“Hey, Jimmie Chee. What’s cookin’?”
“Not much. I’m in Tuba.” He’d met Albert Dashee, better known as Cowboy, on one of his first assignments. Dashee worked for the Hopi Tribal Police and had become a friend. “What’s up, brother?”
“I’m driving to Moenkopi today, just got a little bored and that made me think of you.”
“I got a call from the captain to come here late last night to help with the big mediation session after that excitement in Shiprock.”
“I heard about that. That’s why I have to work, too. The boss figured with you Navajos providing security, we ought to come and supervise. So we’ll be running into each other a lot this week.”
“Yeah. There’s a downside to everything.” He hid his surprise that Dashee knew about his assignment; some news travels fast in Indian Country.
Dashee chuckled. “Wanna meet for lunch?”
“Sounds good. You treating?”
“Sure.” Dashee didn’t hesitate or make a joke; Chee assumed his friend needed a favor.
“When and where?”
“Tuuvi Cafe as soon as the orientation ends. I figured I’d see you there, but I thought I’d call you, anyhow. Start your day off right.”
“What orientation?”
Dashee told him when and where. “Captain West set this up, but after what happened at the high school, the feds want in on it, too. I guess they think they can keep it at a two-ring circus instead of a full rodeo.”
No one had told him about the orientation, but that didn’t surprise Chee and he didn’t take it personally. He knew how things worked or didn’t work. And if he’d missed the session, someone would have filled him in. But now that Dashee had let him know, he figured he ought to show up.
“So what time does it start?”
Dashee told him.
“Is that Navajo time or Arizona time?”
“We call it Hopi time, but it’s all good now, dude, until March. Then we stay sane and you all get complicated with daylight savings. Where do you put all that extra daylight anyway?” Dashee laughed.
As he showered, Chee thought about humans and time. Spanning three states, the Navajo Nation, of which Tuba City was a major metropolis, joined most of the rest of the United States in the switch on and off daylight saving time. People living away from Navajoland in the rest of Arizona, including Dashee’s Hopi village, didn’t move their clocks forward in the spring and back in the fall. Because Navajo Tuba City and Hopi Moenkopi were neighbors, the hour time change from one side of the street to the other caused tourists considerable confusion.
He dressed and went outside to greet the day with sacred cornmeal and his morning prayer. He noticed the untowed camper van parked by the fence. The dog was quiet. Back in his room, Chee put some water in the little coffeepot, added grounds to the basket. While the coffee brewed he turned on the television, something he never did at home in the morning because there he had Bernie to talk to.
The Shiprock explosion made the morning news. The cameras showed the ruin of the bombed car and the flashing lights of cop cars. The FBI guy looked good on camera and sounded calm, professional, and serious.
He called Bernie.
“Sweetheart, turn on the TV. They’ve got Cordova on the news talking about what happened. He gave a shout-out to Navajo Police. That would be you and the rookie.”
“Did he use my name?”
“If he did, that part didn’t make it on broadcast.”
“Thank goodness.”
“You didn’t mention that TV people were out there.”
“It was a zoo. We were lucky they didn’t get there until after Cordova took charge. I can’t talk long. I’m leaving for work. The captain and Cordova want me to help follow up with the interviews.”
“Interviews?”
“You know, all those people in the gym who might have seen something on their way in, but probably didn’t. What’s Palmer up to this morning?”
“I haven’t heard from him. Nothing else has blown up, so I guess he’s cool.”
He remembered their plan to take the loom to her mother’s house. “Do you want me to call and tell her what happened?”
“I’ll do it. I need to talk to her anyway.”
Chee said, “I miss you. I wish you were here. I’m making enough coffee for two.”
5
Bernie had just arrived at the station and slipped off her jacket when Sandra forwarded the call.
The woman on the line didn’t identify herself. “I was looking for some information about the bombing last night. Can you help me?”
“The FBI is handling that. I can give you a phone number for Agent Cordova.”
“You’re a Navajo police officer, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Officer Manuelito. Who are you?”
“I understand that you guys were the first on the scene, is that right?”
“Correct. Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Lona Zahne.”
“Lona? It’s Bernie. Bernadette Manuelito. It’s been forever. How are you?”
“Bernie? Oh my gosh! You’re a cop—I heard you say Officer Manuelito when you answered the phone. A cop?”
“Right.”
The phone went quiet for a moment.
“I just learned about the explosion out there on TV,” Lona said. “Aza Palmer, you remember him? He was supposed to be at the game. The reporter said someone was killed and, well . . .”
Bernie heard the catch in her voice.
“I talked to Palmer after the bombing. He’s OK.”
“You were there?” Lona didn’t wait for a response. “Gosh, that must have been terrifying.”
“Oh, it’s part of the job.” Terrifying was not the word Bernie would have used. Maybe exciting, challenging, exhausting, and nerve-wracking while she waited to see if there would be more bombs or a sniper.
“I could never be a cop. So Aza wasn’t hurt or anything?”
“He’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“A car exploded during the game. I don’t know much more. The FBI is investigating. Your husband wasn’t hurt.”
“Great. But Aza hasn’t been my husband for a long time. I thought everyone back there knew that.”
Bernie pulled out a notebook and jotted down “Lona Zahne” and the number on her phone screen. When something bad happened, like a car blown to smithereens, the victim’s discarded spouse ranked high on the potential-suspect list along with former lovers, debtors, fellow gang members, and associates tied to the drug scene.
“You back on the rez these days, Lona?”
“Oh no. I’m in Phoenix. My boy finished high school, got a job out of town, so I’m done with the mothering business. And you, girlfriend, still there in Shiprock where we grew up. Did you ever get married?”
The question surprised Bernie. She was thinking about Lona being “done with the mothering business” and was glad her mother didn’t feel that way.
“Me, married? Yes.”
Lona’s laugh surprised her again. “He must be a special guy. You were always so independent. Do I know him?”
“I don’t think you’ve met him. He’s a cop like me. Sergeant Jim Chee.” Bernie noticed Sandra standing in the doorway, motioning with her right hand . . . call waiting. “I’ve got to go, but I’d like to talk to you some more.”
“Sure thing.” Lona rattled off a second phone number. “Let me know when you’re in Phoenix. And I’d love to meet your husband.” Bernie ended the call and focused on Sandra.
“FBI on the line for you. And then Largo wants to see you with Wilson Sam in his office.”
Bernie picked up the call. “Hey, Cordova, Chee caught you on TV this morning. He said you handled it well.”
“I’ve had some practice. Thanks for last night. Good work. What’s the name of the new guy?”
“Wilson Sam.”
“Cocky, isn’t he?”
She didn’t respond.
“That’s it?”
“I know. You figured out he was young and Navajo just by looking at him.”
Bernie smiled. “What else about the bomb? Homemade? Professional?”
“We’re working on that. Before you ask, no prints yet from what’s left of the car. No clue on motive, but Palmer mentioned some threats, including nasty e-mails from an environmental group, the one that had the posters there, Save Wild America. The mediation has had lots of press and he’s a controversial character.
“You know, Manuelito, we both said ‘bomb.’ It could have been something besides a bomb, I guess. We won’t know for sure until we get the crime scene report. Largo told me he’d free you up to help with the interviews. Great. We want this solved yesterday.”
Bernie switched the phone to her other ear. “I’m going to talk to Largo as soon as we hang up. I’ll check to see if any families around here have called about a missing person. This man’s relatives could be wondering why he didn’t come home last night.”
“That’s probably not as important as—Hold on.”
Then he was back. “I just learned that the man died at the hospital this morning from injuries received in the blast. Tell Largo. We’ll cross interviewing him off our to-do list.”
The news of the death—and the nonchalance of Cordova’s comment—left her speechless.
Perched in the chair in front of Largo’s desk, Wilson Sam looked neat, smug, and a lot more rested than she felt. She settled into the folding seat next to the rookie, wondering what to expect.
Largo looked exhausted. “You hanging in there, Manuelito?”
“Yes, sir. I guess. Cordova just told me the victim died.”
Largo sighed. “The FBI and a special bomb team are still at the high school. When Cordova called earlier he said you both did great out there.”
Sam adjusted himself to sit a bit higher.
Bernie said, “We were just being cops.”
“You weren’t even on duty, Manuelito. It was some kind of luck that you went to the game. Good luck for the feds, maybe not so good for you.”
She shifted in the hard chair. “No luck involved, sir. Half of Shiprock was there. And Sam, well, he helped.”
Largo leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly. “The feds like us today. That’s the good news, I guess. They like us so much they want us to work on tracking down possible witnesses. That’s the bad news. Let’s get this squared away.”
“Tell Cordova I’ll do whatever I can.” Sam’s voice dripped with enthusiasm. “Whatever he wants.”
Bernie said, “Last night, besides the folks I talked to in the gym, I got the plate numbers of everyone who parked close enough to have their vehicles damaged. I have contact information on the players for both teams and the officials and security guards. Since they all had to suit up early, I thought they might have seen something.”
Largo looked at Sam.
“Manuelito assigned me to crowd control. I was breathing in fumes and freezing my toes off instead of doing something useful.”
The animosity in his tone tightened Bernie’s chest.
Largo turned to Bernie. “Give him half your follow-up list.” He looked at the rookie again. “Pay attention when you talk to people. Think about what they might be leaving out.” He took a breath. “Questions?”
Bernie and Officer Sam stayed quiet.
“I’ve got one for you both. Why would anyone do something like that here? I mean, this is Shiprock, not Phoenix or even Albuquerque. People know each other. A lot of innocent folks could have died. Think about that when you do those interviews.”
Sam followed Bernie back to her desk. She found her notebook from last night and gave him a page with a list.
“Is this all?”
She said, “These are the basketball players and the officials. They all had to be at the Pit early. Start there. Do you know how to proceed?”
He stood straighter. She could feel his stare on the top of her head. “Well, let’s see. What if I ask if they saw anything suspicious?”
Bernie bristled. “Give some examples of what suspicious looks like when you ask the question. You’ll get a better response.”
“You mean, Sir, did you see someone walking around with a bomb? Ma’am, did you see a creep plant a little package under the car that blew up?” He glanced at the paper she’d given him. “Cut me some slack. I didn’t sleep through training.”
“You slept through the part where they said leave the attitude at home.”
He glared at her, started to say something, and then stormed out.
After he left, Bernie stretched and walked to the front of the building, heading outside for some air.
Sandra looked up from her computer. “I gave the car registrations Largo asked me to compile to the rookie. He was whining about needing more to do. Was that OK with you?”
“Fine. If he makes a mess of it, Largo can deal with him.”
“What’s up with you two?”
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t feel like nothing. He couldn’t wait to get outta here, and you look fried.”
Bernie thought about what to say. “We’re both on edge today. What happened last night could have been horrific.”
“I can’t get over it and I wasn’t even there. What if there had been a second bomb? What if you hadn’t been at the game? What if the bomber had been one of those anti-police nuts?”
“You’re right. It could’ve been worse. We’re lucky, I guess.”
Sandra reached in her desk drawer and pulled something out. She handed it to Bernie. “I found this last week when I was hiking up by Tsoodzil.”
Bernie looked at the rock. Mount Taylor, where it came from, was Turquoise Mountain, the Sacred Mountain of the South, one of four that formed the traditional boundaries of Dinetah, the Navajo homeland. The rock had a slightly yellow tint. Quartz, perhaps. The shape reminded her of some sort of animal. Bernie felt its cool smoothness in her hand. She moved her fingers over it lightly and started to hand it back.
“It’s yours.”
Bernie looked at the rock again. This time, she saw the shape of the náshdóítsoh, the mountain lion, a strong and important animal in the Diné Bahane’, the story of how The People came to be, the Navajo Old Testament. Náshdóítsoh symbolized protection and healing. She slid the rock into her pocket.
Bernie stood in the parking lot for a few minutes, watching the traffic and remembering an old song about the wisdom of the mountain lion. Then she took her mug to the break room, discovered the empty pot, started some coffee, and went back to work while it brewed.
She didn’t mind making phone calls, the task ahead, but she always learned more when she spoke to someone face-to-face. She reviewed the list of fans she’d briefly interviewed last night and marked for follow-up. Then she started an e-mail to Lieutenant Leaphorn, the department’s legendary detective. He was recovering from a head injury and still unable to speak clearly on the phone. But technology had enabled him to get back to work part-time as a consultant for the department. Now, when she wanted his advice, she wasn’t asking for a favor.
Lieutenant,
Because you have convinced me there is no such thing as coincidence, I need your help in connecting the dots. You probably heard about last night’s bombing. The car belongs to Aza Palmer
Then she realized she had too many questions to put in an e-mail. It was time for a visit. Even though he couldn’t speak easily, he could listen and maybe give her some answers on the spot. Or do some research and e-mail a response.
When she went back for coffee, Officer Bigman was p
utting the lid on his traveling mug.
“I heard you were in the wrong place at the right time last night.”
“You could say that. And I missed the end of the game, too.”
“The old guys won.” He chuckled. “You know what they say: age and experience beat youth and exuberance in the long run.”
“I thought it was age and trickery.”
“Any news about the explosion?”
“The man who was injured died. A young Navajo guy without any ID. Largo has us making a bunch of follow-up calls.”
Bigman clicked the lid of his coffee cup into place. “I get to drive out to Sheep Springs and look for the Tsosie girl—you know, the one who likes to run away.”
“At least it’s not snowing yet.”
“I wish it had snowed earlier. That would make her easier to track.”
Bernie settled in to start the calls. Sandra buzzed her. “A person here wants to talk to someone about the bombing. He says he knows something.”
“Is the rookie around?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll be right out.”
A middle-aged man in a denim work shirt stood nervously at the counter. Bernie introduced herself with her clan affiliation. Bruce Chino did the same.
“My sister was at the game last night where the trouble happened. She told me she saw a young man, a high school kid or something, and it looked like he was trying to break into cars or something. Acting weird, you know? She told a security guard about it when she went into the gym.” Chino paused, rubbed his palms against his pants, continued. “I figured I should mention it to someone like you, you know, after what happened. In case, you know, that boy was up to no good or something.”
“Did your sister have any idea who the man was?” Bernie was tempted to add, You know, or something.
Chino shrugged.
“Can you give me your sister’s name and phone number so I can talk to her?”
“Gloria Chino. She had a phone, you know, but she lost it somewhere. You can call me when I’m over there.” Chino gave Bernie his phone number.
“When will you be there?”
“Oh, in about three days or something. I’m driving a truck to Los Angeles. Just on my way out now.”
Song of the Lion Page 5