The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  “Did this ‘friend” know anything about the Johnson murder?”

  “According to the Booking Officer, his friend claims not to know a damn thing about any murder—said he was just sent to pick up the truck. He did say the person who handed over the load was a real scary dude who, now…get this…told him he had to stay in Farmington to take care of some ‘unfinished business.’ The driver’s job was just to deliver the load to the city—he said he had no part in the heavy stuff.” Billy smiled. “Hard to say how much of this is true, of course, but Sheriff Dudd Schott apparently bought into it. He hasn’t said anything to any of the other agencies as far as the Undersheriff knows. Maybe Dudd’s hoping he can round up the bad guy by himself…take all the credit. Not a hard thing to believe if you know the man.”

  Charlie screwed up his mouth and squinted one eye at the policeman. “So, the murderer of Cliff Johnson—his wife, too, most likely—is still running around loose up here?”

  “That’s how it looks to me, Boss. You’re the only one I’ve spoken to about it as yet...” Billy gave the Investigator a wry grin. “At this point I expect your guess is probably as good as mine.”

  “When were you going to tell Fred? You’re the Liaison Officer…”

  “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell him anything, Fred’s waiting to hear from the Feds in Albuquerque right now. They may already have come up with most of this, and if not, I’ll fill him in then…especially about Dudd Schott withholding information...”

  Both men grinned and Billy Red Clay gave his friend a thumbs-up.

  “Do you suppose I could make a couple of calls from your office? Our radio tower must have iced up again, or something. I can’t get out on the two-way. I just have to get ahold of maintenance on the outage, and maybe call home so my mom won’t worry.”

  Charlie smiled.

  Back up in the office, Billy made his calls and the two men sat for a moment before heading out.

  “I’m serious, Billy—about telling Fred. I wouldn’t wait too long. This thing is starting to come loose. You do not want to be standing in front of it when the FBI gets moving.”

  Billy Red Clay nodded his head and had already stood to go, when the Legal Services Investigator saw his expression change. Following his gaze he saw FBI agent Fred Smith striding past the front desk without so much as looking at the receptionist. Determined, was the word that came to mind. The two Navajo glanced at one another, one as much surprised as the other.

  “…uh oh,” Billy managed before Agent Smith was upon them.

  Charlie raised an eyebrow at Fred as he came barging through the door. “What’s going on, Fred?” The Agents behavior warned him there was a problem…a big one.

  The FBI man opened his mouth and looked first at Charlie and then back to Billy. “I thought that was your unit out front.” He started to say something else but catching himself midstride thought better of it and instead just started over. “I don’t suppose either of you fellows know they just found Louise Johnson’s body?” He was looking hard at Billy Red Clay.

  Billy, with the inscrutable expression peculiar to his people, shook his head in a way that denied it, but didn’t bother to come right out and say so.

  Charlie had known the Tribal Cop since he was a boy and knew he was hard to rile—but he had seen him lose it a time or two. He motioned the young policeman back down in his chair. Charlie’s years of experience with Billy’s Uncle Thomas, made him once again aware how alike the two could be, more so than either of them cared to admit. Charlie stared a moment at the Federal Agent before waving him to a chair as well. “Have a seat Fred…” And then more gently… “Where did they find Louise?”

  Smith sat himself down rather heavily as though suddenly tired. He appeared to regain his composure before exhaling. “In a U-Haul load of Indian collectables down in Albuquerque—thought to be the merchandise from the Johnson’s storage unit—Police were almost finished unloading it when they found the body rolled up in a rug. That pretty well clinches her connection as far as they’re concerned.”

  Charlie canted his head slightly as he mouthed, “That is a damn shame, Fred. No one deserves that…regardless what part she might have played in the thing.” The investigator was quick to amend the statement. “Assuming, of course, she played any part at all.”

  Smith slumped back in his seat and studied both of the men before going on. “Actually, Louise Johnson is not the reason I’m here.”

  “No?” Charlie couldn’t imagine any more justifiable reason for the agent’s brusque visit than what he’d already heard.

  Billy leaned back in his chair as well and gave the Agent a long stare before looking away. He only turned back to the Federal Agent as he saw him scan the outer office, then frowning, reach over and push the door shut.

  Fred paused to dwell on what he was about to say for just a moment then offered Billy Red Clay an apologetic grin. “I see now I may be a little overwrought. There could have been more on my plate this morning than I was able to digest.” He laid both hands flat on the table. “I want both of you two to know how much I’ve appreciated your help these last few days… More than that, your personal commitment to furthering interagency transparency and cooperation is beyond anything our organizations have experienced in the past. The Bureau knows we have a ways to go yet, but I want to tell you— we’re working on it.” Fred turned slightly toward Billy as he said these things and the policeman backed off, touching the brim of his hat in acknowledgment he nodded his appreciation.

  The two Navajo edged their chairs closer and Charlie scanned the outer office himself before reaching down to unplug the intercom. He suspected the FBI man was about to say something provocative.

  “As you may know, the Bureau’s Farmington Office has been experiencing an information leak. Turns out it may be internal…one of our own people involved.” Clearly it pained the Senior Agent to admit this, and he was quick to point out it still was not certain who the guilty party was—but that there was little doubt it was someone in the office. “But I’ll get back to that part of the story later on,” he said quietly.

  Charlie had more than a vague notion who the Senior Agent had in his crosshairs, and it wasn’t Billy Red Clay, but he could see Smith was unprepared to say more at this point. Fred must have very little hard evidence. Farmington’s Bureau Office being as small as it is, the field of suspects has to be limited.

  Fred spoke in a quiet, almost self-effacing manner that he thought the two Navajo would relate to. Letting slip the hint of a smile, he said, “While it may surprise you men—I too, had friends growing up,” then smiled outright. “One of whom, as it happens, is now the manager of a local motel. Craig Benson at the Thunderbird…” Fred tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk. “And that brings me to the real purpose of my being here this morning. Craig called me a few hours ago with something extraordinary. Let me preface this by saying the man may be a little excitable at times, but his word is unimpeachable. He and I were at the Academy together down at Quantico—he washed out late in the program—pressure finally got to him, I expect. Still, he remains absolutely dedicated to the precepts of the Bureau. I would stake my career on what he told me. That may, in fact, be exactly what I’m about to do.” He stopped and looked from one to the other before admitting, “Quite frankly, I could use your help.”

  This brought the two Tribal lawmen to attention.

  The agent surveyed the outer office a last time… “What I’m going to tell you can go no further; there are major players involved, and of the sort we seldom run into out here.”

  This unexpected turn took Charlie by complete surprise and he could see Billy Red Clay was reserving judgment as well.

  Fred lowered his voice and began speaking in a measured tone, one meant to eliminate any possibility of misunderstanding. “Craig has, for the past several days, taken it upon himself to keep a certain person under surveillance, one of the motel’s guests actually. His suspicions were aroused by
several incidents: packages addressed to a now defunct local engineering firm he was familiar with. And after taking the trouble to do a little extra digging, found the name the guest was registered under belonged to a person who had been dead a number of years. My friend is convinced there is something questionable going on but didn’t feel justified in calling me until he knew more. Then, too, he figured there were some of his actions I might not condone.” Fred paused for a moment to be sure his listeners were still with him…seeing they were he went on. “Feeling certain his suspect was about to make a move he decided to follow him and became convinced the man was about to be contacted by a confederate. At the last minute the suspect was apparently warned off. He aborted the meeting and my friend knew the opportunity had been lost. He tailed him to a local bar and eatery, and after watching a while, returned to the motel and checked the man’s room before he could return. Under the bed, he found a box containing a rifle set up for long distance work.” Fred paused giving the pair a significant glance before going on. “There were silencers in the box, as well as several military issue hand grenades in their original packing. The numbers on the long gun had been expertly removed—a Federal crime in itself—as is possession of both the silencers and grenades. All this taken together…my friend felt he finally had something I might be interested in, and decided to give me a call.”

  Charlie loved high intrigue. It brought back thoughts of his short involvement with the DEA only the year before. It had been a welcome and exciting break from what had become a desk-bound interim in his career at Legal Services. He had for a while, in fact, toyed with the idea he might even be interested in a position Drug Enforcement had open in Albuquerque. “A new career in a different world,” he’d told Sue. After a serious sit-down with his wife and a lot of soul searching on his part, he’d turned the job down, deciding he could do more good right there on the reservation. Though the idea hadn’t panned out, it had left a taste for the action and excitement the life might have to offer. He could understand what had motivated the motel manager to mix in. The man probably thought this might be his last chance to be a part of something he could now only dream of.

  “So, what did you have in mind that Billy and I might help you with, Fred?” Charlie was serious, but at the same time wondered why the agent would need their help at all? When he asked as much, Fred Smith seemed hesitant to answer for a moment.

  “Well,” the FBI man said quietly, “The truth is, you boys are my only real option at this point.” The Senior Agent shook his head. “I don’t know who to trust in my own office—and the last people I would care to call on would be the local agencies in Farmington. This is a Federal investigation, of a crime committed on Indian lands and under the jurisdiction of the Federal Government. The FBI can be legally assisted by Navajo Nation law enforcement personnel should it be required in the pursuit of a felony committed on the reservation.”

  “What did you have in mind, Fred?” Charlie was inclined to go along with it, whatever it entailed, and knew Billy Red Clay would jump at an opportunity like this…whatever it was.

  “I don’t suppose you boys would be interested in confronting a suspected professional assassin and possibly being shot at in the process, would you?”

  Billy Red Clay squirmed in his chair and grinned. “Can we shoot back?”

  24

  The Test

  Archie Blumker watched from his window as a plow truck pushed snow to the side of the parking lot. News reports stated San Juan County back roads were slowly being opened—a few highways already cleared with others reported not far behind. He’d had plenty of time to consider what was to be done about Percy’s dilemma. He’d spent most of the day studying the portfolio spread out on the table in preparation for the task that lie ahead.

  Guests were beginning to stir. One or two could be seen carrying bags to vehicles, starting engines to warm, as they scraped windshields and cleared small drifts left by the plow. Archie was amused to see his portly neighbor from just down the hall standing timidly outside the motel entrance. Finally, using his cane for support, the elderly gentleman felt his way out onto the still icy sidewalk to survey the situation. He seemed confused as to how he might go about extracting his car; the plow had left quite a snow bank blocking it. After watching a few moments Archie had about decided to go down and offer to help. He frowned as he saw the old gentleman lean out past the edge of the sidewalk, apparently looking for a way down the sharp incline. As Archie looked on, the man apparently decided not to chance it, half turned, but misjudged the placement of his cane, which slipped on the icy cement pitching him forward. Archie watched in dismay as the old man’s feet went out from under him, then stared in disbelief as the elderly man contorted mid-air, to come lightly to his feet in a crouch at the foot of the drop off. Though nearly hidden between two cars Archie had a clear view of the entire thing—he had never seen anything to equal it. The old man, not appearing so old now, gathered himself, glancing about to see if anyone had taken notice. After a moment, and apparently satisfied he was unobserved, he shrugged his shoulders and straightened up to run a hand through his hair and adjust his scarf.

  Archie blinked, leaned forward in disbelief—had he only imagined the astonishing recovery? He watched intently as the man, now again old, brushed at his clothing with shaky hands and limped cautiously back up the incline to the sidewalk…then to the lobby, depending heavily on his cane, as an old man should.

  Archie mentally re-ran the incident several times, still having a hard time trusting his own eyes. Then, slowly it began to dawn on him. Moving away from the window, he removed the packet of photos from his jacket pocket, and examined them again for perhaps the sixth time; finally, holding one out, he tapped it with a forefinger and thought, ah, yes Archie, there he is…of course, the most unlikely of the lot! He studied the photo as though seeing it for the first time. Given the advantage of hindsight, the eyes and other more subtle facial features were now quite apparent. Yes, it was him all right. Allowing his mind to reassess the operative’s photo in this new light, it was clear he was a man probably only in his thirties, if that. Who would have thought him to be the overweight, age debilitated person in the room two doors down? From their few chance encounters there was absolutely nothing Archie could recall that would have given the man away. So, this is the man with no name?

  The notation on the back of the photo supported what he’d seen—there, just below the martial arts credits: Accomplished gymnast and once nationally ranked Canadian skater. Certainly not the average operative, but then, there were no average operatives.

  Archie prided himself on a certain ability to see through the more common subterfuges…but not this time. He chuckled, shaking his head in admiration at the photo. They should have added world-class actor, and master makeup artist, to that list.

  Archie had no physical skills he thought remarkable, and as far as acting, could only play one character—himself—and even that sometimes proved a poor effort. Overall, he considered himself quite ordinary, with the exception of two things: he was singularly obsessive in his pursuit of a goal…and ruthless in carrying it out.

  From the hallway came the muffled chime of an elevator. He hurried to the door, and pressing his face hard against the cold metal, put his eye to the peephole. He was unable to make out more than a fraction of that door belonging to his neighbor. He dare not open his own even a sliver—this was a person who would be watching. He had already underestimated the man once; a second time might be his last. He was now obliged to admit the possibility of being out-classed. No matter, there was always a workaround of one sort or another. The entire profession, if it could be called that, required less actual skill than most thought. In Archie’s view success was mostly just a matter of stubborn determination…with perhaps a dollop of luck from time to time. What bothered him about this man down the hall was his chameleon-like ability to morph into something he wasn’t, which made it likely he had other undisclosed talents as wel
l. Already Archie figured engaging him physically might not end well. In one way they were very much alike—this person would instantly kill him if he could—that was a given. Archie’s intricate planning, coupled with his long experience and attention to detail, might serve to level the field. Or, he could just walk down the hall and shoot him.

  In the end this is what the ex-cop chose. He was a reliable hand with a gun, not as good as he once had been, but still felt he could make a workmanlike job of it. Thinking these things, and feeling the first fine tentacles of excitement, he threaded the silencer onto the barrel, slipped in a full clip, and jacked one into the chamber. It always made him smile when a movie-cop waited until the last possible second before loading one in.

  Nerves of steel—that was the thing—and Archie had that in spades.

  25

  Crossfire

  Fred Smith led the way through the lobby and on to the reception area. The hotel manager was waiting and nervously ushered the three men to his office. Barely able to contain himself Craig Benson informed them the suspect was still in his room. Pointing to the surveillance monitors above his desk he slowly scrolled through the security cameras to the floor in question. “That’s it…third door down on the left—309.” He shook his head. “As far as I know he’s still in there.” The former FBI hopeful was visibly excited, his voice thin and high pitched.