Sam left home early so he could stop at the jail on his way to work. It was the second visit he’d made since George’s arrest and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He had yet to get George to talk to him. Worse, the last time he’d visited he’d encountered several townsfolk milling around the courthouse steps with no apparent business other than voicing their outrage about the Chambers and Rossi murders. The consensus was that George Featherstone was responsible for both. It was just this type of community problem that Sam had hoped to avoid. He’d warned the sheriff that they could expect more trouble, but Pritchard hadn’t even pretended to listen. Still smarting from their run-in at Celilo, the sheriff had made it clear that Sam was on his turf at the jail and he made the rules. Since Sam had no respect for the man and even less for how he represented himself as an officer of the law, he didn’t care what rules the sheriff made.
What he cared about was defusing any potential trouble. When Sam complained to Jess Harmon about the sheriff, he didn’t get any sympathy. “You know the drill—cooperate with the local officials. Your role is to squelch trouble, not incite it. If this Pritchard fellow gets in the way, you’ll just have to figure out how to work around him.” Sam hadn’t needed the reminder about his role, but he’d accomplished his intent: his complaint had been officially noted for the record. If things got dicey later—a real possibility—then any challenges as to how Sam handled the situation would be minimized. Harmon hadn’t dealt with the sheriff yet. When he did, maybe he’d understand Sam ‘s concerns.
In the meantime, he’d do whatever he had to do. A good stiff drink would certainly make his meeting with the sheriff a little more palatable. But it wasn’t doable. He’d avoided any alcohol since arriving in town and he wasn’t about to let a man like Leonard Pritchard be the reason he failed again.
As he climbed the courthouse steps, the crowd that had assembled was larger and more vocal than the last time he’d visited. Some of the protesters carried signs and tried to engage Sam with their taunts. When he told the sheriff about what he’d experienced, his worries were once again brushed aside. “People have a right to free speech.” He seemed more interested in the bag Sam carried than anything going on outside. “What’s that you’ve got there?” he asked.
“Nothing to get excited about, sheriff. It’s just a little treat for George. I thought it might help cheer him up.”
Pritchard demanded that he hand over the bag for inspection. When he looked inside, he snickered. “Humph. It’s gonna take a lot more than oranges to help that old man.”
George was doing well the last time Sam had seen him. His diabetes seemed to be under control now, but his health would always be a worry when confined in Pritchard’s care. Alarmed, Sam asked, “What do you mean? Is he having problems?”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Matthews. George is fine. I just meant that he’s in big trouble. And your little visits ain’t gonna change that. The murder charge is sticking.”
“I’m not trying to change anything. He’s got a tribal lawyer coming in from Yakima to represent him. Until that happens, I told the Wy-ams that I’d check in on him and make sure he’s okay.” He reached for the bag that Pritchard still held. “Oranges are good for him.”
Pritchard tossed him the bag. “Why do you care?” It was the same question Sam had asked himself ever since they’d rescued George at Baker Bluff. He liked to think he’d do the same for anyone in similar circumstances. What tugged at his conscience was not knowing whether he was just playing the role his bureau chief had given him or acting out of genuine compassion. He’d dealt with Indians in the past, but he’d never gone out of his way to make any promises to them. His involvement had already raised the ire of the sheriff and complicated future dealings with the man. What had ever possessed him to risk jeopardizing the success of his mission by personally guaranteeing George’s safety? The short answer was so obvious it embarrassed him: Reba. The woman was an unexpected development that had him questioning every action he undertook. He dismissed the sheriff’s question with a shoulder shrug. “What can I say? I’m just a good-hearted fella.”
Pritchard wouldn’t let it go. “Injun lover, huh?”
Sam bit his lower lip to keep from taking the bait.
“Well, you’re new in town so I guess you don’t know any better. You made a point of warning me, so let me give you a word of caution: messing around with that Celilo crowd is asking for trouble.”
“I get the message, sheriff. Now, how ‘bout escorting me to George’s cell?” The jail had three cells, but George Stonefeather was the only prisoner behind bars. The accommodations were sparse with just a double bunk, toilet, and washbasin in each of the small quarters. George was stretched out on the bottom bunk, but sat upright when Sam and Pritchard arrived. The sheriff unlocked the cell door and Sam stepped inside. “I gotta lock you in,” he said, clanging the door shut and turning the key. “Just holler when you’re through gabbin’. . . or when the stink gets too much for ya.” He walked down the hall with a cocky stride punctuated by laughter and boots clicking against the cement floor.
Sam greeted George who struggled to stand. He wore the same sweat-stained and rumpled garments he had on when he was arrested. Sam made a mental note to pick up a change of clothes for him when he went to the village again. “Don’t get up, George. I’ll sit right here alongside you, if that’s okay.” When George scooted over to make room, Sam gave him the bag. “I brought some oranges for you. Reba said they were your favorite treat.” George mumbled a brief thank-you and stuffed the bag under his thin pillow without looking inside. Besides checking on him, Sam had hoped the visits would help him to understand what had really happened at Baker Bluff since Pritchard’s story made no sense at all. Engaging George in a meaningful way, however, had so far proved unrewarding. Trust-building took time.
“How’s the sheriff treating you, George?”
“He don’t bother me none.”
“That’s good. What about your meals? Are you getting enough to eat?”
George nodded.
“I’m told the café across the street delivers three times a day. I’ve eaten there myself. Not bad.”
George nodded again. “Yeah, they’s got a pretty gal working there. She’s Umatilla. Brings me fry bread ever once in a while.”
“She must like you.”
Another nod.
“George, a lot of people like you. And they’re concerned about you. That’s why I keep coming here. I want to help.”
A skeptical look crossed the old man’s face. Never mind that Sam had probably saved his life. The reaction was automatic when dealing with whites, especially government types. “A tribal lawyer will be here soon to handle your legal case. In the meantime, Chief Thompson and Reba asked me to check on you. They believe I’m a friend. A friend who can help you.”
“Okay.”
It was progress of sorts. Now if he could just get him to open up. “George, the only way that I can help is to have you talk to me about the accident.”
“I don’t remember much.”
“That’s all right. Just tell me what you can.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with how you happened to be driving that truck?”
“I wasn’t driving. I don’t know how to.”
“Right. You were just a passenger. Who picked you up?”
“Some guy saw me in town and asked if I wanted a ride back to the village.”
“Do you know his name?”
George shook his head.
“Had he ever given you a ride before?”
“No white gives Indians a ride anywheres.”
“So, this was a first. You di
dn’t wonder about that?”
“Naw. I was tired and not feeling so good. I just wanted to get on home.”
“Was there anyone else in the truck besides the driver?”
“Nope. Just me and the white guy.”
“Are you sure? No one was riding in back, in the truck bed?”
“Nope.”
That made sense. If there’d been anyone else aboard, George would’ve been told to hop in the back of the truck. Given the way Indians were usually treated it was surprising that he was permitted to ride shotgun even without another passenger. “Would you be able to identify the driver if you saw him again?”
George chuckled and shook his head. “You whites all look alike to us.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. You know what I’ve heard about Indians?”
“Nothin’ much good, I ‘spect.”
“I’ve heard that Indians like to drink. That it’s a real problem for some of them.”
“Not me. I don’t drink.”
“I’ve heard that, too. Alcohol and diabetes don’t mix. Sam paused a moment before pressing ahead. “The sheriff thinks you were drunk at the time of the accident.”
“He’s crazy.”
“I won’t argue with you about that. To be clear, you’re saying you absolutely didn’t have anything to drink that day?”
He nodded.
“What about the guy driving? Did he have anything to drink?”
“He had a bottle of something. I don’t know what it was, maybe whiskey or wine. He offered me the bottle and when I refused, he drank some. He kept spilling it. Got it all over the seat and me, too.” George sniffed his shirt. “Sheriff was right about the stink.”
“How’d the guy happen to spill so much of the liquor?”
George shrugged, “Clumsy, I guess.”
“Did you ever see a gun? Maybe the driver had one and showed it to you?”
He shook his head. “No gun. I’d remember that for sure.”
“Do you know if the driver got out of the truck at any point?”
“We stopped once. Don’t know where. I think he had to take a leak or something.”
“Do you remember crashing into the tree?”
He patted his still-bandaged head. “All I remember is waking up at the village and seeing Reba.”
Sam looked at his wristwatch. He’d stayed longer than he’d planned. “Okay, George. I have to go to work now, but I’ll be back to see you again. In the meantime, if you remember anything, anything at all, be sure to tell your lawyer or me.” Sam stood. “And enjoy the oranges.”
It took several shouts to get Pritchard’s attention. His ambling gait and the inordinate time it took to unlock the cell got his message across loud and clear: the sheriff was in control. “Thanks, Sheriff Pritchard,” Sam said. “Appreciate your cooperation.”
***
Back at the dam, Sam took out a pen and pad to jot some notes for a meeting he had to attend. The pilot of the helicopter company contracted to transport the Indians’ remains to the new cemetery wanted to discuss the logistics involved. Now that the Baker Bluff property had been dismissed as unworkable due to Nick’s murder, he had to prepare for the newly selected site. Transferring the bones of 2,500 or so Indians from Memaloose Island and some 700 of the ancient and mostly unidentifiable bones from Graves Island would take some planning. Sam poured a cup of coffee and thought about the task. Although he’d willingly accepted the job, transporting the dead wasn’t something he was comfortable with. He figured he had no choice in the matter since there was so much potential for trouble involved.
He regretted now that he’d let the sheriff know that he was in charge of the project. That was a mistake he hoped wouldn’t come back to haunt him. His relationship with the “Celilo crowd,” as the sheriff called them, was as tenuous as gossamer. He walked a fine line between friend and foe when on assignment and he couldn’t afford to stumble. “Hell,” he muttered, “I’ve already stumbled. Over a woman, no less.” His attraction to Reba had taken him by surprise. Pursuing a relationship with her was not the wisest course of action under the circumstances but she was the only woman in a long time that even came close to capturing his heart. But if Reba or her hot-headed son ever got wind of his real job, it wouldn’t be a mere stumble. It would be a total collapse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sam didn’t like leaving Ellie home alone at night but he didn’t have a choice. Jess Harmon wanted to discuss the status of the Chambers’ murder investigation with him and they couldn’t do it at the dam. The shocking murder of the well-liked foreman was a constant source of rumors and speculation, which dogged Harmon’s every move. The FBI agent had commandeered a temporary on-site office but complained that it might as well have been set up in Grand Central Station. Harmon was bombarded with a steady stream of workers-turned-amateur-detectives popping into his office to offer theories and advice. “I’m as popular as a two-bit whore in a mining camp,” Harmon said. As a result, he told Sam to meet him at his motel where they’d be able to discuss the case without interruption. Sam waited until Ellie was asleep, then left her an ambiguous note about an errand, and made sure the house was locked and secured before he left for his ten o’clock meeting.
Monty’s Motel was a curious choice for Harmon’s lodging. His ex-partner had always been fussy about where he laid his head down at night. He had a tidy, well-appointed apartment in Portland and, when on the road, insisted on the best accommodations possible. If their per diem allowance wasn’t sufficient to cover the extra cost, he willingly made up the difference. Monty’s was a shocking departure from Harmon’s usual standards. The L-shaped, ten-unit structure was strictly a low-rent dive. Even in marginal lighting, it was hard to miss the peeling paint, sagging roof, and general rundown appearance of the one-story facility. There were just a couple of vehicles in the, weed-filled gravel parking lot, but a cardboard No Vacancy sign was attached to the motel’s office door. Sam approached the only unit that had a light on and knocked.
Harmon opened the door wearing jeans and a tee-shirt instead of his usual suit and tie. As he ushered Sam inside, he pre-empted any derogatory comments about his living quarters. “I know what you’re going to say, Matthews. This place is a dump.”
“I can see that,” said Sam. The sparsely furnished room with its thread-bare carpeting, grimy walls, and stained window coverings confirmed that Monty’s Motel qualified for flop-house status. But it wasn’t the lack of quality décor and furnishings that bothered Sam. Despair born of too much booze, cigarettes, and filth permeated the small room with gag-worthy intensity. Nevertheless, he made light of the situation. “What’d they do?” he cracked. “Cut your per diem rate to the bone?”
Harmon grimaced and lit a cigarette. Exhaling deeply, he gestured to the crime scene photos and investigative notes tacked to the walls. “Think I could put those up in a decent hotel with regular maid service? Hell, I can’t even put them up at the office. My so-called point man, Beckstrom, would piss his pants.”
“Is he helping you much?”
Harmon sniggered, “You know the answer to that. The guy is a royal pain in the ass.”
“Welcome to the club,” said Sam, suppressing a grin. He took a moment to study the black and white images of Pete Chambers’ body in situ while Harmon lit a cigarette. Chambers was sprawled face down on his living room floor, drenched in blood from multiple stab wounds. No stranger to gruesome murder scenes, Sam was still unnerved by the sight of his co-worker’s mutilated body. The bloody scene and fetidness of the motel room caused a metallic-tasting bile to rise in his throat. He swallowed quickly and muttered, “Grisly business. Did you find a knife?”
&nbs
p; “Forensic boys have been all over the place and found no sign of a weapon. Despite the extensive damage, the coroner thinks it was a small blade, possibly a fishing knife, or even a jackknife. But that isn’t what killed him.”
Harmon handed Sam a spent shell casing in a protective wrapper. “He was shot with a Colt .45. The local coroner missed it, but we sent his body to Portland for an additional autopsy. The cause of death was verified as homicide by gunshot. The bullet was still in the guy.”
“So, the stabbing was overkill or someone’s attempt to throw us off what really happened.”
“Had to be someone pretty stupid if they thought the FBI couldn’t figure out the cause of death.”
“Maybe they didn’t realize the FBI would be called in on the case and the local sheriff would handle the investigation. From what I’ve seen, Sheriff Pritchard couldn’t solve a crossword puzzle if the answers were right in front of him. What about fingerprints? Get anything useable?”
“Place was wiped clean. Couldn’t even find Chambers’ prints.”
“Have you ruled out robbery?”
“Not conclusively, but there was no sign of forced entry and his girlfriend said she didn’t think anything was missing.”
“His girlfriend?”
“Guess you didn’t know the old codger as well as you thought,” Harmon said, crushing out his cigarette.
“Maybe you better fill me in from the beginning.”
Harmon gestured for Sam to take a seat on one of the chairs alongside a rickety-looking table. Reaching into a shopping bag stashed next to the unmade bed, he pulled out a six-pack of beer. He took a bottle for himself and offered one to Sam. “We better drink it now while it’s still cold from the market,” he said.
Sam eyed the bottle. A beer would wash away the traces of bile that lingered on his tongue. And he was thirsty. “Naw,” he said, sighing. “I’ll pass.”
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