As the Crow Flies

by Craig Johnson

  He gestured with the pistol. “Come on in here; you guys are going to help me carry him out.”

  I shrugged and shook my head at the youth, pretty sure that none of us were in imminent danger. I casually slipped my hat onto my head and made a show of stuffing my sidearm back into its holster. Quickly, I took a step forward, snatched the keys from Charles’s raised hand, slammed the door shut, and locked the cell. I tossed the key ring into the hallway where it struck with a jangle and slid to the far end of the tile floor.

  Nate looked at me and raised the pistol higher. “What’d you just do?”

  “I just locked you in the cell.” I sat on one of the chairs and looked at him as Artie continued to snore.

  He looked a little uncertain as to how to proceed from this point. “Fuck!” After a moment, his arm wavered and then redirected itself at Charles, who still stood against the bars with his arms raised. “I’ll shoot him!”

  “Go ahead, I don’t care for him that much anyway.” Charles turned his head and looked at me with his eyes a little rounded.

  Nate swung the revolver back at my face. “I’ll shoot you!”

  I casually palmed the Colt from the small of my back and rested it on my knee. “You do, and I’ll shoot you back.”

  He literally stamped a tennis shoe. “Fuck!”

  I readjusted my bed, yawned again, and made a big show of stretching. “Here’s the deal; you give me both guns, I unlock you, you go home, and we all get a good night’s sleep.” I holstered the Colt and stood. “How about it?”

  “Fuck!”

  “I need a different answer.”

  He glanced at his snoring uncle, at Charles, and then back to me. “How do I know I can trust you, man?”

  I distended my cheeks with a hearty exhale. “You’re kidding, right?” I stuck a hand through the bars and motioned for him to hand me the drawn gun.

  He didn’t move at first but then his grip relaxed on the revolver and it swung down, dangling from his index finger.

  I studied it in hopes that it wasn’t the same caliber as the one that had killed Clarence. It was, but I could tell it hadn’t been fired in a long time. I gestured toward the semiautomatic in the waistband of his jeans. “That one, too.”

  He handed them to me, and I stood there looking like I had just come from Bed, Bath and Pistols. “I’m going to go get the keys, and then I’ll unlock you and you can get out of here—I’d be quick about it, because I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Charles here is going to want to beat the hell out of you.” I glanced at the big patrolman. “I got that right, Chuck?”

  He nodded and grunted.

  I retrieved the keys, came back, and unlocked the door, handed the ring and sidearm back to Charles as a more contrite Nate stood by the bars. When the young man attempted to follow the patrolman, I placed a hand on his chest.

  “Hey, you said that…”

  “After I ask you a few questions.”

  The sullenness returned in a flash. “And what if I don’t want to answer?”

  I gestured toward the big tribal policeman, who was holstering his weapon. “Then I stuff Charles back in here, lock the door again, and go take a walk for about five minutes.” I glanced at the patrolman’s pock-marked face. “That about how long it’ll take, Chuckles?”

  “Two.” The large man had become remarkably more conversational.

  I held up the revolver. “Where’d you get the gun?”

  He grimaced. “Artie’s locker at Gramma’s house.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know where Artie’s been since night before last?”

  He nodded. “Eating the elk at the house.”

  I stuffed the revolver into my own jeans. “He came back after we left?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was there the whole time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you there the whole time?”

  “No, I got work up at KRZZ.”

  I thought about it. “How did you get here?”

  He shot a look at his sleeping uncle. “Artie’s truck.”

  “The one you tried to run me over with?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Nate, did you know that you say um every time you lie?”

  “Um…”

  I shook my head and thought about the sleep I was losing. “You’re not the one who tried to run me over. I think that you’re trying to cover for your uncle, but in all honesty I don’t think he was behind the wheel either.” I felt a sudden surge of exhaustion and leaned my head against the bars and closed my eyes. “I’m thinking that whoever stole Artie’s truck at the bar was the one who tried to run me over, and that someone might have a connection to Audrey’s and Clarence’s deaths.”

  His attention, at least, was peaked. “You think?”

  “I think.” I opened my eyes and studied him. “Who else was at the Jimtown Bar that night?”

  He made a face. “Everybody.” He gestured. “He was there.”

  I glanced at the patrolman. “Charles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who was there, Charles?”

  He snorted. “Everybody.”

  I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “You know, I’m going to lock the both of you back in here in a minute.”

  Nate was the first to break. “Me and a buddy of mine—we were just sitting on the tailgate of the truck, but then a friend of ours came by and said he’d buy us a beer.”

  “Who?”

  “Kelly Joe Burns.”

  That loser again. “Who else?”

  “Herbert His Good Horse came in and grabbed a six-pack to go. We tried to cadge a few off of him, but he wouldn’t give us any.” He thought. “Louise Griffin was there with Inez Two Two.”

  I frowned. “She’s underage.”

  “So?” He paused and then continued. “Besides, her mother—you know, Loraine, the one who works over at Human Services, came and dragged her out. Boy, was Inez pissed.”

  I gestured toward the snoring man. “Was your uncle there?”

  “No.”

  “Anybody borrow your keys?”

  He smirked. “It’s a Rez-Ride, man. You don’t need keys; it’s got two little wires that stick out from under the dash, but you gotta turn on the headlights first.”

  “How many people would know that?”

  “On the Rez? Everybody; half the cars around here don’t have keys and the other half don’t have forward gears.” He smiled. “I had a Chevy Corsica that I drove in reverse for seven months. You had to hook up the wires on it, too.”

  “Speaking of hooking up, I’ve got another question—does Artie have a girlfriend?”

  “What?”

  I sighed and tapped my shirt pocket where I’d stored the CD. “There is a recording of your uncle talking to Clarence Last Bull on the phone, and there’s a woman in the background with him. If I can find out who that woman is, maybe she can go to bat for your uncle.”

  The young man stared at me, and for the first time he relaxed. “You really don’t think Artie did it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He thought. “He was hittin’ on some chick up on the Rocky Boy Reservation, but I think she got engaged or something.”

  “What about the dental hygienist from Billings?”

  “Old news.”

  I stepped back and allowed him egress from the cell. “Oh well, it was a thought.”

  He stood there, looking at me. “How about I listen to the CD?”

  “I don’t have a player.”

  “We can go up to KRZZ or I’ve got one in Artie’s truck.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You don’t have a starter switch, but you’ve got a CD player?”

  “I work at a radio station.” He transitioned into his on-air voice. “Pumping the wattage into your li’l red cottage.” He smiled, started for the hallway, and tried to get past Charles, who stepped in front of him.

  The big man placed himself between Nate and the wide wo
rld. He leaned in. “You ever pull a gun on me again, you better use it.”

  “Okay.” The kid’s response was too quick for Charles’s taste.

  Charles had him up in the air and against the wall faster than I could’ve possibly reacted. He grabbed fistfuls of the young man’s shirt and then slammed him against the concrete block.

  It took both hands, but I wrenched one thumb away, reverse-wrist-locked the large man all the way down the hallway, and shoved him against the far door with a heavy thump. I held him there until he stopped struggling. “Knock it off.”

  He didn’t respond verbally—no surprise there—and tried to throw his body against me.

  I applied so much pressure that I was afraid I was going to dislocate his thumb. I repeated the words again and felt his body relax just a bit. I let him go and stepped back.

  He turned quickly and squared off with me, his face red from the exertion. “Keep your hands off me.”

  I raised mine, just to indicate that I was done for now. “How about we all just keep our hands to ourselves?”

  Charles raised a finger and pointed at Nate. “Get him out of my jail.”

  Nate and I were sitting in Artie’s truck in the Tribal Police parking lot under the yellowish glow of the arc lights as the young man pulled on the light switch and then held the two wires together, causing the small-block to cough, sputter, and then rumble into a lopsided idle. “You gotta have the engine running to get the player to work.”

  I handed him the CD—he took it and slipped it into the slot in the dash. We listened to the whole recording three times. “I’m sorry, but it’s not broken into tracks, so we have to listen to it all.”

  “That’s all right.”

  He leaned in at the portion of the recording where the woman was speaking in the background and focused on what seemed to be the one discernable word. He swallowed and then hit the EJECT button and handed me the CD.

  “Do you recognize the woman’s voice?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I, but I probably wouldn’t.” I tipped my hat back and looked into the night, the streetlights of Lame Deer trailing away from 212 into the heart of darkness. “Well, it was worth a try.”

  “The word she says…”

  “Yep. I still can’t quite make it out; something about ‘dome’ or ‘dose’?”

  “Dole, she’s saying dole. It’s a word my grandmother uses.”

  I waited a moment. “You think that’s your grandmother?”

  “No, but that’s the word the woman is using—dole.”

  My limitations loomed audible. “What about the music in the background?”

  “The jukebox up at Jimtown is always playing.” He shrugged and slipped the truck into reverse. “I can take us to a place where we can hear everything that’s on there.”

  I grabbed the open passenger door and held it. “I can’t go anywhere.”

  He looked incredulous. “What, you’re still under arrest?”

  I looked past him and into the lighted windows of the Tribal Police Headquarters. “Do I have to remind you who Charles’s half-brother is?”

  He cleared his throat and rubbed his neck where the patrolman’s grip still showed red. “Oh, man.” He dipped his head and looked up the hill to the blinking light at the top of the radio tower. “KRZZ’s got production studios that can do anything; slow the track down, pump up different levels.” He looked at the wristwatch on the carabiner attached to his belt loop. “I gotta be up there in two hours anyway—why don’t you meet me there?”

  “I thought Herbert His Good Horse did morning drive.”

  “He does, but he also gets hung over and I get stuck pulling doubles.” He shrugged. “That was mean. He takes care of his nephew, the one that’s got no legs.”

  “I saw a poster of him winning some marathon in Japan.”

  “He’s unreal.”

  I nodded. “If you’re going to be up there all morning, I’ll head to the radio station once Chief Long comes in and replaces Charles.”

  “Cool, man.”

  “Well, I’d better get back inside before Charles tries to drown your uncle in the toilet.” I closed the door.

  Nate tossed a worried look to the jail as I walked around the truck. “Hey, Nate?” I pulled the small revolver from my belt and tossed it into his lap through the open window. “No more of this Indian outlaw stuff, okay?”

  He looked genuinely embarrassed. “Okay.”

  Inside, I found Charles reading the newspaper with his feet up on the counter, the black and white monitors showing the holding cell, the duty room, and the parking lot where Nate was turning around and pulling away.

  I yawned and placed my elbows on the high counter. “I’m thinking you need to put a few hours into some sensitivity training seminars.”

  He was reading the Billings Gazette but looked up at me; predictably, he said nothing.

  “Just for the record, I don’t think Artie’s the one who killed your brother, which means that the person that did do it is still out there and needs to be brought to justice. Have you got any ideas of who might’ve held a grudge against Clarence and his family?”

  He folded the paper, placed it in his lap, and looked at me. “Everybody has enemies.”

  “Including you?”

  He cocked his head. “Including me; it goes with the job.”

  “Anybody dislike you enough to go after your half-brother?”

  He shrugged.

  “How about Audrey and Adrian?” I stifled the yawn in my throat. “That’s a lot of dislike.”

  He unfolded his paper and rustled it to straighten the pages.

  “You know, generally you don’t have to look very far for people who do things like this; it’s usually friends, so-called, or family.”

  He continued to study his paper.

  “It seems to me that somebody is looking to wipe out your entire family, Charles. And you don’t seem to care.”

  The tribal policeman’s voice rumbled over the Billings Gazette. “I care enough that if you leave here for another five minutes, I’ll go into that holding cell and do society a favor.”

  I waited a moment and then continued on like a wrecking ball. “You a killer, Charles?”

  After a moment he released one side of the paper, lowered his hand to hit the button under the counter so that the door behind me buzzed in a persistent manner. He sat there with that expressionless look on his face and watched me.

  I straightened up, took the two steps to the door, and yanked the thing open, his stare following me into the hallway. “Good to know, since we’re looking for one.”

  13

  I was having this dream where the talking animals were at it again—even Dog was having a go at me. It was only when he asked me the second time if I wanted coffee that I started thinking that things seemed suspicious.

  Flapping my eyelids open and shut cleared a little of the bleariness and allowed me to focus. Lolo Long had pulled up another folding chair from the Law Enforcement Center’s endless supply and was holding two cups from the White Buffalo convenience store, a manila folder under her arm again. “I understand we had an attempted jail break last night?”

  I peeled the blanket back a little more. “As jail breaks go, it wasn’t much.” I sat up and looked out the small rectangular window at the sky, already worn to a lighter shade of blue. “It’s midmorning?”

  “Say… you are a detective.”

  I slumped back onto my blanket-pillow. “Shoot me?”

  “There is a member of my dwindled staff who would be happy to comply with that request, but in consolation, I bring you coffee and photographs.”

  I struggled up and thought my back was going to fragment like not-so-fine china. Groaning, I reached out and took the Styrofoam cup she proffered. Written on the side in a ridiculously perky font were the words FRESH BREWED. I undid the top and looked at the complex, frothy content with what looked like mouse droppings decorating the top. “What
is this?”

  She leaned forward, taking a look in mine, and then undid her own and traded cups with me. “Sorry. Mocha Chip Frappuccino.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She sipped what she called coffee and raised one of those samurai-sword eyebrows. “I take my comforts where I can.” She handed me the envelope. “Here are the photos from Henry’s camera that you guys took. There’s not much there, but one thing jumped out at me.”

  I pulled out the prints and looked at them one at a time, finally looking up at her. “She wasn’t facing forward when she went over.”

  “No.” She sighed. “And as far as I know, nobody does a suicide holding their child and attempting a back flip.” She waited a few moments. “There’s nothing else that I can tell.”

  “Me either.” I placed the photos back in the envelope, careful to close the metal tabs.

  Long glanced at the still-snoring man in the holding cell. “You caught Artie.”

  “Henry caught Artie.” I sipped my regular black coffee and watched as she made the same face she always did whenever I mentioned the Cheyenne Nation. “How come the cavalry hasn’t shown up?”

  “The Feds?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t think they know—no access to the moccasin telegraph.”

  I thought about it. “Let’s keep it that way for a while, shall we?”

  After I’d given her the rundown on last night’s events, she stood and walked over to the bars. “Strange behavior for a guilty man.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. I mean if he was guilty, why would he care what I thought?” I stretched the remnants of my back. “We played the recording for him.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That he didn’t do it.”

  She turned to look at me. “What do you think?”

  “That he didn’t do it.”

  She nodded her head in a defeated fashion. “Well, our only other suspect is dead.”

  “Inconvenient, isn’t it?” I strained a little more coffee through my teeth. “Have you listened to the recording?”

  “Your buddy, Cliff Cly, played it for me yesterday, but the sound isn’t so good.”

  “You didn’t happen to hear a woman in the background, did you?”