by R. S. Scott
“Keller.”
“Then how did he end up a half-mile away, hanging upside down from a cedar tree at the edge of a ravine? The man and his car, both upside down, in perfect alignment with a winter sunset. Those things ever occur to you?” I press harder.
“Keller, you’re talking way beyond your pay grade. You can stop there.”
“Pay grade?” I laugh. “I don’t even have a 401K.”
“I see a murder, Keller, and I intend to solve it,” Evan says.
“That’s one way, I guess,” I speculate.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He disappears from the room. I wave at the single-sided glass to my right. I smile. He returns moments later with a donut and coffee. “Eat up. You’re going to be here for a while.”
“This thing is dry. You have anything else that’s edible? I’m quite famished.”
He ignores me glancing through more paperwork. I sip my coffee and ignore my donut. We sit in silence.
“Keller, tell me about Jessica. What is your relationship with her?” Evan asks.
“She’s…was my girlfriend. Was,” I say.
“Was? She isn’t anymore?”
“It’s complicated.”
“We have all day, Keller. You’re Native, right? Native American?”
I glared at him. “No, I just spend too many days in the sun and dye my hair black,” I say sarcastically. “Yes, I am. Things not obvious enough for you being from the east coast?”
He smirks in my direction. “Jessica is white, of German descent, is that correct?”
“It is,” I say.
“How did that happen? You two, a Native American and a Caucasian?”
“I was going to school in Phoenix. I ran over her while sprinting to my class I’m always late for. That’s how we met.”
“You don’t have a preference for women from your tribe?”
“I don’t care,” I say.
“But you’re back here as a police officer getting yourself into all sorts of mischief. It would seem you care very much. School in the big city too much for you?”
“It’s not that, but more a matter of statistics actually,” I confirm.
“Indulge me, please. We have all day.”
“After graduating, I didn’t do much. No job, nothing. No one wanted to hire me. My uncle suggested I become a police officer. Like an idiot, I went to police academy at Tohei, and here I am. But back in Phoenix, I met a lot of people, here and there. I was never into the things that most natives are into. I don’t do rodeo, I hate country music, and I don’t drink cheap beer or any of that crap. I was more like a jazz club and microbrewery kind of guy. I drove an old Belvedere instead of a truck that stank of cow. I don’t do horses. I don’t do sheep. I hate sheep, actually. I don’t do country line dancing, I don’t do karaoke, and I don’t do the coin machines at the casinos. I am a very strange Indian.”
The FBI agent looked up from his paperwork, “So?”
“So, with the places I go to, the environment there and such, I don’t meet too many native girls there. Very few. Mostly white girls with their stick legs and skinny noses smelling like a flower garden. It was weird at first, but eventually, you just sort of begin to like it, I guess. She had friends that used to tease me, call me ‘Chief’ and paw at my arms. I’m sure they thought it was funny, but it was just weird to be in that situation. Generally, the popular media and pop culture suggests the white woman as the median for beauty and all things hoped for regarding a mate, no matter what race you are. Or, perhaps, there are just so many of them out there that statistics dictate you will end up with one as a certainty. I mean, how many Native women like jazz or have ever heard of Miles or Parker? How many know the difference between a pale ale and an IPA? None. And the ones that do know are married to white men. It seems we all get along, in a fictitious manner without truly being honest with ourselves about who or what we believe we are. Or, perhaps, that’s just how things are done now. It’s just how we get along coming from two cultures, not compromising our cultural beliefs, but just modifying them to fit into what we want to look like for the sake of our happiness. Then Christmas comes around, and you have a large native guy in a red suit with a white beard, ho-ho-ho-ing everywhere, scaring the little ones who have never been exposed to America’s popular culture of Christmas and Santa Claus,” I chuckle.
“It seems you have given this a lot of thought,” Evan speculates.
“They see this huge guy coming at them, dressed in this ridiculous red suit with a fake white beard and they run for their lives without the understanding of popular culture’s Santa Claus. They’re scared of this guy.”
“Keller, you might have over-indulged your imagination there.”
“The Rez is massive. It’s the size of West Virginia. One can think far too much out there when you’re alone with the mountains and the sage bushes.”
He rifles through his paperwork. “So, besides metallurgical studies in chemistry and physics, what else did you study?”
“Philosophy.”
He looks up, “Any particular discipline?”
“Not really. Socrates is a weird idiot. Plato might be a moron as well.”
He smiles, “Is that based on the teachings of your elders?”
“No, just common sense. If there’s a bear in the woods, leave it alone. If you frolic with the bear, that animal will hurt you. It doesn’t take medieval babbling to come to that conclusion,” I say.
“So, what are your relations with Karen Thomas, then? Sergeant Karen Thomas.”
“She’s my partner and she’s mean as a hurricane made flesh.” I pause, “I mean, I’m her partner, and she’s mean as a bear on fire, but still a big softie.”
“Keller, you don’t hide behind subtleties, do you?”
“Not really,” I finish my coffee. “Can I leave now? I’m here without a lawyer, and I’ve been honest with your inquiries.”
“Not yet,” the agent says.
“Really? You’re really going to do this to me?” I ask.
“We still have a murder here, Officer Keller. A dead former chief of police—your former chief. You’re the only suspect. Even without a confession.” We sit in silence and he starts boxing up his paperwork.
“Shit, so with the initial accident, Daren Monroe dies, is buried, then is alive again and now dead again and somehow it’s my fault?” I ask.
“We’re going to hold you here temporarily at Teesto jail, then transport you to Phoenix tomorrow,” Evan says.
“You can’t prove any of that. Besides your obvious bias against cultural taboo and using it as evidence against me, you have nothing, Mr. FBI, nothing.”
He glares at me. “There are many ways to tie a knot, Keller. It’ll be fine.”
“What about the body? His family is very much traditional. He’s going to need a proper burial.”
“His brother has released his body to us. I don’t think they want it back. Some traditional cultural taboo they don’t want to explain. We’re fine with that.”
“Fucking Daryl, you bastard,” I say aloud.
“You sound almost like Karen,” he smiles. “The raging teddy bear, or so you say” he motioned to the hall, “Holden?”
I stare at the suited agent in disbelief. “Who are you then?”
“The law, Officer Keller, the law.”
Holden comes in and walks me to the jail cell. He locks the jail door with a loud clang. “Sorry.”
“Thanks, Holden.”
We watch Agent Tolle walk out of the room.
I continue, “Why didn’t Daryl pick up the body? Or have the morgue pick it up?”
Holden looks down the hall then back. “He’s afraid, would be my guess. He should be properly afraid. That moron is messing with the wrong group of people.”
“What happens now? Where’s Karen? And how deep are the feds in this?” I ask.
“The feds got to Karen first, and they’re holding her in a hotel in Winslow.
That’s all I know,” Holden says.
“Are they really going to take me to Phoenix?” I ask.
“Yup, watch your mouth. Don’t get stupid now,” Holden says.
“What about Jess?”
“No word from her,” he says.
“Can you get a hold of her and make sure she’s OK?” I ask.
“Is she still pissed at you?”
“Yes, she didn’t take things well. Can you take care of my house as well, please? Just make sure nothing gets stolen. There’s a spare key in the shed under the last floorboard,” I tell him.
“Do you want me to bring you a picture of Jess, too?” he asks.
I glare at Holden and his sly smile, “No.”
He laughs, “I can look after your house then, but the feds are over there now actually going through your stuff. The judge signed the warrant this morning before anyone else knew about it. They raided Karen’s place, too.”
“So, they knew Daren’s body was in my truck and they let me bring it here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Holden says.
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
“This entire mess is going to hell by the minute. None of that makes sense.”
“What about Pastor?” I ask.
“They interviewed him earlier, then they let him go,” Holden says.
“They let him go?”
“Keep your voice down,” Holden glanced down the side hall.
“What are they doing then? Murder investigation my ass. They have nothing on me, yet they’re going to take me in?” I say.
“You remember that blond kid that got his car flipped?” Holden asks me.
“Yeah?”
“He was driving an older Ford Crown Victoria. The older ones don’t have onboard GPS units, but they do have dashboard cameras, and it was on. They recovered over a gigabyte of information.”
“Oh shit,” I say.
Jeremy walks in, “Keller, you’re clearly on the wrong side of these bars,” he taps them with his pen. “Holden, what’s up?”
“Jeremy, what’s up?” We share a nod.
“Did you tell him?” Jeremy asks Holden.
Holden shakes his head.
“Steve, the DNA is a match. Tracy Monroe carries your child. Congratulations, you will be a father.” Jeremy smiles and extends a handshake.
“Oh no,” I say, mortified.
“That’s not all.” Jeremy continues.
“Oh damn, what is it?” I ask.
“Karen also might be carrying your child. It’s too early to tell for certain, but we’ll see as the weeks pass. Congratulations again.” Jeremy offers a handshake.
I cover my face, “Shit. What am I going to do?”
“We rejoice,” Holden proclaims. “The birth of a child is worthy of celebration.”
“Holden quit talking in fucking cliché quotes, please! I’m in deep shit here!” I sit exasperated. “What the hell am I going to do? Tracy is carrying my child, and now Karen might be, too. That’s two kids just months apart! And Jess is long gone! My Jess is gone! Do you two have any idea how fucked up all this is?” I yell.
“Steve, you’re going to be a father. That is reason enough to be happy. Raise those kids right, teach them right from wrong, and they’ll never walk away from it like Pastor says,” Holden offers a smile.
“That’s two kids, Holden, two! Month’s apart in age, and the woman I wanted to have children with is long gone. Fucking gone. On top of that, I’m going to jail on manslaughter charges over an already dead guy. What am I going to do?”
“Still, I share in your gladness even if you’re too mentally constipated to realize that,” Holden says sternly.
“I’m sorry. Thanks, Holden,” We shake hands. “Sorry.”
“William, the fucked-up rainmaker, is coming. We’ll take him down.” Jeremy seems very confident.
“How?” I inquire.
Holden and Jeremy share a gaze. “Simon, he’s with us now. He’s a shaky alliance, but we’ll take it. Oh, and one more thing, we think this William guy is actually your cousin Anthony. We’re not certain yet, but it looks like it might be the same person.”
“Shit, so it is Tony,” I say, “Anthony William Keller,” I say.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.S. SCOTT hails from Canyon Diablo, Arizona, born to a Navajo Christian preacher. He is from the Kinłichíí’nii clan born for the Bit’ahnii clan. As the last unruly sibling of four brothers and three sisters, he grew up herding sheep while armed with a rifle and a horse named “Prince” for company. He currently resides in Phoenix, Arizona, where he continues his education and collects vinyl records of jazz and blues greats. As a self-professed geek, he expertly juggles work, music, fatherhood, and his love of writing.
Burning Sky is the first book in Officer Steve Keller’s trilogy. It was a finalist for the 2016 Arizona Literary Awards sponsored by the Arizona Authors Association. Moving Star, the second book in the trilogy, will be released in Spring of 2020.