The chief of police grinned at the spunky young woman.
“Once we were out there,” Melina said, “it was really spooky-quiet. So I started to think maybe I was hearing things. Or maybe the pothunter had already left. But when the lightning flashed, I saw him. He was on his knees—by the excavation. I guess we must have yelled. And then he was gone.” She paused.
Whitehorse shook the recorder under her chin. “Go on.”
“Well, I wondered how much damage he’d done, so I went to have a look in the excavation. To see if he’d disturbed anything important. Like Anasazi bones or artifacts. That’s when I saw…” Her lips trembled.
“Take your time, miss.”
Melina steeled herself. “That’s when I saw the body. We’d scared him away before he could get it completely buried.”
“Were you able to identify the victim?”
She nodded.
“Who was it?”
Melina said the words slowly, precisely, into the miniature microphone. “It was April Tavishuts.”
Moon swallowed hard. Someone was going to have to tell Alvah Yazzi that his stepdaughter was dead. Murdered, most likely. He was relieved it wasn’t going to be him.
Whitehorse poked the recorder in the young woman’s face. “You recognize the man?”
Melina shook her head.
“Can you describe him?”
“Well—I didn’t actually get a very good look at him.”
Whitehorse turned to the archaeologist. “Dr. Silk, could you provide a description of the suspect?”
“Hardly, Officer. I did not see him.”
Melina Castro opened her mouth as if to offer an explanation, then shut it.
Whitehorse directed his next remarks to Professor Silas Axton. “See that everyone stays put—nobody leaves the site until we’ve got their statement.”
Axton nodded, well knowing that the fascinated graduate students could not be dragged away from the scene of a murder.
Wallace Whitehorse spoke softly to the graduate student. “Miss Castro, please take us to where you found the body.”
Flanked by the formidable lawmen, Melina Castro fearlessly led the way. What had previously seemed a long journey into the darkness was barely a five-minute walk. The graduate student paused at the rim of the pit-house ruin, and pointed. Her voice croaked: “In there.” She stood like a post while the Cheyenne swept the ruin with a clublike five-cell flashlight. Nothing unusual being evident aside from the disturbed earth, both men gingerly approached the edge of the excavation.
Moon kneeled by the edge of the freshly dug grave, illuminated by the beam from Whitehorse’s light. He looked in. Wished he hadn’t.
April’s earth-specked face was in profile. Her dark eyes staring blankly into nothingness. There was a curved wound on her temple. A worm of black, coagulated blood wriggled past her ear. One hand was visible—fingers twisted, a painted nail broken. Without his conscious mind willing it, Moon’s hand moved toward her face. He touched a finger under her chin. No pulse. He paused to close his eyes. Whispered a prayer.
He was interrupted by the Northern Cheyenne’s bass voice. “Charlie, is this the Tavishuts girl?”
The newly appointed tribal investigator nodded. And took another look. This time with the cold eye of a professional. The shallow, rectangular excavation was barely a yard long. It had been necessary to bend the victim’s knees. It certainly looked like April had interrupted a pothunter, who had hurriedly used the small hole he’d dug to conceal his unexpected victim. But the Ute was struck by the similarity to ancient Native American burials, where the corpse was placed in a fetal position, knees pulled to the chest.
There was a throaty cough of thunder, a sudden spitting of rain. A few drops plopped onto the disturbed soil. Wallace Whitehorse peered blindly into the dark heavens. “We’ll need to get some kinda shelter rigged to protect the crime scene.”
“I’ve got a tent in my pickup,” Moon said.
Off to the east, they heard a faint whine of sirens.
Whitehorse glanced at his Ute comrade. “Sounds like we have some help coming.”
Moon looked toward the valley. A scattered procession of vehicles with flashing red and blue lights was converging on Ghost Wolf Mesa. “That’ll be the state police—and the Archuleta County Sheriff’s Office from Pagosa. Won’t be long till the FBI shows up. The U.S. Forest Service has a special agent stationed in Durango. I imagine there’ll be some jurisdictional issues.”
The chief of police understood that this last comment was something of an understatement. Before long, the mesa top would be the scene of a law-enforcement circus.
Moon posed an innocuous question to Melina Castro. “Do you know whether April owned a dog?”
The blonde student shook her head.
“You knew her pretty well, then?”
Melina Castro shrugged. “Sure. We live in the same—” She paused to rephrase the statement. “April’s apartment is in the same building as mine.”
SUPD Chief of Police Wallace Whitehorse had moved to the opposite side of the pit-house ruin, leaving Charlie Moon alone with the graduate student. The Ute investigator lowered his voice. “There’s something I need to ask you about.”
She turned her pale face toward his.
“Last summer, I understand you had an encounter here at the site with—” How to put it. “A kind of…peculiar man.”
“So you heard about that.”
“Tell me about it. It could turn out to be important.”
Melina rocked back and forth, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “It happened on the Crag.”
As Moon waited for her to continue, a heavy silence filled the gulf between them. “This man—he look like anybody you know?”
“I’m not sure.” She shrugged. “It was dark.”
“What was he doing?”
“Just standing there—very still. So I called to him.”
“Did you think it was somebody from the university?”
She frowned at the lawman. “Why would you think that?”
He let the question hang in the air. “What happened next?”
Melina Castro shook her head, as if attempting to dislodge the memory. “When this guy hears my voice, he drops onto his hands. Crouches there like an animal.” The young woman shuddered. “He started…” She licked dry lips, began again: “He started loping toward me. Slow, at first. Then faster.” She looked up defiantly. “You may think it’s funny, but I ran like hell. And never looked back.”
The tribal investigator found not the slightest humor in the young woman’s story.
Melina allowed herself a long look at April’s grave. She whispered something the Ute could not hear, then walked away, fading into the storm-shrouded darkness.
Charlie Moon fixed his gaze on a purple-black horizon where—God willing—the sun would eventually rise to illuminate this rugged plug of sandstone.
By the time Moon had secured his Army-surplus tent over the corpse, a full contingent of law-enforcement officials was milling about.
Wallace Whitehorse had retracted his earlier observation. This event could not properly be described as a circus. Circuses are fun. The chief of Southern Ute police—who now had the moral support of several of his junior officers—made it clear to his subordinates that they were to remain aloof from the squabble. Even if it meant assuming the role of spectators.
There were no loud voices raised among the disparate gathering of lawmen. But blunt words were exchanged. The Archuleta County sheriff made the point that this corpse had been discovered within the legal domain of Archuleta County, and was almost certainly murdered within the same. No one disputed this. The ranking state policeman present did mention—somewhat forcefully—that his jurisdiction extended over the entire state of Colorado. Including Archuleta County. Special agents Stanley Newman and George Whitmer, lately arrived from the FBI’s Durango office, noted that Chimney Rock Archaeological Site was not only federal
property—it was also within the boundaries of the Southern Ute Reservation. And it was hardly necessary to remind the competing lawmen that the Bureau was responsible for investigating serious crimes that occurred on Indian reservations, or that the victim has been tentatively identified as an enrolled member of the Southern Ute tribe.
As teeth were being gnashed, a ranger from the Pagosa office of the U.S. Forest Service considered this exchange of views. The scholarly fellow—a geologist by training and a gentleman by nature—had been notified of the calamity by a friend in the Archuleta County Sheriff’s Office. “Excuse me,” he said.
Several lawmen turned to glare at him with jaundiced eyes. What the hell did the Smoky want?
He offered an opinion. “If I am not mistaken, crimes committed on U.S. Forest Service property fall within the jurisdiction of the forest service special agent stationed in Durango. Should you wish to contact this law-enforcement official, I can provide you with her telephone number.”
This information was news to most of those present. But not to the representatives of the FBI. “Special Agent Nye is in Mercy Hospital with a fractured hip,” Newman said. “Until she recovers—or until the forest service assigns a replacement—the Bureau will take full responsibility for the investigation. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. If she wishes to assume charge of the investigation, the Bureau will provide all the support at its disposal.”
This seemed to settle things.
Special Agent Newman, somewhat mollified by this small victory, began the “official” interrogation of the principle witnesses. Once again, Melina described finding April Tavishuts’s abandoned vehicle, enlisting the aid of Dr. Silk for a search of the area where she’d heard the sounds, and finally—the terrifying encounter with a presumed pothunter who wasn’t trying to dig up something after all. He was in the process of burying a corpse. Amanda repeated her earlier testimony—she had seen neither the murderer nor his half-buried victim. Or, for that matter, his dog.
A state policeman took a call on his radio. He then informed the gathering of lawmen that the medical examiner would be delayed. Dr. Simpson was currently involved with some urgent work near Granite Creek. A small plane had crashed in the San Juans; the deceased included a state senator, his wife, and their two children. The ME hoped to arrive at Chimney Rock Archaeological Site early tomorrow morning. If Simpson should be unduly delayed, he would send a colleague.
Obviously, until the medical examiner showed up, the corpse must remain in place.
There was a general discussion among the lawmen. The rain would not be a problem, because a tent had been fixed over the site. In the meantime, the scene of the crime would be photographed and properly secured with the mandatory yellow tape.
Special Agent Newman observed that it would be necessary for someone to watch over the burial site. Were there any volunteers?
There were none. A few members of the local constabulary began to drift away.
And so Wallace Whitehorse made the kind of sacrifice administrators are prone to make. He volunteered Officer Bignight to keep watch over the crime scene.
Daniel Bignight was not overjoyed by this assignment, but the Taos Pueblo man departed immediately for the pit house. He seated himself under the thickest of the junipers. It was a suitable spot from which to mutter dark curses involving the Northern Cheyenne and his immediate relatives. Also his ancestors. And livestock.
Deprived of any jurisdictional rights, the sheriff’s deputies and state police went into their respective huddles. The sheriff, being of a practical nature, decided that there was nothing useful he and his deputies could accomplish here. Clearly, they were neither needed nor wanted by the FBI. Without a good-bye to their colleagues, they got into their vehicles and drove away. The state police decided to hang around for a few hours and keep an eye on things. Though this activity would probably serve no useful purpose, their continued presence would be bound to annoy the federal agents. A man found his pleasure where he could.
NIGHT WATCH
It was a few minutes past three o’clock in the morning. The rain had almost stopped; the bulk of the slow-moving storm had drifted eastward to drench Pagosa Springs.
Thirty yards from the pit-house ruin—where he was spared a direct view of the tent covering the corpse—Daniel Bignight was at his post. To ward off slumber, he had swallowed a quart of sugared coffee. But what goes in must come out, and it was necessary that he relieve himself. He knew April Tavishuts’s ghost would still be hovering about her grave, and realized that a Ute female spirit would likely be offended by the sight of a Taos Pueblo man emptying his bladder. So Bignight withdrew to a far clump of scrub oaks—and kept his back to the location where her broken body slept that deepest of all sleeps.
As Daniel Bignight was thus employed, it seemed that the sun was coming up behind him. But a sunrise at this early hour, he reasoned, would be highly unlikely. Miraculous, even. More likely, the medical examiner had shown up and Doc Simpson’s crew was setting up battery-powered flood-lights at the grave site. So I’d better get back on the job before that hard-nosed Northern Cheyenne starts wondering where I am. He completed his task, then turned to take a few steps toward his duty station.
Yellow-orange flames were billowing above the pit-house ruin.
7
Now on the outer wall of the Sun’s house, there hung a weapon. The Twins pointed to this weapon and said that that was what they had come for.
—Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee
MORNING
NIGHT’S DARK CLOAK had faded deathly pale around the edges; first light bathed the sandstone cliffs in a rosy glow. It would have been a bright, lovely morning…except. Except for a gray twilight of gloom that hung over the mesa. And the sickly-sweet scent of roasted flesh and bone.
Special Agent George Whitmer had withdrawn several yards from the pit-house ruin to speak with SUPD officer Daniel Bignight, who was flanked protectively by his chief of police. “We’ll need a statement about what happened when the fire started,” Whitmer said to Bignight.
Wallace Whitehorse—though highly annoyed with his subordinate—did not let it show. He would deal with Bignight later. “There’s not much Daniel can tell you.”
That’s because he left his post. Whitmer’s speech was barely more gracious than his thoughts. He directed his next remark to the chief of Southern Ute police. “Guess that’s because he didn’t see all that much.”
It was an inarguable fact. Bignight—who did not know how to tell a lie—admitted as much. “I had to pee,” he said lamely.
“You should’ve peed on the fire,” Whitmer said with a straight face.
The low humor was lost on Bignight. “It started behind my back,” he protested. “Besides, you can’t pee out a fire that big.”
The good-natured Whitmer grinned at the SUPD cop. “Look, nobody’s gonna give you a hard time about this. But I’ll need a statement for the record.”
Whitehorse glared at Bignight. “He’ll give you a statement later.” After I’m done with him.
Charlie Moon and Special Agent Stanley Newman were at the edge of the makeshift grave. There was virtually nothing left of Moon’s canvas tent, which had sheltered the Ute woman’s body from last night’s rain. The fire had consumed all available fuel, including much of the flesh on April Tavishuts’s bones.
Moon avoided looking at what was left of the charred face. The grinning teeth.
Newman—probing with a stick—was examining the remains of a few items mixed in with what remained of the corpse. A split steel ring looped through a half dozen heat-warped keys. A few blackened coins. A sooty brass button. “This’s gonna make the medical examiner’s job pretty tough.”
Moon pointed at a charred object that looked like an oversized lady’s compact. Except it had a rectangular slit in the cover. “Is that what I think it is?”
The FBI agent squatted for a better view. “Looks like a compass.” Certainly an article a member of the site survey team
might have in her pocket. He looked up at the sky. “If it wasn’t for the rain, that damn blaze might’ve started a major forest fire.” Newman pushed himself erect. “Like a homicide wasn’t enough. Now we got an arson to boot.”
“Whoever set it must’ve been waiting for Danny Bignight to doze off.”
The special agent nodded. “And when he wandered off to relieve himself, that was opportunity enough to start the fire.” He frowned at the human remains. “Perp must’ve soaked the corpse with an accelerant.”
“Like what?”
“A gallon of high-octane unleaded, I’d guess.”
Moon sniffed. There was no detectable gasoline scent. “Took a big chance. Burning the body must’ve been important.”
Newman grunted. “Damn right it was important—whoever committed the murder was destroying incriminating evidence.”
“Like the double-helix kind.”
“DNA convicts.” A shadow passed over Newman’s face. “Unless the killer’s a celebrity blessed with a jury of his adoring fans.” The federal lawman—who had been working a Cortez bank robbery for the previous four days—scratched at a growth of stubble on his chin. “This looks like a straightforward enough murder. Victim’s car is here, so she must’ve driven herself to the site. Miss Tavishuts stops her car, gets out”—he pointed the stick at the key ring—“brings the ignition key with her.”
“Why?” Moon said.
The fed thought this question irrelevant. “Why did she bring the keys?”
“Why did she stop the car?”
“Who knows. Maybe she saw something that made her suspicious. Whatever the reason was, she goes to have a look—ends up out here at the pit house. Confronts the artifact thief. The perp panics. Bangs her on the head. Wound on her scalp looked like she might’ve been struck by a shovel. At least we got photos of that before the corpse was torched.” The federal officer aimed a malignant look in Bignight’s direction.
“It fits,” the Ute said. “Maybe he didn’t intend to kill her.”
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