Dark Reservations

by John Fortunato

  OCTOBER 13

  WEDNESDAY 12:38 P.M.

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

  “How are you feeling?” Tenny asked.

  “Been better.” The drive to the office from the museum had been painful. “Are you the only one here?”

  “Cordelli and Ginny went to lunch. I’m heading out, too. Sadi and Stretch are in Dale’s office.”

  Joe did an about-face. Something was up. Dale wasn’t into powwows around his desk.

  At the door, he knocked once, then entered.

  Dale looked up from a folder he held in his hand. “Come in, Joe. How’re you feeling?”

  Stretch stood up, offered Joe his chair. “What the hell’re you doing in the office? You’re supposed to be resting.”

  Joe waved off the seat. “I needed to get out of the apartment. So what’s going on?”

  “We were talking about Othmann.” Dale said.

  “What about him?”

  “We think he was behind the shooting.” Sadi said. No attitude.

  “Okay.” Joe decided to take Stretch’s seat. “Explain.”

  “Cordelli ran your incoming numbers and ID’d the caller,” Stretch said. “A cell phone belonging to Eddie Begay. The call to your phone was made in Santa Fe. Cordelli requested a cell-tower trace, and Othmann’s estate was in the call zone.”

  “Why would Eddie try to take us out?” Joe said. “How is he connected to the Edgerton case?”

  “We don’t know,” Sadi said. “Maybe he thought you were working his CSA case or investigating the stolen petroglyph.”

  That was a lot of maybes. Joe was having difficulty keeping it straight. “I thought you said Eddie was a drunken loser. The guy who shot at me was cool, levelheaded. It wasn’t his first time. And where did he get the high-powered rifle and the dirt bike?”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like our Eddie,” Sadi said. “But we put a lookout for him in NCIC and notified the FBI and Navajo PD. When he turns up, we’ll get him. His phone’s been inactive since he called you.”

  “What if Othmann financed the op?” Joe said. “He brings in someone or uses that Books character to pull it off. Maybe uses Eddie’s phone to set it up, and set up Eddie. That I’ll buy. Eddie as a patsy. Let’s get a search warrant for Othmann’s house.”

  “With what?” Stretch said. “We have nothing. A theory. No proof. We can’t place Eddie’s phone. All we have is a phone call made in the vicinity of Othmann’s house.”

  Joe knew Stretch was right. “So what’s the plan?”

  “We were about to go out there and talk to him,” Sadi said.

  “All you’re going to do is tip him off. Isn’t that exactly why you didn’t want me to talk to him? You were afraid he would get wind of your damn cave-drawing investigation.”

  “Petroglyph,” she said. No fire. No anger.

  “Well, now it’s my turn to say it.” Joe looked directly at Sadi. “Bullshit! He’s not going to give you consent to search his house. He’s not stupid enough to leave the evidence right out in the open, so you can—” He stopped himself, his mind quickly working through a scenario to see if it made sense.

  “What?” Dale said. “You’re thinking of something. What is it?”

  “We get a search warrant,” Joe said.

  Dale sighed. “We can’t.”

  “We can. We can get a search warrant for the Yei mask.” Joe explained his meeting with Othmann and what Trudle had noticed. “He told us it was authentic. It’s in my report. We put that in the affidavit and add Eddie Begay’s statement that he sold him the cave drawing, or whatever it is, and we have more than enough probable cause.”

  “Why add the petroglyph?” Stretch said. “We have enough with the mask.”

  “We know where the mask is. Once we get it, we have to stop the search. My guess is that the petroglyph is hidden or sold. Either way, we get to tear his place apart.”

  “Let’s get the warrant,” Dale said. “We’ll hit his place tomorrow.”

  “No, Friday,” Joe said. “Tomorrow’s the funeral.”

  OCTOBER 14

  THURSDAY 9:47 A.M.

  ROLLIE’S FUNERAL HOME, GALLUP, NEW MEXICO

  Cars spilled over from the parking lot and lined Mesquite Drive, starting from Nizhoni Boulevard and extending almost two blocks. A Gallup PD officer directed traffic while two funeral home employees handled parking. Attendance was in the hundreds. More would show up, no doubt. Family, friends, and officers formed groups outside, waiting to go inside to say their good-byes.

  Reporters and photographers flitted about. Someone, probably Chief Cornfield, had leaked that Joe and Bluehorse had been following up on a lead in the Edgerton case when Bluehorse was shot. The papers did not have all the facts of the shooting, but that didn’t limit the number of articles. Some of them gave a short accounting of Joe’s career, not failing to mention the Felix Longman trial. But this time it was not a D-2 story. Now it had front-page prominence because of the Edgerton connection.

  Every night since Bluehorse’s death, after sunset, family and friends had gathered at the family home to share meals and take part in ceremonies. Joe had not been invited. But now he walked with Melissa through the parking lot to pay his respects to Bluehorse’s loved ones, and to privately ask forgiveness from his young partner. He spotted his squad, Andi McBride with them. She wore a black pantsuit. It had been a while since he’d seen her in anything other than 511’s and FBI polos.

  “Hey, hero,” she said, her voice somber. She gave him a hug.

  They all wore their shields on metal chains, a thin black cloth band around each to honor the fallen officer.

  He introduced Andi to Melissa. Then small talk began: the weather, the drive, other officers and agents who had fallen over the years, where they would eat after.

  A funeral home employee told a large group next to them that they could go in. Several FBI agents were in that group. Joe spotted Mark. They nodded to each other. Joe’s squad would probably be part of the next group called. His stomach recoiled at the thought of meeting the family.

  “Let’s talk,” Andi said. The anguish on her face told him she didn’t want to say her final farewell yet, either.

  They walked away from the group.

  “McKinley Country Search and Rescue agreed to help out. I also have three dogs coming in. We’re set for Saturday. If there are more bodies out there, we’ll find them.”

  He nodded. “I have another favor to ask.”

  “Anything.”

  “I got a lead on a forty-five.” He told her about Edgerton’s engraved Colt 1911. “I’m guessing his wife should still have it. Can you get it from her and send it in for comparison?”

  She pointed. “Why don’t we both ask her?”

  Grace Edgerton stepped from a black Lincoln Town Car parked on Nizhoni. A reporter and photographer darted over as she and Chris Staples walked into the funeral home. The press hounds were stopped at the door.

  Joe and Andi rejoined their group. A few minutes later, a funeral home employee told them they could pay their respects. Joe took Melissa’s hand.

  Inside, they were directed to the main viewing room. It seated maybe 150 people. All the seats were taken. Grace Edgerton stood by the casket, praying, Staples behind her. After a few moments, she turned and walked over to a group of people Joe assumed to be the family. Maybe a dozen in all. Some old, some young, some very old, and a baby. Jesus, a baby. Don’t let it be Bluehorse’s. Joe didn’t want to be responsible for leaving a child fatherless. Please.

  “Are you okay, Dad?” Melissa asked.

  He relaxed his grip on her hand. “Yeah. Fine.”

  No, he definitely wasn’t. He was about to say good-bye to a partner. When he’d come in, he’d made sure to look at everything but the coffin. Even now, he avoided it. He couldn’t catch his breath. This was a bad idea.

  She looked for an empty pew. “Let’s sit down.”

&nb
sp; Stretch found a folding chair and brought it over. Joe sat. His squad gathered around him. People stared, whispered.

  “I’m fine,” he said in between deep breaths. “Go. Go and pay your respects. I need a moment. I’ll be fine.” The others went up. Melissa and Stretch stayed with him.

  Faces stared at him—some sad, some disinterested, a few angry. The family stared, too. Chief Cornfield was with them.

  “How are you, Agent Evers?” a woman said.

  It broke his trance.

  Grace Edgerton looked down at him.

  He told her he was fine. Fine was the flavor of the day.

  Melissa introduced herself.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Edgerton said. “You and Officer Bluehorse were shot because of my husband’s case. I’m humbled. I want you to know I’m sorry it happened. I’m so very sorry Officer Bluehorse lost his life. And I’m sorry you were shot. I never imagined anything like this would happen. And I don’t understand how it happened. When you are feeling better, I would like to talk.”

  He didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded. Then he looked at Andi. He wasn’t up to talking about the handgun. Andi understood. She gestured with her hand that she would handle it.

  Grace Edgerton said good-bye. Chris Staples looked as though he wanted to say something, but he must have sensed it was the wrong time. He left without speaking.

  Joe sat there another minute. When he stood, his legs wanted to betray him, but he willed them to keep him upright. He took Melissa’s hand and walked to the front of the viewing room, she on one side, Stretch on the other.

  Bluehorse was flanked by two Navajo policemen in honor-guard uniforms, one at the head of the coffin and the other at the foot.

  The coffin was closed, which was not uncommon among the more traditional Navajo families. The dead were dead. From what Joe had learned over the years, working with Navajo and other Native American officers, death was not something to be feared and should not be mourned, though who could not mourn the passing of a loved one? As was Navajo tradition, Bluehorse’s family would have selected several men to prepare his body, and then others to dig a grave and carry his coffin. The Navajo have many traditions to protect the living from the dead. But it had been Joe’s job to protect his partner from the living. He wished he had been smart enough and brave enough on that road in Jones Ranch to protect his friend. Instead, he had been too proud and too stupid and had led this young man to his death.

  Joe wiped at his eyes.

  Off to the side of the coffin, a small table displayed several large framed photographs of Bluehorse. One drew Joe’s attention: Bluehorse in his Navajo policeman’s uniform. A new uniform. Neat, pressed, sharp creases. Just like at their first meeting. Bluehorse standing by his cruiser, gleaming in the New Mexican sun. A spit-shined rookie. Joe smiled. His chest hitched. He knelt by the coffin and prayed. Knelt because he didn’t trust his cowardly legs.

  Our father, who art in heaven … The words came easily enough, even though he hadn’t said the prayer since Christine’s death. When he finished, he whispered, “I’m sure we’ll meet again, buddy.” Then he forced a smile. A smile only Bluehorse could see, for it was meant only for him.

  After a bit, he stood and made his way over to the family. In his pocket was his Saint Michael’s medal, Christine’s gift. He’d brought it to ask the family if they would place it in the coffin with Bluehorse.

  A funeral employee, possibly the director, made introductions. “This is the mother and father of Officer Bluehorse.” His voice was soft, as though he wanted to be sure not to wake the dead.

  His mother looked sad, his father impassive.

  “I’m so … I’m so sorry. He was my friend. And a fine … a fine officer.”

  The mother began to cry. The father said nothing, did nothing.

  “Were you drunk?” a man asked. He stood amongst the family members. In his twenties, dressed in a shirt, tie, black jeans, he resembled Bluehorse. “Were you drunk?” he repeated.

  The mother said something sharp in Navajo to the man.

  “No. I need to know,” the man said. “Were you drunk when my brother was killed? The papers say you’re a drunk cop who should have been thrown out years ago. So I’m asking. Were you drunk?”

  “My father—” Melissa began.

  Joe squeezed her hand. “No, I wasn’t drunk.”

  Stretch put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Cornfield stepped up to Joe. “Yes, I think you’d better leave.” His face set. “And the truth will come out eventually.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joe asked, confused but not angry.

  “Your antics. They caused the deaths of two people. Officer Bluehorse and William Tom.”

  Joe looked around. A dozen sets of eyes stared back at him. Pushed at him. Wished him gone. Cornfield had fed these people his own hate. Joe felt that hate now. Not from all of them, but from enough to know he should leave. He understood their need to blame someone, anyone. Losing a loved one, especially one so young, made no sense. To blame someone was to bring order to chaos. Bringing anger into focus blurred the grief. Joe had been there. He understood.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said, looking only at the parents. He let Stretch and Melissa lead him away.

  They were almost to the door, almost out of the funeral home, away from the family and their rightful anger, when a voice called after him.

  “T’ah.” A soft voice. “T’ah.” An old voice. Strong, yet frail.

  He stopped.

  An old woman hobbled toward him. He expected a stern look, an angry word, perhaps. He’d readied himself. Part of him wanted to be blamed. To be labeled. To be punished for not preventing what had happened. This was good. The old woman would give him what he needed most: penance.

  He braced himself. She would slap him. He was sure.

  As she drew close, the old woman gave a gentle smile, causing the lines on her cheeks to curve and deepen.

  He felt the sting of that smile. Worse than a slap.

  She held something wrapped in a small Pendleton blanket. Her English was not good. “My grandson want this for you.”

  She unwrapped the blanket. Cradled at its center was a carved wooden kachina: a ceremonial dancer with a feathered head, winged arms like an eagle, a multicolored body. It held a tiny chanting rattle in one hand.

  She held it out to him. “He say he see in you a heavy weight. This help you.”

  “I don’t think I can take it.”

  “You take.” She pushed it at him. “You must take.”

  He lifted the carving from the blanket. It was heavy. Oak. Bluehorse had told him his grandfather carved special kachinas from oak because it was strong and could bear great burdens.

  He reached in his pocket and removed the Saint Michael’s medal. Then he handed it to the old woman. She let him place it on her open palm. “It was an honor to know your grandson and to work with him,” Joe said, the words difficult to get out. “And I wish I could have worked with him longer.” His chest tightened. “On … on the day he was killed, he was working with me, helping me. He didn’t want me to go alone to a meeting with someone I didn’t know. He was trying to keep me safe.” He took a deep breath. “I should have been more aware. I should have known it was a setup. But I didn’t, and it cost your grandson his life.” His eyes welled. “And I can’t change that. I can’t bring him back. And I’m sorry.” A tear spilled. He felt it roll down his cheek. “I am so, so sorry.”

  The old woman began to cry.

  He lowered his head, too ashamed to witness her grief.

  OCTOBER 14

  THURSDAY, 5:10 P.M.

  JOE EVERS’S APARTMENT, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

  Melissa stood at the end of the couch, arms folded. “Look at you. You’re in pain. You need to rest. Whatever is happening tomorrow, they can do it without you.”

  They hadn’t gone to the cemetery. He hadn’t wanted to upset the family further, s
o they’d come back home and he’d fallen asleep on the couch. Now his body was stiff. He’d asked for his pain medication and mentioned he was going into work the next day, just for a few hours.

  “You look so much like your mother,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

  Her arms dropped to her sides. “I know you miss Mom, but burying yourself in work isn’t the answer.”

  “I’ve barely put in a full day since that damn trial last year. Too much work is not my problem. Finding out who shot Bluehorse—that’s my problem. And that’s what I’m doing tomorrow.”

  She started to cry. “You were shot, Dad. I’m worried about you. I’m worried because you’re all alone, and I’m worried because you might get hurt again, or worse.”

  “Honey, I know you’re worried, but I promise nothing is going to happen to me tomorrow. The whole squad will be there.”

  Melissa sat down. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “Everything is going to be fine,” he said. “And as for being alone, your old man still has a little game.”

  She pulled away. “I forgot. When do I meet her?”

  “Actually, she dumped me. She got back together with her ex. I think he was a rock star or an astronaut or something.”

  “Her loss.”

  OCTOBER 15

  FRIDAY, 8:57 A.M.

  OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

  “Got it,” Andi said.

  “Which one?” Joe asked.

  They walked through the house, looking for Dale.

  “The Ram. Left rear tire. It has a unique striation in the tread. A perfect match to the impression. Did you get the mask?”

  “He says he threw it out. Says after Trudle called attention to it, he looked at it again and realized it was a fake.”

  “Does that make any sense?” Andi asked.