The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  Charlie Moon made a solemn request to God. Wherever Benita Sweetwater was, he prayed that Goodness and Mercy were there with her. Forever.

  * * *

  The crowd of mourners had departed in melancholy little clusters of two and three, wiping self-consciously at moist eyes, muttering about the uncertainty of life in this hard world.

  Finally, except for the trio of burly men who stood afar with muddy shovels, only the small man dressed in black remained in the cemetery. Father Raes stood by the open grave, his unblinking eyes fixed on the casket. The priest could still hear something very peculiar… a whisper… a familiar cadence… repeated over and over. No, he told himself, it is nothing more than the choppy breeze in the branches of the ash tree over the grave. Or the sound of the waters of the Pifios slipping over the rocks. The wind, playing sweet games with my imagination, the shimmering waters of the river, calling to me.

  As he entertained this rational explanation, the whispered song trailed off and was silenced. Even though the wind did not cease to rattle the thin branches of the ash, nor did the crystalline waters cease in their long journey toward the great ocean in the West. Father Raes closed the covers of the Book, crossed himself quickly, and turned to walk away from the casket.

  The trio of men in overalls now approached the grave with ready shovels.

  Father Raes opened the door of his old sedan and turned to look back toward the cemetery. Surely it was only the light breeze in the leaves or the rollicking sounds of the Pifios washing over the rocks… enlarged by his imagination. And called upon by the priest's soul, that in his youth had felt the very breath of God. Now, as he passed his middle years, the little priest yearned for even the slightest whisper from the Source of that infinite mystery. But whether it was real or only the peculiar harmony of the winds and waters, the priest missed the sound of the old man's voice.

  A voice that chanted the words of King David's sweet song in the guttural chords of the Ute tongue.

  17

  Charlie Moon was consoling Gorman Sweetwater, who appeared to be on the verge of collapse. The Ute muttered in Parris's ear: "Gorman's got no business driving himself home; he'll likely wrap that old pickup around a telephone pole. I'll haul him over to his place… Would you take Aunt Daisy home for me?"

  "My pleasure," Parris said.

  Daisy took Parris's arm as they watched Moon lead an unsteady Gorman to the Blazer. This caused a ripple of nervous whispers among the Utes, who wondered whether the cantankerous old rancher might be under arrest again.

  "Gorman," Daisy said matter-of-factly, "should give up strong drink." When Parris didn't respond, she elbowed his ribs. "You remember what I told you?"

  "About what?"

  "What the pitukupf showed me."

  He opened the Volvo door for her. "The shadow that turns into a bird?"

  "Yes." She settled into the seat and buckled the shoulder strap. "And kills somebody, then changes itself into a shadow again. That shadow," Daisy said, "cast its darkness over this cemetery today."

  Parris looked down at the little woman in the blue print dress. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

  Daisy caressed a rosary, then dropped it into her purse. She searched the face of the policeman for some sign that he sensed the evil presence that was very near to them. The matukach could not yet comprehend what had happened today. "No," she said. He wasn't ready to hear it yet. The Book said it and it was true: there was a time to live, a time to die. For everything there was a season.

  On the way to her home at the mouth of Canon del Es-piritu, Daisy did not speak. After Parris escorted the old woman to her porch, she turned and frowned thoughtfully. "Everybody thinks, after you bury the body, it's all over." Her eyes said that it wasn't over. The policeman didn't answer, but he felt it too. Someone with a relentless will was… out there. Waiting. Ever so patiently.

  For the first time in days, Scott Parris was able to relax as he drove back to Ignacio. He put Daisy Perika and her elemental fears far away from him. Arlo Nightbird was dead, and that was that. The bastard had gotten what he deserved for the attempted rape. Benita had smacked his skull with a rock. He had died and been chewed on by coyotes. That was grim, but it was a satisfying form of old-fashioned justice. Gorman's spirit, given enough time, would gradually heal. J. E. Hoover would have no further reason to interfere with the operation of the Southern Ute police force. Soon, Severo would be back from vacation. Parris remembered that he was due a couple of weeks vacation himself. He would visit Anne in Washington. Anne. Lovely, sweet Anne. He tried to remember her wonderful smile, the way her red hair flowed in waves over her shoulders. Her luminous brown eyes.

  But wait! Anne's eyes were blue. Those radiant brown eyes… they belonged to the widow Nightbird. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember Anne's eyes, but what he recalled was the electric touch of Emily Nightbird's delicate fingers. When Parris arrived at the Southern Ute

  Police headquarters, he was still attempting to sweep thoughts of the widow from his mind. Nancy Beyal waved at him from her radio console. He leaned on the door frame and sighed, wondering if the guilt showed on his face. "What's up, dispatcher?"

  She rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found the official note pad. "You know a… Dr. Simpson?"

  "Sure do. Old fishing buddy. He's the medical examiner in Granite Creek."

  Nancy squinted at the paper clenched between her painted fingernails. "Dr. Simpson has returned from his vacation; he called about an hour ago. Says you should come up to his place."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No, but he said to get up there right away." She waved the note like a flag. "It's urgent."

  He was in no mood for any of Simpson's abuse. "I'll give him a call."

  "He said you'd say that," Nancy replied. "The doctor, he said 'don't call,' just deliver your…"-she blushed-"your self to his place. Right now."

  18

  Parris banged on the heavy oak door. After waiting for a sound from inside that did not come, he pressed on the buzzer. Presently, he heard the halting gait of the old man. Walter Simpson pulled the door open and glared under bushy brows. "Took you long enough to get here." The medical examiner turned and waddled down the long hall toward his kitchen.

  Parris pushed the front door shut with his boot heel. "It was hard to stay away, considering your reputation for hospitality."

  "Old men don't have to be nice," Simpson shot back, "especially when they're bachelors who do their own laundry. I enjoy being a cranky old son-of-a-bitch."

  "Then you must be having a great time."

  "Tea?" Simpson flicked a kitchen match with his thumb nail, touched it to a burner on his archaic gas stove. The burner hesitated, then burst into flames with an audible whooomf.

  Parris sniffed the sour odor of a natural gas additive. "You ought to get that fixed. Something's not working right."

  "Brilliant diagnosis. You should've been a plumber. Might have amounted to something."

  "The wages would've been better," Parris said amiably. "But my services are in demand lately. The Southern Utes asked me to sit in for Chief Roy Severo while he's on vacation."

  Simpson chuckled. "I expect you weren't near the top of their list. All the Indian cops must have turned 'em down."

  This hit home. "If you merely wanted to insult me, a postcard would have sufficed."

  Simpson was searching through an array of colored metal canisters for tea bags. "You know Dr. Sol Addison?"

  Parris closed his eyes and searched his memory. "Sounds familiar. He a surgeon over at the hospital?"

  "Fine young cutter. Just a couple of years out of University of New Mexico. Bright chap."

  "That's nice to know," Parris said with a mild touch of sarcasm. "If I should need a tonsil removed, I'll look him up."

  "He's not doing too well financially, just starting out. When I can, I throw some business his way."

  Parris suddenly understood. "He the doc who examine
d the body of Arlo Nightbird while you were sunning in Hawaii?"

  "Actually, I went to Tahiti this year. Much less developed. Walked miles of beaches. Met a plump native lass, not a day over fifty. Name of Lea-Lea. Goes topless." He pursed his lips suggestively. "Volunteered to nurse me in my old age."

  Parris chuckled. "You are a lecherous, vulgar old man. And I don't believe a word of it."

  Simpson pried a sugar bowl from the sticky oil cloth. "Dr. Addison is a sharp young chap. He's assisted me with autopsies on several occasions. With a bit more experience, he could be first rate at M.E. practice."

  "But now?" Parris sipped at the tea. It looked weak, but was bitter in his mouth.

  "Now," Simpson said, "and I must speak off the record

  … young Dr. Addison still has a wee bit to learn about performing the autopsy."

  "Like what?"

  "You want some cookies with your tea?"

  "What kind of cookies?"

  "You like the Girl Scout kind? With peanut butter?"

  "My favorite kind."

  Simpson rummaged through a cabinet. "Well shoot fire. I'm all out of cookies."

  Parris drained the cup. "So Addison did the autopsy on Arlo Nightbird. Did he mess up?"

  "We medical doctors"-Simpson peered coldly over his trifocals as Parris-"never 'mess up.' But sometimes… being human… we make minor errors in judgment."

  "And bury the evidence," Parris said. It was a tired old joke, and Simpson pretended not to hear.

  "I got back a couple of days ago. Read a copy of Dr. Addison's report to the FBI on the Nightbird autopsy. He concluded that the victim's death was caused by the trauma to the skull."

  "A girl he was chasing," Parris offered, "smacked him on the head with a rock."

  "I had a look at the remains," Simpson said.

  "And?"

  "There are head wounds that are consistent with an impact from a rock."

  "So?"

  "The ears and testicles were not removed by predators. Someone did it with a blade. A very sharp blade. Looks like coyotes or raccoons may have chewed on the wound sites later; I suspect that's what confused my young, less experienced colleague."

  "That's bad news," Parris muttered. "We have a suspect who threatened to castrate the victim." Gorman Sweetwater would return to the top of Hoover's suspect list. And it was a very short list.

  "There's more," Simpson said ominously.

  "Don't know if I want to hear more."

  "The trauma to the skull did not result in death."

  Parris lowered his cup to the soiled oil cloth. "You've got to be kidding."

  "I am a wholly serious fellow when it comes to my professional business. The head wounds seemed to be the only possible cause for the victim's untimely demise. It was a natural mistake, for a beginner. Since Dr. Addison prepared the autopsy, I'll notify him of my findings. Medical courtesy, you see. It'll be up to him to generate an amended autopsy report and submit it to the FBI."

  "I assume you'll take care of that right away."

  "Little problem there," Simpson said. "Dr. Addison is attending a symposium in Egypt. Then he's off to Pakistan. Won't be back for five or six weeks. Thought you might want to know… unofficially… before he eventually returns, reexamines the remains, and files the amended report."

  "Will you be notifying the FBI?"

  "No can do. Not my case. And I expect you to treat this in strictest confidence. Theoretically, my esteemed colleague may decide not to modify his FBI report. It's entirely up to him."

  "I'll have to tell Charlie Moon."

  "I never agreed to let you pass this on."

  "I never agreed not to."

  Simpson scowled. "Your daddy must have been a damned Philadelphia lawyer."

  "Don't fret," Parris said, "Charlie's the soul of discretion. He'll keep mum until the amended report is submitted. I guarantee it."

  "He damn well better, or I'll never do you a favor like this again."

  "You still haven't told me how Nightbird died."

  "It would appear," Simpson said, "that he died of suffocation."

  Parris pushed himself away from the table and got to his feet. "He swallow his tongue?" After trauma to the head, it wasn't all that unusual.

  "Quite some time after the man was clubbed on the head," Simpson said, "the 'perp,' as you cops call them, shoved something down his throat, blocking his air passage. Victim may have been unconscious, but he was definitely alive."

  "What," Parris asked slowly, "did you find in his throat?"

  Simpson opened his refrigerator, searched the shelves that were crammed with a dozen varieties of pickles, moldy cold cuts, and months-old cartons of milk. "Aha," he said, "here it is, behind the cheese." He brought an opaque plastic carton to the table. The medical examiner popped the lid off the plastic box and shoved it across the oil cloth in a casual fashion, as if he were inviting his friend to sample a box of chocolates. "You know what this is?"

  Parris leaned over cautiously. He inspected the contents of the box. For a moment, he was baffled. Then, the policeman understood. He felt his stomach churn.

  19

  Moon was two-finger typing a report on a drunk he had hauled in. The unfortunate man had been reported for exposing himself in the women's rest room at the Sky Ute Lodge. The thoroughly inebriated man insisted that he had thought he was in the men's room. Moon believed him. The Ute looked up to see Scott Parris, who appeared to be lost in thought. "You kind of snuck up on me, pardner." The Ute had heard the worn valves clicking in the Volvo engine before Parris turned into the parking lot.

  Parris sat down onto a wooden chair that squeaked. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through a wisp of thinning hair. "I've been up to Granite Creek."

  Moon continued his hunt-and-peck style of typing. "You go up there to check on your boys at the station? Bet you thought they couldn't do without you."

  "Lieutenant Leggett is doing a bang-up job in my absence. You know my dispatcher, Clara Tavishuts?"

  "I better know her, she's my second cousin."

  "Clara tells me Leggett's straightened out the files, streamlined the computer booking system. The lieutenant even talked the city government out of enough money to buy two new squad cars."

  "Sounds like they get along pretty well without you."

  Parris sighed. "By the time I get back, they won't remember my name."

  "Sounds fair to me," Moon said. "That why you look so down in the mouth?" The Ute knew it was something else. Nancy Beyal had told him about the urgent summons from the medical examiner.

  "I've picked up some information… relating to the Arlo Nightbird murder. Strictly on the q.t. We'll need to keep mum about it till the FBI gets the official amended M.E. report."

  Moon lost interest in the typewriter. Parris wouldn't look at him; that wasn't a good sign.

  "Doc Simpson checked the Nightbird remains. The substitute M.E. made an error."

  "I don't think I like the sound of this," Moon said.

  "Mr. Nightbird didn't die of his fractured skull. His ears and balls weren't chewed off by animals."

  Moon felt a coldness ripple along his spine. "You sure about this?"

  "It's from the horse's mouth. Simpson is one of the best M.E.s in Colorado." Now he looked at Moon. "You haven't heard the worst part."

  "Give it to me."

  "Mr. Nightbird died from suffocation."

  "What'd he do, swallow his tongue?"

  "Not his tongue," Parris said. "Whoever cut his balls off…"

  Moon closed his eyes. "You don't mean… like the V.C. did to our guys in 'Nam?"

  Parris nodded. "Whoever performed the castration shoved his balls down his throat and… he couldn't breathe."

  Moon pushed his big frame up from the chair. He stalked back and forth behind the desk. Finally, he stopped and stared blankly out the window. A lone raven sat on a cot-tonwood branch; the bird stared back at the Ute. "Arlo Nightbird wasn't anything to brag about," he said,
"but he didn't deserve to go that way."

  "Nobody does," Parris said. "How do you figure it went down?" He wondered if Moon would finally face the obvious.

  '"There is the explanation you suggested from the beginning. While Gorman hauls… his daughter to the hospital, she tells him everything. He goes back, finds Arlo half alive. Gorman remembers his threat, castrates Arlo and…"

  "I get the picture," Parris said. "But what about the missing ears? You figure Mr. Sweetwater clipped off the ears to make it look like the bull mutilator did the job on Night-bird?"

  "I wouldn't figure Gorman had that much imagination. But one thing you learn in this business," Moon said slowly, "is you don't really know people." He was staring at the blue-black raven, which had spread its left wing in the sunlight. "Not even old friends."

  "So," Parris asked, "what do we do now?"

  "Until there's a new M.E. report," Moon said, "we do nothing." But he would keep a close watch on Gorman Sweetwater.

  It was two hours before first light. JoJo was certain that he could sense the presence of the deer. The image of fresh venison, roasting slowly over the glowing embers of his campfire, made the Ute's mouth water with anticipation. Years ago, during the last few weeks of his tour in Saudi and then southern Iraq, it was this vision that had kept him connected with home. Stalking the deer-silently, relentlessly-like the cougar. JoJo was a romantic. The slender man moved along through the darkness, inhaling the pungent fragrance of the pinon grove. He had found their droppings only last week, but by now he knew their movements by heart. Deer were much like people who got up and went to work, then came home to sleep. This group, less than a half-dozen, slept through most of the daylight hours in a tree-sheltered hollow on the top of Three Sisters Mesa. At dusk, they moved down into Snake Canyon to water at the small stream. There, they fed on the galleta grass that carpeted the low ground near the brook. Shortly before dawn, they would move up the steep trail on the side of Three Sisters Mesa, graze on the dry grasses for another hour or so, then bed down for the middle of the day. It would be easy to kill them where they slept, but one of the People would not stoop to that. Breaking hunting season laws that had been imposed on the Utes was another matter. The young man knew that the rules made sense, but he could not wait. He could almost taste the wild venison, see the yellow fat bubbling over his campfire. His hand trembled in anticipation of the small pressure on the Winchester trigger that would fulfill his fantasy.