She directed Mike into a small comfortable conference room where he was introduced to an elderly Hopi woman named Clan Elder Helen Weaver. She wore traditional Hopi clothing with elaborate embroidery. By now Mike understood that Hopi tribal members often used Anglicized names for the ease of visitors.
There was a smiling man dressed in a BIA uniform who was clearly the youngest person in the room by a decade. He was Officer Ron Lessley. He shook Mike’s hand with a firm grip and said, “Captain, I’m only here as an observer at the request of Barbara. The local FBI office said this involved a homicide in your jurisdiction. It is your case, but we will help in any way we can.”
They all sat down and Mike took the crime scene photos from his folio. He did not pass them out yet. “Thank you for meeting with me on short notice. I’m here to officially inform you about the looting of an ancient ancestral grave. I seek your help in solving a homicide that we think occurred when a hiker stumbled onto the looters while they were committing the crime. Of course, the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department recognizes your rights to the grave artifacts if we recover them, and of course you will be able to reinter the remains of your ancestor when we complete our investigation of the crime scene in about a week.”
Mike handed them the first photo of the mound of dirt removed with obvious bone fragments in the pile. “The looter seemed to have carried off the artifacts buried in this grave, but not the actual remains of your ancestor. However, we are not certain that the skull remains at the site since we have not dug through this mound of dirt. You can see in this second photo the bottom of the burial site. There are still impressions of the grave artifacts that were buried here.”
As the photo was passed around there was a long discussion between Barbara Songbird and Clan Elder Weaver in Hopi.
“This was the leader of the Kiva Society at what we call the Silent Hunting Cougar Village. You would probably call him a shaman or priest. Elder Weaver will draw examples of these sacred artifacts to help you recover them. When she finishes, I’ll email photos of the drawings to you. Burial customs have remained almost the same since ancient times among our clan members. Unfortunately, few looted items are ever recovered, but many of these things have importance in properly honoring our ancestor’s burial. We badly want them back so they can stay with the remains for eternity as intended by our ancestors.”
“I’ll phone you, Barbara, when we clear the crime scene later this week, and you can honor the remains according to your customs. Will you rebury him at the Kinnickinick site?”
Elder Weaver said, “His resting place will be a secret; somewhere that we have better control of what happens. We are a peaceful people. That is what our tribal name ‘Hopi’ means, but I understand there was a murder. We will support your efforts to find justice.”
“I have something to bring to your attention. This was my first case involving ancient remains and grave looting. I permitted an anthropologist from the Museum of Northern Arizona to take a DNA sample without first getting your permission. I am sorry for the oversight. If you will allow it, the recovered artifacts might be DNA tested to prove they originated in the same grave. Do I have your permission to use DNA testing of your ancestor in my homicide case?”
There was another long discussion in Hopi. After a few minutes, Barbara said, “Our name for Amber Whittier means coyote woman. We know she is sneaky, and I’m certain that is the person at the museum you are referring to as taking the sample. We have not cooperated with her DNA study, but she does all she can to sneak DNA samples. She will buy objects just to destroy them to see if she can get DNA from the remains. She has bought used clothing, pottery, and even sacred kachina dolls. She wants anything touched by a Hopi or objects that were made by hand by someone she can identify. Elder Weaver is not comfortable with giving her more knowledge. She seeks to publish a book revealing too much of our ancient knowledge, thereby draining that knowledge from the Hopi people.”
“Of course, I will honor your wishes, but I am investigating a homicide. A young man who was recently discharged from the Marines was shot in the gut with a shotgun and left to die at that remote spot. A cougar finished him off before he died of blood loss. I would like to show you the other crime scene photos, but only if you are willing. It’s a horrible sight that is difficult to forget.”
Barbara nodded. “The murder makes our decision more difficult. Did you say a cougar was involved?”
Mike nodded and selected one of the photos of the remains but did not pass it around yet. “He was shot in the abdomen and managed to crawl far enough to lean against a wall. We think a cougar smelled his blood and killed him after the looters left. Paul McFarlane was recently discharged from the US Marines and was hiking the very long Arizona Trail by himself.”
Elder Weaver said, “A warrior trying to heal his soul, I will honor him by looking at his image.”
There was a small gasp as both Elder Weaver and Barbara looked at the photo. After a three-minute discussion in Hopi, Barbara said, “The sacred objects, will they be destroyed in the testing for DNA? We will permit testing only if they are not destroyed in the process. They belong with the Kiva Leader’s remains.”
“I agree to that condition. Nothing will be destroyed that we recover. The sacred objects belong to the Hopi. You will have control of whatever we do with them. Thank you.” Mike was relieved that there had been no demand to return the DNA sample that had already been taken from the shaman’s remains. Permission to test any objects they recovered was the best he could have hoped for. They stood and shook hands before Mike walked to his Explorer.
Mike drove a few miles to the Hopi Cultural Center near Second Mesa. He wanted to learn more about the tribe while he was here on their reservation, and he was hungry for lunch. He was surprised to find that their Wednesday special was a Beef Philly Sandwich with Fries, not perfect for his plan for cultural immersion. He looked at the museum exhibits and spent about fifteen minutes in the gift shop where he purchased a small mud head kachina to take to Margaret. She loved all things southwestern. It was nearly 3:00 when he reached his office in Flagstaff. There was a message from Sean Mark on his office phone.
“Captain, your cell phone was out of range of a tower so I decided to leave a message for you at the office. Mr. and Mrs. McFarland will arrive in Flagstaff at about 3:00. I will escort them to their accommodations at Little America Hotel. I set up an appointment for the official identification of the victim at 4:00. Please join us at the medical examiner’s building if you can. Oh, by the way, the femur is back in place.”
Mike finished some paperwork related to job evaluations, spent half an hour bringing the budget up-to-date, responded to a dozen emails, and left in time to join Sean for the identification.
Chapter 7
Mike arrived just as Sean pulled up in his somewhat battered and dust covered motor pool Explorer. He introduced Mike to Seth and Meredith McFarlane and also to the young woman who had been Paul’s fiancé, Susan Graham. Mr. McFarlane was about fifty and had the look of a former hockey player with many old scars on his strong ruddy face. Mrs. McFarlane had the look of a trim middle-aged woman who took very good care of herself. Mike mentally pictured Mr. McFarlane as a youth hockey coach and Mrs. McFarlane as a regular at Pilate’s classes. The third person was a trim blonde woman of about twenty-five. She was beautiful except that her mascara had run staining the area below her eyes with streaks from her tears. Susan Graham helped Mrs. McFarlane from the car holding her unsteady and shaking body. All three Minnesotans had the sad red eyes of people who had been crying for an extended period. Mike had seen that look far too many times in his career.
“All those years in the service, I feared the Marines coming to our door with the bad news. I thought that was over now.” Mrs. McFarlane began to sob again. Mr. McFarlane put his arm around her slumping shoulder while Miss Graham held her from the other side.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. Any of you can make the identification. All
three of you do not need to view the remains,” Mike said.
“I’ll do it,” Seth McFarlane said. “Meredith and Susan should wait out here. It’s a beautiful day. Sweetheart, please stay out here and enjoy the warm sunshine.” His voice broke as he finished the sentence.
The women nodded, and Mike and Seth McFarlane entered the medical examiner’s building. The strong antiseptic odor did not fully mask the stench of death in the hallway outside the autopsy room. The medical assistant had everything ready. They went into a small windowless room with a few folding chairs and a thirty-two inch LED TV mounted on a wall. Mike pressed an intercom button and said, “Ethan, we’re ready.” The flat screen flashed on with a close up picture of the victim’s head. Mike heard a gasp from Mr. McFarlane. “It’s Paul.”
Mike said, “Thank you,” into the intercom and the image disappeared. It had been displayed for only three seconds, but Mike knew it would remain in Mr. McFarlane’s mind for the rest of his life.
“Captain, I’d like to know more about how Paul died without Meredith here to hear the details. Did he suffer long?”
“If you are certain you want the details as best we know them, I will tell you. It was not pretty. It might be easier not to know.”
Mr. McFarlane sat abruptly in one of the metal chairs and motioned for Mike to sit next to him. “Captain, I read an article online from the Flagstaff Sun Newspaper’s site. I want to keep it from Meredith and Susan, but I understand a mountain lion was involved. Please tell me all you can at this point in your investigation.”
“We believe that your son came upon three people looting an archeological site in a remote area. He took a shotgun blast of buckshot in the lower abdomen and was left to die from what certainly would have been a fatal wound in that location far from any chance of medical help. Paul managed to crawl fifteen feet to rest against a wall, a remnant of an ancient stone dwelling abandoned eight hundred years ago. The cougar was probably attracted by the smell of blood, and its attack finished him off. However, we consider it a homicide since his original shotgun wound would have been fatal.”
“Please be honest. Did he suffer?”
“I think the original wound would have put him into shock. He may have already been unconscious and not have felt anything when the cougar attacked.” Mike hoped he was not lying, but he had seen the expression of the victims face. He wasn’t sure his claim was true. “The area mauled was his lower abdomen, the same area from which the buckshot was recovered.”
“Can you still prosecute the bastards who shot him as murderers?”
“Damn right we can, and we will. The men who shot Paul did kill him. We’ve never had a fatality from a mountain lion attack in northern Arizona, and the attack would not have occurred in the normal course of his hiking trip. I expect to get a first-degree homicide conviction for everyone who was present at the Kinnickinick Pueblo ruin when Paul was shot. We never give up on a homicide case.”
“What can you tell me about the investigation. I could offer a reward.”
“Mr. McFarlane, we have some leads. If the investigation stalls, you could offer a reward, but at this stage it might just distract us with false leads. It’s not likely that anyone but the looters were present, so there are probably not any uninvolved witnesses. We’re already investigating everyone who was camping at Kinnickinick Lake the night before the homicide to learn what they saw and heard. The Hopi Tribe is cooperating with our investigation. I expect to be able to distribute drawings of items that were taken from the ancient burial site. Our best lead is tracking the looted items through the only dealers who would pay enough to make the looting worth the effort to the criminals.”
“What’s the connection to the Hopi Tribe? Was it on their reservation?”
“No your son died in the Coconino National Forest. The grave that was looted belonged to an ancestor of the Hopi Tribe. Their burial customs have remained the same for hundreds of years. The tribe will furnish drawings of what the stolen objects probably look like. A local anthropologist is doing the same. We’ve already notified all of the dealers in a five state region to be on the lookout, but tomorrow we’ll be able to send them drawings and photos of similar grave artifacts. The killers arrived in three ATVs, and we have impressions of their tires. We’ll work the case hard, but the FBI has agreed to help us with forensic testing and other matters if needed.”
Mr. McFarlane paused for a minute before asking. “This is a small town. What about your expertise in murders? Your medical examiner and the local county deputies can’t have seen that many similar crimes. Maybe the FBI should be involved from the get go.”
“I understand your concern, but Coconino County is able to handle cases of this type. Our medical examiner had twenty years of experience in St. Louis and other large cities before she married a local man. I came to the county from thirty years with the LAPD, most of it as a homicide detective. I’ve solved more than a hundred homicides in my career.”
“That’s good to hear. Until now, we’ve only met Sean Mark, and he seems very young and inexperienced.”
“Sean is a quick learner, but he’s only been an investigator for six months. This is not Sean’s case; it is my case. The crime happened in a remote spot, probably with no witnesses, but I’m confident that we’ll find these killers. If we find them with the objects that they looted, we can probably tie them to the location and to the murder. The grave artifacts have DNA traces from the ancient Native American who was buried with them, and the Hopi Tribe has agreed that we can use DNA evidence from their ancient shaman’s remains to compare to the grave artifacts for use at any trials of the looters. Of course, after the homicide trials, we’ll return the objects to the Hopi for reburial. Mr. McFarlane, I believe that we’ll convict these murderers if we find them with any of the items they looted. I was up on the reservation speaking with a tribal elder about getting permission to use DNA from the burial when you arrived in Flagstaff. That’s why Sean made the arrangements for your identification of Paul’s remains.”
“What do we do now?” Mr. McFarlane asked.
Mike handed him a list of local people who could arrange to ship the body home or cremate it here in Flagstaff so they could return home to Warroad with Paul’s remains. “Sean can drive you to any of these funeral homes to make arrangements. Here is my card. You can call me anytime you have a question. This is my personal cell phone number written on the back of the card; I always have it with me. Finding your son’s killers is the highest priority of the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department. You have my sincerest sympathy for your loss.”
Mike led him back outside where his wife and Susan Graham were waiting. They burst into tears again when they saw Mr. McFarlane’s expression. After a group hug they got into Sean’s vehicle and he drove them toward the nearest funeral home.
That night when Mike got home, Margaret was busy making blue corn tortillas to go with the Ancho chili, spring lamb, tomatillo, and red kuri squash stew she was making. After a long kiss, Mike sat at the kitchen table and told her about his visit to the Hopi Reservation and about his meeting with the McFarlane family. Margaret had been through a hundred cases with Mike over the past thirty years. She knew how much each one affected him when he was in the middle of it. In this case, it was an especially tragic death. This was the murder of a young man in the prime of life who had served his country as a Marine. Paul McFarlane had survived the dangers of combat in both Afghanistan and Iraq only to die in the wilderness southeast of Flagstaff.
When Margaret finished using her tortilla press to form a dozen small blue patties, she began to cook them over a large flat griddle. “Mike, of course the murder was the main conversation of most of my customers at the bank today. One of them was Angela Lawson. She’s one of the leaders of the Yavapai County Archeological Club. Did you know that there were four Sinagua ruins looted down here in the Verde Valley this winter? There might have been more, but site stewards have officially documented four looting sites. Ange
la thought that was an astonishing number in such a short time. She claims it must be an organized ring of thieves who have some way of finding buried stuff without needing to do large excavations looking for it. She mentioned ground-penetrating radar as a possibility, but the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department can’t really be bothered. It’s impossible to monitor hundreds of sites all the time. There are only a dozen deputies in Sedona, Cottonwood, and Camp Verde that would be available to monitor over three hundred sites.”
The dividing line between Yavapai County and Coconino County went right through the town of Sedona. Mike would need to find out who was assigned to the cases in the Verde Valley. Heavy snow would have made looting in higher elevations of most of Coconino County difficult over the winter. That was not the case down in the Verde Valley where snowfall was infrequent and didn’t stay on the ground for long.
Mike had heard mention of ground penetrating radar, but he knew almost nothing about it. He decided to do some research after dinner. For an hour, they drank wine and enjoyed the moonrise from their rear deck sharing a quilt to keep warm.
They talked of grandkids first and then about things going on at the bank where Margaret worked. She was a teller and loved her job because of the direct contact with so many customers, but the bank seemed to be doing everything possible to force the customers to use the ATMs or do transactions online. She understood the economics of the shift, but rebelled at her loss of customer contact and the unhappiness of many of the older customers.
“Mike, would you mind if I quit. This has moved from being a very pleasant job to a lot of high-pressure sales with ever-increasing quotas for cross sales of products that many of my customers really don’t need or care about. There is a smaller Arizona-owned bank nearby. They seem to want to keep the level of personal service high. Their manager claims that they want their customers to deal mostly with real people rather than online and with ATMs. Their Sedona branch manager called me tonight before you got home and asked me to come in to talk about a job.”
The Mauling at Kinnickinick Pueblo Page 5