Dedication
Song of the Lion is dedicated to the men and women who work in law enforcement on the Navajo Nation and to the memory of Shiprock District Officer and U.S. Marine Corps veteran Alex Yazzie, who gave his life on March 19, 2015, while responding to a domestic violence incident.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Anne Hillerman
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Navajo Police Officer Bernadette Manuelito stood in the lobby of the Shiprock High School gym, fondly known as the Chieftain Pit of Pain, trying to decide if she should buy a hot dog or a Frito pie from the booster’s stand. Despite the decibel level produced by more than a thousand fans screaming and stomping on the bleachers, she recognized the new sound even as she felt the building shake.
She waited for the lights to go out, but they didn’t. The crowd in the bleachers grew quieter momentarily, enough that she could hear the shrill whistle of the official as he called a time-out. The older guys, a team assembled for homecoming from veteran players who had captured past state championships, had handed the upstarts more challenge than the kids expected. Spectators cheered every basket and blocked shot.
In Bernie’s mind, the noise from the parking lot changed everything. She nudged back her panic and hurried toward the exit, pushing through a few folks also hoping to leave the building. They sensed danger and wanted to escape; she headed toward it.
Her brain raced with scenarios. The explosion could be a bomb, and there might be more bombs out in the parking lot, hidden in the gym, even on the roof. The bomber could be lurking in the dark with a gun, waiting to pick off victims as they came into his sights. And there might be more than one perpetrator.
Because Shiprock, NM, was a small town, Bernie knew the gentlemen hired to provide security for the game. They knew she was a cop, even though tonight, off duty, she looked like a short young Navajo woman in jeans with a red Chieftains sweatshirt under her jacket. She approached the first guard she encountered, a portly man leaning against the wall, sipping on a drink from a blue plastic cup. “Henry, stand by the door. Keep everyone inside. I’m checking to see what happened out there.”
“OK. Why?”
“We don’t want anybody hurt. Have Larry help you.”
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Just do it.”
She ran outside.
The scene took her breath away. Orange flames blazed through a thick smoky haze, illuminating a mound of destroyed metal in the parking row closest to the gym and reflecting off other vehicles with broken windshields. A few car horns blared into the night, but alarms weren’t common here. The blast had ruined the security lights closest to the main doors of the Pit, but those farther from the scene illuminated the broken glass, bits of metal, and other debris that had flown everywhere.
She scanned the area for the bomber but saw no one. The wind blew the toxic stench toward her, searing her lungs and burning her eyes.
She jogged closer to the flattened pile of chrome, steel, and melted plastic, near enough to feel the intensity of the fire. She dreaded what she had to do next. If anyone had been inside what was left of the car, he or she wasn’t a person anymore. Bracing herself, Bernie peered through what would have been the windshield. Nothing in the wreckage looked even partly human. She exhaled and stepped back.
Had it been a bomb? Probably, she thought. Why else would a car explode in the middle of the night? Was the bomber out here waiting for a crowd to gather before detonating the next blast? Watching for the flash of emergency lights and uniforms to shoot first responders?
She pulled her phone from her jacket pocket.
Sandra, on duty at the Shiprock Police substation in dispatch, recognized her cell number. “Bernie?”
“I need all available backup ASAP to the parking lot at Shiprock High School gym. A car exploded. Lots of damage. I’m starting to look for victims. It’s bad.”
“Are you alone?”
“Except for the rent-a-cops and the thousand people inside for the game. I need help here faster than fast.”
“Got it.”
Bernie made a check of the proximity, stepping over or around the debris, using her phone as a flashlight to look inside the ruined cars closest to the one on fire. If the bomber, an accomplice, or a bystander had been injured by the blast, she had to find him.
She heard the gym doors open and close, saw the inside light beam into the dark night. She turned toward the sound and yelled, “I’m a cop. It’s dangerous out here. Go back inside.”
The door closed. She continued, checked inside and between the nearby cars, and saw no one dead, injured, or hiding. Several of the vehicles closest to the blast site had broken windshields and shattered side glass. Embedded bits of metal from the explosion had damaged others. She felt glass crunch beneath her boots.
Because the veteran players from the school’s past state championship teams had family, friends, and old fans in the area, the parking lot overflowed with cars, SUVs, vans, and pickup trucks. Basketball ruled the rez. Shiprock High School fans were famous for their loyalty to the Chieftains, both boys’ and girls’ teams, current contenders for the AAAA division title. Every Chieftains home game filled the three-thousand-plus-seat arena. Moms and dads, cousins and grannies lined up with folding chairs and coolers before the doors opened for the junior varsity game, followed by the B team, followed by the big event.
Tonight, they had packed the gym to the fire marshal’s advised capacity and probably beyond. The numbers meant confusion in the parking lot turned crime scene when the final buzzer sounded. It was the ideal setting for chaos.
Bernie wasn’t an expert on explosives—the Navajo Police relied on the federal agents for that. But if, as she expected, a bomb had caused the blast, she knew she and whoever arrived to help needed to preserve as much evidence as possible before the game ended. Among the people in the gym might be witnesses and even the bomber.
Having found no injured people, she used her phone for crime scene photos, beginning with the car that looked like the target vehicle. She stood in front of the flames, working quickly, listening both for help on the way and for the gymnasium door opening to release curious and probably scared basketball fans.
She put her hands in her pockets for warmth and felt the flyer a young man had handed her earlier calling for an environmental protest in Tuba City. Was the explosion a precursor to a weekend of trouble?
Finally, she saw flashing lights on the highway and heard the wail of a siren. It would be great if it were Chee, but it wouldn’t be. Her husband, a sergeant, was on duty tonight at the other end of the district, following a bootlegging case. Otherwise, he would have come to the game with her.
The arriving officer was probably Officer Bigman, she figured, at the station ready to call it a day when her call came. She and Bigman, a clan brother, worked well together. He was a steady hand, a good guy in a tough situation who’d had her back more than once.
But the patrol unit cruised di
rectly toward the entrance to the gym and the burning car. She trotted toward it, waving the driver away from the crime scene. It must be the new guy, Wilson Sam. Bigman would know better.
She’d worked with the rookie a few times before and decided he was impressed with himself for no good reason. He didn’t seem to like her either.
In the glare of his headlights she noticed more cars and trucks with dents and shattered windows farther away from the site of the explosion. Wilson Sam stopped, turned off the siren, and lowered the window when she reached him. She felt the car’s interior warmth escaping as he spoke. “I was getting ready to go home. What’s going on?”
“A car blew up. Park by the fence and get right back. Block the entrance until we figure out what’s up. Leave the light bar flashing.”
“Cripes. What a mess. It stinks out here.” She felt his eyes on her casual jacket and jeans. “Are you in charge? I didn’t know you were even working tonight.”
“I am until the feds get here or someone tells me otherwise.” She didn’t like his tone. “Park fast and come back to help with crowd control.”
“Can’t the security guys . . . ?”
“Don’t argue. Go.”
Sam drove backward to the rear of the lot, left the lights pulsing against the dark Four Corners night. She watched his silhouette against the blue-and-red strobe as he strolled to her, taking his sweet time.
She snapped more pictures of the car at the epicenter and the debris around it, trying to include everything since she didn’t know what might be important to give the investigators an idea of the uncontaminated scene.
Sam arrived and watched her take photographs. The way he stood, resting his hands on his hips, reminded her of a disagreeable clan brother. “What if this was just some kind of engine malfunction that made a big mess?”
“Until we know otherwise, we treat it as a bomb. Go to the gym. Tell the folks who want to go home to chill. Keep things calm in there. We have to hold people inside in case there’s another bomb out here or a sniper. There are kids in there, and the ground is full of sharp metal, broken glass, who knows what else. We have to minimize the damage and the disruption to the crime scene until we get some backup.”
Sam took a step toward her. “You’re wrong. If this was a bomb we should start evacuating. There could be another bomb in the locker room, wired to the game clock, anywhere. The whole gym could blow. Do you want people to die because you screwed up?”
She glared at him. “It’s my call. I’m in charge. Listen up and don’t argue.”
Sam stared back. “You go inside that death trap. Not me. I’ll take pictures and take my chance out here.”
Bernie swallowed her anger to focus on the job. “Don’t let anyone near that car or any of the cars around it.” She ran toward the gym.
The stifling heat and game-day smell of sweat and food slapped her as she opened the door. The security guards—Henry, the paunchy man she’d spoken with earlier, and Larry in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap—looked relieved to see her. She heard the shrill whistle of an official calling a penalty.
Bernie studied the crowd in the lobby, looking for someone she knew. She saw a man with his hair in gray braids talking to a pair of girls with glow rings around their necks. She noticed a middle-aged woman with a baby, both of whom looked tired. She spotted a Hispanic man who resembled her teacher from the sixth grade, a receptionist she recognized from the medical center, a bilagaana in a button-down shirt who seemed out of place, a library aide she’d met in Farmington, and a boy she’d arrested for drunken driving. A few team mothers who had been selling popcorn, fry bread, and Frito pies stood by their food. People looked curious and anxious, but no one had panicked. At least not yet.
She noticed a table littered with promotional material soliciting students to enroll in the military, advertising for a revival meeting, holiday bake sales, and the protest in Tuba City. She swept the papers to the floor and climbed up so she towered over the crowd.
She yelled, “Attention, please. I’m Officer Bernadette Manuelito.” She shouted several times, and then one of the food vendors banged on a metal tray with a spoon. People looked up. “There’s been an explosion in the parking lot. Until we figure out what happened, no one can leave for a while. Go back and enjoy the game. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. Sorry, but I can’t answer any questions. Just relax, folks.”
She surveyed the lobby crowd again and spotted Mr. Franklin, a man she knew from the Shiprock Chapter House and the area’s delegate to the Navajo Tribal Council. She called his name and, when he looked up at her, motioned him to the front of the table. “You’ve got a strong voice. You’re a leader. Take charge here, sir. Please. Try to keep people calm and in the building.”
He was an elder, and that gave him extra clout. “What happened?”
“A car blew up. I don’t know why. I’ve got to get back outside.”
Franklin turned to the crowd. His deep voice resonated with calm authority. “Do what the lady policeman says. I know her. Go watch the game.”
Bernie climbed down from the table and bumped into the man with the braids she’d seen earlier. He smiled at her and said, “Excuse me,” first in English and then in Navajo. His voice, rough and musical, reminded her for a split second that the world held beauty as well as the current chaos.
She went back to the parking lot. After the oppressive heat of the gym, the combination of frigid air and acrid smoke called her senses to attention.
She looked for the rookie but didn’t see him. “Sam? Where are you?”
“Over here. Somebody’s hurt bad.”
She followed his voice. A new smelled added itself to the stench, the unforgettable odor of burned human flesh. Then she saw the body, a crumpled form in the shadows. How could she have missed it?
“Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call—?”
Sam interrupted. “Sandra said the ambulance is on the way.”
Bernie squatted next to the victim, keeping her boots out of the blood. The one eye she could identify was closed. Glass fragments sparkling in the skin of the eyelid, on his cheeks, neck, and his brown jacket. She leaned closer, pushing down her own nausea, and heard a gurgling breath. “Take it easy, sir. We’re here to help you.”
The person didn’t respond. She listened to Sam step away and then heard him vomiting. Probably his first experience with a person nearly dead.
The rookie came back, keeping his distance from her and the victim. “A few people have come out that side door already. They ran to their cars and drove off while I was here with the dude. Is he still alive?”
“He’s breathing.” She made a judgment call. “Stand by that door. Keep it secure. Don’t let anyone come out of the gym. I’ll watch this guy until the ambulance gets here.”
Sam hurried off, this time without argument.
Bernie straightened up and stared north toward NM 491, the direction from which the medics and fire trucks would come. Waiting. That could be the motto of her experience in law enforcement in the Four Corners. Waiting for an ambulance. Waiting for the FBI. Rarely did the Navajo Police have the luxury of waiting for backup—most of the time, officers were on their own. So few police for so much geography, and a growing population.
Because Shiprock Hospital was closer than the fire station, she figured the ambulance would arrive first, then the fire trucks. Then the San Juan County deputies unlucky enough to be working tonight. Then the New Mexico State Police, the FBI, and whatever other conglomeration of agencies got involved with cars that blew up. Maybe some of them would get there before the game ended and the crush of people wanting to leave the gym intensified.
She heard the injured man groan and squatted next to him. She softened her voice. “I’m a police officer. I’m here with you, sir. An ambulance is on the way. We’ll do everything we can for you. Hang in there.” It had been long minutes since the explosion. So far, no second blast
and no snipers shooting at Sam, at her, or at anyone else. Then she noticed a tall, slim figure in a white cowboy hat walking toward the disaster site. She stood, drew her gun, and yelled, “Hey, you. I’m a police officer. Get over here now.”
The man look toward her, surprised, and yelled back as he continued her way. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m here to help.” He stopped a few feet away, and she followed his glance to the injured person. “Holy cow. He looks bad.”
“Who are you?”
“Byrum Lee. I’m a medic.” Unlike the rookie, Lee kept his cool despite the horror of the body’s disfigurement.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to work late, but I came to see the end of the game.” As he spoke, he reached toward his pocket. She automatically raised her gun. “Don’t worry, Officer. I’m not armed. I’m getting out my ID. I heard the explosion from my truck just after I turned off the engine. I saw the car come apart and start burning. I didn’t know what to do, but when that police car drove up, I thought maybe he could use some help. I didn’t realize you were already on the scene.”
He gave her his wallet, open to his driver’s license. While she examined it, Lee squatted down and gently pressed his fingers against the charred skin of the man’s neck. He moved near the man’s face and turned so his ear was close to the victim’s open mouth.
Lee stood. “I was in Afghanistan. That was a long time ago, but some things stick with you, like the sound of lungs filling with blood. He’s in bad shape.”
“The ambulance is on the way.”
Behind her, Bernie heard the gym doors open and the heated tones of the tail end of an argument. She turned in time to see a small group of people—they looked like teenage boys—running into the cold. For a split second she considered the wisdom of leaving the victim with an unknown Good Samaritan.
“Mr. Lee, stay right here until the ambulance comes. Tell me if the guy says anything. And don’t let anyone mess with the burning car.”
“Sure thing. Whatever I can do. Nobody should die alone.”
She sprinted toward the boys, almost reaching them before they got to a red van.
Song of the Lion Page 1