Spider Woman's Daughter

by Anne Hillerman

  He rejected it even before he got to the end of the scenario. If a person really wanted to kill herself, why would she agree to come here in the first place? And what kind of person runs off and abandons a suicidal friend who has a gun? Or, after the gunshot, leaves the dead or maybe just injured friend behind without calling for help?

  Murder, cold-blooded assault or a shooting sparked by anger, seemed to be the only scenario that made sense. The crime would have gone undiscovered longer if it hadn’t been for Karen’s inadvertent eavesdropping and the coincidence of their meeting in the campground.

  Chee noticed a dust plume rising on the road ahead and switched his air conditioner to recirculate. He caught up with a black van with New Mexico plates, passed it, and drove into the park, finally on pavement again. Just beyond Pueblo Bonito, someone had placed a Road Closed notice over the Park Service’s descriptive sign. A Chaco ranger had blocked the end of the loop with his truck to keep out the tourists. He motioned Chee’s SUV through with a wave.

  Chee cruised past the empty parking lot toward two sets of stone ruins. The gate that kept visitors from driving any farther than the picnic table and trail registry stood open, and a San Juan County sheriff’s car waited there. He recognized the deputy, Tim Morris, an officer he’d worked with on a child custody case that involved a Navajo mother and an oil field father from Shiprock.

  Chee rolled down the window to greet Morris. “So you’re the lucky guy who got the call?”

  “That’s me,” Morris said. “How you doing? Haven’t seen you since you tied the knot. How’s married life working out?”

  “Luckiest man in the world. Where’s Agent Cordova?”

  Morris pointed to the mesa top. “Up that way.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  The deputy shook his head. “There’s a trail on the other side of those ruins that leads up the cliff side. Cordova said to tell you he’d meet you on top. Did you see the Omega van?”

  “Black, big, someone’s idea of anonymous? Yeah, behind me,” Chee said. “Must be somebody new coming for the body. He’s taking those washboards too slow.”

  Chee drove through. He parked next to the Crown Victoria and climbed out, slapped by the dry, penetrating heat. He found the trail that led to the Pueblo de Arroyo ruins, old stone walls that had once been buildings, up ahead. He walked for fifteen minutes, searching for the trail to Pueblo Alto, another set of ruins off the beaten path in a place that was off the beaten path to start with. He stuck to a narrow route that ascended into the boulders above the Pueblo de Arroyo ruins, startling a pair of brown snakes beautifully camouflaged to blend in to the rocks. He followed a series of little brown signs that read “Trail.”

  Finally, he saw “Trail” with an arrow pointing toward the sky and noticed part of a footprint in the sand. An interesting impression, he thought, a swirly design.

  Hiking turned to climbing now and involved using his hands for balance and to pull himself through the first section of the steep ascent. After that, the route required squeezing forward through a narrow slot. He paused a moment in the shade of the sandstone crevice, enjoying the coolness. If he had been wearing something other than his boots, Chee thought, the climb would have been much easier. He should have brought some water. Why is it the feds never tell you anything?

  He emerged from the slot onto the mesa top to discover a flatter trail and a view that included Pueblo Arroyo, the deputy’s car, and the fed-mobile. He trotted along the path, noticing the gray rock that resembled petrified mud. The vista opened to a panorama of sun-dried country divided by the curving dry Chaco Wash. He saw a rust-colored spot on a giant piece of eroded sandstone and, when he looked at it closely, realized he was seeing fossilized shrimp. The mesa ascended gently to his left in a series of dry washes and ledges. Hiking to the top would be easier than the hike he had just made. He couldn’t see the Pueblo Alto ruins yet; that involved another span of hiking. Why had Cordova wanted him up here?

  He found the FBI agent crouched near a big circle of rocks, taking pictures. Chee hailed him.

  “That’s quite a climb.”

  “It is,” Cordova said. “Glad you got here before the Omega team.”

  “I passed them on the washboards,” Chee said. “They are at least twenty minutes out. What’s up?”

  “I understand you were the one who reported something suspicious out here,” Cordova said. “You and your cute wife.”

  Chee said, “A woman we met at the campground had heard something that bothered her.” He retold the story, searching his memory for Karen’s exact words against the current of jealousy Cordova raised in him. “Karen’s driving a white Camry, probably 2012. Colorado plate. She’s the one you guys need to talk to.”

  Cordova asked questions about the argument story, focusing on descriptions. Chee remembered Karen describing a person in a hat running along the trail after the gunshot.

  “Did she know if the person who left was a woman?”

  Chee said, “I think she figured they were both women. But from her description, it could have been a boy. No deep voices involved.”

  Cordova laughed. “For once, we get a break. Ever notice how some women blame all the evils of the world on men? At least, my wife does.

  “Karen Dundee is your witness’s full name,” Cordova continued. “We tracked her from her campground registration and eventually found her son in Denver, who said she was planning to go to Grand Canyon next. Evidently she’s the only person in America without a cell phone. The highway patrol is tracking down the car.”

  “Why did you call me out here? We could have talked about all this on the radio.”

  “Two reasons.” Cordova took in the view. Put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. “The bureau is trying to be more sensitive to Native American issues, to work with the Navajo Police and other tribal law enforcement more closely. Chaco is surrounded by the reservation. Since you two called the body to our attention, it made sense for you to be the liaison in case any Native jurisdictional issues are involved.”

  He smiled at Chee. “I hear you’re a good tracker. That could help here, too. And since we’re both working that Leaphorn case, I figured we could get better acquainted.”

  Cordova gestured toward the spot where Chee had seen him crouching. “I noticed some footprints in the sand here. Snapped a photo of them. I’ve seen others like them up here, too. Take a look.”

  Chee squatted close to the print. Different from the swirly one. Of course, he thought, this is a hiking trail. If he searched hard enough he could probably find dozens of different prints, an encyclopedia of shoe soles. Should he be grumpy about being stereotyped as an Indian scout, or complimented that the FBI was asking for his help?

  Cordova gazed south toward the vast country, dotted with unexcavated ruins. “When the office got the call from park security that they’d found the body, the ranger here suggested that it might be suicide. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think this was suicide. Maybe Dorky Hat . . . ” Chee paused. “Karen gave the women nicknames, and Bernie and I kept them. Anyway, maybe the one in the hat was trying to talk the other woman, Long Sleeves we called her, out of killing herself. Or during the argument Dorky Hat killed Long Sleeves, but not on purpose. Long Sleeves is ready to pull the trigger, Dorky Hat struggles to get the gun. It goes off, and Dorky Hat gets scared and runs. But I don’t think it was suicide.”

  “All right, then.” The way Cordova said it, Chee knew that it meant Discussion closed. Cordova led the way to the cliff side, careful to walk only on the rock. He had on dress shoes, Chee noticed, also bad for hiking.

  Cordova stopped. “Take a look at this.”

  Chee followed his gaze to the edge of the sandstone cliff. He noticed a fenced area beyond it, below on the canyon floor.

  “That’s Richard Wetherill’s grave. Have you heard of him?”<
br />
  “Probably,” Cordova said. “Remind me.”

  “He was the first person who did any excavations here. Had a trading post at Chaco, too.” Chee could see the grave marker for Wetherill inside the fence and a simple unpaved trail from the parking lot to the burial site.

  He told Cordova more about Wetherill and his wife Marietta, and about the controversy around his murder by a Navajo employee.

  When he was done, Cordova nodded. “That’s not what I wanted you to see. Notice those rocks?”

  Chee examined the honey-colored cliffs, scanning the ledges and the boulders and vertical sandstone slabs that had broken free and tumbled down centuries ago, or maybe only decades ago. Behind the cliff that created a towering natural wall for the cemetery, he saw a body wedged in the rock. “Have you been down there?”

  “Yes. She fell from up here.”

  Chee thought about how to ask what he needed to know. “You worked many suicides?”

  “I was a beat cop before I joined the feds.” Cordova’s tone was cold. “I know the difference. Animals have been at her, but this was a gunshot to the chest. Women don’t usually off themselves that way. ”

  So, Chee thought, the questions about suicide were a test. He didn’t regret showing off about Richard Wetherill as much as he had a few minutes ago.

  “Any ID?”

  “Not that I found. No suicide note either. If she had anything, the killer may have taken it. The Omega crew gets paid to deal with maggots and body parts. They might find something. But feel free to look before they get here.”

  “Why climb all the way up here to murder somebody?”

  “I’ve been considering that,” Cordova said. “Maybe these two were partners. Lovers. Long Sleeves tells Dorky Hat it’s over while they’re hiking. She has a gun because they’re camping. Spontaneous crime of passion.”

  “I like the crime-of-passion aspect,” Chee said. “There are lots of places to kill somebody out here where a body could stay for years before somebody found it. This isn’t one of them. That supports the impulsive aspect.”

  “It seems isolated enough to me,” Cordova said. “She could have been out here for months without being discovered.”

  Chee looked at the cliff side, tracing the trajectory of the fall in his mind. He saw the ledges and outcroppings where the victim’s body would have hit, bounced to hit again, and finally stopped. Cordova was right: the woman had fallen from around the place where they now stood. And he doubted the positioning was accidental. If the shooting had been elsewhere, the body would have needed a push to fall from the mesa top. At this overlook, the percussion from the chest blast would have sent it flying backward.

  “Did you notice these swirl tracks anywhere else?” Chee pointed to a track in a place where sand had blown into a slight flat place on the rock.

  “No. To tell you the truth, I didn’t see those down there.”

  “Do you remember the victim’s boots?”

  “Hikers. Leather-and-fabric combination. Smallish. I didn’t see the brand.”

  “The soles?”

  “Hmmm. I don’t recall.”

  Chee glanced down at Cordova’s dusty shoes. Expensive. The FBI paid well.

  “I’m going to snoop around a little,” he said. Chee walked along the mesa top, looking for more hollows carved out by wind and water that might hold tracks. The surface was mostly rock. He found nothing at first, then a cigarette butt, which called his attention to a small patch of sand with a partial impression of swirled sole. Then a slightly larger print, waffle sole. Then a trace of a smooth sole from a larger shoe—Cordova, not watching where he stepped.

  Chee squatted down and motioned Cordova over to the next shallow sandy basin. “You might want to get a photo of these prints, the swirl and the waffle track. The cigarette butt over there might be part of this, too.”

  “Unfiltered,” Cordova said. “Like the Camels I used to smoke.” He pointed at the swirly print. “You think this might be Dorky Hat?”

  “Could be.”

  “Interesting that little bowl is perfectly round,” Cordova said.

  “Man-made,” Chee said. “They call these pecked basins. Water collectors. They are up here because of the stone circles.” Chee moved next to some large stones. “Look for more rocks like these, and you’ll begin to see a pattern.”

  “Hmmm,” Cordova said.

  “When I was at UNM, the archaeology department was doing all sorts of work here. They think these circles had ceremonial uses. The catchment basins were for water for the people who came up here for ceremonies. Or for a ceremony that needed water.”

  Cordova said, “I think we’re done. Let me know if you have any insights.”

  A raven glided over the cliff side, and Chee watched it settle on the rocks next to where the dead woman lay. “I’ll check around down there before they move her. Keep the birds from doing any more damage.”

  Cordova said, “Make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  Chee nodded, not sure if Cordova was joking. “Is that trail we took the only way down?”

  “That’s what park security told me.”

  As he headed off, Chee smiled at the change in his mood. Without Cordova’s summons, he never would have climbed up here. It was beautiful. Sensational. He had read that farther along, past where they had stopped to look down on the body, you could see the wide roadbeds the people of Chaco built and some of the steps they’d carved into the rock. He’d have to bring Bernie here.

  After he climbed down, Chee crept along the base of the cliff face, moving toward the body, hunting for places a gun might have lodged itself. Discovering black-and-white potshards, lizard tracks, elk droppings. Even having seen the woman from the mesa, he had trouble finding her until he drew close enough for the unforgettable smell of death to lead the way. He heard a vehicle on the road and saw the black SUV parking near the Wetherill cemetery. Chee hurried.

  His approach up into the boulder field scared the raven onto a pile of rocks. It perched, keeping an eye on him, biding its time. Chee neared the body, hoping for tracks and finding a few spots that held the three-toed impressions left by ravens, some coyote paw prints, and the ropelike path of a snake. He saw no shoe or boot tracks, no sign that whoever killed her had climbed down to make sure she was dead.

  The victim would have been about five foot three, Chee figured. And as well as he could determine, she was dead when she fell.

  He filled his lungs with fresh air and pulled his shirt over his nose to help with the smell. He walked to where the victim’s cheeks, eyes, lips, and nose would have been. Predators love soft tissue. He noticed brown hair with gray at the temples. A glint of light caught his eye, something on the wrist reflecting the sun. He pushed the shirtsleeve away with the toe of his boot. Beneath it, a wide silver bracelet. Sand-cast with a heart design. He bent over the corpse to see the bottom of her boots. Waffle soles. A common pattern, but her feet seemed to be the right size to match the tracks on the mesa top.

  He straightened up, took several long strides away from the body. Grabbed a breath of fresher air as he scanned the area, surveying the slope that angled below her. No backpack or wallet had worked its way loose during the flight down the cliff face. No weapon.

  Chee took the trail back the way he had come, feeling the heat of the sun through his shirt and the sweat beneath his hat. He tried to calm his roiling stomach, forget the sight of what had once been a human face. The old ones advised staying away from the dead, and he agreed with the soundness of this ancient wisdom every time the job brought him together with someone like Long Sleeves.

  Chee heard the voices and saw the hazard jackets of the Omega crew. As they came closer, he noticed a familiar face, a retired cop he knew from Farmington.

  “Hey, Jim Chee,” the man said. “Hot day for a hike.”

  “Right,
” Chee said. “Bad place for a body.”

  “Is there a good place?”

  Back at the parking lot he found Cordova sitting in his car, engine running. Chee felt the cool rush of his air-conditioning when the FBI man rolled down the window.

  “Anything else?”

  “You might want to check in those rocks a bit to the right, up from the body,” he said. “One of those fancy water bottles. Hasn’t been there long enough to get sunburned. Might help with the ID.”

  “Okay,” Cordova said.

  “Her boots probably made the waffle prints you photographed.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “She’s wearing a bracelet.” Chee described it.

  “Like the one Bernie saw?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Thanks for coming out today,” Cordova said. “This gal might have been the one who shot Leaphorn.”

  Chee’s Navajo Police unit was stifling, hotter even than the air outside. He left the doors open a minute, then climbed onto the scorching seat, started the engine, turned the air-con up full blast, and rolled down the windows. He drove with the wind blowing away recollections of the rancid odor of death. He stopped at the visitor center for a drink of water and to say hello to Wakara, the park’s head of security, a Ute from near Cortez, and tell him what he’d learned.

  Wakara said, “The drought has meant more dead elk around here. Without you and Bernie, we might have figured that was drawing the birds. Not a dead person.”

  Chee called Largo from Wakara’s office.

  “So, all the feds need to do is ID the body and then figure out why this white woman would want to shoot Leaphorn,” Largo said.

  “That’s what Wakara said, too,” Chee told him. “Piece of cake.”

  “Tell him hello for me,” Largo said. “By the way, we got the results of two of those background checks you wanted. Collingsworth and Friedman or Friedman-Bernal?”