived home, the first thing they noticed was a white Suburban with a University of New Mexico logo on the door, and Thomas turned his head to look at it more closely. “Ho, that’s Professor Custer’s old vehicle––I thought he retired. I wonder how it is that he’s still driving a university car?”

  Paul sniffed. “Maybe he stole it when he got fired.” He didn’t want to see the professor and had no intention of going inside. As he got out of the truck, he shot a look at the hogan. “You be sure and tell him…”

  “I know, I know, I’ll tell him you’re too busy to work for him.” Thomas shook his head, and then quietly, “Are you sure you don’t want me to see if there’s something for you in the new company?”

  Paul only glared, turned toward the summer hogan and bed, leaving Thomas standing in the light of the now open door.

  Lucy Tallwoman glanced at the retreating figure of her father before smiling and beckoning Thomas to come in, anxious for him to see who was there. She was tired of Paul’s mood swings over the last few weeks and didn’t want him to cast a pall over what promised to be an enjoyable evening with the professor.