Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  On the screen was the image of a black-and-white over-the-head mask, leather, hand-sewn stitching, padded eye holes, ragged edges. A fringe of dangling thin leather strips circled the head like a lion’s mane.

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  “One of the most powerful objects in Navajo ceremonial magic.”

  “Oh,” Joe said, losing interest. He offered the phone back.

  “It’s a Yei mask. They’re used in Yeibichai ceremonies. Very sacred.”

  “I’m not following you. Why should this interest me?”

  “NAGPRA protects them. After the act was passed, universities, museums, and even private collectors had to return articles like this to the tribes.”

  Stretch and Sadi might be interested, but Joe wasn’t. “Come on. I owe you lunch.”

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 1:18 P.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Othmann and Books stood in front of two large computer monitors mounted on the wall, below which sat a bank of digital recorders. They were downstairs in the environmentally controlled room beneath the study. The screen on the left showed the study. The screen on the right was segmented into sixteen squares, showing views of all the hidden cameras on the property. One of the views was of the driveway in front of the house. Agent Evers and the professor stood by their cars, talking. They were too far to be picked up by the camera’s mike. Othmann rewound the dedicated DVR that monitored the study. He stopped it at the point just before Professor Trudle asked about the Yei mask.

  “There!” Othmann paused the video. “He took a photo of it.”

  The frozen image showed Othmann and Joe engaged in conversation in the foreground. In the background, the professor held his phone in front of the glass cabinet.

  Othmann pointed to Joe’s figure. “He brought the professor here to get something on me.”

  “Can that photo cause you trouble?” Books asked.

  Othmann didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’d better find out.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Of course I’m going to find out.”

  Books grunted. Othmann didn’t know what that meant, either.

  “Did you hear what that asshole said to me? ‘How did you know he was a professor? How did you know my name?’ Everything I said, he challenged. Did you hear him?”

  “I wasn’t in the room.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s a fucking asshole.” Othmann flicked the screen with his finger. “The BIA’s getting rid of him. He’s a total wreck. A drunk. They don’t trust him.”

  “I think you should be careful around him,” Books said.

  “Fuck him.”

  Books showed no emotion. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s been around. He may be off his game now, but don’t discount experience.”

  “What am I, an idiot? It’s covered. I’ll know what the son of a bitch is doing before he does.”

  Othmann rewound the video to the beginning of the interview. As he watched, he chewed the inside of his lip. Thinking. Hating.

  Three rewinds later, he tasted blood.

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 2:23 P.M.

  DOWNTOWN SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Over lunch at a small Mexican restaurant in downtown Santa Fe, the professor shared his theories. He believed that prior to and during the rise of the Aztec Empire, when war waged among many of the tiny city-states in MesoAmerica, a few of the tribes migrated north, settling in Chaco Canyon. They organized the local nomadic and pueblo peoples in the area and established a highly sophisticated community. They introduced new ceremonies and the science of astronomy to the region, which explained the commonalities between the civilizations. While many archaeologists had speculated about trade between the groups, there had never been any physical evidence of a migration. That was until Professor Trudle found the pots. According to him, the large pots stolen from his dig site were proof. They were decorated with MesoAmerican imagery, but that wasn’t nearly as important as what was found inside: organic residue. He’d taken several scrapings and later had them tested. Human remains. The pots were used to boil people, a common Aztec practice of sacrifice.

  Toward the end of lunch, Trudle changed the subject and asked Joe about the court case Othmann had mentioned. Joe swallowed his pride and told the story. Felix Longman had been stabbed to death by his neighbor in his own house. Joe had been on duty and caught the case. He’d been hungover. The neighbor was arrested and the evidence collected. Joe cleared the scene and headed home in record time. Felix’s mother called him an hour later and told him he’d left an evidence bag behind. It was the knife. He’d gone back quickly and recovered it. Later, when defense counsel had learned of Joe’s sloppiness, they had rushed the case to trial. Joe took the stand in the afternoon and the defense attorney hammered him for hours on every detail of the case, especially on his handling of the evidence. By the end of the day, the defense was still not finished their cross-examination. The judge ordered Joe back the following morning to finish. That night, Joe drank himself into a stupor. The next morning, he didn’t make it into court. When he did, it was too late. The damage had been done. The jury decided Joe was unreliable, so Felix Longman never got justice.

  While Joe was baring his soul about Felix Longman, Chris Staples called. He said he wanted to talk. Joe told him he would stop by the campaign office after lunch.

  Now, he was heading over to Grace Edgerton’s headquarters. Back in Albuquerque, Stretch would be waiting for an update. This little detour would give Joe time to get his thoughts in order. Othmann had given him little. The Yei mask was interesting, but he wasn’t sure how that helped him. Perhaps Stretch could run with it. No doubt Sadi would want to deliver her own gentle rebuke, perhaps battery acid in his face. Maybe he deserved it. He didn’t have many leads left. He checked his notes. He still needed to interview Senator Holmes and the AIM character, Dwight Henry, aka Hawk Rushingwater. What he really needed was to talk to the agent who had worked the investigation back in ’88: Malcolm Tsosie. Only he could tell Joe how these folks had reacted when they were first interviewed as part of the initial investigation. A person’s first reaction was one of the best indicators of involvement or guilt. Maybe Dale could help him find Malcolm.

  He texted Stretch a message to meet him at Mickey’s at five.

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 2:23 P.M.

  EDGERTON FOR GOVERNOR HEADQUARTERS, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  Joe sat in Chris Staples’s office, listening to the fat man’s problems.

  Staples held up a stack of computer printouts. “Her polls are tanking. People think she was involved.”

  “I can’t help her polls.”

  “I’m not asking you to.” He dropped the stack on his desk. A wave of cheap aftershave washed over Joe. It was tinged with the odor of sweaty desperation.

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Helena Newridge is looking into those threats from that AIM guy.”

  “It isn’t AIM. The guy started his own group. He called it Navajo NOW. It’s a splinter group.”

  “Who cares? The threat was real. If the public learns about those threats, they would have something else to hang their suspicions on. A lone terrorist. A fringe group. Take your pick.”

  “That’s stretching it. His letters were ominous, but no direct threats. They warned about unrest on the reservation.”

  “And a year later, during the Peter MacDonald riots, two people were killed. It was civil war on the rez.”

  Staples was right: There had been a riot and people had been killed, but in no way had it been related to Edgerton.

  “I asked Ms. Newridge to hold off for a few days while I checked into it,” Joe said. “If you release that information to another paper now, you’re interfering with my investigation.”

  “And if you don’t release it, you’re interfering with my campaign.”

  OCTOBER 4

  MONDAY, 4
:54 P.M.

  MICKEY’S BAR & GRILL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  “Gillian been around?” Joe asked when Mickey appeared at the tap to fill mugs.

  “Haven’t seen her.”

  Joe wanted to be happy for her, happy she was getting back with her husband, happy her family was healing, happy to be happy for her. But a little part of him—maybe a not so little part—wanted to hear they’d been unable to work it out, and that she was unencumbered again and willing to reexplore the whole friend thing.

  “Hey, Joe,” Tenny said as he sat on the stool to Joe’s right, the only empty seat at the counter. Cordelli stood behind him.

  “Peace?” Cordelli held out his hand.

  Joe shook it, not too disappointed to see them.

  He waved to get Mickey’s attention.

  “You guys eating, drinking, or both?” Mickey said.

  “I’m in the mood for a hot dog,” Cordelli said.

  “You’d pass up my Combo for a wiener?”

  “I saw the Isotopes practicing at the field. It brought me back to when I was a kid and my pops took me to see the Reading Phillies, a double-A farm team out of Pennsylvania. We got a Coke and a hot dog on some sort of weird split white-bread bun. Man, it was the best thing ever.”

  “You oughta try a Chicago dog,” Tenny said. He made a smacking sound with his lips. “Relish, pickles, tomatoes, peppers, onions, mustard, and a kitchen sink thrown in for good measure.”

  “I can’t believe you guys,” Mickey said. “I give you the best roast beef sandwich this side of the Mississippi, probably the other side, too, and you want a bologna tube. You believe them, Joe?”

  “I’m with the guys on this. A hot dog has a special place in a man’s heart. I took Christine and Melissa to New York when Melissa was about eight. We ice-skated at Rockefeller Center and then had a dirty-water dog from a street vendor. Just mustard and sauerkraut. Best ever.”

  Mickey waved them away. “You guys have no taste. How about it, Sadi? You got a special place in your heart for a hot dog?”

  Joe turned. Sadi and Stretch stood behind him.

  “Not for this hot dog,” Sadi said, her eyes focused on Joe, her face deadpan.

  Cordelli and Tenny both chortled like little kids about to see a school-yard brawl.

  Sadi started in. “What the hell are you doing screwing around in our case?”

  “Let’s not do this here,” Joe said.

  Stretch put a hand on Sadi’s shoulder. She shrugged it off. “You’re an asshole, Joe. Cordelli was right. You ain’t part of the team.”

  “Don’t drag me into this,” Cordelli said, hands up, grinning.

  Joe was getting tired of people attacking him.

  Sadi looked down at Joe’s hands. “You wanna hit me, Joe? You wanna go after me like you went after Cordelli?”

  Joe unclenched his fists and spun back to the counter, surprised by his own reaction. The bar was watching their exchange. Watching him. He reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills, threw them down. “See you later, Mickey.” He stood and shouldered his way past Sadi.

  “You’re an asshole, Joe,” she said to his back, her voice loud. It carried over the music coming through the speakers. People in the dining area turned to look.

  Joe faced her. He wanted to tell her to shut her trap and get out of his face. He wanted to call her a bitch and tell her that’s why no one liked her. He wanted to tell her to get laid. But instead, he restrained himself and offered a reluctant “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Sadi said. “Why be sorry? You’re going to solve the big case. Be the big hero, right?” Her voice turned cold. “The sad thing is, you’ll screw it up because you can’t help yourself. You’re a walking mess, Joe. Do yourself a favor and leave the investigating to people who still care about the cases and who don’t bury themselves in a bottle.”

  Stretch moved closer to Sadi. Joe expected him to say something, anything. It wasn’t only her case; it was his, too. But his friend stood silent, not meeting Joe’s gaze.

  Joe turned.

  At the entrance stood Linda and Sue. Next to them was Gillian.

  All three had watched the show.

  He gave an embarrassed smile and got the hell out of there.

  OCTOBER 5

  TUESDAY, 10:45 A.M.

  BUREAU OF INDIAN AFFAIRS, OFFICE OF INVESTIGATIONS, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  The next morning was akin to a midlife circumcision, except the pain was in Joe’s other brain. It took him an hour and four aspirin before he could crawl out from his cubicle to give Stretch an update on the Othmann interview and attempt to repair the damage to his manhood. Sadi joined them. Surprisingly, she was in a good mood.

  “You look like shit,” she said.

  “Good,” Joe said. “That’s better than I feel.”

  She crossed her arms. “Well?”

  “I didn’t get much,” Joe said.

  “You always seem to know the right words to make a girl feel good, don’t you?”

  “No, that’s not—”

  She held up a hand. “Save it. All I want to know is if you tipped him off to our investigation.”

  He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he gave an account of the interview. Sadi and Stretch listened, dropping comments here and there when they didn’t like what they heard.

  “I think he knew I was coming,” Joe said.

  “How?” Stretch asked. “From the newspapers?”

  “I don’t know. But he knew me. He said he remembered my name from when I was in the paper last year.”

  Sadi laughed. “Your reputation precedes you. You’d better hope the people you’re sending résumés to don’t read the papers.”

  “Was there a lot of coverage last year?” Joe asked. “I only remember the one article. And it was buried.”

  “I don’t know.” Sadi said. “I wasn’t following the Joe Saga last year.”

  “I didn’t follow the papers much, just the talk on the squad,” Stretch said. “Dale tracked it, though. I recall he mentioned a couple articles.” He paused a moment and then said, “Maybe someone you interviewed tipped him off.”

  “My thought was William Tom,” Joe said. “But to bring up a newspaper article from last year?”

  “You’re a dinosaur, Joe,” Sadi said. “The Internet? You know, that magical box on your desk.” She shook her head. “You’re immortal and don’t even know it.”

  Of course. Othmann had found the articles on the Net. Joe had never searched himself, but they had to be out there. That was probably why he hadn’t received many replies from the companies where he had sent his résumé. They did their due diligence.

  “So what you’re telling us,” she continued “is that Othmann is on his guard.”

  “I may have something for you.” He told them about the Yei mask. “The professor’s e-mailing me the photo.”

  Sadi actually seemed somewhat mollified.

  “I don’t see how we can use it,” Stretch said.

  “You might be able to get a search warrant.”

  “Maybe,” Sadi said, her mollification exhausted. “A single Yei mask isn’t much.”

  “I need to talk to the boss. I’ll send you the photo when I get it.”

  He walked over to Dale’s door and knocked. An unintelligible grunt invited him in.

  Dale looked annoyed. “What?”

  Joe gave him a summary of the Othmann interview.

  “So it’s another dead end.”

  “I need to talk to Malcolm Tsosie,” Joe said. “He was a buddy of yours, wasn’t he? Where can I find him?”

  “Why do you need to talk to him?”

  “You’re not seriously asking me that, are you?”

  Dale didn’t respond right away. “Tell me why.”

  Joe couldn’t believe his ears. “Why do you think? He was the primary on Edgerton.”

  Another pause. “Are you doing an end run to interview Senator Holmes?”

  “What are you talki
ng about? I need—” Then Joe got it. “Wait … Malcolm works for Senator Holmes?”

  Dale didn’t answer.

  “You shittin’ me?”

  Dale just looked at him.

  “You’re not shittin’ me.”

  Dale wasn’t.

  “You didn’t think that was important to tell me?” Joe didn’t know how to feel. What was it? Betrayal. No, not betrayal. What, then? He didn’t know. There was no word for this. No way to describe how he felt. But that wasn’t true. There was a word. He felt screwed. He sat back and smiled. The revelation wasn’t as big as the fact that Dale had held back that little tidbit.

  “You were going off in all different directions. I didn’t want you pissing off a senator unless you had something solid.”

  “You mean pissing off a senator on the Indian Affairs Committee?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you letting politics dictate our investigations now?”

  “Grow up. Get me something solid. Otherwise, you don’t go near the senator.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “That’s how it is.”

  Joe walked out. The stench was too much.

  OCTOBER 6

  WEDNESDAY, 8:58 A.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  “David!” blared from the intercom speakers mounted throughout the house. It was particularly loud in the kitchen, where Books sat at the breakfast bar, eating his second bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal and reading a Forbes article about the ten best places to retire outside the United States. Tendons in his neck tightened.

  The Cap’n seemed to laugh at him.

  He’d been with Mr. O. seven years. He wasn’t sure if there would be an eighth. Before coming to work for him, he’d spent six years in lockup. When he got out, he had asked the parole board to allow him to go to Albuquerque to try to make a fresh start. He’d been at a halfway house for only a day when Ernie, the house daddy, told him about a gig in Santa Fe.

  “There’s a rich dude up there. He takes on a few of my guys from time to time, doing security and stuff around his gallery. Pays good, but he don’t take no thieves, only honest felons.”

  Books almost laughed. Honest felons? Was this guy for real?