by Mark Reps
4
The Silver Spur Saloon was not only the best greasy spoon in Bylas for a cup of coffee, it was the only one. From outside, the cafe could have been mistaken for a time weary tin shed whose structure might be abruptly toppled by a gust from the next Santa Ana wind that blew across the western flatlands. The faded neon Silver Spur Saloon marquee, with only its capital S’s remaining actively lit, crackled and groaned on ungreased hinges with minimal coaxing from the gentle breeze.
Sheriff Hanks rolled through the gravel lot and pulled next to the only other vehicle as a flurry of dust swept the parking lot. Returning his hat to his head, he carefully straightened it as he eyed Eskadi Black Robes inside the cafe, hunched forward in a corner booth. His shiny black hair was neatly braided into a waist-length ponytail. He wore wire rimmed glasses and a faded doe skin jacket hunched up around his shoulders. The tribal chairman looked more like a liberal, egghead, college professor than a radical Indian leader. Black Robes didn’t turn to acknowledge the sheriff as he entered.
Zeb strutted directly to the booth. Sliding across the cracked leatherette bench, he greeted the tribal leader with a handshake, nearly crushing the other man’s fingers. Eskadi slurped his hot coffee and gazed beyond the sheriff, eyeing the clock on the wall and said nothing.
Sitting tall and straight, Zeb towered over Eskadi whose rudeness didn’t surprise him. “Eskadi Black Robes,” he thought to himself. “I bet it wouldn’t take much digging to find an outstanding warrant on the son of a bitch or any of his dirt ball cousins.”
A grizzled looking cafe owner with nicotine stained fingers plopped a cup of coffee and plate of doughnuts on the table and departed without saying a word. Still looking beyond Zeb, Eskadi pulled a tape recorder from his jacket.
“I’m sure you won’t mind if I make a record of this. I know you can understand the importance of preciseness. I can’t believe for a moment that you’ll object to me wanting to keep a transcript of what transpires here.”
His insolent words brought a hard glare from the lawman’s steely eyes. Zeb bit his tongue beneath a curled lip.
“Whatever floats your boat, Chief. Just give it to me straight.”
Keeping the small machine tightly gripped in his hand, Eskadi cleared his throat and pressed down the record button.
“About three this morning, maybe a bit earlier, the tribal police got an anonymous tip about a dead body up in Antelope Flats. The caller gave a detailed description of how to find the body, right down to the tenth of a mile to drive on each road, where to turn and hidden landmarks to look for. The dispatcher who answered said the caller most likely was a young, White man. The call was recorded, and I listened to it myself. I can tell you without a doubt, the phone call came from a White.”
“If your Apache medicine is so good that you can tell the color of a man’s skin by his voice, maybe you can give me his height, weight, eye color and whether he’s been circumcised. While you’re at it, why don’t you just give me his name and address?”
“No need to get sarcastic with me. As sheriff you must realize that a young White man making an anonymous, middle-of-the-night phone call about the death of an Indian child on remote reservation land begs the worst kind of trouble, both legal and political.”
“I need details, not half-assed racist assumptions. Was that all that the caller said?”
“No. He gave a gruesome description of what he’d done to the body. He spoke to the dispatcher for quite a long time. He even demanded that she repeat back to him what he’d said. When she did, he said he had one final remark. ‘Tell Jake Dablo and Jimmy Song Bird to read the Bible verse that says vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Tell them that the vengeance of the Lord has evened the count’. Then he hung up. The dispatcher immediately called the Chief of Police. He called me next.”
Zeb removed a pen and notebook from his shirt pocket and wrote down the Bible verse.
“I drove up to Antelope Flats with Officer Tommy Horse Legs. We were the first ones at the scene. We were able to drive within thirty feet of the body. The killer had turned the remote location into an eerie sacrificial altar by placing candles around the body. They were still burning when we arrived.”
“The only people I know who do rituals on Apache land are Apaches,” said the sheriff.
“I recognized the girl right away as Amanda Song Bird, Jimmy Song Bird’s granddaughter. And for your information, Sheriff, Apaches have more respect for the Medicine Man and his family than to ever murder any of them. Murder is a White man’s disease.”
Zeb tugged at the brim of his cowboy hat and shot a laser beam from his eyes to Eskadi’s where they were met with dogged resistance. He reached across the table and grabbed the cassette recorder and forced the tip of his thumb down hard on the eject button. Slowly, methodically, he turned the small machine on its side and let the tape slide into his hand. He rotated it deftly between his fingers before dropping it into Black Robe’s coffee. Eskadi’s facial expression remained stoic, his eyes cold. Zeb signaled the café owner with a flick of the wrist. At his command, the leather faced café counterman limped over.
“My buddy here needs a new cup of joe. His attitude just did a swan dive into this one,” said Zeb pointing to the cup.
“Cream and sugar?” asked the owner.
Eskadi cursed aloud in Apache. Having heard it before, the owner rolled his eyes.
“In that case, you’ll have to take it as it comes,” he said, returning to the counter.
“Enough of the bullshit, Black Robes. Let’s cut to the chase,” said Zeb. “You’re here because the drunks and thieves you call lawmen don’t know shit from shinola when it comes to a case like this. You need me to come in, solve your murder and save your political skin. But I’ll go straight to hell before I become some sort of pawn in your hate the White man game.”
“I didn’t think you had the balls to step outside the White reservation,” said Eskadi.
Zeb wanted to reach across the table and grab the Indian by the throat. His resistance to such an act was steeped in a long personal history.
“But because it’s Song Bird’s granddaughter, I’ll help you out. Just remember it’s not for you, and it never will be. If you try any more of your shenanigans, I’ll split your head wide open and leave that big, college-educated ego of yours as buzzard bait.”
Eskadi didn’t flinch. Instead a small, wry smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Are you done with your little tough guy rant, Sheriff? Look, whatever you think of me is irrelevant. Whoever killed the innocent child must have been evil incarnate. If he’s White or if he’s Indian, which I doubt, we still have to catch him. Let’s focus on that.”
“What else have you got?”
“She was slit open from here to here.” Eskadi’s gesture mimicked a knife entering the soft part of the belly just below the navel. He moved his hand slowly up his midline to his throat. “Then the killer reached inside her chest and cut out her heart. In the chest cavity where the heart had been, the killer placed an abalone shell. Song Bird’s name was etched into the shell.
“Her heart? An etched abalone shell with the grandfather’s name?” mumbled Zeb.
A horrible, sinking feeling weighed heavily as the unsolved murder of Angel Bright rose from the ashes anew. The stunned sheriff was wordless as he let the similarities of this case with that of Jake Dablo’s granddaughter sink deep into his consciousness. The extreme lengths that someone must have gone to in order to end the life of an innocent child in such an exacting fashion chilled him to the marrow. This sort of ritualistic detail hinted at more than premeditation. It pointed toward an obsession.
“The body was taken by ambulance to the morgue up in Globe,” said Eskadi. “The local coroner knew right away this murder was out of his league. He’s called in a Dr. Louis Virant from Phoenix. He’s a forensic expert in pediatric murder cases. He’s driving down from Phoenix later today. It will probably be late tomorrow before we have
a preliminary report.”
“What did your people find at the scene?”
“Not enough. That’s why I called you,” replied Eskadi. “That’s why we need your help. We’ve never seen this sort of murder before. I understand you have some experience in such matters.”
Zeb Hanks’ sterling reputation when it came to securing evidence at a crime scene had evidently crossed the reservation border. As a detective in the big city of Tucson the sheriff was driven to leave no stone unturned when it came to the minute details of a murder scene. His ego would have it no other way.
Creeping into Zeb’s mind was the ugly thought that Eskadi was operating with some ulterior motive. Knowing the tribal chairman’s politics, it wouldn’t be at all surprising if he was protecting one of his own. Worse yet, he could be setting someone up for a nasty fall. The likelihood of deceit put a bilious taste in his mouth as he eyeballed Eskadi.
Zeb slapped three one dollar bills on the table and stood to leave.
“Anything else strike you as out of the ordinary?” he asked.
“Her hands were placed inside her body and the killer started to sew her shut.” Eskadi looked pale as he continued. “Whoever killed her…” Eskadi slowed his speech as if he were groping for each word. “…dressed her in traditional Apache Sunrise ceremonial clothing. They situated her body with the head facing east and placed a lit candle in each of the four directions.”
Eskadi Black Robes’ words stopped Zeb dead in his tracks. Certain information about the mutilation and murder of Sheriff Jake Dablo’s granddaughter, Angeline Rigella Bright, had never become public information. One of them was the fact that she had been found in clothing typical of the style used for the Mormon baptismal ceremony. Candles also had been placed around the body and were still burning when they found her. Angel Bright’s heart, too, had been removed from her body cavity. Inside her halved torso was the Book of Mormon with Jake Dablo’s name etched on the cover.
“Let’s go have a look,” said Zeb.
“Right.”
5
The two men walked to Eskadi’s pick-up truck in stone-cold silence. The grinding of the gravel beneath Zeb’s boots and the squeaking of the rusty restaurant sign seemed oddly amplified in the open lot. When Eskadi suggested they take his truck, a high riding four-wheel-drive vehicle, over the rough roads to Antelope Flats, Zeb reluctantly agreed.
Through the rock-hard, barren landscape, the men rode wordlessly as the hypnotic rhythm of traditional native drumming filled the cab of Eskadi’s truck. The radio station, which brought the Apache Nation news and traditional music to the reservation, was one of the many innovations Eskadi had instituted as tribal chairman. As the men headed down the road, the music played softly in the background, pushing some of the anger from Zeb’s head.
“How is Maya coping with this?”
“Understandably, she’s in shock from losing a child. She has said very little since she found out.”
“How about Song Bird?” asked Zeb. “How’s he coping with the death of his granddaughter?”
“He’s called in another medicine man to help out with a prayer ceremony. Living in this moment of grave sorrow has hit him very hard. His spirit is weeping for his granddaughter and honoring his daughter’s sorrow. Song Bird may be a medicine man and a wise grandfather, but he is also a man. Even those who provide for the spirituality of others go through crisis in times of doubt. I sense that Song Bird feels he has failed his community and his family.”
Zeb was reminded of the weakness that the senseless death of an innocent child brings, even to the sagest of men. He also saw clearly how Eskadi’s relationship with Song Bird could be helpful. Zeb knew eventually he would have to delve deeper into their camaraderie. Now was not the right time for that. It was enough at this point to know that Eskadi respected Song Bird. Eskadi’s desire for resolution of the murder seemed to allow him to speak openly. But in the back of his mind, Zeb couldn’t shake loose the idea that something more, something hidden, was motivating the tribal leader.
A rough and hardened dirt road flanked by alternating areas of stone-covered, rolling hills and flat desert spaces led them to where the body of Amanda Song Bird had been found. The wheezing, grind of the truck’s engine as it climbed a steep incline and the sonorous tribal chant coming from the radio fusing with the sound of rubber tires slipping on smooth rock created additional discordance.
At the scene of the crime tribal police deputies exchanged nods with Eskadi. However, they avoided all eye contact with Sheriff Hanks. Eskadi led the sheriff to the spot where the girl’s body had been found, pointing out bits of evidence he and the tribal officers had gathered. Eskadi then walked away and perched on a boulder as the sheriff surveyed the scene. The tribal policemen, stone-faced and cross-armed in their crisp, federal uniforms, eyed every detail of his detective work with stern, unblinking stares.
Zeb crouched to the ground, resting on a single knee. As he surveyed the area just beyond the candle that had been placed to the north of the body, an unseen mockingbird serenaded the hideously brutal crime scene with a lush chorale of sweet desert voices. The eerily celestial soundtrack made Zeb’s skin ripple with goose flesh.
In his shadow, where the child had been laid, a coagulated pool of blood, blackened from deoxygenation, lay atop the orangish-brown dirt. Staring at the death spot, his mind created the illusion of a slithering snake exiting its den. To his immediate left, a few sparse, intermittently placed drops of dried blood led toward the only open space in the immediate vicinity. A quick eyeballing told him it was a big enough area for a truck to turn around in without taking the risk of getting stuck in the sand or rocky ruts.
Zeb knew immediately the killing had been done where he knelt. Death had its way of leaving behind a faint echo. The homicide detective who had trained him taught him to believe the palpable resonance left behind at a murder scene was the fear and anxiety a dying soul experienced in their last living moments. Zeb, uncertain of the theory, knew from his personal encounters that the essence of murder didn’t easily leave its place of origin. He could feel the absence of life chafing the surface of his skin. The taste of death danced on his taste buds as the acrid odor of dried blood and desert earth wafted through his nose and down his throat. Death presented itself with a feel, a smell, a taste, a sound.
Zeb slowed his thought process and stopped all internal thought. He focused on the natural world that surrounded him. He listened to the distant wind as it raced across the desert, interrupted only by the mountain. The child, Amanda Song Bird, must have screamed for help in her final minutes and cried out for mercy. The killer no doubt would have taunted her when he spoke. His planning would have made him confident and allowed him to relish the moment of total dominance. He probably was so brazen as to even let her scream her little lungs out. In this remote part of the reservation only the animals and the night air would be attentive to such shrieks.
The killer’s presence oozed into Zeb’s being. Instinct begged that he shake it off. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. This strange ability he had acquired, the sensing and imaging of the death of a human being, was a curse not a gift. He found himself becoming agitated as his neck began to pulsate and sweat.
“Who moved the body?”
Tommy Horse Legs meekly raised his hand.
“I helped the ambulance driver,” he said.
“Show me exactly where she was laying.”
“Right there,” said Horse Legs. “In the middle of those candles.”
“Show me,” commanded Zeb. “Draw an outline of where the body was.”
Horse Legs used his finger and traced the rough outline of a small body.
“It was about like that.”
“About like that or exactly like that?” demanded Zeb.
“That’s how it was,” replied Horse Legs. “Wouldn’t you say so, Eskadi?”
“Never, ever move a body without marking its location,” barked Zeb. “Your stupid mistakes may
make it impossible to find the killer. Do you understand that?”
Horse Legs retreated without responding.
Sheriff Hanks’ eyes followed the trickling trail of blood back to the larger pool of sanguine fluid where the child’s body had been ceremoniously displayed. His eyes followed the edge of the small box canyon and then back down the road. The makeshift altar was not visible from any vantage point. The killer had not chosen this spot randomly.
The embryonic stages of the hunt began in Zeb’s mind by creating an image of what might have been. He visualized the killer and imagined his hands resting on the steering wheel, maneuvering his vehicle, probably an older model, into the small area where he parked. The man’s hands would have been gloved. Fingerprints would likely be impossible to come by at the scene. The man, probably young, wouldn’t have covered his face. There would have been no need. He knew he was going to kill the girl. Besides, if the message the killer relayed through the dispatcher to Song Bird and Jake was legitimate, the killing was personal. He would have wanted the girl to see his face. Her hands and feet would have been bound to immobilize her. Her mouth gagged to keep her quiet. That would require rope or tape which would leave marks on the body. The killer must have purchased it somewhere. When he did, someone would have seen him. That might be a good starting point.
A sickening question entered Zeb’s mind as he envisioned the child lying on the ground. Had the killer raped his helpless victim? If the idiots passing as tribal police hadn’t mucked up the scene, or better yet, called him before they moved the body, his trail of evidence would be wider and deeper. Zeb ground his heel into the dirt in disgust. Stepping back, he eyed the imprint his boot made in the sandy earth. The killer would have carried the child’s body to his makeshift altar from the vehicle. He probably had her stuffed in the trunk. That meant footprints. Zeb walked the route from the candles to where he imagined the killer parked. There was no shortage of footprints. First glance told him that not one imprint in the dirt was singularly distinguishable from any other. The tribal police, all precisely dressed in the same standard-issue, military-style boots, had tromped all over the scene making a collective fundamental and irreversible mistake. They had destroyed solid evidence possibly allowing it to become little more than a ghost in the wind.