The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  “Cut the bull, Hubert, and get on with the story,” said Fletcher.

  “Mr. Berdal was a security guard at Bandelier. The missing pot was later found in Mr. Berdal’s vehicle, so we can safely assume that he stole the pot. I think we can also safely assume that his murder was related to the theft.”

  Everyone now seemed to be paying closer attention. My nerves had calmed down. Now that they were engaged in the story, I was almost enjoying leading them to its conclusion.

  “The question is why did Berdal steal the pot? I have seen his apartment and know something about his lifestyle. He was certainly not a connoisseur of pottery. One should not speak ill of the dead, but the fact is that Hugo Berdal was an uneducated loner in a minimum wage job. He probably lacked the imagination to conceive the crime, and even had he done so, he would not have known how to fence such a pot. Indeed, he would have been unaware of its value. We can therefore assume that he was hired to steal the pot.”

  “The key question is who paid him to steal it, and the answer is that you did, Sven.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Nordquist. His eyes focused on me and seemed to turn an even deeper shade of indigo, almost blue-black.

  I couldn’t hold his gaze, so I looked at the others. “It must have seemed like a simple plan. A security guard has unfettered access to the pot. He steals it for a fee, passes it to Sven who then uses it for political purposes. Given the bizarre politics of ARRIS, it’s difficult to guess exactly what that purpose might be. They could hold a press conference saying they had liberated a valuable Native American artifact from the white man’s museum. When the Park Service sues to have the pot returned, ARRIS is suddenly center-stage in a drama the media would love. Or maybe they hold a mock burial with media coverage and return the pot to its resting place alongside the people who made it. Again, great coverage.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sven, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the room, his eyes still fixed on me.

  “Maybe not,” I admitted, “but whatever you wanted the pot for, getting your hands on it turned out to be more difficult than you bargained for because Berdal began to think he was being played for a sucker. The police found a cash deposit to his checking account for five hundred dollars just days before the pot was stolen, so it’s a pretty good guess that’s what he was paid. Of course Guvelly questioned Berdal; it would be routine for the investigating agent to question the security staff. My guess is that during that questioning session, Guvelly mentioned how valuable the pot was. When Berdal learned the true value of the pot, he realized the five hundred was chump change. So he came to you, Sven, demanding more money. You refused at first. And why not? Berdal had no bargaining power at that point. What could he do? Return the pot? But then I’m guessing Hugo told you he would take the pot to Guvelly and get the finder’s fee. Guvelly tried to lure me with talk of that fee, so I suspect he mentioned it to everyone in hopes that the thief would return the pot or that someone who knew the thief would take the pot from him and return it.”

  Sven folded his arms over his chest. “This is all conjecture.”

  “I agree. But once you have a reasonable conjecture, it gives you ideas about where to look for solid evidence. My conjecture that you paid Berdal to steal the pot led me to look into your backgrounds to see if I could find a connection. And I did. Hugo Berdal was your cousin.”

  There were gasps and squeaking chairs as everyone turned to look at Sven. He unfolded his lean arms and held them slightly aloft, taking in the crowd with a casual glance. “So what? Being related to that philistine is unfortunate, but not a crime.”

  “But paying someone to steal is,” I said. “And so is murder. When Berdal told you he was going to see Guvelly, you probably tried to talk him out of it. Maybe you offered him more money. But he was already suspicious of you because in his view you didn’t pay him enough. So you decided to protect your investment and go along with him. I’ll wager you told Berdal that you would top whatever Guvelly offered. Were you surprised when Hugo agreed to let you go along?”

  Sven just glared at me.

  “Maybe you didn’t know it, but his truck was in the shop, so he needed a ride anyway. That’s probably why he took you up on your offer. So you took him to the Hyatt. The room Berdal and Guvelly had agreed to meet in was registered in the name of Masho Crow, whom you all met a few minutes ago. Guvelly knew he could use the room because he and Mr. Crow were conducting other business that we need not go into here.”

  I didn’t want to divert attention from the train of reasoning by bringing up the protection racket that Guvelly was being paid not to see. And anyway, Crow had been granted immunity for his future testimony against Nordquist, so there was no reason to make his criminal activities public.

  I could see the finish line and I kept talking. “Finally we come to a fact, not just conjecture. You and Hugo arrived early for the meeting. Mr. Crow let you into the room, told you Guvelly would be along soon, and then left.”

  “He’s lying,” Sven squealed, his icy self-control crumbling.

  Crow turned deadpan to Nordquist, and Sven sunk further into his seat.

  “I don’t know what happened in that room,” I continued, “but the best guess is that you and Hugo got into an argument while waiting for Guvelly. Maybe Hugo drew his gun because he was afraid of you. Maybe you took it from him. Maybe there was a struggle. We’ll never know what happened in that room unless you tell us. But what we do know is that Berdal ended up dead and you called 9-1-1 and reported the murder.”

  He seemed to regain his confidence. “Why would I do that if I murdered him?”

  “Because you were hoping to throw suspicion on Guvelly. You didn’t know it wasn’t his room. It probably seemed like a stroke of genius because if Guvelly was being investigated for murder, he wouldn’t have much time or interest in searching for the missing pot, and you could get the pot and be home free. But even though calling 911 may have seemed like a good idea at the time, it turned out to be a big mistake. They have your call on tape. I’m sure your voice print will match that tape.”

  “This is nonsense,” said Sven. He looked around the room at the others, particularly at Fletcher. His poise seemed ready to abandon him again.

  “He’s trying to frame me because I’m the one who reported his theft of protected artifacts from an excavation site. It’s a matter of public record. He’s a thief. He was expelled from UNM because of it. You can’t believe anything he says. He desecrates the graves of America’s indigenous peoples. He steals their heritage for profit. He’s a prototypical European. Rapacious, genocidal. He’s … he’s …”

  “Not listening,” I said. “And neither is anyone else.”

  Sven started to rise from his chair.

  “Sit down,” said Fletcher.

  It was a dramatic moment, Sven slumped down in one of Reggie’s ice cream parlor chairs and the rest of us staring at him.

  And it was at that moment that I looked up to see Miss Gladys Claiborne staring at the tableau through the window. She held up a tray and waved.

  I walked to the door and pointed down to the “closed” sign, but she held the tray up again and it wobbled slightly. Fearing that she was about to drop the tray, I opened the door and said, “I’m sorry Miss Gla...”

  “Heavens to Betsy,” she said walking past me. “Let me put this thing on the counter.” And she did. Then she removed the cloth and revealed a circle of cut crystal bowls full of dip around a mound of crackers and chips in the middle.

  “I saw you were having people over, so I decided to bring some treats,” she said. “This one is spicy Cajun shrimp dip; my late husband just adored it. This one is artichoke and parmesan. This one is a true original made from onion soup mix, chow-chow and sour cream. It hasn’t got a name, but don’t let that stop you; it’s heavenly. And let’s see, what’s this last one? Oh yes, this is the pecan and peaches dip. Did you ever hear of anything like that? I swear it’s better
than it sounds.” Then she looked around the room. “Mr. Schuze, do you want to introduce me to your guests?”

  Before I could do that, Whit Fletcher said, “Ma’m, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You see, we’re in the middle of a police matter here, and...”

  “Oh, heavens, I can see that. Why just look at those three handsome young policemen. Now I know they could use some nourishment.”

  Whit looked at me and I just shrugged. Then he turned to Sven and said, “Sven Nordquist, you are under arrest for the murder of Hugo Berdal. You have the right to remain silent. You…”

  It was the first time I had ever seen Miss Gladys Claiborne at a loss for words. All she could manage was, “Oh, my.”

  62

  When Fletcher finished reading Sven his rights, everyone except Sven and the cop who had cuffed him began sampling the dips, and it looked for a minute or two as if the meeting might turn into a social event.

  But Layton Kent said, “What about the second murder, Detective Fletcher. Are you going to charge Mr. Nordquist with that as well?”

  Whit scooped a large dollop of spicy Cajun shrimp dip onto a cracker and said, “Everybody take your seats, and let’s finish hearin’ what our friend Hubert has to say.”

  People grabbed one more bite and returned to their seats.

  “Mr. Wilkes,” I said, “I mentioned earlier that you were commissioned to obtain, if possible, the pot from the Valle del Rio Museum. For the record, did you do anything illegal in pursuit of that commission?”

  “I did not.”

  “Who gave you that commission?”

  “Sven Nordquist.”

  At that point I remembered what I had heard at the other room in the Hyatt, the one occupied by Carl Wilkes. When I had asked Wilkes whether Martin told him I dug up pots, he had said, “No, someone else told me,” and now I realized that someone else was Sven Nordquist.

  “And what happened after you accepted his offer?” I asked.

  “The pot from the Museum became available. I reported this to Mr. Nordquist, but he told me his organization had suffered some financial reversals. I reported this back to the person who had the pot at the time. As everyone knows by now, the pot was returned to the Museum.”

  “You may be wondering,” I said, “why ARRIS would want both pots. My guess is that they thought that having the only two known intact Mogollon water jugs would be just the kind of stunt to put them on the map and bring in support and money. This stunt was their last-gasp effort at survival.”

  “There remains now only the matter of the murder of Agent Guvelly,” I said.

  “That should be easy,” said Reggie. “Nordquist must have murdered Guvelly. He must have been thinking that a dead Agent Guvelly can’t defend himself against the charge of murdering Berdal, so Nordquist is off the hook for the murder. And no one will suspect him of murdering Guvelly because the two of them have no connections.” He smiled that winning smile of his. “Can I take my chairs and go home now?”

  “That’s a good theory, Reggie, but it didn’t work that way. And you of all people know that, because you murdered Guvelly.”

  “Come on, Hubie; don’t even joke about something like that.”

  “I’m not joking, Reggie.”

  “That’s crazy, man. I mean, I’m only here because you wanted to borrow a few chairs. I have nothing to do with any of these people, and you accuse me of murder? Why would you do that?”

  “Because you did it. After Guvelly came to see me the first time and accused me of stealing the pot from Bandelier, he went around trying to get evidence from people here in Old Town who know me. I know this because Angie from Dos Hermanas told me about it, and so did Miss Claiborne. Guvelly must have talked to you too, Reggie, but unlike Angie and Gladys, you didn’t say anything to me. That’s because you saw it as an opportunity. You probably figured that Guvelly would get a warrant and search my shop for the stolen pot. In order to beat him to the punch, you came into my shop using the key I gave you and searched for the pot.”

  “You are out of your mind,” he said.

  “You brought a screwdriver and took the hinges off my storage cabinets. When you didn’t find the pot you were looking for, you put the hinges back on to cover your tracks. But you left your fingerprints on them.”

  He gave me a big, mean smile. “That’s impossible.”

  Four more words. That’s what I was hoping for. Just four more words. And when he said, “That’s impossible,” I thought for sure those four words were about to come out of his mouth: “I wiped them off.” But he didn’t fall for it. I’ve seen things like that work in movies, but maybe real life is different. But I still had a back-up plan.

  “It doesn’t matter. You are in here quite frequently, so having your prints in my shop would not be enough to convict you of anything.”

  “Damn right,” he said.

  “But why would you be in here at 6:57 in the morning?”

  No one spoke up so I answered my own question. “I had a laser beam across my front door that registered the time that anyone passed over the threshold. On the morning after Guvelly first came to see me, someone crossed that beam at 6:57 AM. My nephew, Tristan, installed the device and read the log. He informed me that someone had crossed my threshold at

  6:57 and that the next signal break was recorded at 9:22 that same morning. I originally thought that 9:22 break was you coming to see me, Reg. But then I remembered an airplane pilot friend of my parents mine saying the most important thing about being a pilot was that the number of landings and takeoffs should always be equal. In a shop, the number of comings and goings must also be equal. There was nothing between 6:57 and 9:22. So, whomever came in at 6:57 had to go out at 9:22. And that was you Reggie.”

  “I’m sorry for you, my friend,” said Reggie, “you seem somewhat confused.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. I paused for a few seconds to appear confused and then said, “Who do you think killed Guvelly?”

  The smile he gave me was poisonous. “Maybe you did. After all, the body was in your shop.”

  “Yes!” I thought to myself with jubilation. Sometimes these tricks do work. Sometimes the bad guys do hang themselves.

  “How do you know where the body was found?” asked Fletcher.

  Reggie’s eyes clouded as he thought about what he had said. “I read it in the paper,” he tried.

  “It wasn’t in the paper,” said Whit.

  We all sat there in silence while Reggie seemed to consider his options. Finally he turned to me. “You’re a sniveling little wimp, Schuze. While I was off defending this country, you were living the good life as a student. You’re a lazy, undisciplined weakling living off pots you dig up because you’re too lazy and untalented to produce anything of value yourself.”

  The cops had moved around him, but he continued his trade. “I tried to help you, man. But what do I get? Treachery. Well, listen up, wimp. You may have the upper hand now, but I’m coming after you, man, and I’ll grind you in the dirt like a worm.”

  I have to tell you, I was scared even though the uniformed policemen had cuffed him.

  “You may come after me,” I said, “but it won’t until you’ve done fifteen to life.”

  63

  “Wow, Uncle Hubert. You were like Sherlock Holmes tonight.”

  Tristan was eating some of the dip made from the onion soup mix and enjoying a beer from my fridge.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” I said, “lived in rented rooms and took drugs.”

  “Whatever,” said Tristan. “And on top of that, you’re a local hero. I can’t believe it. My uncle is in the newspaper as a murder suspect and a pot thief, and all my friends are calling me to say how cool it is that you’re my uncle.”

  I shrugged.

  “But you didn’t kill anyone, and you didn’t really steal anything, did you?”

  “Well,” I said, “I certainly didn’t murder anyone. As far as the theft issue, that sort of depends on you
r definition of…”

  “I knew it. And you recovered that pot that was stolen from the Museum, and they made a lot of money at the auction to help students.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted.

  “What’s that music?”

  “That’s Billie Holiday.”

  “I like it.”

  “You never told me about the girl you took to that alternative to music concert.”

  “‘Alternative music’ Uncle Hubert, not ‘alternative to music.’”

  “Right.”

  “Selena. I’m not seeing her anymore.”

  I dipped a chip into the pecan and peaches dip. She was right; it was better than it sounds. Then I decided I had to have a beer.

  Tristan said, “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

  “I didn’t want to pry.”

  “It’s not prying. I like having you to talk to about these things.”

  “This isn’t going to be a birds and bees discussion is it?’

  He laughed that deep laugh that seems to come up from his stomach and has a tremolo to it. “I hope not,” he said.

  “Whew,” I replied.

  “She just came on too strong. I was cool with her asking me to go to the concert. I don’t think guys always have to do the asking. But all night long she kept asking me questions about myself and she didn’t even pay much attention to the music. She’s really good looking, and I think she’s smart, but …” His voice trailed off.

  “Did you see her again after the concert?”

  “Yeah. I decided it was my turn, so I took her to a movie. Afterwards we went for coffee, and while I was trying to talk about the movie, she was talking about herself—what she likes and doesn’t like and all, and the same thing about me—what do I like, what do I not like. I guess that’s normal. When you date someone, you want to get to know each other.”