The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  “You’re suggesting the murderer was freaked out on crack or LSD? Is that why he butchered…”

  Simpson discussed murder the way a gardener discussed compost. “Could be he was freaked out. Could also be that he was sober as a Mormon; could have been an argument over drugs. Sometimes, when a deal goes sour, the doper cuts the victim up as a warning. Keeps the other troops in line and all that.”

  “You think the Song girl might have been part of this campus drug ring we keep hearing about?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe she was a DEA undercover agent and the Mexican made her. On the other hand, perhaps the girl was working on a new designer drug. There’s been a persistent story about something like that making the rounds of the campus rumor mill. There’s serious money in that kind of business; maybe this Mexican had a deal to buy the formula from the girl. Maybe she changed her mind or maybe she was unsuccessful and he thought she was holding out. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You’re the investigator; go out and investigate. You tell me, then we’ll both know.”

  Parris bowed his head and closed his eyes. A murder that had initially seemed so simple was now becoming complex. That was bad news for the prosecution. Any defense attorney worth his pay would pick at every tiny inconsistency to raise doubts in the minds of the jury about the most inconsequential matters the prosecution couldn’t explain. He felt sad for himself, sad for the victim. He had an impulsive urge to pray for all of the Priscilla Songs in the world, even for the world itself.

  He looked up at the coroner. “Why strangle and stab the victim? After he’d broken her jaw, why not simply strangle her? And the screwdriver … it doesn’t make sense to leave a murder weapon behind. It’s not something a pro would do.”

  “Maybe he heard Slocum’s siren and lost his cool. Even professionals panic and screw up. The very thought of Piggy carrying a loaded revolver should frighten all of us.” Simpson frowned as he removed his rubber gloves and stepped on the lever to raise the top on the stainless steel wastebasket. “You can never tell what they’ll do or why. We had one in Denver, back in ’sixty-eight, where this hobo beat his traveling buddy to death with a frying pan, then carved his Social Security number on his victim’s chest. He was picked up the same day.”

  “What about the screwdriver,” Parris asked, “any decent prints?”

  “Had a look with my reading glass; lifted two good latents. Made enlargements and faxed them to the FBI last night. If they match anything on file, you should have the results in a couple of days. The murder weapon is over there”—Simpson pointed toward a brown paper bag on the floor—“along with fingernail scrapings, victim’s hair samples, stomach contents, and originals of the fingerprints.”

  “We lifted prints from Pacheco’s apartment and truck,” Parris said. “We’ll compare them to the latents on the screwdriver. Leggett’s requesting prints from everyone who works in the building where she died.”

  Simpson raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only been in Granite Creek a few months; you don’t know those folks at the university. They won’t like the notion of being fingerprinted. Touchy bunch, those academics.”

  Parris chuckled. “Tough cheese.”

  Walter Simpson sighed. “If I was young again, I might take up police work. Wear a smart uniform, blow my siren at pretty girls, eat jelly doughnuts. Wait for the friendly medical examiner to explain what happened. Yessir, sounds like the soft life, all right.”

  The chief started to respond to this, but he was tired of conversation. He planned to sleep at least eight hours before he left for the Thorpe Ranch. Parris gingerly picked up the paper bag that contained the instrument of murder. He had already turned for the door when he remembered. “Almost forgot. My boys found another body for you a couple of hours ago. Some old rancher from south of town. Lone Pine. He’s been hit pretty hard, too.”

  “Who is he?” Simpson had been around long enough to have lots of friends.

  “Sikes,” Parris said, “don’t remember his first name.”

  This was evidently not one of the medical examiner’s friends. “Well, that’s another fat fee from the county. If this cash flow keeps up, I’ll be able to take down my shingle and retire to the fishing hole in a year or so.” Simpson’s eyes twinkled as he looked accusingly at his friend. “How come I haven’t had a homicide victim to look at in over three years and now I have two in as many days? You gonna put a stop to this crime spree, or should I hire an assistant to help with the work load?”

  Parris rubbed his chin thoughtfully and realized he hadn’t shaved in two days. “Looks like it was Pacheco again; he took the dead man’s pickup. Leggett made plaster casts of some boot prints at the scene; they’re a good match to the ones the Mexican left on the lawn at the university when he was dodging Slocum’s bullets. We sent the description of the stolen truck to every cop within six hundred miles. If Pacheco’s smart, he’ll ditch the pickup first chance and steal something else. We’ll either have the bastard in custody within forty-eight hours or we’ll never catch him. He’ll disappear in Mexico or one of the big Latino neighborhoods in L.A. or Dallas.”

  The chief headed for the door but was halted by Simpson’s voice.

  “You didn’t ask me if there was anything unusual about the corpse, so I guess you prefer to wait and read it in the written report.”

  Parris wheeled and grimaced with mock anger. “What are you holding out on me, you old coot? Did she have the Mexican’s identity bracelet in her hand?”

  Doc chuckled. “No such luck for you, copper. But she did have something else. There were two abrasions in the roof of her mouth. Never seen anything quite like it on a corpse before. Another thing—I found traces of a white adhesive material between her breasts; looks like she might have had something taped there.”

  * * *

  Parris was backing out of Simpson’s driveway when his radio crackled to life. It was Clara Tavishuts. He keyed the microphone. “Car Six here. What’s the problem, Clara?”

  “Chief? Been trying to get you. Why don’t you answer your calls? You ought to wear that beeper when you’re away from the car, or at least tell me where you’re going to be…”

  Parris was tired and somewhat annoyed. “I will not wear an infernal beeper on my belt, and I don’t want to be getting telephone calls everywhere I stop. Get to the point. I’m going home for some shut-eye.”

  “Better stop by the station first. You have a visitor and she’s been parked here for a couple of hours.” When Parris heard who his visitor was, he was both pleased and worried. It was a special lady he had wanted to meet, but someone who could be a royal pain under the present circumstances.

  Parris saw her as soon as he entered the station door. She was sitting, with her long legs crossed, on one of the hideous green vinyl couches that flanked the entry hall. Before she looked up, he paused, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and checked to see that his dark blue shirt was neatly stuffed into his trousers. He sucked his gut in and walked through the swinging glass doors into her presence. The woman was stunningly beautiful. When she heard his footsteps, she turned her head. Long red hair rippled in shimmering waves around her shoulders. He wondered whether the ivory color of her skin was accomplished with makeup, but he preferred to believe that it was natural. The slender woman smiled as she retrieved a small purse and got to her feet. Parris’s heart skipped a beat and he felt foolish. He also felt ten years younger. He removed a glove and accepted her small hand as she introduced herself. Her hand was warm and soft; he held it in his grasp for a moment longer than proper etiquette would have deemed appropriate.

  Her voice was smooth and sweet; milk and honey. “I’m Anne Foster. I work for the newspaper.”

  There was the least hesitation before he found his voice. “I know who you are. Read your column every Sunday. Your picture’s right by it.” He groaned inwardly; it was a safe bet she knew that. “You write … uh … pretty good.” That sounded lame. He wanted to bite his tongue, but she didn’t seem to notice that the n
ew chief of pclice was uneasy in her presence. Or perhaps she did.

  She flashed a dazzling smile and he was completely disarmed. “It’s very sweet of you to say so.” Parris grinned like an idiot and didn’t care. Very sweet indeed!

  When she got no response from the grinning chief of police, Anne took him by the arm and guided him as if he were slightly tipsy. “May we talk somewhere more private, Chief?” When he seemed disoriented, she led him to his office. As he opened his office door, Parris noticed Clara Tavishuts peeking over her radio console. He could feel his pulse thumping in his neck. The Ute woman winked at him suggestively and Parris turned blood-red as he hurried Anne inside and closed the door. Clara was definitely becoming a discipline problem, but that could wait. He hung his worn London Fog raincoat and archaic felt hat on the wall pegs while Anne made herself comfortable in a rocking chair in the corner of his office. He hardly knew what to say, but he coughed with self-consciousness and tried (with limited success) to avoid staring at her legs. Parris was almost overcome by an irrational fear that he would break wind or hiccup in her presence. He did his best to assume an official tone. “And what can I do for you, Miss Foster?”

  He was rewarded with the dazzling smile again as she smoothed her skirt. His gaze was fixed dumbly on her knees when she answered. “Considering our professions, we’ll probably be seeing lots of each other. Why don’t you call me Anne.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but his throat was suddenly dry. Parris cleared his throat and tried again. “Fine. You can call me Scott. Or Scotty.”

  He couldn’t believe what he had said. Only Helen and his father had ever called him Scotty; he hated being addressed as Scotty. He felt guilty, as if Helen’s ghost might be looking over his shoulder at this radiant woman.

  Anne began to rock ever so slightly. She was wearing a black silk skirt. It was snug around her hips. Her gray sweater was loose. “All right. Let’s see if we can do some business together,” she said, pausing deliberately, “Scotty.”

  Parris, with great effort, began to exercise control of his behavior. No woman, not even Helen, had ever had this effect on him. “What type of business … Anne?”

  She stopped rocking and leaned forward slightly. “The Song murder. It’s my job to report it and I’m having trouble getting anything useful out of your staff.”

  Aha! That was her game. It delighted him, the knowledge that he had something she wanted. “All the information is in the official record,” he lied. “Usual stuff, identity of victim, time of death, identity of suspect, the whole ball of yarn.”

  Her expression was now not quite so friendly. “I know that Priscilla Song was murdered in the physics laboratory at the university. I also know that you have an APB out for one Julio Pacheco, a university employee who turns out to be a Mexican national with faked ID and a forged green card.”

  “That’s about it. You know pretty much what I know.”

  She got up from the chair. “What I want to know, Scotty, is everything you know.” Anne Foster placed her hands flat on his desk and leaned dangerously forward. The sweater hung loosely. “I want,” she said firmly, “to see the autopsy report.”

  He answered automatically; the voice he heard seemed disconnected from himself. “The final report isn’t quite ready yet, but I’m sure the medical examiner is doing his breast.” Parris wondered why she smiled at this remark; his hands felt cold, almost numb. “You must know how particular Simpson is about crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s on his reports.”

  “I think I know what you mean.” She returned to the rocking chair and made a few shorthand entries in her notebook. “How about the police photographs of the murder scene? Those prints must be developed by now.”

  Parris unconsciously wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. “They are … but there is … uh … some evidence that we must withhold. If we’re fortunate enough to extract … I mean … get a detailed confession from Pacheco, we can’t take the chance that some smart defense lawyer will have his client recant and claim that he read about the details of the murder in your newspaper. And even though it’s unlikely out here in the boondocks where everyone is near normal, I need some way to screen out false confessions from weirdos.” Parris had now regained some of his lost composure. “You’re a pro, Miss Foster. I’m sure you’re familiar with that aspect of police procedure.”

  She scribbled more notes and smiled sweetly. Too sweetly, he thought. “You can’t blame me for trying, Chief, but whatever happened to ‘Anne’?”

  He returned the smile. “Whatever happened to ‘Scotty’?”

  “Let’s start again,” she said.

  Parris felt himself relaxing. “I’m going to give you something that’s not on the official record yet. We picked up another body earlier this afternoon. Old rancher, lived south of town near Lone Pine. We found boot prints. Looks like he was knocked off by the same guy who killed the young woman. Pacheco evidently stole the victim’s pickup truck, so now we know what to look for.” Parris assumed the most professional demeanor he could muster. “I hadn’t intended to release this until tomorrow, but I’m going to trust you with a first draft of the preliminary homicide report on the rancher.”

  He removed a document from his right-hand drawer file and slid it over the glass desk top toward Anne Foster. She dropped the report in her purse after a glance at the cover.

  “You,” she said as she brushed her fingers over his sleeve, “are not half as nasty as everyone says.” The effect of her touch was like a mild electric shock; he struggled to hide his reaction to her closeness. Her perfume … was it a fragrant marriage of lilac and honeysuckle?

  “Have to go now,” she said, “got a deadline to meet.”

  He didn’t want her to leave. “The Song girl had a will,” he offered.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Really?”

  “Left everything to some fellow in New Mexico,” Parris said. “Her boyfriend. I’m going down to break the news to him. Tomorrow.”

  “Could I possibly come along? I promise I’ll be no trouble.”

  “Twist my arm?”

  “Consider it twisted.”

  After she left, he remained very still for several minutes and tried to remember every word she had spoken, the slight nuances of expression on her lovely face. He could still sense the presence of lilac and honeysuckle. All the fatigue of the past two days had vanished like the memory of winter on a fresh spring morning. He felt like singing but suppressed the urge, determined to preserve any shreds of dignity that might be left. He suspected that everyone in the station realized how he had been so easily vanquished by this woman with the strawberry hair.

  When he finally left his office for home, he paused to speak to Clara Tavishuts. “I won’t be in tomorrow. Tell Leggett he’s acting chief. I’m off to New Mexico to see Priscilla Song’s boyfriend. I’ll fill out a travel voucher when I get back. One other thing, Clara, make a note in the log. I gave that newspaper reporter, Anne … uh … Miss Foster … a copy of the preliminary report on the Sikes homicide.”

  Clara looked up from her radio console with a puzzled expression. “Wonder why she wanted that?”

  Parris glowered at the woman. “Why shouldn’t she want it? She’s a journalist, she collects the news, and the Sikes murder is certainly news!”

  “But, Chief,” Clara responded with a knowing smile, “Piggy gave her a copy of that report while she was waiting to see you. You know Piggy,” she continued with a sparkle in her eyes, “that dumb cop’s a sucker for a pretty face.”

  * * *

  Daisy Perika trudged slowly along the rocky path at the base of Chimney Rock, her sore feet yearning for rest. The Ute woman was heading home after an afternoon digging wild potatoes. Her small basket was almost filled with the golf ball-sized tubers of Solanum jamesii. The recipe, borrowed from the Navajos, was stored in her memory. Add three pinches of salt, a bit of food clay to cover the bitter taste of the wild vegetable, boil for a half hour—they would
make a tasty supper. She paused on the shady side of a stunted oak, hung her basket on a branch, and used her digging stick to support her weight as she carefully lowered herself into a sitting position against a sandstone boulder. Daisy leaned her head against a hollow in the boulder and considered whether to scramble an egg to go with the wild potatoes. Her home in the narrow canyon was a long way from the Ignacio Shur Valu, and it would be almost two weeks before Clara would come to take her shopping; eggs must be rationed.

  Her thoughts drifted to Nahum Yaciiti. Was the old man truly dead? Armilda Esquibel insisted that she had seen his body, but then Armilda also reported she had seen angels carry him up to heaven. Charlie Moon, who had a level head, figured that Nahum was unconscious when Armilda saw him after the storm passed. The Ute policeman guessed that the old shepherd had regained consciousness and wandered away. Some among the Utes whispered that Nahum might be wandering in the badlands east of the Animas; others suspected that the old alcoholic had fallen into the river. A careful search of the area had yielded neither body nor tracks.

  No one, of course, paid the least attention to Armilda’s fantastic story about the “shining beings” that, like the Sweet Chariot, had carried Nahum’s body into the night sky. Most of the Utes considered the local Mexicans to be somewhat gullible. The priest at St. Ignatius had consulted privately with Armilda about her story, but the Jesuit was a discreet man and would not comment about his view of her incredible report.

  Only last night, Daisy had been awakened from a deep sleep by the unmistakable sound of Nahum’s Dodge pickup grinding up her dirt lane. She had distinctly heard the rumbling sound of the leaky muffler, the grinding of gears as Nahum shifted into low. When she opened her bedroom door, there was no sign of the bowlegged shepherd or his pickup. The shaman called his name. Her voice echoed back across a deep, fathomless void.

  A cool breeze wafted through the junipers; she felt so comfortable, so terribly sleepy. Within moments, Daisy was dozing peacefully, dreaming of her mother. This sweet vision was interrupted by whistling, crackling, rushing sounds. She found herself on her feet. She tried hard, very hard, not to look toward Chimney Rock. The shaman feared what she would see. Curiosity was far more compelling than common sense; she turned to take a quick look at the base of Chimney Rock. The balls of red fire were there on the talus slope—about a dozen of them? Daisy counted thirteen souls; it was a full coven. They danced around in circles, stretching into other shapes, leaping in unnatural pirouettes, whistling a rhythmic sound, blowing the dust aside in great puffs. She hid herself behind the stunted oak and, after she had taken a deep breath, used her digging stick to push a branch aside. She peered through the branches at the frightening spectacle. The fireballs would briefly change into humanlike shapes, kiss lustfully with tongues of flame, then dance away. Following these greetings, they all headed for the same destination; the spheres of fire were climbing the steep pyramidal slope toward the base of the chimney. She remembered her grandmother’s whispered warnings: The chimney was “the devil’s hitching post, a place where powerful witches gather.”