by John Turney
“Yep. All kinds of things. History. Biographies. Religious and political stuff. Fiction. Classics. Shakespeare: ‘Away, and mock the time with fairest show: false face must hide what the false heart doth know.’ Macbeth. I’ve even read all yours, Iona. I liked the line, ‘Punk, you got two choices, and they both end in your death.’ Can’t wait for the next Charlie Spikes book. Will it be out soon?”
Rye blinked in disbelief. “Okay, then. Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Not ’til I came upon that there dead body. And the way it spooked them sheep gave me the heebie-jeebies. I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
Rye touched the dog tags under his shirt. For some reason, Johnny being spooked didn’t sit well with him. He’d never seen the man frightened. Yet, for the briefest of seconds, he watched fear peek around Batts’ façade.
“So there’s really not anything you can tell me about last night?”
Batts looked skyward in thought, his mouth twitching back and forth. “Nope. Not last night. But yesterday ’bout noon, Richard List drives up here in his purty white limo and wants to know if my property is for sale. I told him no, and he acted all put out. Offered me twice what it’s worth. But I ain’t selling. This land has been in my family since before the Civil War. Told him to get lost.”
Rye waited for Batts to continue.
“List had some other dude with him. A Mexican fella. Thought it odd …”
“Why odd?” Rye asked.
“Well, he’s dressed all in black. Had these tattoos on one forearm. His eyes spooked me. Dead eyes, void of human decency. And he had a couple of passengers in the back section with him.”
“Go on.”
“Didn’t see much, ’cause of the angle of the car and all. But I heard voices. Women. Young girls really, you know how they giggle.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yep. I hate that fat pig. Him and his flunky, Jilt, threw my brother in jail. The next morning, my brother turns up dead. Yeah, I hate that mother. And I don’t cotton to him using up them little girls. Just ain’t right.”
Rye tapped his lips with a forefinger. Something stinks bad. Real bad.
CHAPTER 5
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Rye closed his office door and leaned against it. Not the morning he envisioned when he woke up. The kind of morning that makes you age fast.
His cell phone ring-toned, Only God (Could Stop Me Loving You) by Emerson Drive. His mind flashed to the morning he had his son program that ringtone into his cell. “So you’ll know when mommy calls,” Manny had told Rye, handing back the phone. So I could ignore her calls when I hit the bars. He regretted that notion now.
He unsnapped his cell from its holster. Rye stared at the number and caller name on the screen. Dee.
Rye turned his gaze on the stack of three boxes in the corner, his personal effects still unpacked. He resented them as a symbol for his failed marriage, preferring those memories remain boxed.
The phone’s ringtone died. A second later, the song repeated. His heart ached to talk to her, yet his finger refused to push the green answer button. He closed his eyes. Just to hear her voice again. Just to know that she and Manny are okay.
Before the ringtone silenced, Rye pushed the answer button. “Dawlsen here.” He walked over to his desk.
“Oh. Rye.”
He sighed with relief. It’s the sweet Dee. The girl he fell in love with before he ruined things between them.
“I thought we were going to play phone tag.”
He ached to tell her how good her voice sounded. “Sorry. It’s been a tough morning. What’cha need?” He winced at the coldness of his voice.
“Just wanted to give you a heads up. Manny has a karate meet this Saturday. He’s going for his green belt. Manny would really like you to be there. The meet is at the Phoenix Convention Center. Starts at nine.” Despite her gentle tone, he heard the ever-present accusatory tone. “Furthermore,” Dee continued, “we’d both appreciate it if you could manage to…uh…come sober for once, Rye … please. Just this one time, come sober. For your son. He misses his father something fierce. He talks about the times you took him to the shooting range as if they happened yesterday. I don’t want him remembering the come-home-falling-down drunk dad.”
Suspicions confirmed. She couldn’t get past his drinking.
“Email me the directions.”
Silence oozed from her end of the connection. Seconds dragged by. Rye began to think she’d hung up. Wouldn’t be the first time. Then she sighed and said, “Okay.”
“I want you to know, Manny comes first—”
“He hasn’t in the past,” she snapped back.
“Dee, we’ve been through this. I admit it. I’m a big-time screw-up. I know that. You know it. Manny knows it ’cause you drive it into his skull. All our friends in Tucson know it.”
“Rye, that’s not fa—” she tried to interrupt.
“Let me finish, will you?” He went silent, clenching the phone in a fist. “I will do my dead-level best to be there. Sober. But—things just happened around here. Last night we had a break-in at Whiskey’s museum. Then an attempted armed robbery in our diner put one of my officers out of commission for a couple of days. Finally, I just got back from investigating a brutal murder under suspicious circumstances.”
“What suspicious circumstances?”
Rye smiled. Ahhh, the reporter in her smells a story. If I play my cards right, I can use her interest to open the door to reconciliation and …
No.
In a heartbeat, guilt heated his neck straight up to his cheekbones. Despite their issues, he could never play her that way. Even if it made things more difficult for him, Rye would be straight with her. If he ever hoped for a reunion, she deserved that much from him.
“Sorry. I can’t go into details now, only because I haven’t had time to review the crime scene data.” He reached across his desk and scooted the lone-framed photo—of Dee and Manny—so he could view it better.
“Okay,” she said, resignation in her voice. “I don’t have to like it, but I won’t press you for details … at least not right now. But three crimes in Whiskey in 24 hours? That’s beyond coincidental.”
Rye studied the photo, staring at Dee’s face. He traced her jaw with the light caress of a finger. “If you were any other reporter, I’d tell you to go pound sand … okay … what I am about to tell you goes no further than us.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “It’s weird, and I don’t want to spook folks. I don’t rightly believe this myself … but what do you know about Navajo Skinwalkers?”
“Skinwalkers!” she said with a laughing snort. “That’s an Indian myth. Don’t tell me the Navajo side of you believes this nonsense. There’s no such thing as a Skinwalker.”
“Yeee-ah. That’s what I thought too … until this morning.”
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Rye watched the prisoner through the one-way window to the interrogation room. The Mexican male yanked at the chains connecting him to the metal table. A light sheen of perspiration touched his forehead. He shot wide-eyed glances around the room.
Next to Rye stood Noah Whitewolf, his dark eyes fixated upon the prisoner as well. Without a word, he handed Rye a manila folder. Rye opened it and flipped through pages of various police reports that had nothing to do with their detainee. And behind the reports waited a couple of photos of the diner. A grin cracked Rye’s face. Hopefully, the folder would make the perp think they had a lot on him.
“This man’s not a happy camper,” Rye said, holding up the manila folder. “And with this, I intend to ratchet up his discomfort.”
Whitewolf nodded, his mouth a grim crease. Something ate at his officer, and Rye had learned to trust Whitewolf’s instincts. The man not only tracked human predators across the Sonoran Desert, he interpreted the human psyche as if they were footprints on a person’s face. And he was doing it now.
“What do
you read from him?” Rye asked.
Noah turned his eyes upon Rye then stared back at the prisoner. “He has the face of a man expecting a coyote-like ghost to come back from death and avenge a horrible wrong. He lives in a prison far stronger than any we could put him in.” He turned to regard Rye. “This man fears something or someone very much.”
“Perhaps he knows our killer.”
Whitewolf rested a hand upon Rye’s shoulder. “The terror in his heart will keep his mouth from telling you what haunts him. You can only open his mouth by surmounting his fears.”
Rye nodded and trudged towards the door to the interrogation room. “Whitewolf, if you hear anything from the Yuma crime scene guys, let me know immediately. It’ll probably be days before they get us anything.” He shrugged. “But you never know.”
Whitewolf tapped a fingertip on the glass, pointing at the prisoner. “While you’re doing that, I’ll run his tats through FBI’s NCIC and Arizona’s DPS. I’m thinking he’s cartel.”
“Good. The tats might tell us which one.” Rye took a deep breath and slid into his game face.
A gray metal table separated two abused chairs. The prisoner hunched over in the chair on his side of the table. The temperature bordered on uncomfortably warm. Rye wrinkled his nose at the stench of sweat and panic.
Rye slapped the folder on the table. The prisoner jumped then exchanged combative glances with Rye, who plopped into the second chair and spent several seconds rotating the folder to be perpendicular to the table’s edge. The prisoner studied the folder.
“I’m going to record this conversation,” Rye said, pulling a recorder from his pants pocket. “If that’s okay with you.” Not waiting for an answer, he centered it on the table and took a few more seconds to adjust its location. Rye leaned forward and turned on the recorder.
“This is Chief of Police Rye Dawlsen of the Whiskey Police Department. I am interviewing a UDA on the morning of June 30th.”
Rye remained quiet, watching the prisoner fidget in the silence. He picked up the folder and leaned back, pretending to read its contents.
“Not good,” Rye muttered, flipping back and forth between pages. He stopped and stared over the top of the folder at the man. “¿Habla Ingles?”
“Poco,” the prisoner said. “Some.”
Rye continued the pretense of reading the content in the folder. Whitewolf had included a page of Navajo jokes, and Rye forced himself not to smile. Rye withdrew photos of the diner and slid them across the table for the suspect to see. They were generic pictures of the diner, from a health inspection during the spring. But the suspect wouldn’t know that, and Rye hoped his ploy would play into the man’s fears.
“¿Por qué?” Rye tapped the photos. “Why?”
The suspect looked down, finding a sudden interest in the tiled floor.
Rye smacked the table with the flat of his hand. The man started, but refused to look up.
“Look at me!” Rye demanded.
The man raised his head and glared at him.
“You’re not a US citizen.” Rye’s words snapped like canvas in a desert wind. “Nonetheless, I’m going to read you your Miranda rights. Just to cover all my bases.” He pulled out his card, read the words printed there, and tossed the card on the table. “And it’s on the recording. Now answer my questions, or I’ll check out your papers.”
The prisoner remained silent.
“Before we go any further, would you like some water? Coffee? Coke? A candy bar?”
The prisoner leaned back in his chair, maintaining a tough guy sneer.
“I’ll take that to be a no.” Rye locked eyes with the prisoner. “Let’s start with something simple. Was that beat-up pickup yours?” He set the folder on the table for the prisoner to ponder its contents. Rye stood to loom large over the sitting man.
The prisoner maintained his silent glare. Rye strode to the solitary door and leaned his back against it, lifting one leg so the sole of the boot rested against the door. Rye folded his arms, never taking his gaze off the prisoner. Rye did this to suggest to the prisoner that WPD provided the only way to freedom. To himself, Rye counted off a hundred “cold beers” before he proceeded.
“Just to let you know, we’ve seized that truck as part of this investigation. The Yuma crime scene people will conduct a rigid investigation on that vehicle. Are there things you don’t want them to find? Like, hidden drugs; old bloodstains; DNA from a pre-teen girl? They’ll search for soil samples … easy enough on that rolling rust bucket. You want them to locate where you’re from and where you’ve been? Care to answer any of those questions?”
Silence.
Rye gestured. “Hey. Feel free to jump in at any time. It may make all the difference to whether we send you home as a prisoner. If so, I’ll make sure the Mexican police know you squealed like a rusted bearing.”
More silence. However, Rye thought he detected a hint of worry in the man’s eyes. Let’s raise this up a notch. He pulled the photo from the murder scene out of his pocket. Holding it by the edges, Rye held it out for the prisoner to see it. He walked it over to the table and set it before the man.
“Do you know these people?” Rye tapped two fingers twice on the picture.
The prisoner lifted a casual could-care-less glance at the photo. His eyes twitched open, and he jerked back violently in his chair as if to escape from the print. He paled for a brief second, and his hands shook. The prisoner began tugging at his chains in a wild-eyed attempt at escape.
A chill seeped down Rye’s spine. Supporting himself with one hand, Rye leaned on the table and shoved the photo into the guy’s face. “Who are they?”
The prisoner opened his mouth then clamped it shut. He stared into Rye’s eyes and shook his head.
A tough nut, but that photo’s got him spooked. And he’s starting to freak me out.
Raising his voice some, Rye continued, “Here’s the deal. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories how US lawmen beat the snot out of their Mexican prisoners.” Not true, but Rye let the man’s mind fill in the blanks. “Soon, another officer will enter this room and join me.” Rye hoped Noah had returned from his database search.
“Amigo,” Rye said, “you are in some serious trouble. Serio lodo. We have you,” Rye used one hand to count the crimes on his fingers, “for attempted armed robbery, public menacing, eluding capture, and injury to an officer of the law. And I think I can get the judge to agree that ugly truck of yours breaks some city ordinance. More charges are pending further investigation. However, we have a little hitch. We don’t know your name. You carry no ID. No driver’s license. No vehicle registration. Nada. Nothing. And you refuse to speak to me. I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Got that?” Rye paused, and the man refused to acknowledge him. “I. Said. DID YOU GET THAT?”
The man jumped in his chair and scowled at Rye.
“Okay,” Rye said, releasing a sigh. “Let’s start with the basics. Tell me your name.”
The prisoner glowered at Rye. “Americano, you can go to hell and burn your soul there forever.” His Spanish accent was heavy and hard to understand.
“Gee, now that is what I call an intelligent response.” Rye put his fists on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”
“You can’t scare me—”
“If that’s how you want to play this, then I’ll choose a name for you. I bet when your madre first saw you she said, ‘I have given birth to an idiota.’” The prisoner started to come out of the chair, but the chains around his waist and feet restrained him.
Rye remained outwardly calm at the man’s outburst. Inside, he knew he got to him. Finally. “So I’ll call you …” Rye paused glancing at the ceiling as if the answer waited in the yellowing acoustic tiles. Rye snapped his fingers. “Got it! Idiota. I dub you Idiota. Whenever you care to tell me your real name, then I will discontinue using the nickname. Besides, we’re running a trace on your fingerprints. If something turns
up, like an earlier deportation to Mexico or a prior arrest—I will know your given name.”
With his lips curling in a snarl, the detainee spat out, “You’re a dead man, cop. When he finds out—”
Rye smacked the table. “WHO IS ‘HE’? Care to elaborate, Idiota? I don’t know this individual. Give me his name. I can pay him a little visit. Work things out. You know, drink a little beer. Chat a little bit. Tell him you’re singing like a scalded canary.”
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders again, but not before dread flashed through his eyes. “No. I’m just an—”
The door swung, and Whitewolf stood in the entrance. His western hat hung low, and his mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. It never ceased to amaze Rye how imposing the Apache could be when he wanted. Whitewolf stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a resounding click. Scowling, Whitewolf ambled over to the open chair, turned the chair backwards—metal screeching against tile—and eased his frame into it. He leaned forward to invade the Mexican’s space.
The prisoner leaned backwards as far as the chains would allow.
“This creep is here illegally,” Whitewolf said, his voice low and menacing. “I say let’s turn him over to I.C.E.”
Idiota shot rapid glances between the two cops. “I want a—”
“I don’t care what you want,” Rye snapped. He walked around behind the man. “You tell us what we want before I give a rat’s tail about what you want. What’s your name?”
The Mexican shook his head.
Rye leaned in closer and said, “Okay, Idiota, try this one on. Did you steal from the museum? Did you kill someone last night? ANSWER ME.”
The man’s brow wrinkled. He looked confused. “I … I … I kill no one.”
“So you were at the museum?”
The man hesitated. “Wh … what museum?”
Rye circled around to the front of the man and folded his arms across his chest. “Here’s what I think. You broke into our museum, stole a couple of artifacts, tried to sell them to your mysterious friend. You know, in the canyon where we found him butchered. When the deal turned bad, you killed him. Then you went to the diner to enjoy a breakfast. I think you’re here illegally. Am I right?”