Mourning Dove

by Aimée

  “I wish I had better news but I haven’t got anything on that yet. What I do have is someone here at the church I think you’ll want to talk to. He’s painting our tool shed out back now. He and I started talking, and it turns out he served overseas with Jimmy Blacksheep. He shipped back when his wife died because of their children.”

  “Paul Curley?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “No, but we’ve been hoping to interview him. Expect me there in twenty minutes.”

  Ella called Justine at the station, told her where she was headed and why, then added, “Have you turned up anything from the crime scene last night?”

  “I’m still working on it. The nine-millimeter slugs all came from a Ruger carbine, a weapon that’s been widely produced, so that isn’t much help. But at least if we find the weapon, we should be able to match it to the bullets. By the time you come to the station I hope to have something more.”

  Ella arrived at the Christian church atop the mesa on the north side of the river a short while later. Reverend Tome stepped outside just as she pulled to a stop.

  “I saw you coming up the road from my office window,” Ford said, “and I wanted to speak to you for a moment before we go talk to Paul.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve been studying the code from the point of view of a soldier trying to get a message out. He speaks of the fall, and the Dark Ones trading with the locals to get their hands on nails, shoes, and so on—which probably represents something else entirely. I’m wondering if he’s trying to tell you about something that began last fall, maybe involving someone buying or trading for jewelry, stolen money, or some kind of contraband such as drugs, liquor, or weapons, represented in code as shoes and nails, for example. There’s that mention of Big Monster being trapped in a large hole. It’s got to mean Saddam Hussein, don’t you think?”

  “I thought that, too, but those everyday items to be bartered can’t be anything too dangerous like explosives or the mysterious weapons of mass destruction. Something like that would have been way too hot to handle. I’m thinking that maybe the bartered goods Jimmy had in mind are more like rifles, pistols, fighting knives, and maybe even stolen gold or jewelry, stuff like that.”

  “Could be. Jimmy wasn’t a polished writer or a trained cryptographer either, and this is an unfinished story. It’s more like a rough draft, really, and not just because the ending isn’t there. Notice how many places there are where he scratched out a word or paragraph and reworded it.” He paused suddenly, then spoke quickly. “A thought just occurred to me. Maybe that mention of hiding places is Mourning Dove’s way of telling the reader how the contraband was hidden or smuggled back home. Inside their beasts of burden—their vehicles. Or not,” he added, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “We really need more to go on. If there’s a chance that the second half of the story still exists, you’ve got to get your hands on it. Reading the entire narrative could give us the answers you need.”

  “No more pages have shown up anywhere, and every location Jimmy went, we’ve searched. I didn’t mention this before but Samuel says his brother’s old stories, written before his tour in Iraq, are missing, too. But I think that maybe the rest of this story was with him when he was killed and was lost along with the car and apparently his luggage. Or could be someone else got their hands on it and destroyed it.” Ella thought about the explosion at the sweat hogan. They hadn’t found any traces of paper that she knew about, but it might have been burned up completely, or taken by the sniper and his companion when they fled.

  “What about the military? Can they help out at all?”

  She shrugged. “So far they haven’t been very helpful. I’ll try to find out if they had any incidents in Jimmy’s unit last winter, but the military has its own way of doing things, so I doubt I’ll get answers. Last I heard, the Army was dispatching their own guy here but, so far, he hasn’t shown up and I have no idea what kind of leads he’s following.”

  “The Dark Ones are deadly when someone goes against them. Remember that part about Konik and Bula disappearing because they fell out of favor?” he asked. “My advice is to watch your back.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” she said. “Just keep working on that code, okay?”

  “Don’t worry, I will. When I get into a puzzle I solve it or go crazy trying,” he added with a laugh.

  Ella smiled. “I’m the same way. That’s why I’m a cop. But how does that fit in with you being a preacher?”

  “Life’s a puzzle, Ella. Everyone has to figure out how to make all the pieces fit in a way that’ll help them find happiness. When people come to me for help, I try to make the pieces of their puzzle come together in a way that makes sense to them and allows them to cope.”

  “You mean by steering them to God?”

  “The ones who come to me are already in the palm of God. All I do is listen, try to advise, and know that God’s taking care of them.”

  “My father was a preacher. His beliefs were similar to yours. But he believed in trying to convert people.”

  Ford smiled and shook his head. “Sounds like one of the old evangelists, but I’m not one of them. I don’t try to convert anyone, so rest easy,” he said, accurately guessing what was on her mind. “God calls whomever he wants; he doesn’t need my help. My job is to be ready to help the ones He brings to us.”

  “You walk your talk, Reverend,” Ella said with a smile.

  Seeing two other parishioners approaching, Reverend Tome waved at them, then looked back at Ella. “One more thing about Paul before we go. I understand that he and Jimmy were close.”

  “Good. With luck he’ll be able to shed some light on what happened.”

  “A word of caution, Ella. Paul has had a rough time of it, and not just because of the loss of his wife. Since he came home, he’s been working two jobs, and he’s having a truckload of problems with the kids. One got busted for drugs recently and sent to a detention home for evaluation. If Paul’s short with you, keep in mind that part of it could be ’cause he’s exhausted.”

  Paul was climbing down a ladder propped against the side of the shed as they approached, paint can and brush in hand. “Hey, Reverend,” he greeted, seeing them. “I’ve made good progress, so I decided to take a break.”

  “Perfect timing. This is the tribal police investigator who has been looking into your friend’s death.”

  Ella noticed Ford had avoided mentioning names. Bilford Tome might have been a modernist, and a Christian, but he was also a man who knew how to respect the customs of the majority, and his own tribe.

  “Good morning,” Ella greeted. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if it’s okay.”

  “Sure,” Paul said. “Let me put the brush into some water and wash my hands while we talk.”

  “That’s fine.” Ella followed him to the nearby faucet, where there were a few tools, a drop cloth, old rags, and two empty coffee cans.

  Hearing someone calling out to him from the door at the rear of the chapel, Ford excused himself. “I better go see what’s going on.”

  As he hurried off, Paul Curley looked up from where he was crouched down, filling a coffee can with water. “The Rev mentioned earlier that you might want to talk to me. Something about what went down with our unit in Iraq, especially with an old buddy of mine. But I’m not sure how much I can help you. My family had a tragedy of our own and I came back early. I hadn’t seen him for months.”

  “You served in the same platoon as the deceased, right?”

  “Yeah, same section, actually, but usually in a different vehicle. For a while we were good friends. He wasn’t an easy man to know, and he didn’t socialize much, but I understood part of what was going on inside his head.”

  “Understood? How so?”

  “A lot of things were happening over there—not just the war. You needed to know and trust the men and women you served with. Your life could depend on them when things got hot. For the same reason
it was also important to avoid making enemies. My friend couldn’t seem to manage any of that.”

  “How come?”

  “It wasn’t so much what was going on around him, but what he carried inside, if you know what I mean? He had problems back here—and they ate at him. As the time to go home drew near, most of us were making plans, talking about what we were going to do. Not him. He didn’t say much of anything. All I know for sure is that he hated working at that lumber yard in Farmington, and he wanted to be a writer,” he said, then paused for a long moment before continuing. “He was also expecting to have some major hassle with his brother. I remember him saying something about that in passing once.”

  “Do you remember what that was about?”

  “There was bad blood between those two. A problem with a woman.” He finished rinsing off the paintbrush, dried his hands with a rag, then brought out a chocolate bar from his shirt pocket and began eating. “My friend was kinda strange, and creeped out a lot of the guys, which was a job in itself, considering all the nasty things going on in that country.”

  “Creeped out? For example?”

  “He’d come right up to people without any sound or warning. You’d look around and suddenly there he was. He wasn’t eavesdropping. It was just a game he played, like he was stalking you. I told him he was being stupid, asking to get shot, but he just laughed. More than once, he did have a gun drawn on him before he was recognized. It pissed off the men in our section, especially when we were on alert, or had just come back from a mission or guard duty. I kept telling him to cut the crap, but he thought it was funny. Lucky he didn’t get himself killed over there. Come to think of it, his luck ran out.”

  Ella carefully considered what he’d told her. Maybe Jimmy’s habit of sneaking around had resulted in him overhearing something that had placed him in harm’s way and he’d tried to convey that to her in the partial story he’d sent.

  “What kind of things went on under the radar over there? Any contraband, black-market stuff, drugs, or things of that nature?”

  Paul gave her a long look before answering. “Stuff like that is always going on in a war zone, but it’s not forced on anyone. If you didn’t want to take part, you made it clear that you couldn’t be approached, or you didn’t want to deal. That’s all.”

  “What exactly was going on?” Ella pressed. “I need details.”

  “It’s out of your jurisdiction, and it’s already over, at least for the unit we were in. Why do you care?”

  “It may have something to do with your friend’s murder.”

  “It wasn’t just a carjacking?”

  “I don’t think so, and I could use your help,” Ella said.

  Paul nodded slowly. “All right, but I think you’ll be disappointed. All I know about was penny-ante stuff—burning CDs, software, booze, cigarettes, stuff like that. A little pot. I stayed away from it, myself, but it wasn’t hard to see what was going on sometimes. It was harmless stuff, really.”

  “Give me the name of someone who might know more.”

  “Will you keep me out of it?”

  “I’ll do my best, and my best is usually pretty good,” she answered.

  “Try talking to an Anglo by the name of Louis Smith. He’s a cop over in Farmington.”

  “Tell me more about Louis Smith,” Ella asked.

  “He was an enlisted man, like me, but I heard rumors that he had his fingers in a lot of pies. The little I know comes from here and there, people I can’t or won’t name, but I understand that Louis had a knack for finding ways to make extra cash. He called himself an ‘entrepreneur’ and said that was the real spirit of America.”

  “Modest son-of-a-gun,” Ella said.

  “A real pain in the ass, if you want to know. My friend hated his guts—but the feeling was mutual.” Paul fished a key chain out of his faded jeans pocket, and gestured toward a beat-up old sedan half covered in gray primer. “I’m going to get a soft drink from the cooler in my car. You want one?”

  “No, thanks.” Ella immediately noticed the bullet attached to the key chain. “Souvenir?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grim nod. “Not one of these Hollywood bullet-that-almost-killed-me stories, either. Just a full metal jacket reminder to myself, that so long as I’ve got my wits about me, I can deal with anything.”

  Ella remembered what Ford had told her about Paul’s family problems and nodded somberly. “Thanks for your help,” she said, and walked back around the building to her car. When she got there, Ford came out to meet her.

  “Did you get anything you can use?” he asked.

  “Several promising leads,” she answered. “Thanks for calling me, Ford.”

  “I’ll keep working on that story,” he said. “But watch your step. I have a bad feeling about all of this. The series of clues Blacksheep sent you took time to figure out and write up. He wouldn’t have expended all that energy without a good reason.”

  “Yeah,” Ella agreed. “Let me know when you’ve got a handle on it.”

  Ford smiled, noting she’d said “when” not “if.” “I’m glad we finally met, Ella,” he said simply.

  In his eyes, Ella saw interest and . . . more. Pleased, and annoyed with herself for getting sidetracked, she mumbled a quick good-bye. She didn’t breathe normally again until she was in her unit, on the road. Farmington was her next stop. She had to find Officer Louis Smith.

  TEN

  Less than forty minutes later, Ella stood across from Louis Smith’s cluttered desk. It hadn’t taken long to find him today. He’d recently been transferred to this small office at the back of the building and, from here, handled hit-and-run cases exclusively. Louis had just placed the phone back on the hook as she walked in.

  Seeing the badge pinned at her belt, he waved her to a seat. “What can I do for you, Officer . . .”

  Ella introduced herself. “No doubt you’ve heard all about the homicide. I’m looking into Jimmy Blacksheep’s death.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have. Blacksheep was a strange kid, but a good soldier who did his job when it mattered,” he said. “How can I help? You thinking that the carjacking and my hit-and-run cases intersect somehow?”

  “No, I’m just looking for answers to some incidental questions that have cropped up during our investigation,” she answered, not wanting to give out any unnecessary information. Officer Smith was a dark-haired Anglo with hazel eyes. In his late thirties, she thought him a bit old for the National Guard. Perhaps Officer Smith had needed the extra income. His smile was wooden, and he seemed ill at ease with her. She wasn’t sure if that was because of the usual jurisdictional turf thing that often cropped up between departments, or something more.

  “I’m not sure how much help I can be to you, Detective Clah. I look into hit-and-runs, track down witnesses, follow up on reports, and that’s pretty much it. I worked traffic before my tour in Iraq, but this is where I want to be now.”

  “There’s plenty to do here from what I see,” she said, glancing at the stack of files on his desk.

  “Yeah, and providing my luck holds, I’ll never have to shoot another person again,” Smith added.

  “That’s what we all want,” she said quietly.

  “In a hit-and-run, an officer has more control over what situations he’s walking into than in a patrol car,” Louis answered. “But enough of that. How can I help you? Jimmy and I weren’t buddies, though I shared quarters with him and the rest of the section for a while.”

  “I’m thinking that if I can get inside his head I may be able to figure out what went down the other day.”

  “That’s a tough one even for those who knew him. Jimmy was hard to get a handle on. He could have made it a lot easier on himself if he’d played his cards right. But he liked keeping everyone at arm’s length—standoffish, you get me? He was a good soldier though. Completed his missions and helped keep us all alive. That was enough,” Smith said.

  “What do you mean about making things easi
er on himself and playing his cards right?” Ella pressed.

  “His brother, FPD Officer Samuel Blacksheep, was Sergeant Sanders’s partner on the force for several years. Sanders was the lieutenant of our platoon, and also had the responsibility for the company’s base security while we were overseas. Lieutenant—well, here, Sergeant Sanders—was willing, at first, to cut Samuel’s brother a little slack, but Jimmy wouldn’t have it. Took his turn with every crap assignment just like the rest of us, though he was given the opportunity to pull some lighter duty. That earned everyone’s respect, even his sergeant’s. I don’t know why Jimmy didn’t go for it, but maybe he didn’t want to owe anyone.”

  “How well do Sanders and Blacksheep get along now?”

  Officer Smith shrugged. “Naturally Blacksheep got another partner when Sanders shipped out, and Sanders is working with somebody else now. But I’ve heard that the two are still good friends and get together after duty hours.”

  “Getting back to the Guard—in Iraq. How often did equipment, supplies, and stuff like that go missing over there?” Ella said.

  “War’s messy,” he answered flatly. “Things went missing all the time—including people.”

  “I understand a few of the soldiers found inventive ways to make up for lost income from their civilian jobs.”

  “Yeah, some did.” He leaned back and gave her a long, calculating look. “But what happened overseas stays there as far as I’m concerned. It’s up to the Army to deal with those issues, so I don’t think you’ll find many who’ll talk to you about that.”

  “Is there anyone else around here who might be able to tell me more about Jimmy and his life leading up to the events of the other day? Especially for the time he spent in the Guard?”

  Officer Smith lapsed into a long silence, and she was about to press him when she heard footsteps behind her. Smith looked up, and Ella turned her head. Sergeant Calvin Sanders was standing in the doorway. “Clah, will you come with me, please?”