The Tale Teller

by Anne Hillerman

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Fred Martinez.”

  “Did you see anything unusual out here today?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen this dog before, Mr. Martinez?”

  “Nope. I thought it was yours. Do you need any help, with anyone . . . or anything?”

  “No, sir. Please go back to the parking lot.”

  Martinez jogged away. The conversation with him foreshadowed the rest of the people she encountered on the trail.

  Bernie knew that when backup arrived she’d still be here, either as the officer who would close the trail or as the one to keep an eye on the body and bar access to the crime scene from the river. She expected the backup person to be Chee, but she didn’t know where he might be in the sprawling district their substation covered, what call he was currently handling, or how long it would take him to arrive.

  After she had done as much as she could to record the crime scene exactly as she’d found it, she sat on a tree stump that offered a view of anyone on the trail and of the weeds that concealed the victim. She turned back a bicycle rider, two teen girls ready for a run, and some other disappointed walkers and joggers. She collected their names and contact information. She also spoke to half a dozen exercisers returning to the parking lot, people who had passed the place on the trail where a detour led to the body. Even though each of them said they had seen nothing unusual, she typed in their information and suggested that someone might want to interview them in detail.

  When no one intruded, she watched the dog pace as she considered the crime, wondering if it would sniff at something else and lead her to a clue, but it didn’t. She heard it barking and noticed how it worked to keep a few persistent crows away from the place the body lay. Too bad it couldn’t tell her what had happened to the man in the torn black pants.

  Bernie had finished her water by the time Officer Harold Bigman arrived. His exhaustion showed itself in the way he walked, his arms swinging limply and his head down.

  “Hey, Bernie. What have you got?”

  “Over there in the weeds.” She pointed with her chin. “A male, maybe forty-something, hands bound behind his back. Down the slope a few yards. You can’t see the body from here.”

  He glanced toward the place and turned back to her. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t want to hike over to look at the dead man. Dealing with the dead could bring trouble with their chindiis, and even less traditional Navajos had heard enough stories of the evil associated with these spirits to try to limit contact. And homicide investigations on the reservation fell to the FBI.

  “I didn’t notice your car.”

  “No, I ran from the house.”

  “When did you get a dog?” She saw Bigman’s gaze shift toward the weeds where the dog stood panting. “He looks hot.”

  “It’s not mine. I saw it here, and that’s why I left the trail to investigate. It was acting suspicious, pacing into the weeds and then back to the trail. It has that green collar but no tags.”

  “Hmmm. Questionable dog with no ID. It’s actually a male, by the way. Do you think he’s a suspect?” Bigman grinned, then turned serious. “It’s good you came by before some civilian stumbled across the body and freaked out.”

  “Yeah, and we’re lucky that this trail doesn’t have another entrance. People start at the parking lot like you did. We need to shut it down in case there’s any evidence left along the route.”

  “If you do that, I’ll stay here with the body and the mutt until the Feds send us home.” Bigman gave her the keys to his unit. “There’s some cold water in the trunk. You look like you could use it.”

  “Thanks. There’s an advantage to the heat. It keeps down the foot traffic.”

  “You have a way of looking on the bright side, Sister.”

  But as he spoke, she saw a woman in black shorts jogging toward them. “I’ll stop that one and then wait at the trailhead. If you see anyone headed back to the parking lot, be sure to get their contact info and find out what they saw.”

  Bernie told the woman the trail was closed because of an incident the police were investigating. The jogger, a Navajo in her twenties, looked startled and turned around without argument. Bernie followed the woman to the trailhead, encountering no one else. She found the water in an insulated cooler along with a rope in Bigman’s car that would help secure the dog.

  In the next half hour, she turned away two gray-haired ladies and a young male jogger.

  Then came a person who wanted to argue with her. He was a bilagáana with disturbingly blue eyes and a deep tan. He ignored her when she called to him. She saw his earbuds and moved to block his path, noticing that his skin glistened with sweat. “Sorry, sir, this trail is closed for now. A police incident.”

  He removed his headphones. “What did you say?”

  She repeated the message. “No one can use the trail right now.”

  “Oh, come on, missy. Why should I believe you are a cop?”

  “I’m Officer Bernadette Manuelito.” She stood a bit straighter and pulled out her identification.

  He studied it. “OK. I can tell by looking that you’re a runner. I’m training for the ultra-marathon at Canyon de Chelly, and this trail has those sandy places where you have to work harder. I’ve already run it once and I need my second lap. I won’t bother anything. What’s the harm?”

  “You train here often?”

  “Every day.” He grinned at her. “You know how it is when you’re anticipating an event. You don’t want to break your rhythm.”

  “Have you seen anything unusual?”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, something different. An altercation? A stranger hanging out near here?” Bernie waited. She could tell from the change in his expression that he had thought of something.

  “I don’t know anything, but what if I did?”

  “It looks like a serious crime may have been committed. If you have any information that would help us, you should share it. You know who I am. You are?”

  The man took a step back. “I’m Ed Summersly. I encounter the same runners out here a lot. It’s not like we’re a club or anything. I spotted a rez dog here a while ago. I thought it was odd because it was just hanging out over there where the trail curves a little, maybe a mile before the cottonwoods. It wasn’t with anybody as far as I could tell.”

  “Did you stop?”

  “No. I’m not a dog person.”

  She asked for his phone number and the spelling of his name, and he reluctantly complied. She put them in her phone.

  “Since I’ve been a good guy, can I run?”

  “Sure. Go ahead but not here. Not today.”

  Summersly gave her a dark look, shook his head, and jogged back to his car.

  A few minutes later, her phone buzzed, and it was Chee. She filled him in. “I’m waiting at the trailhead by the parking lot, keeping people away until the Feds get here. Bigman is with the body.”

  “Did you get your run in before all this?”

  “Yeah. Highlight of the day. How are you?”

  “My knee hurts from that dumb fall. I got some ice for it. Things are slow out here. A car break-in at the casino, that’s the big news so far.”

  “Be safe.”

  “You, too. Is there any shade?”

  “A little.”

  A car with a pair of bicycles on the roof pulled into the lot, parking next to a black Honda, and she ended Chee’s call to intercept the would-be cyclists.

  A few clouds had scooted over the sun, and the afternoon, while not cool, had not grown any warmer by the time the gray sedan pulled up. Bernie recognized the car and felt her anxiety rise. She hadn’t expected to see FBI Agent Sage Johnson on duty on a summer weekend.

  The first time they had worked together involved a hostage situation in which Johnson got the name of a crucial person in the scenario wrong. That and other mistakes led to the inju
ry of a key witness. The FBI woman had suggested coffee for what Bernie interpreted as a fence-mending session, but they never got around to it.

  The agent lowered the window. Jazz and cool air flowed out.

  “Manuelito.” Johnson wore a white blouse. Her dark ball cap said “FBI.” “What’s up?”

  Bernie explained what she’d found. “Officer Bigman arrived about ninety minutes ago. He’s with the body. I came up here to close the trail.”

  “Do you know this place?”

  “I do. It’s a five-mile loop that starts and ends here. I run here often.”

  “A hot day for running, isn’t it?”

  Bernie didn’t respond.

  “Tell me what’s waiting for me up there.”

  Bernie explained. “When I realized what I’d come across, I was careful to retrace my steps. I have photos and information on the people who came by after I found the body.”

  “You don’t need to defend yourself. It’s good for the investigation that you discovered the victim rather than some kid on a bike. Everything I hear about you is exemplary. You being here is lucky.”

  The compliment made Bernie uneasy. “You know, I’ve had better luck. Next time, I’d like to find a winning lottery ticket, not a dead guy.”

  Johnson climbed out of the sedan and locked it. “I’m going to the site. Stay here to keep the trail closed until Agent Berke and the ERT arrive.”

  Bernie knew ERT was the Evidence Response Team. “Will do.”

  Two more vehicles, a white coupe with a smashed front end and a relatively new dark blue SUV, pulled up to the parking area. Johnson studied them, then turned her attention back to Bernie.

  “How far is the body?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes.” Bernie picked up the rope and a water bottle and handed them to Johnson. “You or Bigman might want these for the dog.”

  “I’ll be in touch for a follow-up interview, probably tomorrow. I’d like to get this investigation moving.”

  The sight of a white woman in jeans walking up a closed trail made it harder for Bernie to persuade the newcomer Navajo runners climbing out of their vehicles that the area was, indeed, off-limits, but she did it. FBI agents from the ERT arrived within half an hour, and one took her place as trail and parking lot monitor.

  Bernie grabbed another bottle of water from Bigman’s unit and left his keys with the FBI parking lot man. Picturing the red shoes and the torn black pants, Bernie started the jog back to their trailer.

  Questions swirled as she ran. Who was the man? Why was he dead? Why was he there? Where had he been killed? Had the dog followed him?

  She was halfway home when Chee’s truck pulled up next to her. “Hey, beautiful. Want a ride?”

  “I don’t know. Are you trustworthy?”

  “I may have ulterior motives, but I brought you a Coke.” He reached across the seat and opened the passenger door.

  The truck’s air-conditioning felt great, almost too cool on her sweating arms. He handed her the cold can, and she rubbed it on the back of her hot neck before opening it and taking a sip.

  “You just earned about a million husband points. Are you done working for today?”

  “Well, they say even crime takes a holiday. So, yeah, for the moment.”

  “Who says that about crime?” Bernie put on her seat belt.

  “Give me a minute.” Chee chuckled. “I think it’s the title of an old movie about a cop who sets up an elaborate scam to catch a crook.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “That’s because you’re so young and cute.”

  For the first time in hours, she began to relax. “Me?”

  “You’re cute even when you’re hot and stinky. But if you’d like a shower, I’ll get dinner going while you’re in there. And then you can tell me more about what happened if you want to.”

  As she felt the water against her skin, she flashed back to the trail and the body. Something bothered her about the crime scene, and it was more than being near the corpse.

  Why make the effort to dump a body off a popular trail where it was likely to be discovered? Had the killer left the body as some sort of message? Who was the victim and how did he die?

  She pulled back the thoughts and shampooed her hair. She turned off the water and grabbed for a towel. The FBI was in charge of homicides. She had plenty on her plate, but she’d talk to Largo and Johnson about helping with the case. There were plenty of Navajos who might recall more than they’d told her, and she had their names.

  She walked out to the deck where Chee was cleaning the grill. He smiled when he saw her. “Your mother called while you were in the shower. I told her I’d let you know.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She told me that you look too thin and to make sure you eat. She told me not to let you work so hard. She said she wants to talk to you about your sister. That covers it.”

  “I’ll call her later. Let’s take it easy for a while.”

  Chee chuckled. “I know you. You want to make some notes about that crime scene.”

  “Johnson said she needs to interview me again, probably tomorrow and—” The ringing of the house phone interrupted her. “And I bet that’s Mama.”

  “I bet you’re right.”

  Bernie looked at the caller ID before she answered. “Lieutenant! How good to hear from you.”

  “Hello, Bernie. I hope you’re enjoying this beautiful day.” Joe Leaphorn’s voice sounded strong, and she loved the natural rhythm of his Navajo.

  “Chee plans pork chops on the grill, and I made a pie to go with them. Come join us tonight.” As she said it, she cringed at a vision of the sweet blackened mess.

  “I can’t. Speaking of Chee, is he free to come to the phone?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a moment.”

  Chee’s side of the conversation was brief, a string of “Yes, sirs,” one “I’m really not comfortable with that,” and then, “I’ll think about it.”

  He said good-bye and put the phone on the table. She waited to hear what he’d share.

  “Largo asked the Lieutenant if he’d mentor Wilson Sam.”

  “Why?”

  “After the hay-sale argument, the captain is seriously annoyed with the rookie. He wants to help Sam before he screws up again and gets fired or killed.”

  “I meant why the Lieutenant. Sure, he’s smart and well respected, but he isn’t an active member of the department. He’ll have to figure out what’s going on with the rookie. Someone like you already knows the story.”

  “Largo thinks highly of the Lieutenant, plus, he has experience as a mentor, and now that he’s retired he might have time to do it.”

  “So, why the phone call?”

  “He heard about Sam’s injury, and he wanted to check the story with me.”

  She could tell from the way Chee ended the sentence that there was more to come.

  “Leaphorn’s reluctant because he’s at the beginning of a new PI case, but he owes Largo a favor. He asked if I’d give him a hand. I said I’d consider it, but I feel uncomfortable, like a snitch or something.”

  “I understand. But we’ll be even more slammed if the rookie gets fired. If you can help, that would be great.”

  “The Lieutenant offered to meet with the rookie for an initial interview and then talk to Largo about his assessment. That might get me off the hook.”

  Chee began dinner preparations, and she continued to work on her chronology of discovering the body. Compiling the notes heightened her recall. She revisualized what she’d seen as she approached the path, searching not only for the extraordinary but for something slightly askew that might have relevance in the murder. She wrote down everything she remembered, no matter how minor and boring.

  She’d nearly finished when she felt Chee’s eyes on her.

  She looked up, and he spoke. “Is something bothering you, sweetheart?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re scowling.”

 
She closed the notebook. “I can’t get the sight of that body out of my mind.”

  “Dealing with the dead is part of the job, but it’s not something I ever get used to either. And it’s good that we don’t. It keeps us human.”

  “I have more questions than answers.”

  “I know you. They are good questions.”

  As soon as he said it, she remembered Johnson’s compliment and mentioned it to Chee. “I think she was just making nice with me.”

  “My philosophy is that when someone gives me a pat on the back, I accept it. It balances those times someone said something mean.”

  She smiled. “I better wrap up these notes.” As she wrote the final observations, she felt the tension drain away, as though putting what she’d seen on paper allowed her to leave it behind. At least for tonight.

  They finished dinner, and because Chee had cooked, Bernie was cleaning up before she served what she could salvage from the charred pie. Baking and crime solving clearly didn’t mix.

  Chee enjoyed the evening’s quiet. The rosy afterglow of sunset and the shift in temperature from hot to pleasantly warm added to his sense of well-being. He listened as crickets chirped their songs of longing, and then he heard something out of tune, a car turning onto his road. Officer Bigman, wearing khakis and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, climbed out of the white SUV. He hugged a round green watermelon to his chest. Chee respected Bigman as a fellow officer and liked him, too, but it was unusual for Bernie’s clan brother to come for a visit.

  Chee called to him. “Hey there. You taking your watermelon out for a ride?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, bring it on over.”

  Bigman walked up the steps to the deck and placed the melon at the center of the table. It rolled to position itself onto a flat spot with a quiet thud.

  Chee used a knuckle to thump it. “Sounds ripe. Early for watermelon, too.”

  Bigman chuckled. “And as I see it, it’s never too early for chʼééhjiyáán. I can eat watermelon at six a.m. or at midnight. Breakfast, lunch, and suppertime.”