by Mark Reps
“It goes against sacred tradition and defies the wishes of the Great Spirit. Personally, my opposition to autopsies will never change.”
“And I’m opposed to sloppy police work. That’s never going to change either.”
Eskadi rubbed his eyebrows and sighed.
“But, unfortunately, Song Bird feels differently than I do. He said he changed his mind about the need for an autopsy after talking to Jake Dablo. To be honest, I was shocked. For a man of his stature and dignity to go against tradition is unheard of. But as a Medicine Man, his wisdom is far greater than mine, and I will not directly question his actions.”
Zeb knew Eskadi was blowing hot air. The tribal chairman had no real say in the matter of the girl’s autopsy. It didn’t take an expert in Apache culture to know that Song Bird’s wishes, as Medicine Man and tribal Elder, superseded those of Eskadi.
“Song Bird understands what must be done to find justice,” said Zeb. “His experience in the world is much greater than yours.”
The men crossed the Globe city limits in stony silence. The old mining town, built on a series of washes, had experienced a recent revitalization with the reopening of the mines. When Zeb noted most of the downtown buildings were occupied with new businesses, many of them Indian artist galleries and Native American tourist shops, his comments were met with a mild grunt.
A sign on Main Street directed them to the hospital. The magnificent structure, built courtesy of a legislative copper tax initiative, sat on a crested hilltop high above the rest of the city, next to the executive mining offices.
At the front desk, a receptionist pointed a solitary finger toward the morgue. Tucked away in the distant corner of the basement, a pair of well-worn aluminum doors were topped by a sign that read simply, ‘Morgue.’
Zeb’s boots echoing on the Saltillo tile floors in the gloomy, poorly-lit corridor represented the only sign of life. Bending forward at the waist to prevent his hat from scraping against the low ceiling, Zeb’s nostrils were filled by the septic odor of cleansing chemicals.
Just outside the metal doors was an arched entryway leading to a small waiting room. Inside, Song Bird, Maya and Geronimo Star in the Night, the Medicine Man Song Bird had called on, sat in the corner chanting lowly. None of the three acknowledged Eskadi or Sheriff Hanks as they entered the room.
Sheriff Hanks stood hat in hand, respectfully quiet, looking toward the floor. Eventually he raised his eyes and fixed his gaze on Maya. The long flowing hair falling around her face failed to hide the pain emanating from her soul. A heavy sadness overcame him as he noticed a slight quiver on the lips of his old friend.
Eskadi took a seat opposite the other Apaches. Eyes closed, he joined in the mourning song. When the chant ended, Song Bird gave a traditional Apache greeting.
“Hon Dah.”
Geronimo Star in the Night reacted only with his eyes as he handed Eskadi a piece of sage drawn from a bundle sitting between the four of them. Eskadi accepted it with a reverent bow. Maya, the saddened mother, blinked twice as if coming out of a trance and then bowed her head forward, acknowledging no one. Zeb felt removed from the circle as he watched empathy radiate between the kinsmen whom all carried an equal burden of death in their eyes.
“Hon Dah.”
Song Bird’s voice, weakened from circumstance, extended an arm to greet Eskadi.
“May the Great Spirit welcome your daughter to her grandmothers and grandfathers,” offered Eskadi.
Song Bird and Geronimo Star in the Night responded to Eskadi’s benediction with a hauntingly beautiful death hymn. Eskadi joined them. Maya, head tilted forward, rocked back and forth, silent tears falling from her face.
Sheriff Hanks was immersed in the vision of his childhood friend as the chant of the Medicine Men carried him out of his body and returned him to the death scene. Awash in this strange, new sensation, the rhythm of his beating heart spoke, not with sadness nor sympathy, but rather in a complex array of previously unheard inner voices. His body felt feather light, almost invisible. The brim of his hat vibrated in his fingertips. The uncanny, harmonious blend of love and loss created a sense of extraordinary peace deep in his soul. The sheriff’s sense of time and awareness of reality faded into nothingness as he entered a hypnotic-like trance. His unconscious spoke to his subconscious mind and demanded that it too seek out the heart of the killer.
“Zeb.”
The whispering voice was accompanied by a sharp rap on Zeb’s shoulder. His unfocused eyes fluttered. Slowly his attention began to return to the world around him. Several seconds later he realized he was still in the morgue’s small waiting area.
“Come on, come with me,” said Eskadi. “The coroner is waiting for us.”
Irked at being jilted away from his peaceful state of altered awareness, Zeb followed the tribal chairman down the corridor. The sound of Eskadi’s soft doeskin leggings contrasting with the thumping of his own cowboy boots helped drag the sheriff further out of his fog. The crack of Eskadi’s knuckles on the coroner’s office door returned the sheriff to his normal state of consciousness.
“Come in, come in. You must be Sheriff Hanks and Eskadi Black Robes. I’m Dr. Bruley and this is Dr. Louis Virant.”
The men exchanged handshakes, and the boisterous Dr. Bruley pointed out chairs for the men.
“Dr. Virant, an old classmate of mine from the Arizona Medical College, is a nationally recognized expert in the field of pediatric forensics. That’s why I called him in.”
Louis Virant, a tall, slim and neatly coifed middle-aged man whose roughhewn hands belied the surgical nature of his work, winced as he worked Cornhuskers lotion into his digits one at a time. Dr. Finnian Bruley, an elfin-like character whose uncombed head of shocking red hair stuck straight up, looked more like a seafaring ship’s doctor from a bygone era than the desert doctor he was.
Dr. Virant sat behind a large metal desk in a squeaking chair. He fiddled with a tape recorder and fussed with three tapes, each marked ASB, Amanda Song Bird.
“I’m going to tape record our autopsy findings,” began Doctor Virant. “I will use these tapes to assist me when I fill out the final official documents. These tapes and the required state forms will become part of the official, legal record. If you have any questions during the process, let me know and I will stop the tape.”
The distinguished coroner peered over the top of his bifocals at the lawmen.
“Any questions, gentlemen, before we begin?”
Eskadi and the sheriff shook their heads in unison.
Dr. Bruley pulled a pipe from the inside pocket of his jacket, tapped it against the palm of his hand and added some tobacco from a pouch lithely pulled from another jacket pocket. Seemingly lost in his own world, Bruley began quietly poking at the tobacco as his cohort inserted a cassette tape and pressed the record button. Still playing with his pipe, Dr. Bruley spoke.
“This is autopsy number nine-nine-zero-one-six. The body is that of an approximately thirteen-year-old female Native American of the San Carlos Apache tribe. Legal name of the deceased is Amanda Song Bird. The date of birth, as stated by the deceased’s mother, is June twenty-second, nineteen eighty-six. No official state or tribal birth certificate available. The date of death is October eighteenth, nineteen ninety-nine. The time of death approximately two a.m. Dr. Finnian Bruley is the attending physician. The special autopsy physician and physician of record is Dr. Louis Virant. This autopsy is being performed by and for the State of Arizona and in accordance with current statutes and regulations.”
Dr. Bruley paused to light his pipe. He continued.
“The body of the deceased was brought to the St. Mary’s Hospital in Globe, Arizona by unnamed officials of the San Carlos Reservation at zero six hundred hours on October eighteenth, nineteen ninety-nine. The body was ornately clothed in what was described to me by a family member as a traditional Apache Sunrise ceremonial dress. The mother and grandfather of the deceased have provided all requested information.
That data is attached to the document file and is marked exhibit number one. There are no prior medical records. The mother states her daughter has received no traditional medical care. The official results of the autopsy of Amanda Song Bird will be given by Dr. Louis Virant of Phoenix General Hospital, Phoenix, Arizona.”
Dr. Bruley reached forward, stopped the tape recorder and turned a serious face to Eskadi and Zeb.
“Gentlemen, parts of the autopsy report will be very graphic. If you become ill, there is a bathroom two doors down the hall and to the left.”
Dr. Virant began with a litany of mostly indecipherable medical terms regarding the relative health of the component systems of the young girl’s body. Had it not been an autopsy report he was dictating, anyone listening to the glowing remarks about the excellent condition of the young woman’s body would have assumed they were dealing with a healthy human being rather than a corpse… until he began to describe the wounds.
“A large incision, appearing to have been made by a highly sharpened instrument of surgical quality, begins near the midline, approximately two inches inferior to the umbilicus and extends cephalward to the tip of the xiphoid process. A second opening, transverse in nature and perpendicular to the first incision, was made approximately one inch superior to the umbilicus. That cut extends from the anterior head of the tenth rib on the right to the anterior head of the ninth rib on the left. The heart and surrounding tissues were grossly removed from the chest cavity via the opening made by these incisions. The chest cavity as presented is absent the heart. The aorta, superior vena cava, inferior vena cava and all pulmonary arteries appear to have been cut with a compressive, shearing force, indicative of a scissors like instrument.”
Dr. Virant paused and sternly gazed at the two lawmen before proceeding with his report.
“Based on the abrasions on the spleen and pancreas, as well as the pooling of the blood in the chest cavity, it is my opinion the patient was alive when the injuries were sustained. The preliminary blood work has shown no evidence of anesthesia or narcotic analgesia. It is my opinion that the young woman would have been aware of what was happening to her until lapsing into pain-induced unconsciousness. The chest cavity was crudely resewn with broad stitches using nylon fishing line.”
The thought of removing the heart of a living child and the terror she must have felt during this most heinous of acts was almost too much for Eskadi to bear. His dark Apache skin turned ashen gray. The pungent odor of formaldehyde wafted into the small office as hospital attendants wheeled a gurney through the morgue doors.
“No sperm was found in the vaginal canal or in the uterine cavity. However, there were numerous cuts and incisions on the labium. The hymen remains intact. I find no evidence of rape or sexual molestation.”
Dr. Virant flipped off the recorder. Twiddling his thumbs methodically, the doctor appeared to be detailing in his mind the report he had just dictated. After a moment, he turned the recorder on for an addendum.
“The oral transcription of this report was witnessed by Dr. Finnian Bruley, attending physician, Eskadi Black Robes, Chairman of the San Carlos Apache tribe, and Zebulon Hanks, Graham County Sheriff. It is currently fourteen thirty hours.”
Dr. Virant stopped the recorder and addressed the men curtly.
“I will have my report transcribed immediately. When it is completed, I will send a copy to the hospital front desk for you. It should be ready within two hours. Would you like to have a look at the body?”
“No,” said Eskadi. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” said Zeb. “Please.”
The malodorous, acrid aroma of heavy chemicals blasted Zeb’s senses as he followed the doctors into the examination room. Inside, Amanda Song Bird’s body lay on a cold steel table covered to the neck by only a thin hospital sheet.
“We’ve already closed her up,” said Dr. Virant.
Zeb stared at the body. Amanda Song Bird’s outward appearance was that of an innocent sleeping child. The horror that must have ruled the last minutes of her life was nowhere to be seen on her face.
Dr. Virant pulled the sheet to the child’s waist, exposing where she had been mutilated. The precision with which the doctors had closed her wounds neared perfection.
“What’s that?” said Zeb, pointing to the corners of her mouth.
“Glue from the backing of duct tape. It covered most of her mouth. The killer left the right quarter of her mouth uncovered. There was also some glue on her teeth. We cleaned it up.”
Zeb reached under the sheet and lifted the dead girl’s hand.
“We’ve cleaned them up. They were covered with blood. The men who brought the body in said that they were partially stuffed into the open body cavity when they found her. They likely fell out when they moved the body to bring it here,” said Dr. Virant. “We’re having the blood from beneath her fingernails matched for type against her own blood. It will be a miracle if we find a second blood type there. We found nothing about her hands that would indicate any major struggle. If you look at the wrists, you’ll see bruising and discoloration.”
The doctor held them up for the sheriff to see.
“He must have bound her wrists with rope while she was alive. In her attempt to free herself, she abraded the surface of the skin. There was no rope binding her when she arrived here.”
“Did the people that brought her in say whether she was bound or not when they found her?” asked Zeb.
“They indicated that she was not bound when they found her.”
Zeb placed the small hand back on the table. Dr. Bruley recovered the child’s corpse and lit his pipe.
“Do you perform many autopsies on mutilated murder victims?” asked Zeb
“Sadly, more of them all the time,” replied Dr. Virant.
12
Sheriff Hanks glanced in his rearview mirror as he signaled his exit off Highway 70 onto County Road 6. A left turn would take him directly to Jake’s. A right turn led to the only entrance to Hells Hole Canyon, home of the fabled Apache burial ground as well as a half-dozen ancient rattlesnake hibernation dens. The coarse, grinding sound of compressed gravel under his truck’s tires was a welcome change from the monotonous hum of paved road.
Heading east onto the poorly maintained tertiary road, he eyed a small whirlwind of dust and sand rising on an early evening breeze creating a dust devil. As it scooted across the desert floor, a singularly vivid recollection from his youth came to Zeb. It was the week of the fourth of July in the bicentennial year. An American flag hung proudly from every streetlight on Main Street in Safford. Zeb pedaled his bicycle to the Western Wear General Trading Store. After buying some baseball cards, he took a seat on an old wooden bench outside the store. He was engrossed in reading the player’s statistics and chewing gum when an old Apache called Big Bear, who looked to be about a hundred years old and claimed to be a descendant of the great Chiricahua Apache warrior, Cochise, tapped young Zeb on the shoulder.
“Come over and sit next to me,” commanded Big Bear. “I’m going to tell a story that every Indian boy has to understand before he becomes a man.”
The progeny of the feared warrior Cochise with golden eagle feathers in his hair and a string of bear paws around his neck was a local legend. When he told a story, even the men who hated Indians listened in awe. This day he had a tale just for the eager ears of one young man.
“The clever coyote plays pranks on the wise as well as the fool,” he told Zeb. “And the dust devil is one of his most clever and very best tricks.”
“Why?” asked the wide-eyed innocent.
“Because the dust devil has the power to fetch away the possessions of people who have too many things. The dust devil has the ability to pick up objects and move them around. It might carry them to another rich man’s house, or it might drop them at the doorstep of the poorest of men.”
“Why would he do that?” asked young Zeb.
“If you listen instead of chattering like a baby squir
rel, you might find out,” admonished Big Bear. “If you are given something by the power of the dust devil, it is your choice what to do with it. You can keep it, or you can return it to its original owner. The intent of the yellow-eyed coyote is much more than just creating a dust devil to carry something from one place to another. Any big wind blowing down from the mountains and across the desert could play such an easy trick. The coyote is smarter because he also attaches spirit to the object. If the coyote trickster brings you a gift by way of the dust devil and that thing was obtained dishonestly, you receive the bad luck attached to an ill-gotten gain. But, on the other hand, if the object is a gift from the Great Spirit, it is now yours to have freely and enjoy completely. That, young man, is the trickery of the sly coyote.”
Not five minutes after hearing the story, a five-dollar bill landed at young Zeb’s feet courtesy of a dust devil. Immediately racing to the five and ten-cent store, he squandered the entire five bucks on penny candy, eating until his stomach was about to burst. Now, twenty-five years later, Zeb rubbed his stomach, recalling the pain of the three-day-long stomachache that followed. But the story stuck like so much hardened glue in his memory for a second reason. Big Bear had gently placed his craggy, weathered hand on top of Zeb’s head just when Zeb was wondering, how can you possibly tell what sort of fortune is attached to something that arrives on the wind? The old Apache had laughed as he pulled his hand away from Zeb’s flattop haircut. Looking directly into Zeb’s youthful eyes, he told him, “the problem is, young man, it takes a wise man to hold an object in his hands and know it’s fate and fortune. It is something most men can never know. It is something most men never even think of.”
Zeb was absolutely certain Big Bear had the power to read his mind by simply touching the crown of his head. But when he asked his dad to corroborate the newfound belief, his old man scoffed at him and gave him a whipping for listening to the ramblings of a ‘drunken old Injun’.