Blood Quantum

by Jeff Mariotte

  "She's right, in a way. Not that it's easy, or should be. But it's as natural a part of life as anything else."

  "So they tell me." Keith studied Ray for a long moment. "You didn't just come here to visit."

  Ray met his gaze with a sheepish grin. "You're right. I do have an ulterior motive."

  "What is it? Anything you need, man…"

  "It's actually work-related, Keith. I don't know if you've heard yet, but the chairman of the Grey Rock Paiute tribe, Robert Domingo, was -"

  "Yes," Keith interrupted. "I heard. It's a terrible thing. Are you working on that case? What can I do?"

  "We've kept it out of the news so far, but there was a word painted on the wall near his body," Ray said. "Painted in blood, actually. 'Quantum.' Does that mean anything to you, in this context?"

  Keith didn't even have to think about it. "Blood quantum? That's the formula that tribes use to determine their membership rolls."

  Ray wished he had known that from the beginning. "Fascinating. Can you tell me how that works?"

  "Well, every tribe can set its own standard. For the Grey Rock Paiutes, as of last fall, anyway, it's been fairly restrictive. Someone has to be able to show that they're at least half Grey Rock to be officially enrolled."

  "That seems fair."

  "It's a very controversial subject," Keith said. "Say someone marries outside the tribe, like Ysabel did, but for purposes of this discussion, let's say she married an Apache or a Cherokee and has kids. If Ysabel was three-quarters Grey Rock, then her kids are already out of the tribe. They might live on the reservation their whole lives, they're still native, but they're not half Grey Rock. Depending on what the other tribe's blood quantum is, they might not be Mescalero or Chiricahua or whatever, either. Then what are they? We're talking about peoples' identities, determined by the decision of a tribal membership board that might have financial motivations behind its standard."

  "Financial motivations?"

  Keith had clearly given the topic some thought. "Some of the poorest communities in the country are Indian reservations, Ray. But there are a few that are doing well – better than well, even. A successful casino or some energy leases can put a lot of money into a tribe's pockets. Some tribes are happy to share the wealth, but others get greedy, start cutting people out of the tribe so that the wealth doesn't have to be spread around so much."

  "Is that what Grey Rock did?"

  "The membership committee doesn't have to give a reason for its determination, but when they changed the standard last year, a lot of people thought that was why. The casino and spa have been making good money. With the recession, though, tourism is down, so the money they're used to pocketing has dropped some. People think they changed the blood-quantum standard as a response to the recession, so that those who make the most out of the tribal businesses can continue their standard of living, at the expense of those who are cut out."

  "I can see why people would be upset about that."

  "Also, some of the profits have been plowed back into the business. There's a new, higher-end casino hotel opening soon, and that's expected to be very profitable once the economy starts to come back. Most casino expansions in the city are on hold, but the tribe is cash-rich, and the project is self-financing. Whenever people start coming back to Vegas to gamble – which everybody in the city believes will happen – the Grey Rock rez will have the newest place in town. And with hotel rooms at cut rates, compared with the privately held places in the city. Which will mean yet more money divided up into fewer pieces. I don't even know that it's the money as much as the personal identity, though," Keith continued. "How finely do you want to chop yourself? Are you five-eighths Indian? Thirteen-sixteenths? Where does it end? As generations go by and there's more and more intermarrying, fewer and fewer people are left who can meet the most exacting standards. When the Grey Rock decision was made, a lot of people were ticked off. Some of them made a lot of noise, but the committee's decision is final."

  "Was Domingo on the committee?"

  "The way I hear it, Domingo owned the committee."

  "So painting that word on the wall, in blood… the implication is that the murder was about the blood-quantum controversy. Maybe one of those angry people decided to strike back."

  "That's quite possible, Ray. When you tell someone who always thought he belonged to a particular tribe that he doesn't, that tears right to the heart. Honestly, I'm a little surprised there wasn't some violence earlier on."

  "You said there were complaints. Is there anyone in particular who you think might be especially angry over this? Anyone mad enough to kill?"

  Keith gave a wry chuckle. "That's above my pay grade, man. I know there are some activist types who held some demonstrations, put up posters. Firebrands, you know, the kind who run every social movement. The main one, I guess, kind of a ringleader, is a filmmaker named Meoqui Torres. He's called for Chairman Domingo's resignation, demanded the blood-quantum requirements be restored to what they were before. He rubs some people the wrong way, but he has his followers, too."

  "Do you think he's capable of murder?"

  "I couldn't tell you that. Honestly, I barely know the guy, Ray. I'm just saying he has the loudest voice out there."

  "Okay. Thanks, Keith, I appreciate it." Ray rose, extending a hand to his old friend. "If I can do anything for you – or for Ysabel – you'll let me know, right?"

  Keith took Ray's hand and drew him into another hug, more awkward this time because of the living-room furniture around them. "Definitely," he said. "Listen, that reservation, with the blood-quantum debate going on and everything? It's a powder keg. Something like Domingo's murder could be the match. If you have to go out there, you watch your back, okay? Just be careful."

  "I will," Ray promised.

  "Good. And drop by again soon. Ysabel loves having visitors, and I know you made her day."

  *

  On his way back to the lab, Ray called Nick Stokes, who was already on the Grey Rock reservation, and told him what Keith had said. "A powder keg?" Nick asked. "Only powder I've seen is the powdered sugar on the fry bread. But I got mine with beans and salsa, so I'm cool."

  "His concern sounded genuine, Nick."

  "Okay, Ray. Thanks for the heads-up. Brass and I are here with the tribal police, and everything's copacetic so far. All we've learned is that Karina Ochoa definitely broke Domingo's window but probably not his head."

  "Ask your tribal police escort for the two-dollar lesson on blood quantum, Nick. And maybe check on this Torres fellow. Meoqui Torres – I don't have a spelling on that first name."

  "I'll check on it as soon as possible. Thanks again, Ray. I'll talk to you soon."

  "Don't mention it," Ray said. But as he ended the call, he hoped Nick was taking him seriously.

  Because when Keith Hyatt had talked about it, he had sounded as serious as the grave.

  11

  Catherine was on the phone when Wendy Simms tapped on her office door. Catherine now spent her life on the phone, it seemed, or dealing with paperwork or attending meetings. That she still had time actually to go out into the field seemed to be the result of a flaw in the time-space continuum – surely there weren't really that many hours in any given day.

  But the phone call was about her water bill, a matter she would have handled at home if she had expected to make it back there today, so she cut it short. The DNA tech had a sheet of paper in her hands and an expectant look on her face, and her slender body bobbed from side to side impatiently, making her ponytail wag. "Sorry, Wendy," Catherine said as she lowered the phone. "What's up?'

  "Good news. I think," Wendy said. "Well, news anyway."

  "What is it?"

  "Those sheets you brought in? I've got a preliminary result."

  "Let's have it," Catherine said. She was thrilled to have something back so soon. She didn't know if Daria Cameron's disappearance was at all connected to the man killed on her mother's estate, but she didn't like coinc
idences. If a link between the two events existed, she intended to find it.

  "I've only tested the seminal fluid so far," Wendy said. "Assuming – and before you say anything about assuming, I know, it's just a prioritizing tool – that the vaginal fluid belonged to Daria Cameron and she wasn't letting someone else use her place as a… play pad."

  "That's probably a safe assumption. Temporary assumption," Catherine added. "Which will be checked out shortly."

  "Absolutely. Anyway, the other fluid came from one Dustin Gottlieb."

  "The Camerons' estate manager?"

  "I guess so, if he lives on the estate. He has the same address as Helena Cameron, anyway."

  Catherine raked her memory, turning up what she had heard about Gottlieb at the scene. "He was fired recently, a couple of months ago. I'm not sure on what grounds. Then a few weeks ago, he was re-hired, put back in his old position. Apparently, some of the other people on the staff were unhappy about that. As, presumably, would be whoever had the job in his absence.'

  Wendy nodded along. "And screwing the boss's daughter…"

  "He wouldn't be the first guy to advance his career that way."

  "Probably not the first guy to end his that way, either," Wendy pointed out.

  "True. Whatever happened, there seems to have been a reconciliation between him and Helena Cameron. When I was there, he seemed genuinely concerned for her well-being."

  "Wouldn't you be, if she was your meal ticket?"

  "Well, of course. But it can go beyond that, too. Maybe he really does care for Daria and her mother."

  "In different ways, let's hope."

  "Oh," Catherine said, making an involuntary grimace. "Yes, let's hope that. Very strongly."

  *

  Greg was on his way to his office when he saw Wendy coming out of Catherine's with a sheet of paper in her hands. "Wendy," he said. "Just who I was looking for."

  "You were? I can usually be found in the DNA lab. Which is, you know, next to your office."

  Greg tugged his collar away from his neck. He felt as if he needed a shower after spending time in that filthy tent. More than a shower, a whole series of them, increasingly hotter and more sterile, until his entire outer layer of skin was burned off. "Okay, I just got back. But I was going to go looking for you in a minute."

  She walked with him toward the DNA lab and his shared office. "What for?"

  "I have something that needs analysis, stat."

  "Is it evidence?'

  "I think so."

  "Log it in with the evidence clerk, and he'll bring it to me."

  Greg stopped in his tracks, stared at her, then realized she was joking. The evidence clerk was in his office so seldom that Greg had a hard time remembering what he looked like. Maybe they didn't have one at all. Maybe he'd been fired as a cost-cutting measure. That's an excellent idea, Greg thought. That one's going in the suggestion box. Even if it's already happened. "That's very funny," he said. "Do you want it now, or should I bring it to the lab?"

  "What is it?"

  "Fingernails."

  "Without fingers attached?"

  "Just the nails."

  "Eew. Bring them to the lab."

  "They're strange."

  "Besides being disembodied, how strange can fingernails be?"

  "These are strange," Greg said again. The paper scraps in the tent belonging to the man called Crackers had been almost geologically layered, like the Grand Canyon. But he had found the finger nails and some long, fine, straight hairs right on top, along with shorter brown hairs that he thought be longed to Crackers himself. He didn't know if they meant anything other than that someone had visited Crackers sometime in the relatively recent past. But at this point, he would take any clue he could find that might point to someone who could identify the dead man. "They're actually pieces of nails. They're very brittle. And they have these weird yellowish-white longitudinal lines running through them."

  "Yellowish-white lines?' Catherine asked from behind them.

  Grog's heart jumped into his throat, pounding feverishly. "Yes! I didn't know you were there."

  "Sorry, Greg," Catherine said, "I didn't mean to startle you. Wendy, you were going to give me the data on Gottlieb." She gestured toward the paper Wendy still clutched. "But then you left with it."

  "Oh, right." Wendy handed it over. "Sorry."

  "No problem," Catherine said. "Lines in the nails. I have a feeling your nail donor isn't well."

  "That would be my guess," Greg said. "I was going to do some research, see if I could find something that would cause that."

  "You do that. I'm going to do some checking of my own. I have a little bit of a hunch…"

  "What is it?"

  "You'll know when it's more than a hunch," she said, walking away.

  They both watched her go, then Wendy turned back to Greg. "Okay, you're bringing me diseased nails. I can't wait. Anything else?"

  "Some long red hairs. Also very brittle."

  Wendy eyed him for a moment, letting her gaze drift to his feet and back up to his head again. "What?" he asked.

  "You have a certain… aroma about you today. Or should I say reek? You bring a girl diseased nails and brittle hair. And you're still single? Imagine that."

  *

  David Hodges watched Wendy and Greg out of the corner of his eye. It didn't look as if Greg was really getting anywhere with her, and it wasn't as if Hodges would have been jealous if he had.

  Well, maybe a little. He and Wendy had so much in common. They were both smart – okay, brilliant, at least in his case. They both loved the old sci-fi TV series Astro Quest. He was sure she thought he was cute, and he agreed with that assessment.

  But he had blown his one real chance with her, and he wasn't likely to get another one. Not really his fault, of course, that was just the way things shook out sometimes.

  Still, he couldn't help watching her and wondering what they might have been like as a couple. Perhaps in some alternative dimension, an alternative Hodges was raising adorable little geniuses.

  But this dimension's Hodges had more immediate concerns. He had to analyze the trace evidence from Robert Domingo's murder scene. Ray Langston hadn't been able to bring him much, but Hodges didn't know if that was because there wasn't much to be found or because he possibly had left some behind.

  He had some hairs, which weren't whole enough still to have their follicles attached. The follicle cells were the parts of hairs that stored nuclear DNA and would have been most helpful to discover. A couple of the hairs had gone to Wendy just the same, because mitochondrial DNA could sometimes be extracted from hair shafts. Mitochondrial DNA was passed by maternal lineage, and it mutated very slowly, so it could identify not only a person's mother but also grandmother, great-grandmother, and so on, going back potentially for generations. It wasn't as commonly used in criminal cases as nuclear DNA, but that didn't mean it should be ignored. Finding it would be Wendy's problem.

  The rest of the hairs were his problem. He would have to study the color and width, the distribution pattern of the pigment. He would run them through an infrared microspectrometer to determine if the color was real or fake. Through neutron activation analysis, he could determine the chemical content. There was plenty to be learned from hairs, even without DNA, it just took some doing. He might be able to determine the gender, race, and even age of the person the hair had belonged to, maybe even a place of origin if there was something unique in the chemical composition that pointed to a specific place. If it was dyed, he might be able to pinpoint when that had happened and what substance had been used.

  And then there were the plant fiber samples. He would have to finish analyzing them to determine what type of plant they had come from and maybe to find the plant DNA that could differentiate the original plant from every other example of its type. If it was a local plant, he might be able to isolate where in the city it was found.

  His shift had ended. He could go home, and no one could say a
word about it. Day shift had come on, and everybody had to share space. Hodges hated sharing space with the day shift. They crowded him.

  But Greg was still there, and Wendy and Mandy.

  And Catherine. Nick and Captain Brass were out in the field, as was Ray Langston.

  No, he was trapped, like a rat in a faulty maze. He was there for the duration, like it or not.

  12

  "There are a few huge nations," Aguirre was saying, "like the Navajo and the Cherokee, for example, where it's not that hard to find fullbloods anymore. Smaller tribes like ours, though, we're full of what they call thinbloods. Intertribal marriage was commonplace even back before the Europeans came here, so it's not like it's a new thing."

  They were back in his official Jeep, cutting across the reservation, Aguirre driving fast over roads in serious disrepair. Every now and then, they passed a house or a trailer, some with wash hanging out on lines, kids in the yard, maybe a couple of goats or some chickens in a pen. Nick had filled in Aguirre and Brass on what Ray had told him about blood quantum, and Aguirre took over from there.

  "Story is, blood quantum was invented by the white government as a way to winnow down tribal membership. Drive us into extinction bureaucratically, since they couldn't do it with bullets. I don't know if I believe that, but a lot of people do."

  "That sounds a little far-fetched," Brass observed. "I thought the conspiracy theory was more modern than that."

  "You want to talk far-fetched, how about those treaties you guys had us agree to?" Aguirre countered. "Look, I'm not some radical, I just try to understand the different points of view. I have to, to keep tabs on what's going on around here. People who grew up poor on the rez want some mechanism to keep newcomers from claiming tribal identity – pushing them to the back of the line when it comes to health insurance, housing, other tribal benefits. But if circumstances you couldn't control, you know, who your grandmother married, mean you suddenly don't belong to the people you thought you did, that's no good, either."