Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “How did this place get the name ‘Bear Coat’?”

  “Depends who you talk to. Indians like Saul will tell you a legend about a Lakota maiden who got lost in a snowstorm and was about to die, when the Great Spirit took pity on her and sent a bear to keep her warm until the storm ended and her people could find her. Saul says it happened up on his ridge, the one we saw earlier today. That’s why it’s so holy.”

  “It’s a beautiful story.”

  “Make-believe’s always prettier than the truth. The town’s really named for General Nelson A. Miles. After the Custer massacre, he chased the Cheyenne and Sioux, including Crazy Horse, all over these parts, until they finally gave up. The Cheyenne called Miles ‘Bear’s Coat,’ and that’s really how we got our name.”

  “I can see why True Sky prefers the legend.”

  “Uh-huh. Otherwise, it’s kinda rubbing the Indians’ noses in it. That’s Town Hall. Police station’s in back.”

  The street lights blinked on, as Rosen followed Andi around the corner and inside.

  Sitting behind the dispatch unit, a young woman with curly blond hair was reading a romance novel. She pointedly ignored a policeman who, leaning over the plywood wall separating them, was trying to make time.

  “Hi, Wendy . . . Elroy,” Andi said.

  They both looked up, the policeman blushing violently. A little overweight, he had brown hair, a slight mustache, and eyes pale as his complexion. The kind of man whose name you’d keep forgetting.

  Andi continued, “This is Mr. Nate Rosen. He’s the lawyer I told Tom about—the one who’s going to defend Saul True Sky on the murder charge.”

  The policeman quickly walked forward. His handshake felt doughy. “I’m Assistant Chief Elroy Baker. Pleased to meet you.” He spoke with a slight Southern accent.

  “Thank you. Since the bond hearing’s tomorrow, I’d like to see my client now.”

  Baker rubbed his jaw. “Tom—that’s Chief Cross Dog—didn’t mention anything about letting the prisoner see a visitor after hours.”

  “I am Mr. True Sky’s attorney.”

  “Hmm. Wendy, call Chief Cross Dog and get clearance for Mr. Rosen, while I fill out the necessary papers.”

  While Baker walked to his desk, Andi whispered, “That’s the way Elroy is. Always making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “I can’t raise Tom,” Wendy said. “I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  Rosen shook his head. “I shouldn’t be denied access to my client.”

  “Go ahead, Elroy. We always let Margie Travers come by at night whenever her no-good husband’s sleeping one off.”

  “But this here’s a murder charge.” Baker drummed his fingers on the desk, then walked back to Rosen. “Oh, all right. Guess it can’t do any harm. I have to search you first.”

  As Baker patted down Rosen, Andi said, “Watch his hands. Ain’t that right, Wendy?”

  Again blushing, the policeman quickly finished. “Okay. Follow me. Not you, Andi.”

  “But I’m the press.”

  “Sorry, but you ain’t got no business . . .”

  “What about the First Amendment? Tell him, Nate.”

  “Officer Baker’s right. Besides, it’s in the best interest of my client to see me privately. I’m sure you understand.”

  “No, I don’t!” Her face colored, and she stared at him the same way she’d stared at Gil McCracken. “I brought you here. This is my story. Nobody’s getting in the way of . . .” She stopped suddenly, biting her lower lip.

  “Get in the way of what?” She shook her head, and Rosen continued, “Saul True Sky’s my client, not yours. He has the right to see me in private. Officer Baker.”

  Andi looked away, as Rosen followed the policeman through a back door.

  The jail was small—a narrow corridor with two cells on the right. The only illumination was the gray twilight drifting through the barred windows.

  In the far cell, a man leaned out the window and sang, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled a reply.

  Baker said, “No more of your caterwauling, Ike. After two days in here, I thought you’d finally be sober.”

  “Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling . . .!”

  “I said shut up!”

  The prisoner walked to the bars. He was an old Indian, his long hair tied in a ponytail. “I was only singing to Samson, the junkyard dog. He’s chained up like me. We talk to one another about what it’s like to be free. One day soon, I’m going to cut him loose.”

  “You’re nuttier than a fruitcake. You do that, and you’ll be right back in here for messing with another man’s property.”

  “You don’t understand. That dog is my brother. We have to look out for each other. Ain’t that right, Saul?”

  “Yes,” someone replied from the first cell.

  Rosen hadn’t seen the other prisoner because, sitting on the floor, the man was obscured by shadows.

  Opening the cell door, Baker said, “This is your lawyer.” To Rosen, “Want me to turn on the lights?”

  Rosen looked at his client, sitting in the dark like an animal, watching him with animal eyes. “No.”

  He stepped inside the cell and leaned against the bars while the policeman left the corridor, closing the door behind him. For a few minutes neither man spoke. Rosen would wait as long as it took. He was the stranger, the outsider.

  Finally, True Sky said, “You’re the one my daughter’s friend Andi spoke about. The lawyer from Washington.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s your briefcase? A lawyer without a briefcase is like a vulture without talons.”

  “I’m saving it for court. For now I just want to get acquainted.”

  “Sit down.”

  Rosen sat cross-legged on the floor opposite True Sky. The old man was eating a bowl of soup with the thick smell of beef and onion. He held the spoon with his fist like a child.

  From the other cell, Ike sang softly, “Everybody loves somebody sometime, everybody falls in love somehow.”

  True Sky said, “He’s always liked Dean Martin.”

  “That’s right,” Ike agreed. “Elvis wanted to sing like Dean Martin. Your lawyer friend here looks a little like Jerry Lewis.”

  “This man’s taller, I think.”

  Ike hummed the rest of the song, while True Sky again lapsed into silence. Rosen stifled a yawn. The airplane trip, the long car ride with Andi, and now this—sitting stiffly on a cold concrete floor. He felt impatient to get on with the case, to do something beside watching the shadows slowly weave themselves into a veil of darkness between him and the old man.

  The old man slowly ate his soup.

  “Is that all they gave you for dinner?” Rosen said.

  “It’s all I need. The water once came as rain from the sky. The fire to cook it came from the sun. The meat is from our four-legged brothers who sustain us. And the steam is the breath of our grandfathers that will join the sky.”

  Watching the old man eat, Rosen remembered the Passover seder. At that meal the horseradish, the mixture of apples and nuts, and the roasted egg were all symbols of a people’s faith. As the youngest, he’d always asked the Four Questions which, with the food, reminded man of God’s goodness and mercy. The same way that the old Indian’s simple bowl of soup did. Could such a man, believing as True Sky did, be a murderer?

  Rosen asked, “Did you kill Albert Gates?”

  The Indian put down his bowl of soup and looked him in the eyes. “No.”

  That word, more than any other, Rosen listened for in court. Sometimes it was shouted over and over like a hammer, sometimes it scurried from the accused’s lips like a frightened mouse. Even the best liars said it a bit too quickly, as if it were a coal too hot to stay in the mouth. True Sky’s “no” walked out quietly and stood very still.

  “Why did the police arrest you for the murder?”

 
“I don’t know. Somebody killed Gates. I sat nearby in my vision pit, so they arrested me.”

  “According to the newspaper, you admitted having an argument earlier in the day with Gates.”

  “He wanted to take the wotawe from the bones of White Bear. I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Those are the Indian remains on the ridge, that the paper mentioned. So Gates came back that night to get this medicine bag. The police say they have physical evidence tying you to the murder. Do you know what that is?”

  The old man put his right hand, palm upward, upon his lap. “They found a stone, about this size, near the pit. It was one of the stones I had gathered into a pile near the sweat lodge for Ike’s inipi. This stone, they say, killed Gates. And there was some of his blood on my shirt-sleeve.”

  “How did the blood get there?”

  “I didn’t kill him. I was with my brothers, the elk. We stood in the tall grass and spoke with the spirit of White Bear.”

  “And you didn’t see who killed Gates?”

  “I wasn’t there.”

  Shifting his weight, Rosen stretched his back. He wasn’t getting anywhere, but he couldn’t help but smile. It was like studying the Talmud. A good mind and a good heart weren’t enough; he would need patience.

  “We’ll talk more another time. Tomorrow, I go before the judge to discuss your bail. I understand you’ve lived around Bear Coat all your life, but that you’ve been in trouble before with the law.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Rosen decided not to press the old man about his past. He would probably get a convoluted answer; it would be easier to check the police records.

  “Mr. True Sky, is there anything you can tell me that will help secure your bail?”

  It had grown so dark that Rosen barely saw the old man’s face crinkle as he broke into a smile. “I’m innocent. Will that help?”

  Rosen stood and flexed his knees. “That always helps. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “See that nobody disturbs White Bear. His remains must be given a decent burial.”

  “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  Rosen walked stiffly toward the cell door, keeping his hands outstretched in the darkness until they touched the bars. He was about to shout for the policeman when he saw a crack of light at the corridor entrance. Someone was listening.

  “Officer Baker, I’m ready!”

  He called Baker’s name again, and the door slowly opened. The policeman flicked on a switch, and light, fine as talcum powder, filtered through a dusty overhead fixture.

  Unlocking the door, Baker asked, “Everything go all right?”

  “You should know. Why weren’t any lights on, before I came in here?”

  “Dunno. We just never thought about turning them on. Doesn’t seem to bother these two. Ain’t like they’re reading the paper or nothing.”

  Ike said, “I want a newspaper or one of them Playboy magazines. I like to read the advice column. That Playboy Advisor’s a very wise man. Once one of my testicles was hanging lower than the other, and I read . . .”

  “Shut up,” the policeman said. “Any of that filth comes in here, I’ll just confiscate it.”

  “You’d like that.”

  Baker took a step toward Ike; then, eyeing Rosen, he hesitated.

  “C’mon, I got work to do.”

  The two men walked down the corridor to the doorway.

  Putting his hand on the light switch, Baker shouted, “Well, you two want the light on or not?”

  “No,” Ike said. “I’m tired. But you get me some magazines tomorrow. Maybe the Enquirer. A man loses track of world events in here.”

  The squad room seemed as quiet as before. The dispatcher was shaking her head at Andi, who sat on Baker’s desk.

  “I just don’t believe you,” Wendy said.

  Andi stuck out her jaw. “I really care.”

  “If he ain’t going out with you, then who?”

  Andi was about to answer, when she saw that the two men had returned. She shook her head at Wendy, who began typing at the computer.

  “Well,” Andi asked Rosen, “what did you think of Saul?”

  “He’s not an easy man to get to know.”

  “You know he’s innocent, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  From the other side of the control center, someone said, “The hell you do.”

  Another policeman stood in the doorway of an inner office. He was Indian, with massive shoulders and biceps almost tearing the short sleeves of his blue shirt. He walked across the room and stood a few inches from Rosen. Baker quickly returned to his desk and busied himself shuffling papers.

  Andi said, “This is Mr. Rosen, Saul’s lawyer from Washington. Nate, meet Police Chief Cross Dog.”

  Rosen decided not to offer his hand, uncertain how the policeman might respond. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the murder.”

  “What makes you think he’s innocent?”

  “My personal opinion isn’t the issue. What I need to know . . .”

  “You think he’s just another victim of white man’s justice—that it?”

  “It could be that his race or religious beliefs . . .”

  “That ain’t it, you understand.” Cross Dog moved so close, Rosen felt the other man’s breath. “That ain’t it at all.”

  “Do you want to whisper the real reason in my ear now, or should we wait for our second date?” The policeman blinked hard, but before he could respond, Rosen said, “I need to see your files on Mr. True Sky. If you’re not willing to cooperate, I’ll get a court order.”

  Cross Dog moved suddenly, and Rosen took a step back. The chief pulled a large folder from the file cabinet and slapped it into Rosen’s hands.

  “Take a look. Take a long look at the man you’re claiming is innocent.”

  Rosen opened the file, which went back almost fifty years. The first few entries dealt mostly with drunk-and-disorderlies and several speeding tickets. There was one barroom fight involving another man being cut by a knife, but no formal charges had been filed. Turning the page, he blinked hard at what he saw and read the words again very carefully.

  “That’s right,” Cross Dog said. “Your client killed a policeman.”

  Rosen read the next few pages very carefully. “It was judged second-degree murder—an accident.”

  “The hell it was. True Sky got drunk and was tearing up the bar. When the policeman, John Little Thunder, tried to arrest him, True Sky grabbed John’s gun and shot him dead.”

  “That was back in 1964. He was given a twenty-year sentence.”

  “Yeah, and only served seven. Andi’s bleeding-heart father got True Sky a new trial—got him off.”

  Andi shook her head. “People at the bar finally came forward and said Little Thunder was beating on Saul, that Saul only grabbed the gun in self-defense.”

  “John Little Thunder was an officer acting in the line of duty. He was a good man.”

  “He was your uncle,” she said softly. “Saul’s been sober for years. A lot of your people see him as a holy man. Why can’t you just forget the past? What’s done is done.”

  Andi used the same words that Rosen’s ex-wife had a few hours before. “What’s done is done.” He wondered if he had grimaced the same way Cross Dog was doing just then. He understood the other man’s pain of not being able to escape the past. For a moment, he wanted to put a hand on Cross Dog’s shoulder, but he knew what the Indian’s reaction would be. The same reaction Rosen would have given Bess.

  “I’d like a copy of both True Sky’s police record and the Albert Gates murder file.”

  Cross Dog nodded curtly. “I don’t want you complaining later about some nickel-and-dime police irregularity.” He handed the file to Wendy. “Make the copies he wants.”

  For the next few minutes, the only sound was the copier’s soft humming. Finally, Wendy handed the papers to Rosen.


  “Anything else?” the police chief asked.

  “No. Thanks for your help.”

  Andi touched Rosen’s elbow, and they walked to the door.

  Cross Dog blurted, “I don’t want you thinking that True Sky’s some poor beaten-down Indian. I’ve been hearing that crap all my life—not just from whites, but from my own people. Nobody ever gave me anything, but I never got drunk and busted up a bar. And I never killed nobody. You just remember that.”

  Opening the door, Rosen nodded.

  He walked quickly ahead of Andi, around the building to the sidewalk.

  “Hey, wait for me,” she said. “What’s your . . . oww!”

  Rosen pulled her toward him under a streetlight. “Why didn’t you tell me that True Sky had been convicted of murder? Murdering the police chief’s uncle, no less.”

  Looking at the ground, she shrugged.

  “You made me look like a fool. The last thing in the world I need is the town’s top cop angry with me. Your camera’s got more brains than you. At least it’s idiot-proof.”

  She pulled away and, jutting her chin, squared off as if ready to take his best punch. “What would you have thought of Saul if I’d told you all that? I wanted you to meet him first, so you could see he couldn’t kill anybody.”

  “But he did kill somebody.”

  “Jesus, you’re worse than Tom! I expect it from him, but Mr. Nahagian said you had brains.”

  Rosen shook his head.

  “Well, what’re you gonna do? Fly back to Washington with your tail between your legs?”

  Rubbing his eyes, he said, “I’m going back to the motel and get some sleep. Are you going to drive me into Deadwood for the hearing tomorrow morning?”

  She relaxed her stance and smiled. “Yeah. I’ll even buy you breakfast.”

  Her eyes strayed from him, and he turned to follow her gaze across the street. Above the door of the building directly opposite them, a sign read bear coat chronicle. A light glimmered from a second floor window; it formed the outline of a man who was watching them.

  Andi waved. “That’s my boss, Jack Keeshin, the one who’s trying to help Saul keep his land. If you’re as smart as Mr. Nahagian says, the two of you ought to really get along. Well, my car’s across the street. I’ll be at the motel at seven a.m. sharp. Bye.”