by John Turney
Rye waited a few seconds before responding. “Don’t worry about it. If needed, I can get a search warrant.” He pointed with his camera to the fourth display. “Come here and look at this case. What do you see?”
Iona peered at it for a microsecond and said, “Fingerprint smudges. You could have figured that one out.”
Rye rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the detailed input. I’ll remember to look for that next time. What’s in the case?”
Iona looked at the nameplate, then at Rye. “Dear, are your eyes going bad that you can’t read? It’s a display of the only known Mexican Skinwalker. Come on, Rye. Spill it. What’s on your mind?”
“For one, it’s the only case on the wall with fingerprint smudges.”
Rye’s Have You Forgotten ringtone sounded. He freed his cell phone from its belt holster. “Dawlsen, here.”
“Are there any bodies at the museum,” began Gabby, “because if there is then I need to contact the coroner—”
“Whoa, girl. This is a burglary not a murder. What do you got for me?”
“Two calls just came in. First, the mayor. He sounded like his shorts got twisted up his fat—”
“Enough, Gabby, I don’t need any more detail.” Mayor Richard List. Comes from old Arizona ranching money. Lives in that four story glass monstrosity built into the side of a cliff. A self-serving politician if I ever saw one.
“Yeah … well … I wouldn’t want to be the one returning his call. That’s why you get paid the big buckeroos, Chief.”
“And the second caller?”
“Johnny Batts. He sounded … upset, but failed to give me any reason for why. Just said, quote, ‘I want to talk to the Chief. ASAP.’ Unquote. I think he’s been out in the sun too long. Town gossip is that he isn’t completely right in—”
“Thanks, Gabby. Bye.” He shut off his cell phone.
Both calls promised a bad day. A twinge of a headache forced his left eye closed. Yep, the desert’s gonna play ugly.
<><><><><><><><><><>
“Mayor? Chief Dawlsen here. You called?”
“Chief Dawlsen?” Richard List’s fake sincerity leaked through the cell phone like a slow sewer. “Glad you got back with me.”
Whatever. “I always do. What is it?”
“All business. I like that in the chief of police of my town.”
His town! Yet, Rye hated to admit the veracity of the mayor’s statement. The List family owned most of the bars, some of the stores, and much of the ground the city was built on. And the mayor let everyone know it. Rye pressed his lips together. Silence made people antsy to fill in the quiet. Seconds ticked by.
The mayor cleared his throat. “I called because I heard you threw a Mexican citizen into jail this morning. I want to know why.”
News travels fast. “Yes, sir. This particular Mexican male threatened customers in a local business, causing panic, and then he resisted arrest.”
The mayor’s restrained sigh came over the phone. “Don’t stonewall me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The mayor’s fake sincerity vanished, replaced by an arctic tone.
Rye didn’t reply. Instead, he scanned the shadowbox using a grid pattern similar to investigating a crime scene.
A sigh. “Chief?” A pause. “Is it too much to ask for some detail?”
“Mayor.” A pause. “I’m currently investigating a break-in at the Navajo Museum.”
“Stop screwing with me,” the mayor spat. “No one gives a hoot about that outhouse.”
“Look,” Rye snapped back. “To maintain the integrity of an investigation and not lose the case on a technicality, I have to maintain control over a case’s information.”
The mayor cursed. “Just tell me what you got.”
“If you insist …” Rye replied in a deadpan monotone. “Officer Reese responded to a call this morning about a disturbance at the Drive-In Diner. The Mexican male in question had shown a gun to the girl working the cash register. In the process of Officer Reese’s effort at detaining him, the alleged robber escaped to the parking lot where he was apprehended. He carried no ID, and has refused to give us his name.”
“That’s it?” Rye thought he heard relief in the mayor’s voice. “Your officers do Whiskey proud. May I call you Rye? I think we got off on the wrong foot with this conversation.”
“Yeah … about that … this conversation started off on the wrong foot months ago. And may I call you Dick?”
“I’d prefer you called me Richard.” The brief pause between each word added to the sudden icy tone in the mayor’s voice.
“Okay, Dick. I’ll call you Richard, Dick. And I prefer you refer to me as Chief.”
There was silence on the phone. A smirk formed on Rye’s lips as he imagined the mayor struggling to control his anger.
The mayor cleared his throat, waited a second, and said, “I want that Mexican prisoner released. This morning. Consider it a favor.” List paused. “One that will allow you to keep your job.”
Rye’s jaw twitched. How dare this pompous douche bag threaten my job. “The man stays under arrest pending further investigation.”
More silence.
List cleared his throat and said in a frigid tone, “Come to my office. We will negotiate a release.”
“No deal. No release. No way.” Just then, a detail in the Skinwalker photo caught Rye’s search.
“Listen, Dawlsen.” Something shattered in the background on List’s end. “I need this man released. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“No, you listen … Dick. As Chief of Police, I have a sworn duty to protect the good people of Whiskey. I intend to perform that task. Whiskey will be off limits to criminals. I have reason to believe your man’s tied to a Mexican cartel. Officer Reese is on his way to Yuma Medical due to injuries received during the apprehension of your … acquaintance.”
“Nice speech,” List sneered. “Just release the man into my custody.”
“Forget it.”
“Chief Rye Dawlsen, are you listening to me?”
“Mayor, I’m investigating the scene of a crime. I have to go.”
With the mayor’s protests ringing in the phone, Rye ended the conversation and returned the phone to his belt clip. What is it about that photo?
Then he spotted what nagged his subconscious.
CHAPTER 4
WEDNESDAY, 9:15 AM
“Look carefully. Give that photo a good once over,” Rye told Iona.
In the sepia-tinted picture, a man stood on a rocky ledge, snow-covered Superstition Mountains behind him. That meant winter or early spring. The subject wore all black clothing and a duster. Cold, detached eyes peered out from under the brim of his worn-down western hat. A feather jutted from the hatband. Wrinkles like canyons lined his Aztec facial features, indicative of Mexican lineage. One hand carried a shield close to his chest. The other hand held up a square amulet.
“What is it?” she said, her eyes moving while she scanned the words. Her gaze returned to the photo. “Besides the smudges, what’s so important?”
“I saw that man this morning.”
“Youuu … did?” she said, her inflection rising on the second word. “According to the plaque, a Navajo medicine man discovered that this man was a Skinwalker and called him on it.” She pointed at the Skinwalker. “The guy died three days later.”
“I can read, thank you. But I did see this man this morning at the diner. Look close.”
Iona leaned in to study the photo. “Oh my …” She glanced at the shattered case then back at the picture. She pointed. “Could that be the missing feather that’s in his hat. And … and that’s the shield.”
“Right on both accounts. See the amulet in the man’s hand?” He pointed at it. “It’s hard to tell in the photo, but it appears to be the same size and shape of our third missing item.”
With one eyebrow raised, Iona studied him for several seconds. Doubt tinted her words. “You saying we
got ourselves a real live Skinwalker?”
“I’m not saying any such thing. Right now, I’m just turning over some rocks to see what crawls out from underneath them.” Rye tapped the glass over the photo. “But this man was at our crime scene this morning.”
Iona sighed. “This’ll make great copy. I can see the headline.” She motioned with her hand. “Dead Skinwalker Haunts Arizona Town.”
“Forget the tabloids. He’s not dead, and he’s not haunting.” Rye shrugged. “Ugly maybe, but definitely not dead.”
“Perhaps I oughta kick over some journalistic rocks of my own.”
“Just be careful. Something about this whole business reeks of donkey dung.”
“What did List have to say?”
Rye detailed the conversation while she shook her head, fists on her hips. “Perhaps I oughta kick over his rocks,” she said
Rye laughed. “Now I have to return Johnny Batts’ call. Gabby said he sounded agitated.”
Iona patted his back. “A heck of a morning so far.”
“Yeah. Things are just getting warmed up, and it’s not even 10:00 yet. I can’t hardly wait to see what the afternoon brings.”
<><><><><><><><><><>
“State your piece,” Batts’ drawl came through Rye’s cell.
“Hey, Johnny, this is—”
“Yeah, I know. Seen your number pop up on the screen. Chief, you got a problem.”
After a few seconds of silence, Rye rubbed his forehead as if probing for a headache. “Go on, Johnny, I flunked mind-reading. Perhaps … a few more details …?”
A spit of hesitation then Batts said, “Discovered a body up one of them washes on my property. It ain’t a purty sight. Cut up and all.”
“Did you get a look at who it might be?” Rye touched his dog tags. Just what I need. A murder.
“I ain’t stupid, Chief. I watch CSI. I know better’n messin’ with a crime scene.” Rye couldn’t miss the agitation in Johnny’s voice. “So can you get up here? I got some sheep I need to take to pasture, and that body’s blocking the way.”
Rye stole a glance at Iona.
Batts rambled on about trespassers getting their just rewards, and Rye turned his attention back to the call.
Batts concluded, “Nuthin’ I can do ’bout a dead body. But my sheep are alive … and thirsty. That I can do sumpthin’ ’bout.”
“Okay, Johnny, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
Rye disconnected the call and speed-dialed Gabby.
“Whiskey Police Department,” she said.
“Gabby. Dawlsen, here.” Rye tilted his head, watching Iona bend over. Using tweezers, she picked up a hair from the floor and held it aloft to study it. “Listen, I need you to send someone over to the Batts’ place.”
“Whitewolf just walked in. I’m sure—”
Rye cut her off. “Send him. This takes precedence over anything else. I’m heading there now. Any more phone calls?”
“No. Just what I told Iona ’bout—”
“Sorry, Gabby, I’m not trying to be rude, but I gotta git.” He disconnected the call. “What do you got?” Rye asked Iona.
She turned the tweezers back and forth. “Just some hair. I’ll bag it. You okay? You’re sounding stressed.”
“Stressed? Me?” Rye pointed both hands at his chest. “Let’s see, an attempted armed robbery. A museum break-in. And now … a potential murder. Dee’s calling me for some reason. I had to talk to the mayor. And I still got a ton of paperwork waiting for me back at PD. No stress at all.”
“When it haboobs, it gets dusty. Now, you done venting? If not, I can recommend a good shrink.”
“There aren’t any good shrinks,” Rye said scrunching his face. “The very idea of someone tinkering inside my cranium makes me want to puke. Besides … we’re done here.”
She shot him a coy look under the brim of her hat. “So, I guess that means you’re heading off to Batts’?”
“Yep. Let’s rope off the scene of the crime.” Rye said. “I want to be at Batts’ when Whitewolf arrives.”
“You know,” Iona said, fixing one end of tape to the wall. “Helen and Terrance won’t appreciate you roping off their most popular exhibit.”
“Can’t be helped.” Rye finished tying off his end.
“So now …” She shrugged.
“A trip to Johnny Batts’ place. Care to join me?”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“We’re going to a murder scene. I don’t take dates to crime scene investigations.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face up the hallway. “However, I can use an extra set of eyes, your detective mind, and that mystery writer’s intuition of yours.”
With Iona in front of him, they headed towards the front door. Rye couldn’t help but admire her backside. She’s putting a little extra swing into her step just to tease me. I bet that’ll be the best thing I see all day.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Twenty minutes later, Rye pulled his Tahoe onto Batts’ drive, twin lines of packed dirt going up a small grade. Gravel pinged in the wheel wells. A dusty haze hung above the creosote bush-covered hill, shimmering in heat waves. Rye slowed the SUV to a crawl.
“Looks like someone got here before us,” Iona said.
“Appears that way.” Rye leaned on the steering wheel and stared at the sky through the floating grit. “You know, if there’s a body, then why aren’t there any buzzards? A fresh kill should’ve brought ’em circling.”
“Yeah,” Iona said, drawing out the word. “That’s a bit odd.”
Rye eased the Tahoe up the rutted path. “And as a former investigator who now writes mysteries, what do you make of that?”
“I write romantic whodunits,” Iona said, slouching in the passenger seat. “That genre would preclude I should know something about the feeding habits of vultures.” She paused. “However, the absence of them is like … X-Files weird.”
“Don’t go all sci-fi vampire nuts on me, Twilight Twinkle toes.” He poked her in the arm.
“Something’s keeping the birds away.” She looked at Rye. “There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
“Perhaps the birds evolved into vegans.”
They topped the hill, and Rye eased the Tahoe to a stop. Batts’ property spread out in front of them. In the valley an SUV, surrounded by a cloud of dust, weaved through the valley towards the far side. There, a log cabin and a couple of weathered outbuildings squatted on the flat summit. The hill jutting up behind the house contained the Batts’ mine.
“That’s gotta be Whitewolf,” Rye said, recognizing the WPD car.
Minutes later, Rye pulled his SUV in front of the cabin. The smell of sheep touched the air. He stepped out of the car’s AC chill, and the desert’s heat desiccated his body, dispelling any comfort he had enjoyed in the vehicle. Fetching his crime bag from the backseat, he watched Johnny Batts slide out his cabin, its door creaking loudly in the quiet. Arms folded, Batts waited on his rickety porch.
Rye studied the man. Batts folded and unfolded his arms while he shifted his feet back and forth like a bulldozer scraping topsoil. The man muttered whether he spoke to anyone or not. His thin frame hunched over from years working his mine. He wore a beat-up, sweat-stained western straw hat that saw better days years ago. Long, gray hair sprouted from under the hat like shrubby coldenia. Gray stubble coated his jaw. His sunburnt, snake-like arms swung from his sleeveless denim shirt, and the jeans he wore had more patches than denim.
Batts ambled over to them, puffs of dust kicking up at his boot heels. “Chief,” Batts acknowledged him with a mumble.
“Johnny.”
Noah Whitewolf got out of his patrol car and approached them, carrying his own crime scene case. The officer wore a pristine western hat of the WPD, and his shiny black hair spilled out to his shoulders in a perfect stream. The officer’s shirt and jeans had been duly cleaned and ironed. A silver bracelet with turquoise stone
s and his Chiricahua moccasins hinted at his Apache heritage. He walked with precise steps and stood with a Marine’s “at ease” stance.
“Hey, Chief,” Whitewolf said, stopping alongside Rye. “Morning, Iona.”
Iona hugged Whitewolf. “How’s your sister?” The Apache towered over Iona by at least six hand widths.
Twice, Batts spat out a sodden wad of chewing tobacco.
“She does well,” Whitewolf answered. “She’s teaching young girls our dances and—”
“Ain’t got no time fer chitchat.” Batts cut off further discussion. “I got me a ranch to attend to. Foller me.”
Rye raised an eyebrow at Batts’ brisk demeanor, but said nothing.
The miner led them with his lumbering gait as if he still walked a narrow mine tunnel. They passed a sheep pen full of bleating animals. Spits of dust kicked up with each animal’s movement.
“I need this cleaned up quick so as I can pasture my sheep,” Batts said over his shoulder.
“And I have a crime scene to attend to,” Rye snapped. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”
Muttering about losing his animals, Batts led them down a trail that crossed another valley similar to the first. They crossed a dry creek bed and headed up another incline. At the top, a canyon opened to their view. In the distance, Rye noticed metal reflecting sunlight.
“That’s List’s place,” Batts said. “An ugly building fer one ugly man. This way.”
For several hundred yards, Batts escorted them along a path skirting the canyon rim. Rye peered over the ledge. A straight drop of seven stories into more of the rocky Arizona desert.
He clenched his eyes closed as a shiver iced his spine. An impression of a bloody dagger occupied his mind’s vision with its gory image.
“Chief? You okay?” Whitewolf gripped Rye’s shoulder. “Chief?”
“Yeah.” He licked his lips again. “I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”
The path led into a split in the wall.
“Body’s up thatta way some.” Batts pointed up the canyon. “I did some investigatin’—without disturbing the scene mind you—and there’s tire tracks down the hill some.” Batts took off his straw hat and ran a hand through his wire-brush hair. “Stupid sheep wouldn’t come out of the cut. Stood there just bleatin’ their complaints. That’s when I noticed the body.”