As the crow flies wl-8

by Craig Johnson

  He snorted, “Chief Long.”

  I made the next statement definitive. “Yes, Chief Long.”

  His eyes locked with mine, and we played stare-down for a good four seconds before he looked at the floor again.

  “But you’re sure it’s her? I mean there could’ve…”

  “No.” I had to shut this avenue down quickly, or we’d lose him to misplaced hope. “The identification she had with her is unquestionable.”

  “I wanna see her.” He used the palms of his hands to rub his eyes.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged with the ME’s office, but first I’d like to ask you some questions?”

  “I wanna see my son. Where is he?”

  I pulled the chair that I had pushed against the wall across the floor, placed it beside the bars, and sat. “He’s at health services, and we’ll take you there as soon as we go over some things.”

  He stood and looked down at me. “What the hell is there to go over?”

  “Clarence, do you always answer the door with your shotgun?” I took his file from under my arm and began studying it without looking at him. “I think you should sit down so that we can get this done as quickly as possible-then you can see Adrian.”

  He stood there for a few seconds, then backed to the bunk and slowly lowered himself piece by piece.

  My eyes came up and focused on his face. He was young, close to Chief Long’s age, and as I had discovered from the file in my hands, he too had been in the military. “Army, 2-583-Second Battalion, 583rd Forward Support Group.” I glanced back at the file. “Food specialist?”

  The words spilled from him rote and lifeless. “I’m a certified chef; I won the Thirty-fourth Armed Forces Culinary Arts Competition at Fort Lee, Virginia.”

  I nodded. “Is that what you do now-cook?”

  He placed a hand alongside his head. “Till I got laid off over at the casino.”

  I studied him. “Is that your chipotle steak recipe that I almost had last night?”

  He looked a little puzzled, and I was pretty sure it was the first time he’d escaped his thoughts. “Almost had?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced back at Chief Long standing in the doorway, again with her arms crossed and suddenly finding the wall of singular interest. I turned back to him. “Clarence, I need you to tell me the story of what happened yesterday afternoon. I need you to tell me what happened in detail so that we don’t miss anything.”

  “There isn’t anything to tell.”

  I continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I need to know everything, because if I guess right, the FBI is going to sweep in here later and try to scoop you away-and I need all my questions answered before they do that.”

  “They think I did it?”

  “Possibly.”

  For the second time, his eyes lifted to mine. “Do you think I did it?”

  “No, I don’t, but right now I need to hear the story about yesterday afternoon.”

  He sucked in his breath like I’d hit him, and he slowly began to speak. “We were going on a picnic as a celebration; I got a job over in Red Lodge as a sous chef.” He barked a laugh without much humor in it. “The job was advertised as a Sioux chef, S-I-O-U-X-you know, they misspelled it. I told them I was part Cheyenne, part Mexican, and part Sioux, and I think it’s what got me the job. I was going to go there next week, then move them over there next month.” He shook his head, and the tears simmered in his eyes again. “I guess that’s gone to shit now.”

  “When did you head out to Painted Warrior?”

  “I stopped in at the White Buffalo and got something to drink-pop and stuff, around lunchtime.”

  “Eleven twenty-two?”

  His eyes widened just a little. “Um, yeah. I guess so.”

  This part checked out with the receipt we’d found; it didn’t, however, account for the beer cans and the fact that he’d been drunk when Chief Long and I had arrested him. “Clarence, did you go anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  My old boss, Lucian Connally, had taught me a long time ago that if you already know the answer, you don’t ask the question twice-and once you’d asked it, you waited, forever if need be.

  He cleared his throat. “I, um… I got some beer at Jimtown when they opened. I mean, it was a celebration.”

  “Okay.”

  “We drove out there, and I parked the Jeep. I was afraid it was going to rain, so I put the top up while she and Ado played there in the grass.”

  “Not out by the rocks.”

  “No.” He looked at me again. “Hell no.”

  “Then what?”

  There was a pause, a short one, but a pause nonetheless. “Well, we were fighting.”

  “About?”

  The pause was longer, and this time I looked at him. “Inez Two Two?”

  He froze, and I stood in an attempt to display the fact that I was not behind bars and could walk out of the room at any time. “Clarence, up until now you haven’t been completely honest with me, and if you don’t start, I’m going to personally hand you over to the FBI.”

  “No.”

  I placed my hands in my pockets and leaned my back against the wall beside Chief Long. He stood and walked over to the bars, hanging his thin arms between them; for a sous chef, he must not have been sampling a great deal of his wares.

  “We were arguing about the job and moving. She wanted to go over there at the same time as me, but I wanted to get things ready. I rented an apartment over a bookstore from a guy named Gary. I just wanted the place to be nice.” He quickly added. “You can check all this.”

  “We will. What happened after the argument?”

  “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea-that it was some huge, shitstorm fight; it was just the same argument we’ve been having for over a year now.” He studied me. “You married?”

  “Widower.”

  He looked contrite, an appearance I was not particularly unacquainted with from people looking at me through bars. “I’m sorry, but you know what I mean about living with a woman?”

  I smiled, just to let him know that the conversation might not be going as poorly as he thought. “Martha’s been dead about six years now, and there are disagreements we’re still having.”

  He nodded at me, and his eyes filled with tears again. “We kept arguing, and I drank beer; I don’t know, I guess I fell asleep.”

  “You don’t know, or you fell asleep?”

  “I fell asleep.” He glanced back and forth between me and the chief. “I know it sounds lame, but that’s what happened. I swear to God.”

  “Then what?”

  “I woke up, and they were gone.”

  “Did you look for them?”

  “Yeah, I looked all over the place but they weren’t there. I figured she’d gotten all pissed off and had taken Ado and walked home.”

  “Did you look over the cliff?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “No-I mean, it never occurred to me.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I got in the Jeep and started home-thinkin’ I’d pick them up on the way, but I never found them.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it was when you left?”

  “No. Why, is that important?”

  “Maybe.” I paused for a moment, a conversational indication that we were changing gears from him to the wide world. “Clarence, do you have any idea who might have some kind of grudge against you or your family?”

  The thought hadn’t dawned on him. “You think somebody did this to her?”

  “It’s possible, and it’s up to us to investigate all the possibilities. Now, can you think of anyone?”

  “Against me, yeah.” He stared at the speckled white tiles on the floor. “But Audrey and Ado, no.”

  “No enemies she might’ve had-family members, people she worked with?”

  “No. Her parents are dead, and the only family is a sister of hers in Billings.”

  “What about where sh
e worked? Any difficulties there?”

  “No. I mean, not that I know of.”

  “Where did she work?”

  The chief’s voice rose from behind me. “Human Services, over in the tribal building.”

  “No arguments with anybody lately?”

  “Only me.”

  I checked my Colt, worked the slide mechanism, reinserted the round into the clip, and slapped it back in the stag-handled grips that Cady had given me one Christmas. “Does this mean that I’m no longer a suspect?” I carefully placed it in the pancake holster at my back.

  Chief Long shrugged. “You’re low on the list.”

  We stood there in the hallway of the Native Health Services building while Chief Long’s mother accompanied Clarence Last Bull in to see his son. “So, do I charge him?”

  “That’s up to you. Do you think he’s a flight risk?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “No.”

  I shrugged. “Neither do I, but there might be a problem with his story.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Henry and I were at the base of that cliff when Audrey fell, so if Clarence was up there, why didn’t he hear me yelling at him, and why didn’t we hear his Jeep start up and drive off?”

  “He was drunk, and we didn’t get up there until hours later.”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “What other explanation is there?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s important to keep inconsistencies in mind.”

  She nodded and hooked her thumbs in her duty belt. “He started opening up after he found out you were a widower; that was slick.”

  I rested against the wall and tipped my hat back. “It wasn’t slick, it was heartfelt.” Wondering if Lolo Long was a lost cause as a student, I turned my head and looked down the hall. “There is a common humanity in all of us, and if you need something from somebody, you’d better understand that-it makes the job easier. Clarence might be guilty and we need to be aware because we are in the suspicion business, but he’s also a man who just lost someone who was very close to him.”

  I pushed off and circled behind the reception desk to a coffeepot and a tray of mismatched mugs. She watched me.

  “I’m separated, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  She fought with herself for a moment and then pointed to the. 45 at my back. “Not to change the subject, but do you mind if I ask why you wear that antique, anyway?”

  I poured myself a cup. “It’s what I got used to in the service.” I thought about it. “It’s a failing to have a favorite, but there it is. Being overly familiar with a weapon is as much a fault as not knowing it at all.” I rapidly listed the 1911’s shortcomings. “Heavy, hard to aim, slow rate of fire-there’s a cult of weapons which blinds you to their weaknesses, but it’s what I’m used to.” I sipped my coffee and gestured toward her large-frame Smith in return. “Unless things have changed a great deal, I’m thinking that’s not what they had you carrying in Iraq.”

  “No, they gave me a 9mm and I hated it.”

  “And you like that. 44?”

  “Yes.”

  I sipped some more of my coffee. “I’ll ask you again when you have back problems here in about ten years.” I tried not to sound like Lucian. “It makes you stand funny; you’re compensating for the weight of that thing.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m a woman.”

  I shook my head, gesturing at my six-and-a-half-foot frame. “You don’t see me carrying one, do you?”

  She patted the revolver. “I like the weight.”

  “No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t have to use a two-handed stance every time you pull it. I can guarantee that there will be times in your law-enforcement career when you will have more things to do with that other hand than aim.” I sighed. “You’re not up against body-armor-equipped assailants.”

  She countered with a little heat in her voice. “Drugs, adrenaline-those are all factors.”

  “Maybe, but nowhere near as large a factor as just plain missing, which is what you’re going to do with Dirty Harry there.” I gestured toward the pot with my empty mug, but she shook her head in a full snit, so I only recaffeinated myself. “I’m going to give you a little piece of information that most people don’t know; 50 percent of police shot in the country on an annual basis shoot themselves. I’m not talking about suicide, but about officers who accidentally fire into their off-hand while drawing or into the strong-side leg while reholstering. Another 30 percent are shot by other cops, and 10 percent after that get shot by people who take their weapons away from them.” I lifted the mug to my lips. “And that’s the uniformed, trained portion-don’t get me started on the common populace.”

  I was coming on strong and figured she’d had about enough, but she only stood there with a hand on her revolver like I might try and take it away. After a while she crossed her arms and changed the subject again. “I heard you talking about an important piece of information we’re in possession of that the FBI doesn’t know about?”

  I continued sipping my coffee. “While Clarence was in custody last night, somebody tried to kill me.”

  She stepped in close with a little more urgency in her voice. “What?”

  “You don’t know anybody who drives a maroon ’7 °Chevy half-ton with Cherry Bomb mufflers, do you?”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody tried to run me over on 212 as I did the walk of shame to Lonnie’s last night.”

  She thought about it. “Maybe it was just some pissed-off Indian who saw a cowboy walking along the side of the road.”

  “There seemed to be a lot more intention in the act.”

  “You get a plate?”

  “No, there wasn’t one. Besides, I was trying to get away before being turned into a hood ornament.” She looked up at me, and I repeated. “Maroon ’7 °Chevy half-ton, Cherry Bomb mufflers.”

  I watched as she retreated to the parking lot, her Yukon, and the two-way radio, in that order, and then thought about all the people who were probably angry with me right now. There was a phone at the nurse’s station, and I figured Chief Long’s mother wouldn’t mind if I made a few phone calls.

  I punched in the number for my office and waited.

  “Absaroka County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Well, as it happens, this is the Absaroka County sheriff.”

  She fumbled with the receiver, the fancy one with the little neck cradle she used for extenuating circumstances; I probably led the league in extenuating circumstances. “Boy, mister, are you in trouble.”

  I sighed and whispered my daughter’s name so that she might not hear me close to two thousand miles away. “Cady?”

  “Oh, yes, and I wouldn’t want to be you about now.” There was a rustling of papers, and she spoke to someone else about getting Saizarbitoria, the Basque percentage of my staff, to do a little paper serving. “I don’t have time for you, but your undersheriff is on the other line; would you like me to patch her through?”

  “Sure.”

  The next voice was full of Philadelphia-ese-where “good luck with that” translated as “go fuck yourself.”

  “Have you been abducted by the Indians?”

  I smiled at Victoria Moretti’s tone. “Kind of. I’m in the process of giving sheriff lessons.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story; there’s been some drama up here on the Rez.”

  “There’s always drama with you; you’re like a traveling troupe.” She sighed. “So, are we in the first, second, or third act?”

  I thought about it. “Hard to tell; Henry and I saw a woman fall off a cliff up here, and we’re in the process of finding out who might’ve done it.”

  “Isaac Newton?”

  “She was carrying a child-boy, about six months.” There was no flippant repartee for that. “The boy is in the hospital and appears to be all right, but I’ve got
a new chief of tribal police up here who is getting crowded by the bureau.”

  You could almost hear her teeth grind.

  “How’s Omaha?”

  “It’s still in Nebraska.”

  Ruby must have finished dispatching and got on the line again. “You know you’ve got an entire list of people who are trying to get hold of you, Walter?”

  “I figured.”

  “Lana Baroja called about the cake design, Rosalie Little Thunder from Rapid City called about the dress, the management for Jalan Crossland called and wants to know if there will be electricity at the site of the reception…”

  I made a sound in the back of my throat. “I don’t know the answers to any of those questions.”

  “Who does?”

  “How about Cady?”

  Vic chuckled. “I gotta go.”

  There was a click as Ruby continued. “Cady’s called eight times in the last two days. Would you like me to call her for you and patch you in?”

  I was quick to respond to that. “No.”

  “I thought not.” She was trying to hold her temper. “Walter, we have a growing situation on our hands and you’re not helping.”

  “What about Henry-have you talked to him? I thought he was the wedding planner.”

  Her voice became even more forceful. “He is organizing the tribal portion of the wedding; the rest is up to you. Speaking of, how is the tribal portion of the preparations going?”

  I thought about how little progress I’d been making for Cady’s wedding; I glanced at the receiver and thought about where I could go and hide when Hazel Long returned and smiled at me. “Ruby, excuse me for a minute.” I held the phone on my shoulder. “Hazel, could you loan me a pen and paper?”

  She nodded and placed both on the upper counter between us.

  “Thanks.”

  I noticed that Chief Long had returned from the parking lot and joined Clarence as they stood a little away from each other in the doorway across the hall, Lolo’s eyes giving me an exasperated high sign.

  I continued to hold the phone against myself as if I were attempting to smother it and looked down at what seemed to be the only friendly eyes in the hospital. “Hey Hazel, can I ask you a really big favor?” She smiled, and I could’ve kissed her. “I’ve got an angry dispatcher by the name of Ruby on the other end of this line who has an entire list of angry people who want to yell at me. Is there any way I could get you to write that list down?”