Tracking Bear

by Thurlo, David

Ella nodded and counted him in.

  “Thanks,” Nez said after she hung up, but didn’t move away.

  “Something else on your mind?” Ella asked.

  He nodded. “Sharing jurisdiction is always tricky. You have your own ways of getting results, and I have mine.”

  “It’s part of the job,” Ella said. “We’ll get it done.”

  “I was born on the Navajo Nation and I know that crime here weaves its own unique patterns. If I have to share jurisdiction, I’m glad to be working with someone who’s practically a law enforcement legend.”

  Ella looked at Nez, trying to figure out if he was actually feeding her a compliment or giving her a hard time. She concluded he was either a great poker player or completely serious.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told —.”

  “You’ve made the local papers even from my Arizona far corner of the Navajo Nation, and my captain knows Chief Ed Atcitty. He apparently talks you up a lot—and justly so. You are what you are,” he said flatly.

  “Where exactly are you from in Arizona?”

  “I grew up in Leupp, and eventually became an officer for the Winslow P.D., just off the Rez. I moved here in January when a detective’s position opened up with the San Juan County department.”

  She wondered if he’d ever applied for a tribal job, but decided not to pry. Instead, she’d do a little background on him to see who she was going to be working alongside.

  “Since we’ll be together on this, maybe we should spell out some basic ground rules,” Dan said. “If we settle some of those issues ahead of time, it’ll avoid conflicts later.”

  Ella nodded, used to coordinating with county. “Let me offer a suggestion. You and your people take lead when interviews and operations are conducted off the Rez, and my team and I will call the shots with people and places on the Rez. We’ll make it a point to brief each other daily, and whenever possible combine our efforts when making any arrests. If we have to meet, let’s get together at the Shiprock tribal station. It’s closer to the crime scene, and all but one of the bodies was buried on Navajo land.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Agent Blalock what we’ve decided before he leaves today. He has a stake in this.”

  Nez walked off to assist the county team and Ella found and told Blalock about the interagency strategy. Justine came up a while later. “I just spoke to Emily, and she said that Dan’s a little dogmatic, the kind of guy you either like or hate, but he gets the job done.”

  “See if she’ll give you more specifics. Unofficial stuff can be far more enlightening sometimes, and no sense in setting him off on some trivial differences.”

  “Okay.”

  Procedural issues demanded her attention and called her back to the crime scene. Unaware of the passage of time, Ella was surprised to see a familiar pickup at the turnoff. A county deputy was talking to the driver.

  “That looks like my brother,” Ella said. “I better go meet him.”

  Clifford was sorting through the contents of a cardboard box on the seat beside him as Ella and Justine came up. When Clifford stepped out of his truck, Ella noticed that her brother looked as formidable as ever. Although his clothes were casual—just jeans, boots, and an old chambray shirt—he was wearing the white sash of a medicine man tied around his head. That, and his tall, slender build, gave him an undeniable presence. She’d heard others describe it as ‘álí’l, an extraordinary supernatural power, a secret strength beyond what was seen, required to bring about successful cures.

  “I can begin whenever you’re ready,” he said. “But if you find any more bodies, I’ll have to come back and repeat the ceremony.”

  “I know. We’ve checked most of the area, and hopefully that won’t be necessary. But I’m anxious to be able to offer some immediate protection to those working here now. I’ll gather our people, and the Navajo detective from county I told you about.”

  “I brought additional pollen bags just in case, all with flint, so anyone is welcome to take part,” he said, reaching for the box that rested on the passenger seat of his pickup.

  “Good,” Ella said. “There are a few uniforms who may want to be included.” Ceremonies were about chasing evil away and attracting good. Pollen signified happiness and light, and was supposed to draw those blessings to the ones present. Flint was said to have power because of its hardness. The light that reflected off its shiny surface was also said to scare evil spirits away.

  Ella, her team, Detective Nez, and two patrol officers gathered in the center of an area bordered by their parked vehicles. This would give them privacy from the curious eyes of the press. Several reporters had requested to join them and film the rite, but Clifford had turned them away.

  Before he began, Clifford spoke to the group before him. “This chant’s function is to purify, so I’m going to ask all of you to keep your thoughts centered on beauty and harmony. Those of you who speak Navajo will understand my words, but I need to ask everyone not to share details of these rituals with others. Knowledge is a living thing that needs to be protected.”

  Clifford gave each of them a medicine bag, then asked that they take out a pinch of pollen and hold it between their forefingers and thumbs. “That is your shield from evil,” he said.

  As her brother’s voice rose in the air, Ella felt the power of the chant. With each note, uncertainty and fears were pushed back.

  “Now reach for the turquoise bits inside the bags and throw those into the air,” Clifford said.

  The chant continued and after several minutes, Clifford asked them to repeat his words if they could, then throw bits of white shell from their pouches into the air three times.

  When Clifford spoke the final words, “hózhne háazdlíí—it is beautiful all around me,” the blessing became far more than just words. The power of the rite had united them and restored their harmony so they could walk in beauty once again.

  Ella looked at the others around her and saw the relief and assurance the rite had inspired. After everyone had gone back to work, Ella approached Clifford. “Thank you, brother.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help,” he said, putting away his ceremonial items.

  Ella attached her medicine bag to her belt. This pouch, like the ones given to her team, would dispel Navajo fears about the chindi and allow them to continue their work with a renewed sense of peace.

  Chapter Four

  As soon as the opportunity arose, Ella went with Justine to check out the old trading post. Ella was glad for the chance to sit down, if only for a few minutes inside the SUV. She’d put on her vest again, and it felt heavier than ever at the moment.

  By now, the press had dwindled down to one newspaper reporter who was still taking photos of the site. That meant they didn’t have to be concerned that they’d be followed and didn’t worry about the solitary vehicle they passed.

  As they circled, following the curve around the south end of Hogback, Ella spotted an old, apparently abandoned wood and shingle house off to their left. The building was in a low spot and not visible from the crime scene. As they got closer, she could see a big hole punched into the north wall, a sign that a death had occurred there.

  “Pull over a minute,” Ella said, noting the mailbox still had the house address on it. Justine stopped, then parked on the shoulder of the road.

  “Somebody took a pick axe to the stucco,” Justine said, pointing. “That’s not vandalism. Somebody died there.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too. Let me run this address and see what turns up,” Ella said. A moment later she had the information she needed. “The Begaye family moved there in the 1970’s, but over the years they each went their separate ways. Lucille Begaye was the last one to live there, but she had to move to a nursing home back in ‘95. Squatters apparently moved in after that. It’s been occupied, unofficially, off and on, until last winter. According to an incident report, that’s when an ol
d man died there—natural causes. It’s been empty ever since.”

  “I guess no one’s been desperate enough to ignore the chindi,” Justine said.

  “There are lines even the anaashii don’t like to cross. But since this place appears to be closest to the crime scene, it deserves a look,” Ella said, reaching for the door handle.

  They crossed the empty highway and walked down a weed covered driveway. No tire tracks or footprints were present, and they checked all the way up to the entrance, which was missing its door. After noting the spider webs and the wrecked wood stove that had served as a nesting place for rodents, Ella turned to leave, but as she did, something caught her eye. Sitting on the window ledge was a small toy car with one wheel missing—another Jeep, this one blue instead of red.

  “A child played here not too long ago. Look at the marks in the dust,” Ella said, pointing out small tracks in the dust where the child had moved the toy back and forth.

  “Maybe squatters took shelter here for a while, then moved on as soon as they could,” Justine said.

  “And the kid left his toy behind?” Ella picked up the tiny metal car and looked it over. Letters had been scratched on the bottom. “It’s a name, Del, I think, unless that first letter is a badly formed A.”

  “Looks like a D to me,” Justine said.

  Ella put it in her pocket. “Let’s ask the area residents and see if someone can give us a lead to the kid. There’s no telling what he might have seen or picked up. If we find him, I’ll return his lost toy, too. That might help us get a conversation started.”

  Ella looked off into the distance toward the Rez boundary. “I wonder if Nez has found any leads.”

  Justine smiled but said nothing.

  “What?” Ella pressed, having noticed it.

  “You want to be the one who comes up with something first.”

  “I’m working a case, not keeping score,” Ella said.

  “Yeah, and when I grow up I’m going to be tall and blonde like Emily.”

  Ella smirked. “You’re being annoying. Focus.”

  Justine chuckled.

  When they walked back up the driveway, Ella spotted a house a few hundred yards from the Hogback and farther to the north, in the opposite direction they were going. It was hidden beneath a cluster of cottonwoods, which explained why she hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Let’s go there first. I can see a truck out front,” Ella said.

  Justine drove back east and they found a narrow graveled lane that led straight to the house. A minute later they pulled in front of a sand colored stucco home and parked beside a blue pickup.

  As Ella looked around she spotted a hogan constructed of pine logs out in the back.

  “Do you think they’re Traditionalists?” Ella asked.

  Justine shrugged. “Call dispatch and see what you can get.”

  Since there were no street names out here and they hadn’t seen a mailbox, Ella had to describe the location, which was situated right along the tribal—county border. “Is there a resident’s name on record?”

  “I know them,” the dispatcher said without skipping a beat. “That’s Jennifer and Billie Blackhat’s home. They’re in their late sixties, or maybe older. They’ve lived there forever,” the radio operator said. “He used to work at one of the coal mines farther to the north.”

  “Are they Traditionalists?” Ella asked.

  “Very much so.”

  “Thanks, Melanie,” Ella said, then racked the mike. “We’ll wait out here, Justine. They heard us pull up, I’m sure.”

  Ella rolled down the window on her side, and Justine did the same. It was late in the afternoon, and the heat was at its peak.

  Several minutes passed, then a woman with white hair tied into a bun, a long broomstick skirt, and a loose white blouse opened the door. She stepped out onto the covered porch, and waved an invitation for them to approach.

  “I saw all the police over a ways when I was coming home from the grocery store in Waterflow,” she said, walking into the small but cozy living room. “Please sit down, officers.”

  She motioned them to a well-worn sofa. Opposite that was a love seat with the same blue and yellow floral fabric. A large potbellied stove stood in one corner, and there was a small TV atop a plain wooden table. Yet what caught their attention and held it was the wonderful scent of freshly baked bread wafting in from the adjacent kitchen.

  “What’s the trouble? Is it those kids partying again?” the woman asked, easing into the love seat.

  “What kids?” Ella asked instantly, reaching for her pocket notebook and pen.

  “The high school kids. It happens every year at this time. Graduation’s close, and they start to go a little crazy.” She sighed and reached for a cushion for her back. “They usually leave beer bottles all up and down the highway, and sometimes even come up our driveway. We only call the police when they go completely wild, but since school isn’t out yet they’re still being careful.”

  “You say they go wild,” Ella said. “How wild?”

  “Parties, and fights too. When I’m passing by in the truck, I don’t stop or say anything, I just keep my eyes on the road. If I see or hear a fight I call the police.”

  “Have you ever heard gunshots?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “No, not at all. The kids come to cut loose and celebrate, but it’s mostly just drinking and loud music.”

  “Thanks. Is your husband here? If he is, we’d like to talk to him too,” Ella said, looking around.

  “He’s at work right now and won’t be back till much later. He retired from the mine, but can’t sit still. That’s why he works till midnight at the Speedy Mart. I dropped him off, then did my shopping.”

  “One more thing. Have you seen anyone beside the kids hanging around the area, not a regular resident, maybe a transient?”

  “There’s anaashii living at the old trading post. I’ve seen a woman and her two kids, a boy and a girl. They’ve been there for a while. The school bus picks them up by the highway.”

  “Thanks,” Ella said.

  “The trading post, right?” Justine asked as they climbed back into the SUV.

  “Yeah, let’s go talk to them.”

  “That’s assuming they’ll even let us get close. It’s more likely that they’ll run and hide, especially after seeing all the police activity.”

  “It’s also possible they’ve left already, but if not, we’ll have to do our best not to scare them off,” Ella said. “They’ve had the best view of the crime scene and we really do need to speak to them.”

  As they pulled up to the dilapidated trading post, they noted that the cinder blocks above the word Hogback painted on the upper wall had fallen or been broken off. All the windows had been broken out, but they’d been partially backed on the inside with plywood, providing some protection from the elements.

  Justine parked about fifty yards to the north of the old store on the east side, closer to the imposing height of the giant rock formation. They were well into the shadows here, and it was noticeably cooler.

  Walking up the side of the old road, the main highway of a previous generation, Justine silently pointed out recent tire tracks. The pattern left behind showed barely a tread mark. This was definitely not the same vehicle that had been driven near the unmarked grave sites.

  As they approached the doorway, they could both see that sections of the ceiling inside had rotted away in places and the roof had fallen through in at least one spot. The boards from a porch overhang above the entrance also sagged down, and looked as if they’d break away in the next windstorm.

  “The walls look sturdy enough, but the roof is going to give way once the summer monsoon kicks in. If anyone’s still here, we need to persuade them to find another place to stay that’s safer,” Ella whispered.

  “The problem is that they probably don’t have anyplace else to go,” Justine said.

  “There are rescue missions and tribal agencies that’ll
help,” Ella said, then peered through a gap between the board that covered the window and the framed edge. “Tribal police officers. Anyone here?”

  In the darkened interior Ella could see clothing draped across packing crates that served as chairs. There were paper plates and several unopened cans of food on the circular wooden spool table, the kind used by the utility companies to hold rolled up wire.

  “We’re not here to create problems for you,” Ella said, raising her voice after seeing an old bed frame resting on six cinder blocks. There were evenly spaced boards across the top, and atop them a cardboard box with the word ‘blankets’ written on the outside in pencil. Beside, also on the bed, were two worn-looking book bags, one with a purple and white Kirtland High School sticker on it.

  They listened, and looked from different angles without entering, but it was clear that the interior of the old trading post was unoccupied at the moment. Ella had a feeling the squatters had left when they’d pulled up and were probably nearby, hiding.

  Ella then noticed a solid back door, half open, which faced the rock wall of the Hogback not ten feet beyond. Whoever had been inside had probably ducked out the back.

  “You’re in no danger from us. All we’d like to do is ask you a few questions. Won’t you come talk to us?” Ella asked, trying again.

  All they could hear was traffic on the highway to the south—and the creaking of wood. Ella pushed against the door. It was wedged shut from the inside by a board, but Ella knew she could easily reach down and remove it. Deciding against that for now, she called out again, but no one came forward or spoke.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle drew her attention and Ella turned around. An old red sedan pulled to a stop, brakes squealing, and leaving a pale cloud of blue smoke. The driver, a weary looking Navajo woman in her mid-thirties stepped out to meet them.

  “I’m Lois Bitsillie and these are my children. They’re both going to school in Kirtland, and I’m now working at the Burger Haven, so I can provide for them,” she said. “We were only going to stay here long enough for their uncle to get back from overseas. We’ll be moving out of here tomorrow sometime, so leave me and my kids alone.”