Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  “Mom was a rodeo groupie. About the time I came along, she split with her bronc rider but tossed his name my way.”

  The grin was genuine. Ben knew he was going to like this man.

  “Were you telling the truth in there a minute ago about how this sort of thing doesn’t happen very often out here?”

  “Yeah. First homicide this close to the res since I was in the mission school.” He paused. “Just in case you were going to say something smart, that’s been a year or two. I’m twenty- four.” He grinned.

  “But homicide? Are you saying the man was killed where we found him?”

  “No, couldn’t find any evidence of that. It looks like he was killed somewhere else and the body was stuffed under Sal’s trailer. About the only thing I could tell for sure tonight is that the body has been lying face down for at least twenty-four hours. Liver mortis. It accounts for all the discoloration in the face. Cells break down, die off and blood settles to the side of the body against a hard surface.”

  Ben was impressed.

  “I guess the question is how did one person drag the body out from under the trailer and leave it where the tourist found it. It wouldn’t have been easy.”

  “You think two people were involved?”

  Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “After you.” He pushed the kitchen door open and followed Ben into the room.

  Sal sat at the oak table and didn’t look up.

  Tommy took a chair facing Sal and motioned for Ben to join them.

  “I’d like to question the two of you together—establish time of discovery. Sal, I need to know your whereabouts when the tourist was calling for help. Ben, how ’bout you starting.”

  Ben retold his part of searching for the tourist’s husband, of thinking he saw something or someone move by the trailer, of hearing a cry for help and going to investigate, and finding the tourist bending over the body.

  “And, Sal, where were you during this time?”

  At first Ben thought Sal wasn’t going to answer. But even if it took awhile, Tommy wouldn’t break the silence. It was the Indian way. Sal was an elder, maybe a relative on his mother’s side. It would be difficult policing the place where you grew up.

  “In the trailer.”

  “Tell me what you heard.”

  This time, instead of answering, Sal took his hearing aid out of his pocket, showed it to Tommy then slipped it back into his shirt.

  “Hearing aid not in.” Tommy interpreted and made a note on his pad.

  “Let’s start with the discovery of the body. Can you help me out, Sal, with why the body was behind your trailer?”

  Still staring at the table top, Sal shook his head.

  “For that matter, Can you give me a reason why the tourist was out there? Had you ever seen this man before? Or his wife?” Ben thought Sal flinched. “Let’s see,” Tommy consulted his pad, “someone reported that you had been rude to the wife earlier in the day. That so?”

  “She wanted a rabbit.”

  “I see.”

  Ben didn’t, but he knew enough to question Tommy later and not show his ignorance now.

  “Let’s go back to Ahmed. What kind of relationship did you have with him? He ever buy your work?”

  “Sometimes. Not for awhile.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Now, Ben knew it wasn’t his imagination. Sal blanched and looked away. He was pretty sure Tommy noticed Sal’s reaction, too.

  “Maybe two weeks.”

  “And maybe not?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “It might help you to work on that memory of yours. I think it’s safe to say after a preliminary investigation, the tourist simply discovered the body by accident. There is no indication that he was involved other than that. We have no idea why he was wandering around behind your trailer, but it’s been reported that his thinking may not always be clear. Ahmed, however, is a different story. Here we have a clear case of murder—murder and disfigurement by removal of hair and skin covering the man’s frontal lobe.”

  It would be easier to just say scalping, Ben thought. But Tommy already had a penchant for the legalese required in most court reports.

  “I don’t know how you figure in all this, Sal—or even if you do. I just don’t want you disappearing. We clear on that?”

  Sal continued to look at the floor but reluctantly nodded.

  “While we’re here, we probably need to take a look around. I don’t have a warrant, but I’d like to check the trailer and the shed out behind.”

  But if he found evidence would the search be legal? Ben’s train of thought was interrupted by an emphatic, “No.” This time Sal was visibly upset.

  “What do you mean, no? What are you so afraid I’ll find? What do you keep in that old shed anyway?”

  “Tools. Some carvings. Not much of value to anyone but me.”

  “It won’t hurt to take a peek. I don’t want any more bodies showing up.”

  “No need. I looked. Everything was okay.”

  “It won’t take us a minute. We’ll just take a quick inventory. Maybe we’ll find an old knife. Something about the size that got poked into Ahmed in the first place.”

  Sal was anxious, more than edgy, Ben thought. He watched him play with a thread sticking up from his cuff. Finally, wetting thumb and forefinger, he curled it back to lie flat.

  “Something I noticed that might be important ...”

  Tommy focused his attention on Ben. With annoyance? Ben thought there was just a shade of something for letting Sal off the hook, diverting the discussion.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know at first I thought the dead man was Mr. Zuni. I mean they look somewhat alike. The trader was wearing a white shirt and jeans same as Mr. Zuni is now. They’re approximately the same height, hair long, coloring just a shade different. It could be that—”

  “Anyone out gunning for you, Sal? That you know of, that is?” Tommy swung abruptly back to Sal.

  Sal shrugged, not a yes, not a no, and returned to pick at his sleeve.

  Tommy laughed. “Maybe, you put the horns on someone.”

  This Ben recognized as the old way of saying cuckolded, but it was difficult to imagine this dark slight man sneaking around with anyone’s wife.

  “One thing seems sure, you had a crowd of peeping toms out there tonight. Footprints all over the place under the trailer windows—front and back. Two sets of prints are pretty clear. One matches the victim, and if that coating of dirt on your Ropers is any indication, I’d bet one set is yours. What are the chances that if you rethink this a little bit, you’ll remember that you were out there tonight after all?”

  Sal sat stone faced, even the fraying cuff was forgotten. “I’ve told you all I know.”

  “For some reason, I’m not real sure about that.” Tommy reached in his pocket. “This yours?” Tommy held a heavy padlock in his hand. “Twisted off the door to that shed, most likely. I’m surprised you didn’t see it earlier.”

  Sal looked up quickly and reached for the lock. There was real alarm in his eyes, Ben thought.

  “I better check my tools.”

  No “are we finished?” or “can I go now?” Sal simply pushed back from the table and stood, then rushed out the door.

  “I thought you said you’d already checked. Maybe you need some help?” Tommy yelled after him, but he was grinning. In all likelihood, Tommy had already been in the shed but wanted to bait him, Ben decided. “Don’t go too far away, in case I need to find you.” But it was doubtful Sal had heard as the screen door banged behind him.

  Tommy sat at the table opposite Ben, made another notation in his notebook, then leaned back.

  “I’m not sure how Sal figures in all this. It’s tough to think he’d kill someone. I’ve known him since I was a child. It’s more likely someone was trying to set him up—dump the body by his trailer, implicate him. But why? Still, I have to keep an open mind. Sometimes that’s t
he hardest part about being a cop—in your home territory.” Tommy ran a hand through his bristle-straight hair. “You know? ’Bout the worst thing Sal does is bang the landlady once in awhile.”

  “The landlady?” That was a shock. Ben was trying to imagine Hannah and Sal in the throes of passion. It was difficult.

  “So they say. But you know how people talk. Sal moved out here to the trading post shortly after her old man died.” Tommy was flipping through the pages of his note pad. He stopped, read for a moment, then looked up. “Tell me what you know about .22?”

  “Twenty-two?”

  Tommy explained Harold’s nickname then pressed on, “I guess I’m wondering if this kind of bizarre killing, the scalping and all, could have been done by a kid like .22.” Tommy paused to make a circular motion with his index finger pointed at his head. “He could have dragged the body from under the trailer. He’s big enough to wrestle a grizzly.”

  “True. But what reason would he have?” Ben thought of being tripped on the steps. That was a childish prank, not murder. He didn’t see Harold as malicious. He was more of a gentle giant.

  “I dunno, crazy or something, maybe he wouldn’t need one. Isn’t that your specialty?”

  “Are you asking me for a diagnosis?”

  “Naw, not really. Just thinking out loud.” Tommy stood. “If I have any more questions, I’ll catch you at the clinic. I’m sure you’ll hear from me.”

  It was almost midnight before Tommy and the other officer pulled out. Understandably, the busload of tourists had left first. They would spend a couple nights in Gallup. The body of the trader was taken by hospital van to the Office of the Medical Investigator in Albuquerque. What a puzzle. A scalping. The brutality of it was numbing.

  + + +

  Sal sat at the fold-down table in his trailer. He’d made instant coffee with tap water but couldn’t drink it. He watched as a glop of brackish-looking scum adhered itself to his spoon. He walked to the sink and poured the liquid down the drain, then swished water around the porcelain to make certain there were no leftovers to stain.

  He should go to bed, but he wouldn’t sleep, not after what had happened. Why hadn’t he called Tommy last night? Or told him tonight that he’d seen Ahmed’s body on the hood of his truck down by the river? Sal knew why—Hannah. She wouldn’t want him to. It would raise too many questions. They had to be careful because of the amber. He might make the stuff, but she sold it. And that made both of them implicated in wrongdoing. And he couldn’t do that to Hannah, take a chance on getting her in trouble.

  And how could he explain that the body had somehow managed to follow him home? Wouldn’t he have to have a pretty good explanation? And who would believe him when he said he knew for a fact it was Atoshle? That he had seen the great kachina go past his window carrying the body ... No, he wouldn’t be believed. Silence was better, safer.

  + + +

  “You know, in the old days, they even had a scalp house.”

  Hannah sat across from Ben at the kitchen table. The clock in the hall had just struck twelve. She’d offered him a cup of tea that tasted like mint. They were both too wide awake to go to bed.

  “A what?” Ben thought he hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “It’s true. There was a guardian, a scalp chief, and an elaborate ceremony when an enemy scalp was brought back to the village.”

  “Was that often?”

  “Maybe not too often, but I remember my husband’s father talking about it. Seems there was a certain amount of sexual license practiced during the celebration. I was always intrigued.” One corner of Hannah’s mouth turned up in a wry smile.

  It was difficult to think of this angular woman as being interested in sex; she seemed so “contained,” Ben thought, but what had Tommy said about Sal?

  “The scalp was placed on a pole and dances were held round-the-clock,” Hannah continued. “Later the scalp would be washed. But this part of the ritual had to be done at a place where the water wouldn’t flow back into a stream that people might drink from. Contamination with the dead brings death, as you probably know.”

  She was looking at him expectantly. Was this a good time to confess about not being very Indian? Not knowing the ceremonies of his own tribe, let alone others. Ben could hear the admonishments of his grandmother.

  “After watching you with the deceased earlier, I don’t think you believe that way.” Hannah poured milk into her tea and offered him the plastic pitcher.

  “I was adopted at four by Mormons. I only spent summers on the reservation.”

  “Figures.”

  Ben didn’t ask her what she meant. He still wasn’t at ease with this woman.

  “Too bad the murder had to be discovered here,” Ben said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe, I should have T-shirts made. First excitement we’ve had in a while.”

  Was she being sarcastic? Ben didn’t know. It was hard to figure her. Could she really be thinking of capitalizing on this tragedy? He pushed back from the table. Tomorrow was his first day at work. He needed some rest.

  “I’ll skip breakfast.”

  Hannah nodded but didn’t look up. She was staring fixedly in front of her, lost in thought as she took small sips of tea. The scent of mint floated around her. Some of the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling must also be mint, Ben thought. The odor was so pungent.

  Ben continued out into the hall that led to his room. He had almost passed the staircase before he saw Harold huddled, arms around the bannister.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t do.” The young man was visibly shaken. His eyes seemed to plead with Ben and fastened unblinking on Ben’s face, as he moved to sit beside Harold on the stairs. Harold’s leg twitched spasmodically gently thumping against the wood.

  “What don’t you do?”

  Harold made a quick slicing cut with stiff, straight fingers across the top of his head.

  “I know that.”

  “I go there.”

  What was he talking about? The police had been over this with Harold earlier in the evening, but it seemed like he had more to say.

  “Did you see something?”

  “You no tell?”

  Ben found himself making a sign that vaguely resembled something he thought a scout would do.

  “You come. We go find.” Harold stood looking at him expectantly.

  Ben listened for Hannah in the kitchen. Shouldn’t she be the one to handle this—whatever it was her son wanted? But she had turned on the tap at the kitchen sink. It ran for awhile. Then there was nothing. No sound. He could see light coming from under the door and guessed she must be doing dishes.

  Harold was tugging on his hand, pulling him toward the front door. It was too late to change players now. Harold dropped his hand to run on ahead once they had cleared the front steps. He had the short choppy gait of someone neurologically impaired, but he still covered ground amazingly fast.

  The full moon of a couple nights back had shrunk to a lopsided globe, the right side falling away sharply. As Ben stumbled over the brick walk, he regretted not having a flashlight. Wherever they were going, Harold had been there before and had the advantage.

  Before he reached the trailer, Harold slowed to a walk and approached from the front. Then he ducked his head under the metal awning over the wide window and looked in.

  “Sleep.” He tossed the word over his shoulder and continued to walk hurriedly toward the woods.

  Ben assumed he meant Sal. Maybe that’s why he had the honor of being the escort.

  Harold had plunged into the brush about one hundred feet to the west of the trailer and deli-mart, and Ben jogged to catch up. Harold was moving quickly, following some kind of path. Not one that was used often, Ben thought as he ducked a branch that had invaded the path’s space. This was more like a trail someone had cut out years ago and didn’t keep up.

  The moon’s light was filtered and severely limited by the tall pines—but only
in spots. Just when he couldn’t see a thing, the trees thinned to only a cluster of ten-foot piñons. Then sometimes nothing for several yards, just hard-packed sandy soil. Ben tried to estimate how far they’d come. He thought about a half mile, and Harold hadn’t slowed even though Ben could hear his breath coming in raspy gulps. Then Harold stopped. At first, Ben thought he was just trying to catch his breath as he slumped to the ground, and Ben squatted beside him.

  But Harold started crawling forward toward a fallen log and pile of brush. He dug away rotting vegetation and pulled out a white sheet and then a mask—one of the wooden masks of the shalako. Ben looked at it closely. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought it was a fake, clever, but not real. Yet, the eye slits were precisely carved, a black fringed material was tacked to the lower edge, the portion that would hide the neck. The wood was new, and even in this half light the paint looked shiny—too bright and fresh. This mask had not been used in the winter ceremonies. The question was, what had it been used for?

  “No more.”

  Harold had been rummaging around in the indentation under the log.

  “Were there others?”

  Harold looked puzzled. Had he not understood? Ben pointed to the mask and then to the hole.

  “More?”

  “Not now.”

  “More yesterday?”

  Ben had no idea what word would stand for elapsed time. And for all he knew, Harold might visit the cache daily. But yesterday seemed to work because Harold held up four fingers, his thumb doubled back against his palm.

  “Four more?”

  Harold nodded and seemed pensive, then he pointed to the mask.

  “He did.”

  It took Ben a moment to figure out what Harold was saying.

  “What did he do?”

  Again, a stiff fingered slice at the hairline. There was no doubt, Harold was telling him that the fake shalako had scalped the trader.

  “How do you know?”

  “Me know.”

  Ben sat back on his heels. He’d run out of questions or, more accurately, Harold had run out of answers. But he believed Harold. The boy was guileless and obviously disturbed by what had happened that evening.