Death Along the Spirit Road

by C. M. Wendelboe

  He walked closer to the traffic stop. Over his PA system an officer commanded the shooter to toss his keys out the open window and thrust both hands out and step from the Dodge. Manny strained to see the man’s face but it was covered by a hooded sweatshirt. As he walked to the sound of the officer’s voice, the driver stumbled and fell. A shotgun slide chambered a round somewhere to Manny’s left. Another officer scurried for safety behind his car door. The driver recovered and stood, holding one arm high and the other limp and bloody at his side. At least one of Manny’s rounds had connected.

  The driver obeyed the command to turn and verify he had no guns in his waistband. As his face turned to the bright police headlights, all Manny could tell at this distance was that he was Indian. He was handcuffed and strapped on a gurney attended by two paramedics from the ambulance service. A large officer dressed in the black Oglala Sioux Tribal uniform disappeared in back of the ambulance with the shooter. Willie.

  A tribal officer approached Manny from the traffic stop. He shook his head and introduced himself as Robert Hollow Thunder. “Talk hereabouts is you got some bad luck, but the way I see it, you got some incredible good luck following you. Hit?”

  Manny brushed glass shards from his collar and wiped fresh blood on his trousers. He checked himself and was grateful he hadn’t pissed himself—he’d witnessed officers do that before under stress. That’s all he needed, for Nathan Yellow Horse to print that Manny had messed his Dockers.

  “I’m all right. Some glass cuts and my stitches busted out, but nothing that’ll kill me. Can’t say the same for my car.” The shiny Hertz sticker was still intact on the fender, and for the first time, Manny noticed that the first bullet fired at him had taken out both the driver-side and the passenger-side windows. Two more bullets had struck his door but not penetrated. Manny would have the door taken apart later: He was certain the window and door lock mechanism had stopped the rounds and saved his life.

  “Who’s the shooter?” Manny asked.

  Lumpy Looks Twice interrupted Hollow Thunder. He had parked his cruiser within feet of where they stood and walked over to them. Lumpy stood with his thumbs hooked into his gun belt as he spoke to Hollow Thunder, as if Manny weren’t there.

  “Get a wrecker on the way for this heap of shit.” He jerked his thumb at Manny’s car. “I want it impounded.”

  He turned to Manny as if he saw him for the first time. “We’ll need to process your car, and your gun.”

  Manny grabbed Willie’s Glock from the holster, and cleared the weapon before he handed it to Lumpy.

  “Thought you didn’t carry a gun.”

  “I reformed.”

  “Where’d you get this one? FBI doesn’t issue Nines.”

  “The Gun Fairy put it under my pillow. Now get off my ass and do what you have to, Lumpy. I’m in no mood for your crap.”

  “You’re just pissed ’cause us dumb-ass Skins out here in the sticks know something about law enforcement, like we know when to process a crime scene. Hertz will get that car back when we’re done with it.”

  “Then you know there’s also a secondary crime scene about eight miles back, where I was first shot at, that has to be processed, too.”

  “Step ahead of you. Already got a unit heading that direction to process. You’ll never admit that we might just be the equal of you FBI here on the rez.”

  “Where’s the shooter?”

  “There. In custody.”

  “That’s the driver. The car slowed and the shooter rolled out about a mile back. You might send some officers back there to look for him.”

  Lumpy grabbed his portable radio and barked orders for two more units to begin searching a mile east along the road. He turned to Manny. “Done. And I’ll need a statement from you.”

  “I’ll give you a statement if you’ll drive me to the hospital to get checked out.”

  Lumpy agreed, and Manny reached through the shattered window, pieces of glass still in the frame catching his jacket and tearing the sleeve. He grabbed his briefcase before he climbed into Lumpy’s cruiser. “Who’s the driver?” Manny asked, as they followed the ambulance to the hospital.

  “Kid by the name of Lenny Little Boy.”

  Manny knew that name well from his childhood, and from studying the violence on Pine Ridge in the 1970s. Frederick Little Boy from Gordon, Nebraska, had been an AIM instigator involved in the protest over Raymond Yellow Thunder’s death in Gordon in 1972. Little Boy led a meeting at Billy Mills Hall in Pine Ridge, and the following day AIM descended on Gordon.

  “Is he Fred Little Boy’s kid?”

  “He is. Or was. Fred was gunned down some years back south of Porcupine on a BIA traffic stop. Made the kid all the more hateful of law, especially federal cops. Seems like no one hereabouts likes you feds.”

  “That was a little before my time here.”

  “You wouldn’t have done anything different if you were BIA back then.” Lumpy spit out the window as if to punctuate his disdain. “While you had your fancy Washington, D.C., job, I was back here on the rez, doing what I could to help kids like Lenny.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it’s done much good.”

  “For every fifty kids that are flushed down the cesspool here, we manage to save one. But not Lenny. He just never had a real chance.”

  “I know I recognize that name from somewhere else.”

  Lumpy turned his head and smiled wide. “Lenny Little Boy is one of your brother Reuben’s Heritage Kids.” A snicker started at the corners of Lumpy’s mouth, turning into raucous laughter. Manny would later remember that Lumpy laughed all the way to the hospital.

  Manny paced the ER waiting room while Lumpy interviewed Lenny. When they had first arrived at the emergency room, Lumpy blocked Manny from entering the examination room. “This is a tribal case, Hotshot. You can talk to him when I’m finished with him, after they patch up the leaks you put in him.”

  Manny had his own problems with fluid leakage. After nurses cleaned him up with carburetor cleaner or something as stinging, the ER doctor shuffled into the room with a gleam in his eye. He held the suture kit in front of him like he wanted Manny to know what was coming.

  After the stitches, Manny poured a cup of lukewarm mop water from last week’s complimentary coffeepot into a foam cup. He usually drank it black, but this time he grabbed up packets of Sweet’N Low, then dropped them back. He felt too crappy to worry about his diet, and added two packs of raw sugar to his coffee. At least he’d feel good until the lidocaine in his head and pieced-together ear wore off.

  He paced the waiting room, worried that Lumpy might foul up the interview and he wouldn’t be able to get any information from Little Boy. Manny wanted to bust into the room, throw a full nelson on Lumpy as he did in their wrestling days, and toss him out. But Lumpy was right: The assault was a tribal case, and he had to sit this one out until he was allowed in.

  Lumpy scowled when he walked into the waiting room, and Manny knew he’d had no luck with Little Boy.

  “They put the kid in ICU. You were right about one thing: You hit him. Twice. A round that penetrated the trunk of the car grazed his thigh, and another hit his shoulder and fractured his scapula. If that had been me he was shooting at, I’d have drilled him right off, and there wouldn’t be a need for a trial.”

  Manny ignored Lumpy’s insult because he needed answers. “Why’d he want me dead?”

  Lumpy shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest. He invoked right off. Like most of your brother’s delinquents, he has been through the system enough to know he doesn’t have to talk.”

  “Then you have no objection if I try?”

  Lumpy laughed. “Have at it. Lenny hates us tribal cops, but he hates you FBI even more.”

  When Lumpy turned on his heels to leave, Manny saw there was a silver lining to Lumpy’s arrogance. The large but fading dark purple stain still covered the back of his neck, and it would still be visible for a few more days.

  Manny tossed the
rest of his coffee in the garbage can and walked into Lenny Little Boy’s room. Willie stood guard over him, his lips pursed, his fists clenching and unclenching as he glared down at Little Boy. But when Willie spoke, his voice was controlled and deliberate.

  “Lenny here won’t say a thing,” Willie said. “Not because he can’t, but because he invoked his right to counsel.”

  “That so?”

  A bandage covered a wound on Lenny’s cheek, and he peeked around the gauze dressing. He tried sitting up and his sheet dropped off, revealing jailhouse tattoos, nebulous and indistinct, inked on the smooth skin of a lacquered casket across his chest and shoulders. All Manny had to do to read Lenny’s record was study the tats.

  Willie anticipated Manny’s question. “The kid here resisted arrest,” he said, motioning to Lenny’s face. “Then resisted once or twice more when we got here, right after he invoked his Miranda rights.”

  Manny nodded and turned to him. “That so, Lenny? You invoke Miranda?”

  “That’s a fact, Mr. Agent Man. I got an attorney out of Hot Springs who’ll chew you up if you violate my rights. And With Horn here for beating me.”

  “Fair enough,” Manny answered.

  He turned a chair around by the bed and rested his briefcase across his knees. He looked up at Willie and motioned for another chair. “Guard duty, huh?” he asked, ignoring Lenny.

  Willie smiled. “I don’t mind. Lenny might resist a time or two more before the night’s up. Besides, you know what rolls downhill. I just happen to be the lowest Indian on the totem.”

  “I thought we Sioux didn’t have totem poles?”

  “Well, when we get around to having them, my face will be on the bottom.”

  A nurse walked into the room and scowled at them. She said nothing as she walked to Lenny’s bed and checked his IV and dimmed a monitor before leaving. Manny waited until she left the room before speaking to Willie.

  “I need a snitch. Now maybe Lenny here would like to be my eyes and ears while I’m here on the reservation.”

  Willie picked up on the ruse. “Well, the kid here tried to kill you for certain. But you think someone else has been hunting you besides Lenny and he might know who it is?”

  Manny nodded. “Lenny could find out if he had a mind to.”

  “Go screw yourself. I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Why, because you don’t like the law?”

  “Mostly.”

  “And maybe because you know what happens to snitches here on the reservation?”

  Lenny forced a laugh. He grabbed his shoulder and winced. “You got that shit right. A snitch on the rez will last about as long as a case of Budweiser on a Saturday night.”

  “At least you know what’s up here,” Manny said, and turned to Willie. “I’ll get you cleared to leave as soon as I talk to Lieutenant Looks Twice.”

  “You think he’ll have someone relieve me so soon?” Willie looked at Manny with doubt in his eyes. He motioned to Lenny. “Someone’s got to watch this turd.”

  “There’ll be no need for you to stick around here after I talk to the lieutenant. As far as I’m concerned, Lenny here’s a free man.” Manny watched Lenny out of the corner of his good eye and waited until he had Lenny’s attention. “I’m not prosecuting. I’ll talk with your lieutenant about dropping the assault charges. Lenny of course will have running that roadblock hanging over his head, but with just that charge, he can walk out of the hospital a free man.”

  “Why?”

  “If I don’t press charges on him, what’s that tell everyone hereabouts, especially the other Heritage Kids? It tells them he cut a deal good enough that he’s not being charged with assaulting a federal officer. Most folks would figure that would take some serious snitching.”

  “Bullshit!” Lenny shouted. He propped himself up on his pillow. He leaned forward and caught himself falling from the bed. “That’s bullshit. No one will believe I told you anything.”

  “Lenny, Lenny,” Manny said. “You know the only one reason you wouldn’t be charged with attempted murder is because you cut a deal. Sang like a warbler. Folks will know that, and word will get around that you belong to me.”

  “But that’s like sticking a shiv in me. I’d be killed for certain.”

  “Eventually,” Manny answered. “After your friends have some fun with you.” He stood and started for the door. He glanced back over his shoulder at Willie. “I’ll get you out of here in a few minutes.”

  “Wait! At least give me a chance. What do you want to know?”

  Manny faced him. “I can’t ask you anything until that highclass lawyer from Hot Springs says you can.”

  “All right. I’ll waive my rights, I’ll talk. But maybe you could put in a word to the judge, tell him I cooperated.”

  “I don’t know. You being a juvenile and all . . .”

  “I’ll be charged as an adult, right? You’ll have to keep me locked up. Right?”

  Manny nodded. “I’m sure with your record—and you being so close to eighteen—you could be tried in adult court.”

  Lenny nodded. “What do you want to know?”

  “Let me get this straight. You’ll tell me what I want to know—knowing full well that I’ll charge you for the assault?”

  “It beats the alternative of you guys finding me some morning lying in a ditch with a knife stuck in me.”

  Manny smiled and winked at Willie, then scooted a chair close to the bed. He rested his briefcase back on his knees and took out his mini-recorder. After noting the time, date, place, and waiver of rights, he began his interview.

  Two hours later, Manny put his recorder and notes in his briefcase and stood, the interview concluded. He started to say something, then doubled over as the pain in his ribs throbbed with the exertion. Willie started for him, but Manny shook his head.

  “I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” he said, and left the hospital room. He knew only minutes remained on Willie’s scheduled four-hour guard watch, and he started for the coffeepot. It was the same coffee as before. Something akin to river sludge floated on the surface—or had someone soaked his feet in it? He passed on the coffee as Willie headed toward him.

  “I got my relief. Need a lift?”

  “That was the idea.” He followed Willie to the cruiser. Manny’s muscles ached and he strained against the fresh pain in his head since the lidocaine had worn off, causing him to feel older than he should have as he fought to keep up with Willie. When they had started out of the parking lot, Willie turned to him.

  “You really wouldn’t have charged him?”

  “Of course I would have.” He found himself putting on his seat belt, something he seldom did, but he had been violently educated on the merits of buckling up since arriving on Pine Ridge. “Someone who tried as hard as Lenny did to kill me shouldn’t be running around free. And even pled down, with federal sentencing guidelines, that kid won’t be out of the slammer before he’s joined AARP.”

  On the way home, they talked about the reasons Lenny attacked Manny. Lenny knew Manny was on Pine Ridge investigating the Red Cloud murder and he feared, as did many of the Heritage Kids, that he would figure out that Reuben killed Jason.

  “Because Reuben didn’t like Jason,” Lenny had confessed. “Reuben said Jason was an AIM turncoat, that Jason should have stayed in the movement rather than sell out for the family dollar. Reuben must have found him parked at Wounded Knee that night. He must have killed Jason. I know I would have.”

  Manny believed Lenny would have killed Jason had he been the one to find him that night. The Heritage Kids were a tight group, with their hero worship of Reuben, and Lenny Little Boy would have done whatever it took to protect Reuben, even murder. Manny had pressed Lenny for other reasons he thought Reuben had killed Jason. He finally blurted out that the morning following the Red Cloud murder, Reuben showed up at the jobsite looking like hell, said he hadn’t slept all night. When Lenny heard of the murder, he knew it had been Reuben.

&
nbsp; When Lenny told his big brother about his suspicions of Reuben, he and Jack concocted the ambush. They’d wait for Manny to return from Rapid City. Lenny would drive while Jack did the shooting.

  “All they had for proof that Reuben killed Jason was that he looked like he hadn’t slept,” Willie said. “That’s a pretty flimsy reason to try to kill you.”

  “Unless Lenny or Jack is Jason’s killer.”

  “And they think we’re close to finding out.” Willie swerved to avoid a cat in the road. “What better reason to want you dead. They had access to that stolen truck, and both matched the description of your jogger that night.”

  “It’s too pat.” Manny adjusted the bandages on his hand. Now they itched in time with the stitches in his scalp. “I think Lenny actually believes Reuben killed Jason.”

  “Then why would he talk to us?”

  “Honor.”

  “Of course. Wayuonihan. Lenny grew up in a traditional home, traditional values. Even though he’s always been in trouble, in his mind it’s dishonorable to snitch on your friends. Or your mentor. He’ll slit your throat in good conscience, but not talk with the law. Unless he saw a chance to cut his losses, like maybe you’ll go out of your way to plead with the judge for leniency.”

  “I’ll talk to whatever judge is assigned,” Manny said. “Like I promised. Tell him that Lenny spilled his guts.” He massaged his hand. “Any luck on finding Jack?”

  “None. We got the K9 out along 18. The dog alerted on Jack’s bloody T-shirt in the ditch. That’s the closest we came to finding him tonight.”

  They pulled into the housing area, and Willie stopped outside Manny’s apartment. “Looks worse for your brother all the time.”

  “That it does.” Manny’s cheek itched fiercely from the glass cuts under the bandages and he resisted the urge to scratch. “But I know my brother well enough that if he thought I had him nailed for the Red Cloud murder, he’d kill me himself. Or maybe he put them up to it.”

  Willie faced Manny. “Reuben’s a wicasa wakan now. That changes a man. Sacred men might feel they have to kill, but they wouldn’t go around putting others up to doing the killing for them.”