As if they had materialized out of air, two uniformed policemen ran down the middle of the street toward the stalled cavalry. Behind them was a man in khaki trousers and a white shirt carrying a blue kit with First Aid written across the sides and a woman in green scrubs with a folded stretcher under one arm. The troopers were standing up, backing away from the man in the street. Father John could see the bushy handlebar mustache, the prominent nose and sunken cheeks, the wide-brimmed hat lying next to his head.
The crowds started stepping off the curb, but the policemen flapped their arms and motioned them back. Across the street another policeman was trying to control the people surging forward. “He’s been shot,” a man shouted. The words reverberated through the crowd: He’s not moving. He’s not moving.
“God help us.” It was Lou Morningside’s voice, and Father John realized the elder had come up beside him. “The warriors did it again,” he said.
“Did what, Grandfather?” Father John said.
“Killed Custer.”
2
THE AMBULANCE BLOCKED the double glass doors at the emergency entrance. Father John had followed the sounds of the siren up the winding hill and into the parking lot next to the sign that said Lander Regional Hospital. After Lou Morningside offered to give the bishop a ride back to the mission, Father John had jogged down the side street to the Toyota pickup and started after the ambulance. Now he pulled into a space set aside for clergy and hurried across the sun-seared pavement. The automatic doors parted. Cool air wafted over the lobby. Across the expanse of green linoleum, beyond the plastic bucket chairs hugging the walls, two troopers in blue uniforms, gripping their caps against their chests huddled near the metal door that Father John knew led to a warren of examining rooms.
“Doctors are with him now.” The voice erupted through the small metal communicator in the center of the window on the right. A red-haired receptionist on the other side gave him a smile of recognition.
Father John thanked her. He didn’t know Edward Garrett. Yet he’d had the sense he’d seen him before when he’d first ridden into view. Hundreds of photos in books on American history he had read over the years. George Armstrong Custer, elevated to brevet brigadier general after leading a brave assault on the Confederates at Gettysburg, the boy general, seated on a velvet stool. Later photos, posed outside a tent on the plains, reduced to lieutenant colonel fighting skirmishes with Plains Indians. Seated at a desk inside his tent, Libbie Custer reading in a nearby chair, a domestic scene suffused in contentedness.
Father John walked over to the troopers. The shorter man, black-haired and thick-necked. The other, taller, a sallow complexion and an experienced look about him, with white curly hair and light blue eyes fixed on some vacant space. They had ridden on either side of Edward Garrett. “Father John O’Malley,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Nicholas Veraggi.” The black-haired man slid a moist, smooth palm into Father John’s hand. He had a stubbly black mustache and dark, brooding eyes under bushy black eyebrows. “Also known as Major Marcus Reno, second in command to General Custer. I for one never called him friend.”
“I say the same.” The white-haired man took Father John’s hand. “Philip Osborne or, if you like, Captain Frederick Benteen.”
“Who is he?” Father John said.
“George Armstrong Custer? General. Colonel. Whatever you like,” the black-haired trooper said. “Arrogant sonofabitch. Only a matter of time until somebody put a bullet in him. There was lots that wanted to.”
“I meant Edward Garrett?”
The white-haired captain squared his shoulders and seemed to grow an inch taller. A hat line ran through his hair above his ears. The blue eyes were rimmed in red and watery, as if he had been staring into the bright sunlight. “Colonel Edward Garrett,” he said. “Retired, U.S. Army. Fought in Iraq during Desert Storm. Another tour in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Mean and crazy as Custer. Sure knows how to summon Custer’s ghost.” He shrugged. “It’s a game of pretend,” he said, what passed for laughter rumbling in his throat, “but it takes you back, gives you something else to think about than the world falling apart today. I was in Iraq, and I’m here to tell you, I’d rather have been fighting Indians on the plains.”
“Maybe Benteen thought his world was falling apart,” Father John said.
The trooper shook his head. “He had his place, and he knew what it was. Ground wasn’t shifting all the time.”
“You’ve known Colonel Garrett long?”
“Since Desert Storm. I heard from Veraggi here that the colonel had a Seventh Cavalry gig. Traveling the country in RVs, reenacting the Battle of the Little Bighorn.” He tried for another laugh. “So I contacted the colonel. Turns out he was looking for a man that resembled Benteen. He took me on. Hell, I’ve been a Civil War buff since I was a kid. Loved reading about the old battles. Still do. I followed all those great commanders—Sheridan, Sherman, Crook—out to the plains where they was fighting Indians after the Civil War. Custer, too. One of my idols; that is, until I got to know him.”
He drew quiet. His eyes had an inward, worried look, as if he were rereading a text of his own words and wondering how they portrayed him. He was like an actor always in costume, playing a part. “Maybe Custer was a great guy. I guess we don’t know.”
Veraggi was shaking his head. “You ask me, Garrett got Custer just right. Narcissist of the first order. I hated the man. I mean, Reno hated the man.”
“His wife loved him,” Father John said. A memory flickered at the edge of his mind: the contented scene inside the tent, a woman following her husband across the plains, sharing the hardships. American History, the Civil War years, for junior and senior students at the Jesuit prep school in Boston where he’d taught before his own world had come crashing down and his superiors had sent him into alcohol rehab for the third time. He had known it would be his last. He would either start to recover or spend the rest of his life in an alcoholic haze, sick, depressed, and lonely. A year later he was at St. Francis Mission with the pastor, Father Peter, the only Jesuit willing to take him on.
The metal door swung back and a young woman stepped past. She paused a moment, allowing the door to close behind her. Father John recognized her from previous visits to the ER with parishioners: heart attacks, diabetic comas, car accidents, and, more times than he wanted to think about, shooting incidents. The doctor was beautiful with an air of competence about her. Probably in her thirties but looking ten years younger, with shoulder-length brown hair and hazel eyes that peered out of round, frameless glasses. Her white coat flapped around dark slacks. Clipped to the coat was a white plastic tag that read Eleanor Henderson, MD.
“Hello, Father.” She looked past the troopers. “You’re here for Colonel Garrett, I assume.”
“How is he?” Father John said.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head.
The lobby went quiet for a moment. Muffled sounds of the hospital—doors shutting, phones ringing—came from far away, another place and time. “Would you like to see him?”
Father John nodded.
The doctor glanced from Veraggi to Osborne. “You were friends?”
Father John waited for the reply, but the troopers nodded solemnly in unison, as if Garrett’s death had erased the old animosities.
They followed the doctor past the metal door and down a corridor with light green walls and vinyl floor and white charts hanging on closed doors. Footsteps tapped out a syncopated noise that reverberated around them. The doctor pushed open a door and waved them inside.
The man who had impersonated Custer lay on a gurney, a bulky figure under a white sheet. The doctor stepped over and lowered the sheet from his face. Father John felt his breath stop. The resemblance between Colonel Edward Garrett and Custer was even closer than it had seemed at the parade. The man on the gurney had close-cr
opped blond hair, not the long curly locks that had brought the Cheyennes to nickname Custer “Long Hair.” But wasn’t there a reason? Father John tried to capture a dim memory: Custer had decided to have his head shaved before he’d left Fort Lincoln on the last campaign of his life. But he hadn’t shaved the bushy handlebar mustache that—another memory surfacing—he’d worn to protect part of his face from the fierce sun of the plains. The man’s eyes were closed. Something peaceful about him, an end of striving.
Dr. Henderson kept her place on the other side of the gurney, eyes fixed on Garrett’s face, as if she was having trouble reconciling the two parts of her profession, life and death. Father John lifted his right hand over the body and made the sign of the cross. “May the all-loving God have mercy on your soul,” he said, “and forgive any sins you may have committed. May Our Lord Jesus Christ give you the peace and joy that he promised to those who love him.” He prayed the Our Father silently—for both men, he realized: Colonel Edward Garrett and George Armstrong Custer.
When he turned around, the troopers had left the room. He’d been lost in prayer and hadn’t heard the door open or close.
* * *
“HELLO, FATHER.” THE man in the entry a few feet from the troopers was about six feet tall, muscular with close-cropped brown hair and a rugged face, crisped by the sun. He wore blue jeans, a white shirt under a leather vest, and a tan straw cowboy hat. Father John had known Detective Al Madden for five or six years. Once in a while he would come to St. Francis Mission to request the pastor’s help in locating some Arapaho suspected in a burglary in Lander or a drunk and disorderly or a drug deal. Arapahos were tight-lipped; no one wanted to snitch. And Father John had found himself adopting the same attitude. He didn’t like being thrust between the police and the people. He’d spread the word on the rez, he would tell the detective, point out that by turning himself in, the suspect might win sympathy from the prosecutor. He would say he would accompany the person to police headquarters. He would always encourage the suspect to call Vicky Holden, the Arapaho attorney. Sometimes it worked. He and Vicky would show up at Madden’s office with a scared, trembling Arapaho.
“You connected to Garrett?” the detective said.
“I never met him.”
The detective gave a brief nod. The priest had come to pray, bless the body. He glanced from Father John to the two troopers. “You were riding alongside him.” He said. “See anything that might be helpful?”
Osborne ran a hand through his white hair. A pained expression crossed his face. “We’ve already told the cops that nobody could’ve seen anything in the confusion. Damn Indians racing horses around us. Set my horse to bucking and neighing. All I could do to stay mounted. Same with the other troopers. Bugler was lucky he didn’t get trampled.”
“How about you?” The detective turned to Father John.
The cavalry had just passed when the Indians started the dare ride, Father John said. He’d hurried down the sidewalk to see what was going on. When the Indians had moved ahead, Garrett was on the ground.
Detective Madden took this in for a moment, then dug past the front of his vest and produced a small notepad and pen. He flipped open the pad and started scribbling. “Family, as far as you know?” He looked up at the troopers.
Veraggi had put on the cap and pulled it forward. “Heard he’s got a daughter in these parts. Said he was buying a ranch outside of Dubois so he could be close to her. That’s all I know. He wasn’t much on jawing about his business. Pretty much kept to himself.”
“Went visiting up in the hills west of town couple days ago. You ask me, that’s where the daughter lives.” Osborne slapped his cap against his thigh. “Came to drilling practice ten minutes late. Wasn’t unusual for him to show up late. Took off whenever he wanted, showed up when he got around to it. Used to brag how Custer did that. He said commanders make their own rules.”
“West of town is a big place,” the detective spoke under his breath. “Any idea where I can find her?”
“I heard she was at the high school last evening to hear him speak,” Veraggi said. “Auditorium was packed with folks wanted to see and hear Custer.” He was shaking his head.
“Long line waiting to shake his hand. Folks pawing at his buckskin shirt,” Osborne said, and Father John thought he detected the smallest undercurrent of envy in both the troopers’ voices. “Heard him mention Dorothy once. That wasn’t his wife’s name.”
“Wife?” The detective flipped to the next page.
The troopers looked at each other a long moment. “Can’t say for sure,” Osborne said, taking a step back. “Belinda Clark impersonates Libbie, the little missus. Garrett said he was expecting her any day. She was going to the Little Bighorn reenactment with us.”
Detective Madden walked over to the door, pulled a cell out of the case on his belt, and, dipping his head, muttered something. In a moment he was back. “I should know in a few minutes if there’s a Dorothy on any of the titles of houses up in the hills. Soon as I have a few words with Dr. Henderson, I’ll drive up and give her the bad news. Anybody care to come along?”
“We weren’t personal friends,” Osborne said. He and Veraggi started moving toward the door.
“Hold on,” the detective said. “I’ve got officers heading to the campground where the cavalry’s been staying. We’ll want to talk to everybody. No one fires up his RV and drives out of here until I say so. That clear?”
The troopers nodded, and for a moment, Father John half expected them to salute. Then they were through the sliding glass doors and hurrying toward the parking lot.
* * *
FATHER JOHN RODE in the passenger seat of the black, unmarked car with Detective Madden gripping the steering wheel and working his way west. Finally he settled back, steering with the crook of one finger. “Lone wolf is the impression I’m getting of Garrett. Living in the shoes of a man that died over a hundred years ago. What do you know about the fellow?”
“Only what I read in the Gazette. Travels around the country with impersonators of the Seventh Cavalry. They march in parades and rodeos and county fairs. They were a big hit in Philadelphia last month.”
“I was thinking about Custer, the guy Garrett thought he was.”
“He was killed at the Little Bighorn in 1876.”
“Sioux, wasn’t it?”
“Sioux, Cheyenne. Even Arapahos were there.”
“Any Indians have a reason to shoot him again?”
“Hard to imagine,” Father John said.
“You ask me, Indians don’t forget. Maybe somebody wanted to make a statement. Shoot the guy impersonating Custer, almost as good as shooting Custer himself. I heard the shouts at the parade. How they remember Wounded Knee and other old battles. Maybe somebody didn’t like Garrett making Custer a big hero again.”
Father John felt an uneasiness gnawing at him. It hadn’t gone away, he realized, since he’d read the article in the Gazette. What the detective said was true. Arapahos lived by symbols, invisible pictures of reality. He tried to shake off the possibility that someone from the rez was involved, but he could see where the investigation would go. As clear and obvious as the foothills ahead. He closed his eyes, and the craggy, worried face of Lou Morningside appeared on the inside of his eyelids. His grandson, Colin, had dressed like Crazy Horse, the Oglala chief who had led the attack on the 7th Cavalry at the Little Bighorn.
“Revenge for massacres over a century old?” he said. “Sounds like a weak motivation to kill a man.” He didn’t say what he was thinking: Colin should call Vicky right away.
“Never know what motivates a killer,” Madden said.
“What about the troopers? I got the impression that Veraggi and Osborne didn’t care much for the man.”
“Nobody was armed. The city wouldn’t give them a permit to carry. Don’t need armed soldiers marching down our streets.”
/> “Neither were the Indians,” Father John said. “Most were half naked. How would they conceal a gun?”
“All the same. Indians hated Custer.” The car slowed down, and Madden swung right. At the end of a long, dirt driveway, a two-story log house nestled against the peach and red outcroppings that jutted from the sagebrush-studded earth. Shadowing the outcroppings and the house were peaks of the Wind River range. A young woman in blue jeans and a blue blouse leaned against one of the pillars of the porch watching them drive up.
“Bought the place last year,” Madden said, pulling in close to the porch steps. “Name is Dorothy Winslow. Only name on the title.”
The woman didn’t move as they got out. She looked a lot like her father, Father John thought.
3
“DOROTHY WINSLOW?” MADDEN stopped at the foot of the porch steps. Father John walked across the hard-packed driveway and stood next to him. “Edward Garrett’s daughter? I’m Detective Madden.”
The woman on the porch above them blinked in response. She might have been in her forties, short and muscular with a sun-brushed look that came from spending a lot of time outdoors. Her hair was blond and she wore it long, like a veil that curled over the shoulders of her shirt. Eyes the same blue as the shirt, and intense. She lifted a hand in greeting. “You’d better come up.”
Father John followed Madden up the steps. The woman shifted her gaze to Father John. He could feel her eyes apprising him: cowboy hat, blue jeans, plaid shirt. “You some kind of clergy?”
“Father John O’Malley,” he said, “St. Francis Mission.” He put out his hand. The woman took his hand for a moment, then glanced at Madden and moved along the porch railing, as if she wanted to open some space around her. “How did it happen?”
“You’ve heard?” Madden said. News traveled fast across the rez on the moccasin telegraph, Father John was thinking. Up here, outside of town, it was the internet. “I’m sorry. Your father was shot.”
Killing Custer Page 2