Jake thanked the officer, told him to round up some crime scene tape, cordon off the area, and radio for the photographer. After the officer had climbed down, Jake grumbled, “Son of a bitch.” He looked at Arthur. “What can you make of this?”
“Oh, so you’re asking me now?”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re the professional tracker here.” Jake pointed a finger around the general direction of the scene. “Track.”
Arthur began moving carefully, his steps calculated and purposeful. Staying mainly on the sandstone, he circled the hide, if he could call it that. Any way you cut it, Arthur was sure they were going to be looking for someone who had been handling a rifle since childhood and had become extremely proficient with it over time. Or possibly someone who had been trained by the government. Arthur squatted down to inspect the boot imprint in the sand just inside the unforgiving sandstone. “Jake, look at this.” He pointed out the faint shape with a finger. “Our man was wearing Evo side zip desert boots.”
“How the hell can you tell that?” Jake placed his hands on his knees and leaned over to inspect the faint shape.
“See the five/eleven in the tread pattern? That tells you right there.” Arthur continued to scan the sand then pointed again. “He probably climbed up here the same way we did. And I’m sure he must have parked somewhere down the road; most likely through that open gate area I saw driving up. But good luck pulling tire tracks with all the traffic that’s been through here today. Including mine.”
“You sure it’s a man?”
“You ever see a woman with size eleven feet?”
Jake didn’t respond.
“I’d say we’re looking for a male, about six feet tall with size elevens, who hates Natives for some reason or is simply one of those fucked-up, racist bastards who’s either been a hunter all his life or had military training.”
Jake stood up slowly and let his worried look register with Arthur. “Hell, that covers a lot of ground.”
Arthur stood. “Think of the skill set it takes to pull off a shot like this. That kind of training is something very few people have, let alone to be able to get off two shots in quick succession. And if Mendoza is right about the caliber, our killer was using sniper rounds.”
“Shit,” Jake said. “That means I’ll have to run a check on anyone in San Juan County affiliated with hate groups or extremists or is just plain nuts. The Bilagáana are going to feel like they’re being profiled. Then there are those assholes calling themselves the ‘Desert Patriots.’ ” Jake shook his head. “They’ve been causing trouble again throughout the Checkerboard because now they’ve become some kind of Blackwater clone called Patriot Security, running security for some of the oil companies fracking down 550 somewhere. There’s even been talk of their possible involvement in hassling Natives recently, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“I used to have to deal with them when I was on the border,” Arthur said. “Back then, they were just a self-proclaimed militia hanging out on the border at night trying to stop illegals from crossing over.” Arthur huffed. “We had to kick their asses out because all they were allowed to do was watch and report, like the rest of the folks down there were doing, but those idiots tried to actually engage the coyotes leading undocumented immigrants across or moving drugs.”
The photographer climbed up the outcropping and went to work. Arthur continued cutting sign as Jake worked with the photographer and pointed out the areas he wanted photographed. The sheriff’s deputy returned with a roll of yellow tape and began circling off the area below.
Arthur moved back to the edge of the rocky raise where the two men had climbed up and squatted down. His eyes narrowed, partially due to the blazing sun but also to allow himself to focus on the craggy edge where the waters of more than a thousand rains had cut both shallow and deep crevices into his beloved Dinétah. He scanned the rough and textured earth where it mixed with scattered small clumps of grasses and bony fingers of roots until something caught his eye and he focused in. He got down on all fours and peered further over the edge of the rise.
“Jake!” he called out. “You wouldn’t happen to have an evidence bag on you, would you?”
Bilagody was beside Arthur in a few strides. “No. You find something?”
“Possibly.” He craned his neck back to look at Jake. “Get someone with a bag over here.”
Jake pushed a button on his shoulder mic and gave the order. “What did you find?”
Arthur leaned down farther, not enough to lose his balance, but just far enough to get a clearer look. “Looks like a gum wrapper.”
“A gum wrapper?” Jake said, perplexed. “Looks like all you found was a piece of trash.”
Arthur slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. Looks too new. Colors are still bright and not faded like they would be if it were old. And it hasn’t been rained on. You can thank the Creator for the streak of drought this past week.”
Below Arthur, Officer Tamara Dan trotted up to the base of the rise with a plastic bag in a clenched hand and started to climb.
“Take it slow, Dan!” Jake’s voice billowed like Moses back from the mountaintop.
She nodded and proceeded carefully. Arthur dropped to his belly and reached down to meet her halfway. Snatching the plastic bag from her hand, he continued to lay flat as he inverted the bag and inserted his right hand. Cautiously, he reached down and trapped the crumpled gum wrapper. Once he had taken possession of it, he caged it loosely in his semi-closed baggy hand and rolled over onto his back. He extended his left arm and Jake’s big bear claw grabbed it and jerked him to his feet.
Arthur held the bagged wrapper for both of them to study. “You think you can get a print off this?”
Jake took the bag and held it closer. “Maybe,” he said. “Not sure if carbon powder and a brush’ll work though, so don’t get your hopes up. If we get anything to show, I’ll let you know.” He looked at Arthur. “Getting prints off paper can be done, but if this does belong to our killer, we might have an even harder time getting anything off because of the heat.”
“Right,” Arthur remembered, “because what the finger leaves behind is made up of water, amino acids, and, ah … damn, I can’t think of it.”
“Lipids,” Jake said.
“Right!”
Jake used one finger to push up the front of his hat a few inches. “Being out here in 100-degree-plus temperatures might make the print pliable or even dry it out. And then there’s possible dust or pollens to figure in.” Jake held the crumpled wrapper softly with his fingers. “At least it’s in kind of a ball. Perhaps it was in the killer’s pocket and something caused it to fall out when he was lying here setting up?”
“Then he wouldn’t have noticed it was missing,” Arthur said. “It falls out up there where he lay because he reached in a pocket for something and whatever breeze there was last night blew it back here and off the rise.”
“When he was done, he probably did his best to make sure this area looked like he’d never been here,” Jake observed. “As best he could in the dark, anyway. Then he cleaned up after himself but managed to miss this.” Jake looked back at Flat Iron Rock in the distance. “This may be all we’ve got to go on because I don’t think Mendoza is going to get her shell casing.”
Arthur agreed. “Another reason I’m thinking he’s ex-
military. Snipers never leave spent shells. This guy’s probably doing his own reloads. But you’ll need to check if anyone held any kind of grudge against the Tabaahas for any reason. I doubt it, but you never know. And have your men go door to door back at those NHA houses and trailers I saw driving up—they may have heard or seen something.”
“Already on it,” Jake said, zipping the plastic bag shut and placing it into his front pants pocket. “Anything else you’d like me to do?”
“Sure,” Arthur said, looking aroun
d the area from the top of the sandstone raise down to the ground. “Find the killer before any more Native blood stains the earth. I’ve already seen enough blood in the sand to last me ten lifetimes.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Arthur had driven back to Farmington, picked up Sharon, and they were sitting at one of the small-tiled, square tables clustered around the four-tiered alabaster water fountain of the Si Señor restaurant on East 30th Street. They were enjoying two glasses of cabernet sauvignon and sitting on sky-blue wooden chairs painted with bright-yellow sun faces on the back of each.
“Have you heard anything about the Desert Patriots recently?”
“I can check with Jacob Reins tomorrow,” Sharon said. “He would know. He’s the one following the C and Cs.”
Arthur looked puzzled. “C and Cs?”
Sharon chuckled. “Crimes and Crazies.”
Arthur grinned as he worked his way through his La Plata Combination, alternating between the taco, the cheese enchilada, the tamale, and the rice and beans with the green chile and meat.
Sharon said, “So how’s Margaret doing?”
“Lost,” Arthur said. “Her whole world is gone now. She feels like she has nothing left.”
“Do the police think the Patriots have something to do with the boys’ deaths?”
Arthur scooped some refried beans onto his fork and dipped them into his Spanish rice. “I don’t know. Anything’s possible. Jake says they’ve been causing some trouble in the Checkerboard. They’ve even been implicated in a man’s disappearance.”
“Whose disappearance?” Sharon asked.
“Is that question coming from my wife or the reporter who inhabits her delicious body?”
Sharon gave an impish grin. “Both.” She picked at her grilled chicken breast with Cajun seasoning with her knife and fork.
“I don’t know,” Arthur told her. “He wouldn’t tell me. But his men are going to be checking with everyone living around the Flat Iron to see if they saw or heard anything unusual last night.”
“What kind of trouble are they causing?”
Arthur took a bite of tamale. “You just don’t stop, do you?”
Sharon’s eyes flashed seductively. “I’m tenacious. I believe you find that trait stimulating during certain activities I cannot mention in public.”
Arthur smiled broadly. “And what would those be?”
Suddenly, he felt the toes of one of her feet sliding up the inside of his right pant leg. “Tell me what you know, and you’ll find out.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, my love, but Jake really didn’t say. He only mentioned that they’ve gotten into the security business now. They’re calling themselves Patriot Security. I guess they’re providing services for some of the oil and gas companies down the 550 corridor.”
Sharon pouted playfully, then said, “My friend Rachel over at the Navajo Times did a story on the corridor a while back. Hundreds of needles are already in the ground, and she says that more are coming.”
“Needles?”
“Oil and gas wells,” Sharon replied. “Do you ever pay attention to anything I say when I’m talking to you?”
Arthur paused in midchew, just like when he was a child and got caught tasting the mutton before it was tabled. “Most of the time …” he said.
Sharon sighed and feigned disgust. “Listen, the San Juan Basin has been the largest producer of oil and gas since the early twentieth century. There are at least three hundred oil fields with around forty thousand needles sucking our land dry every day.”
Arthur listened intently as she continued, laying out all the facts and statistics while they ate. He wasn’t sure, but there might be a quiz later.
“Anyway,” Sharon went on, “some of our people who own their land signed leasing agreements with the oil and gas companies. But others, those who don’t own the land they live on, can’t. I’ve also heard rumors that someone has been pressuring some owners to sell if they don’t take the leasing offer given to them. Rachel says that tensions are growing in the Navajo communities because of it, and that chapter houses have become forums for discussion about whether or not it’s healthy or safe for our people to even live near these fracking sites.”
Arthur took a bite of his taco. “What health issues are being raised?”
Sharon pursed her lips. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“What am I, five?”
Sharon grinned. “Sometimes.”
Sharon added some butter into her mashed potatoes and stirred them with her fork. “It’s all about the chemicals being introduced into the soil and how they affect the water table. During the course of her investigation, she found no evidence that any water samples were taken before drilling began. That means there’s no scientific baseline on which to grade any current water samples against.” She shook her head. “And the only water samples being collected now are those done by some of the locals. They showed her photos proving how a lot of the plants near the sites are growing smaller than normal. Plus, there are fissures in the ground opening up in some areas that might be the result of the fracking.”
Arthur nodded and finished chewing.
Sharon cut and ate some more of her chicken. “Did Margaret tell you why her boys were out there?”
Arthur shook his head. “Probably drinking, like most kids these days.” He told her about the empty beer bottles scattered around the scene.
“But you can’t buy alcohol on the rez.”
“That’s right,” Arthur said, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. People are always going to find a way. The area where Tsela and Tahoma were killed is a known place to party.”
Sharon said, “Did she mention any girls? Where there’s boys, there’s always girls. Especially when you’re eighteen.”
“She couldn’t say for sure if any were there, but yeah, I agree, it’s a possibility. I couldn’t cut any sign because the FDMI for San Juan County was there doing her investigation, and the place was loaded with cops.”
Sharon looked surprised. “Delores Mendoza was there?”
Arthur detected a hint of something in her tone, so he merely nodded and ate some more of his enchilada.
Sharon sat back in her chair, a look of entrapment in her eyes. “So what did you think of her? Do you think she’s attractive?”
Arthur stopped chewing. Suddenly the restaurant had become very quiet, and he knew he was on dangerous ground, so he hoped his mind would work quickly. “Jake thought so,” he blurted out. Ahhh, sweet deflection.
“You lie like a rug,” Sharon replied, picking up her wine glass. “She’s only thirty-two, you know. And that blond hair is a dye-job.”
Arthur lifted his wine glass and said, “I hadn’t noticed,” then took a long sip, washing down the enchilada. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Sharon drank another sip of wine and held her glass with the fingers of both hands, her elbows resting on the table. “Her tits are fake too,” she said glibly.
Arthur sat back in his chair and patted his lips with a napkin, smiling only on the inside. “How do you know her?”
“She was the lead investigator a couple of years ago when those two hikers were murdered around Huerfano Mountain. I ran across her then. She kept some information from me. Information I needed to file my report. Because of that, KZRV got scooped. What can I say? I dislike her. Fake tits and all.”
Arthur chuckled. “Well, she seems to know her job. She thinks Tsela and Tahoma were killed with a high-caliber rifle from about four hundred yards. It seemed to me she was right since we found the location where the killer had set up to take his shots.” Arthur paused. “I’m going to go back out to Flat Iron in the morning and do some sign cutting when there won’t be anyone around. I should be able to tell if someone else was there with the boys before they were killed, provided the sc
ene hasn’t been trampled to death.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Trade secret,” Arthur said. “Afterward I think I’ll head out to Ojo Amarillo and have a talk with Margaret, see how she’s holding up and if she knows who the boys hung out with—any girls they may have been close to.”
Sharon nodded, then changed the subject. “By the way, I saw you talking to your old team at the wake. How are they doing?”
“You saw me?” Arthur took a bite of taco.
“I walked past the door on my way to the ladies’ room and peeked in. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Arthur smiled. “Some good, some not so good. But all of them still fighting their own war.”
“I’m glad your head was clear when I met you the first time,” Sharon said. “I don’t know if I could handle the types of things Kathy Derrick was telling us about.” Sharon sipped her wine purposefully then cut a piece of chicken breast. “Did you know that he almost killed himself last year?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“She walked into the garage one day and found him sitting in their car in his dress blues with that same gun to his head.” Arthur closed his eyes in disbelief. “She pleaded with him for a good twenty minutes to give her the gun. When he finally did, he started crying. The VA had him on a line of drugs, but she said after a few months he flushed them and disappeared back into his own world again.”
“That’s why we call the VA ‘Candy Land,’ ” Arthur told her. “Because all anyone there knows how to do is hand out pills like they were candy. That’s supposed to be changing.” He took another sip of his wine and ate the last of his taco. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“I read a story a month or so ago about a group of vets who counted on each other by connecting on Messenger. They would do a group text or sometimes call each other when they needed help coping with a problem.” She took another sip of wine. “It seemed to really help. Maybe you could do something like that?”
Death Waits in the Dark Page 4
