Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  Dale waited a few seconds before responding. “I told you. I thought it might be good for your career.”

  “Bullshit. If you were worried about my career, you wouldn’t have told the board I was a drunk.”

  They moved to the side of the door to let a group of women enter. A blonde with thick green eye shadow looked over, probably drawn to the raised voices. Dale lowered his. “It’s a big case, and I need someone who’s going to move carefully on it.”

  “You mean slow or not at all.”

  “I know you’re a good investigator. This case is delicate. A lot of important people involved. Edgerton’s wife is running for governor, so we don’t want to be used by the press to further some political agenda. Plus, BIA conducted the investigation twenty years ago. We don’t want egg on our faces now. We need to control what gets released to the public.”

  Joe laughed. “You want to bury the truth.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. I just don’t want to lose control in the press and make BIA look bad.” Dale pulled out a pack of Camels from his inside breast pocket and shook one out. He rarely smoked.

  “So you assigned it to me, hoping it wouldn’t go anywhere, right? No investigation. No bad news.”

  “I assigned it to you because you have the most experience on the squad, and you’re careful.” Dale patted his pockets. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

  Joe nodded toward the entrance of Mickey’s. “They think it’s bullshit.”

  “Why don’t you go home. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He returned the unlit cigarette to the pack and shoved it back inside his breast pocket. He hitched up his pants.

  “I’ll be out with the cadaver dogs tomorrow.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk Wednesday.”

  Joe pulled out his wallet. He handed Dale some bills for his tab.

  Dale shook his head. “I got it. And do me a favor. Don’t let Cordelli get under your skin.”

  “That’s too much to ask.”

  SEPTEMBER 28

  TUESDAY, 9:25 A.M.

  ALBUQUERQUE AIRPORT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Helena Newridge yanked her oversize suitcase off the luggage carousel, gave a loud tsk to the geeky-looking guy next to her who hadn’t offered to help or get out of her way, and headed to the Enterprise rental counter.

  She pulled out her phone and punched in the number she had called only ten minutes earlier, when her plane landed.

  “Hey, sweetie. This is Helena Newridge again. Did the chief get in yet?”

  He had. She was transferred.

  “Hello, Chief. I got your message.… Yes, thank you.”

  She listened as Chief Cornfield welcomed her to New Mexico.

  “If you give me directions, I’ll be fine. Unless you want to lend me one of your cute Navajo officers as a guide.”

  The chief gave her directions.

  SEPTEMBER 28

  TUESDAY, 9:42 A.M.

  JONES RANCH ROAD, CHI CHIL TAH (NAVAJO NATION), NEW MEXICO

  “Ya’at eeh, my friend,” Bluehorse said.

  Joe nodded. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “They started about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Why’s Andi here?” Joe had recognized her Suburban parked with two other vehicles in the field.

  “She’s anticipating bodies.”

  They walked into the woods, heading to where Edgerton’s vehicle had been found. Andi and Mark sat on folding chairs, drinking coffee and chatting. Starbucks in the woods. In the distance, two women worked, each with a dog. One of the dogs raced over to Joe to say hello. The second dog followed. They were both chocolate Labs. The cadaver dog team. Joe introduced himself to the handlers, and then the dog team returned to work. He didn’t direct the handlers. He trusted that Bluehorse and Andi had already worked all that out with them. But really, it didn’t matter. They had no leads that suggested any particular direction. It was a guessing game at this point. Educated guesses, but still guesses. In investigation parlance, this was called a “logical investigation.” Looking for bodies near a bloody vehicle was the logical next step. Nothing brilliant. Nothing flashy. Nothing that would sound good in a book someday. And like most successful investigations, it would be the fundamentals that solved the case, not psychics, high-tech gadgets, satellite imagery, or any other fancy techniques shown in the movies. Joe had never been afraid to try something new, but it had always been the basics that had led him to the clues that solved a case. He hoped the basics would hold true again.

  It was almost two hours later when the dogs hit on something. The elder of the two handlers called to Joe. She looked like a librarian in shorts, her platinum hair in a pseudobeehive and large red eyeglasses covering half her face.

  “Hemingway found something,” she said.

  They were maybe thirty yards north of where the vehicle had been recovered. A juniper lay flat on the ground, its once-dark green needles now brown and scarce. Hemingway, the bigger of the two Labs, began whining. The handler went to the dog and stroked his back, which seemed to soothe the animal. Joe had learned over the years that some cadaver dogs became depressed after finding a body. Either they were traumatized by death or they picked up on the emotions of their handlers. Whatever the reason, Joe had seen the change in some dogs.

  Joe surveyed the ground, not expecting it to reveal its decades-old secret, if it even held a secret. Withered grass, loose rocks, discarded piñon husks, orphaned weeds, and hard-packed clay refused to offer witness to what rested below. The oak nearby, strong and silent, said nothing. But it didn’t have to. Buried remains usually spoke for themselves.

  “It’s all yours,” Joe said.

  Andi and Mark got to work. They took several photographs, then excavated the ground using trowels. The area the dog had identified showed a slight depression, which was consistent with a body decomposing and the soil sinking to fill the void. Not always, but sometimes. It depended on the depth and the soil composition.

  The topsoil here was the color of sand. It became darker as Andi dug. One, two, three inches. She lifted a scoop of the deeper soil to her nose. It had a russet color. She sniffed.

  She held it out to Joe. The soil had a slightly rancid odor, which was stronger than decaying vegetation. He recognized the odor from other recoveries. Not nearly as strong, but still present.

  Mark was the first to hit bone. He had uncovered a two-square-foot area eighteen inches deep when he hit something hard. He brushed away soil to reveal fabric. Ten minutes later, he uncovered what appeared to be the upper thighbone of a person.

  Joe bent down and gave Hemingway a vigorous neck rub. The dog enjoyed the attention and tried to lick Joe’s face.

  “Why Hemingway?” Joe asked.

  “He’s my favorite author,” the handler said.

  “Are you an English teacher?”

  “No, a librarian, twenty-seven years. I still work part-time.” Amused, Joe continued to give Hemingway attention.

  Some handlers worked for police agencies, others for nonprofit groups. This group was out of Albuquerque and consisted of volunteers not directly associated with a specific law-enforcement agency. They survived through grants and occasional donations from the requesting department or the families of missing persons. He’d worked with this group before, but not these handlers. When he got back to the office tomorrow, he would put in a request for payment to the organization. Since they didn’t invoice their services, Joe would have to work out a dollar amount to cover their travel expenses and incidentals. A few hundred dollars, maybe five if Dale wasn’t penny-pinching this month.

  Bluehorse came over and patted the dog’s head. The officer wore a smile, which Joe knew didn’t derive from the dog or the body. It was from the satisfaction of finding a lead. The young officer’s instincts had initiated this investigation. Finding this body confirmed that Bluehorse’s gut had been right. He would make a fine criminal investigator someday. Maybe a fine agent.

  Andi took more photos,
then started sketching the scene.

  By noon, most of the body was excavated. Turned soil, stained from leeched human oils, encircled the small depression where the skeleton lay. The air was now heady with the smell of mild putrefaction, the miasma of death. Time had surely weakened its potency, but it was still present.

  From the bits of clothing around the bones, it looked to be the skeletal remains of a man. Light-colored dress shirt, dress pants, and dress shoes.

  Bluehorse stood several feet behind Joe, slipping his hands in and out of his pants pockets. Navajo do not like to look upon dead bodies. They believe evil spirits gravitate to onlookers.

  “I appreciate your hanging in here,” Joe said. “I know it goes against your traditions.”

  “You grow up hearing the stories and taboos and don’t really believe all of it, and yet…”

  Joe had heard much of the Navajo lore over the years, but he was always interested in learning more. “So, what are some of the taboos for a situation like this?”

  “We believe evil spirits are everywhere, just waiting to bewitch you. They linger mostly in the dark and around dead bodies. Touching a bone will draw them to you. Saying the name of a dead person draws them to you. And walking over a grave will draw them to you—though that can also give you a sore leg. Dead bodies are never good.”

  “How do you protect yourself?”

  Bluehorse grinned. He reached for his duty belt and removed a small leather satchel. He held it up. “A medicine bag. Corn pollen.” He pulled a silver chain through the collar of his shirt. “And Saint Michael.”

  Joe grinned and touched his own medal around his neck, which Christine had given him their first year together. She’d said she wanted to make sure someone was looking out for him. He was about to ask Bluehorse if he was Catholic, when Andi spoke.

  “Who the hell is she?” she asked.

  Joe turned.

  A short, heavyset woman strode toward them, snapping photos on her phone.

  Joe advanced on the woman.

  “Who are you, ma’am?” he said, putting himself between her and the remains. Bluehorse appeared next to Joe.

  The woman offered a great big smile. “Is this where you all found Congressman Edgerton’s vehicle?” She raised her hand to her mouth. “Oh my. Is that his body?”

  Joe wasn’t fooled.

  “Who are you, ma’am?”

  She held out a business card.

  The card read Helena Newridge, Journalist, Washington Post. It looked like it had been printed at home.

  Before he mentioned the cheap stock, she said, “I’m waiting for my new cards. Political desk reporter.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “Do you have any other ID?”

  She reached in a small purse that hung under her right arm and pulled out a driver’s license and handed it to him.

  It showed a D.C. address. He handed it back to her.

  “I need to ask you to delete those photos,” he said.

  “Now you know I can’t do that.” She actually batted her eyes at him.

  “Let’s walk back to the road, ma’am.”

  “While I’m here,” she said, trying to step around Joe, “I may as well—”

  Joe moved his body in front of hers. “I can’t let you do that, ma’am.”

  “Why? Is this a crime scene?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  She lost her smile. “Then there’s really no reason for me to walk back with you, is there?”

  They stared at each other.

  “Look, you can either cooperate and I can make sure you get all the information we give to the press, or you can be difficult and I make sure you’re cut out. I’m really not that hard to work with, ma’am.”

  “Oh, stop with the ‘ma’am’ crap. My name’s Helena.” She held out a hand.

  Joe shook it.

  “So is this the site or not?”

  Someone had already told her this was the place, or else she wouldn’t have come.

  “Let’s start walking and I’ll answer what I can.”

  Joe called to Andi. “I’m going to accompany this young lady back to her vehicle.”

  “Young lady?” Helena said. “Aren’t you the charmer.”

  “Where did you park?”

  “On the road.”

  Joe had Bluehorse lead them back through the woods to Jones Ranch Road.

  “So, who are you?” she asked.

  “Joe Evers, I’m with the BIA out of Albuquerque. If we talk, you can’t quote me or reference me as a source with the BIA. Deal?”

  “Deal. So is this where they found Edgerton’s vehicle?”

  “Yes. Will you delete those photos?”

  “No. Whose body is that?”

  “Can’t say. How did you find this place?”

  “Sorry, can’t say. Did those dogs find the body?”

  “Sorry, can’t say. Are you working a particular angle for a story?”

  “Good question,” she said. “Not yet. Are you working a particular angle on your investigation?”

  “Not yet. What do you plan to do with those photos?”

  “Stupid question, Joe. You know I don’t need your confirmation that you found a body to use them.”

  “I know. But like I said, if you want first crack at our information, then you need to play ball.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And what does that mean?”

  “I’d prefer not to have those pictures in the paper.”

  “Why?”

  “They make us look stupid. You got too close to the scene. And photos are dangerous for undercover work.”

  “Undercover? Ain’t that stretching it?”

  “You asked. And it’s a real concern.”

  “And what do I get if I hold back?”

  “There’s something you don’t know about what you saw back there. Knowing that something won’t make you look stupid. And I’ll answer some questions as a bonus.”

  “I need a photo.”

  “What if I show you where the vehicle was found. No one’s gotten that yet. We towed the vehicle, but you can get a location shot. There’s some junk debris on the ground and oil stains. With the right lighting, it can be made to look quite grisly.”

  She thought about it a moment. “You know the way to a woman’s heart, don’t you? But I still have to write about the body.”

  “Fine, but without a photo of my team.”

  “Okay. Now what don’t I know?”

  “This is the Navajo Nation. They don’t always bury their dead in cemeteries. That body may be totally unrelated to the Edgerton case. It might have been what we call a ‘ceremonial burial.’”

  “But you’re going to call me first when you identify the body, right?”

  Joe’s head nodded even though his mind recoiled at the thought of tipping off a major newspaper.

  SEPTEMBER 28

  TUESDAY, 5:59 P.M.

  MICKEY’S BAR & GRILL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Joe walked into Mickey’s, still wearing the same clothes from the body recovery. Not the best impression for a first date. Was this a date? He wasn’t sure. He considered the thought, then corrected himself. Of course, it was a date. His stomach churned. Nerves. Guilt. A little of both maybe.

  They had cleared the scene by four o’clock and sent the remains to the New Mexico Office of the Medical Investigator, referred to by law enforcement as OMI. The body had no identification, but despite what he’d told the reporter, it did not look in any way like a Navajo ceremonial burial. After a quick debrief with the team, Joe had raced back to Albuquerque, knowing he would be late. He’d called ahead to Mickey. Now, standing by the entryway, he wished he’d had time to go home and change. A little aftershave would have been nice, too.

  He made his way to the quiet rear of the dining area and saw Gillian sitting at a table, a candle at its center, casting soft shadows on the wall behind her. Had Mickey dimmed the lights more than usual? He was, undeniably, a virtuoso at creat
ing an uncomfortable situation.

  “Hi, Joe!” chimed two voices in unison.

  Sue and Linda sat at the bar, waving, Mickey behind them at the counter, also waving. All three were sporting big grins. Their watchful eyes transported Joe back to fourth grade, to a field trip to Rocket’s Roller Rink, with its giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling, and the overhead speakers delivering a mix of funk and love songs. But now a slow song was playing. And he was that ten-year-old awkward boy again, hoping that Kristin, the girl he’d had a crush on since second grade, would allow him to hold her hand for the four laps it would take while the Jackson 5 promised “I’ll be there.” The memory was so real, he expected to see Mrs. Rubino, his fourth-grade homeroom teacher—and tonight’s spiritual chaperone—sitting behind Gillian, telling him to sit up straight and stop daydreaming.

  Gillian turned upon hearing her friends’ greeting and now watched Joe approach. The look on her face made him think she might actually be glad to see him.

  “Sorry I’m late. It really was unavoidable.”

  “No problem. I had Mickey to keep me company, as well as Linda and Sue, who kept telling me that I was being stood up.” She said this with a gleam in her eye. Joe guessed she might have enjoyed the attention.

  She continued, “Oh, and Mickey is quite your wingman. He told me you were in Gallup busting a terrorist cell and had to brief the president. He called you a ‘man of duty.’ Nice title. Is that on your business card?”

  “No. But I did cut that briefing short. I told him I had a very important dinner engagement. The president tends to get a little testy, so he may try to call me back.” Joe made a show of pressing the power button on his phone. “There. No interruptions … unless, of course, you’d like to say hi to him. If so, I’ll call him back.” He held up the phone, waiting for her reply.

  She sat there a moment, a tiny smile frozen on her face. Had he gone too far with the joke? It’d been stupid, but he’d meant it to be playful. Now she’d be wondering if he was a moron.

  Then she laughed. “You had me for a second.” She held up her right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together. “Just an itsy-bitsy second. You said it so seriously.” She laughed again and raised her glass, holding it above the table. The red wine matched her ruby-colored dress. It covered her shoulders and contrasted nicely with her blond hair. He didn’t know if she had tried for sexy, but she’d pulled it off.