by Rich Curtin
“It must be done silently, without being seen. Stealing a corpse breaks another one of the white man’s laws.”
Dibé walked back to her people and spoke for a full minute in Navajo. The frowns melted from their faces. Now they looked at Rivera with expressions of respect and appreciation. Two middle-aged men stepped forward, and Dibé handed them Rivera’s map. They got into a dusty pickup truck and drove off into the darkness.
Rivera left the compound and headed to Bluff, hoping all would go well and not wanting to count the number of laws he had just broken.
Before calling it a day and heading to his motel room, there was one more thing he needed to do. He parked in front of Nathan White’s house. The lights were still on and he could hear the sound of a cheering crowd coming from the television set. It sounded like a basketball game. He knocked on the front door and waited. The door opened and Nathan White looked at him and frowned.
“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”
“I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”
“My neighbor and I are watching the game. It’s an important game—Utah versus Golden State. I’d like to watch the whole thing. Why don’t you call tomorrow and make an appointment? Maybe we could find a more convenient time.”
Rivera wasn’t in the mood for this. “It’s just a couple of quick questions. Wouldn’t take long. Better than me hauling you up to Monticello and asking my questions at the sheriff’s office.”
“All right, but you’re not welcome in my home. You stay out there and ask your questions.”
Rivera knew White was peeved at him for sneaking up on him yesterday and implying he was up to no good. “I need for you to account for your time today, starting early this morning.”
“My private life is none of your damn business.”
Rivera’s jaw muscles tightened. “Here or Monticello. Your choice. Decide right now.”
White waved his hand. “All right, all right. I spent the day in a motorboat on the San Juan River with my next-door neighbor. We left at seven this morning and returned around sundown. He’s right here. You can ask him.”
The neighbor verified White’s story. They had motored down the river to Chinle Canyon and hiked up the canyon a couple of miles, photographing the geologic formations and the petroglyphs of Kokopelli and other Anasazi figures. Then they crossed to the north side of the river, explored Comb Wash, and took more photographs. The neighbor extracted his cell phone from his shirt pocket and showed Rivera some of the photographs he had taken. White appeared in several of them. Rivera checked the dates on the photos, looked at the man’s ID, and jotted his name and address into his notebook.
“Satisfied?” asked White.
Rivera stuffed his notebook back into his shirt pocket. “You hear about the shooting we had today?”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. That Navajo sheepherder who waters his animals at the spring downslope from the airfield was shot in the back and killed. It happened early this morning. I thought if you were out there this morning, you might have seen something. That’s why I came here tonight.”
“I decided to quit helping you after the way you treated me yesterday—like I was some kind of criminal.” He thought for a moment. “Another shooting, you say? I’ll be damned. I wonder what’s going on out there. ” Then his expression changed. “Oh, and you remember seeing me up there yesterday with that rifle. You thought maybe I went back there this morning and whacked me a Navajo.”
A smile crept onto Rivera’s face, despite his efforts to suppress it. “Well, that thought did occur to me.”
White burst out laughing. “You’re a scoundrel, Rivera, but at least you’re honest. Hell, c’mon in. Have a beer and watch the game with us.”
20
MANNY RIVERA PUSHED BACK the curtain of his motel room window and peered outside. It looked like another cold morning in the high desert. The low temperatures had frozen the condensed moisture on the outside surface of the glass and transformed it into a panel of exotic snowflake designs, geometric patterns, and fractal arrays. The slanting light of the rising sun now struck the window pane, backlighting the icy shapes and producing a work of art. Even as he studied the masterpiece, the warmth of the sun began to melt it away. Like everything else in the high desert, nothing was permanent.
On his way to the office in Monticello, Rivera stopped at the hospital to check on Emmett Mitchell. The floor nurse informed him Emmett was sleeping and that he was doing well and would probably be released tomorrow morning. Good news. Rather than disturb Emmett’s sleep, Rivera asked the nurse to tell Emmett he’d stopped by for a visit.
Rivera entered the sheriff’s building, grabbed a mug of coffee in the break room, and slipped into his office. He closed the door and sat down, hoping no one would bother him for a while. He felt a bit sheepish, working as a sworn officer of the law while he himself was guilty of a felony—conspiracy theft of a corpse and who knows what else. And that made him wonder if the Nez family had been successful last night. Despite his intense curiosity, he couldn’t very well ask about it.
Rivera had broken the law, of that he was sure, but he was also sure he had done the right thing. In his mind, justice always trumped the letter of the law. He hoped that, by now, the Nez family had prepared the body in accordance with their customs and buried it in a place where it would never be found. Sooner or later he would find out what had happened last night. Meanwhile, he had the bullet he needed as evidence.
His focus returned to the Mason case and with it the sense of frustration caused by his lack of progress. He had no idea why the Masons had been killed. Not an inkling. What made things worse was that he had no idea what to do next. He needed to update his report and brief Sheriff Zilic on his progress—or lack of it—but beyond that, he had no plan for the day. He guessed the best he could do was return to the Converse and Dryden Ranches, ask more questions, probe for relevant information, and hope to learn something useful. Keep digging, he told himself. Someone must have seen something.
The only explanation that seemed to make sense was that the Masons and Mr. Nez were killed because they had witnessed some kind of illegal drug transfer, but even that theory was fuzzy. He’d found no one yet who had seen an aircraft utilizing the airstrip. He was beginning to feel that this was the most intractable case he’d ever been assigned. He wondered for an instant if it would turn out to be his first failure as an investigator.
Rivera spent the next thirty minutes at the computer, updating the case file with yesterday’s activities and events. His report was complete in every detail, except, of course, the covert unlocking of a certain window by a certain deputy.
Just as he finished reviewing and editing his work, his cell phone buzzed. The caller was the alumni relations lady from the University of Maryland. She told him she’d been unable to find any information on Michael Bennett except that he had been a student in the Kinesiology Department during the ’66-’67 school year. She’d had better luck with Ellen Yardley. Yardley had graduated in 1970 with a degree in pre-law and had gone on to receive a Doctor of Jurisprudence degree from Georgetown in 1973. She was an active alumnus and a generous supporter of the school. The lady said Yardley was listed in the alumni records as executive vice-president of Gallion-Duncan Financial Corporation in Baltimore. She gave Rivera Yardley’s address and business phone number.
Rivera searched the internet for information on Gallion-Duncan and learned that the firm was a $12 billion-dollar corporation in the financial services industry. He dialed Yardley’s office number. The secretary who answered said Ms. Yardley was in a board meeting now, but she would ask her to call back as soon as she was available. Rivera hoped that, with some luck, Ms. Yardley might be able to steer Rivera toward Woody’s family. It was a long shot after all these years, but worth trying.
Rivera refilled his coffee mug and went to Nick Lathrop’s office.
“Nick, I’m headed for the sheriff’s office to brief
him on the investigation. Want to join me?”
“Sure.” Lathrop followed Rivera down the hallway.
Sheriff Zilic waved them into his office. He cupped his hand over the telephone mouthpiece. “Have a seat. This’ll only take a minute.” He listened, grunted ‘uh huh’ a few times, said thanks, and hung up. “Okay, what’s happening on the Mason and Nez cases?”
Rivera brought the sheriff up to date, detailing his efforts thus far. “I’m afraid I haven’t made much progress. I’ll be visiting the Converse and Dryden ranches again today for follow-up questions. Somebody’s bound to have seen something.”
Zilic nodded. “Anything new on a motive for the Mason killings?”
“No. It’s possibly drug related, but I haven’t yet found anything I can sink my teeth into.”
“What about the Navajo?”
“One of two things. Either he saw who had killed the Masons and was therefore eliminated as a witness, or both he and the Masons had somehow stumbled onto drug deals in progress.”
“I’ll put my money on the drug deal theory. It’s the only one that makes sense to me. What about you, Nick? Still think it was a murder-suicide?”
“No. Not since the Navajo was killed. I agree with Manny. Had to be one of those two things.”
“Trouble is,” said Rivera, “I can’t find anyone who’s seen an aircraft using that airstrip recently. And it seems improbable there would have been two separate drug deals within three days of each other, one resulting in the Mason killings and one the Nez killing.”
“Well, keep digging. Something’s bound to turn up. By the way, did you hear about what happened at the mortuary?”
“What happened?” asked Rivera.
Zilic laughed. “The mortuary director called me this morning. He said the Nez corpse has gone missing. He called Pudge Devlin about it, but Devlin said the body was still there when the two of you left the building around eight o’clock last night. So someone broke into the mortuary after that and stole the body. Damnest thing I ever heard.”
“Surely that place is kept locked at night. How’d the thief get in?” asked Lathrop.
“We’re not sure. All the doors and windows were locked. They must have had a key or picked a lock somehow. Had to be Navajos. The traditional ones prefer to bury their dead the old way—under a pile of rocks in some remote canyon. And they like to get it done right away. We’ll never find out who did it or where the body ended up.”
Rivera tried to look surprised. Thank God the Navajos had thought to lock the window after they’d climbed through it, he thought. “While we were there, Pudge performed a preliminary autopsy and extracted the bullet. He said the bullet was definitely the cause of death.”
“Well, I’m not going to lose any sleep over a lost Navajo corpse or begin an investigation. It’d be a waste of time. The Rez is a different world, even though part of it is in my county. They have their own beliefs and customs.”
Rivera was still thinking about the bullet. “If no one outside the sheriff’s department or the mortuary knows that an autopsy was performed and the bullet recovered, maybe we can use that fact to our advantage.”
“What do you mean?” asked Zilic.
“Let’s put out a press release saying the body was stolen before an autopsy could be performed. We can mention that the San Juan County ME was out of town. We’ll let it be known informally that the Navajos are suspected of taking it so that it could be buried in accordance with their customs. Maybe the shooter will relax a bit when he concludes we didn’t recover the bullet. He’ll think we can’t match it to his rifle. Maybe he’ll make a miscalculation.”
“Sure. Can’t hurt to try,” said Zilic. “I’ll have Hilda issue a press release right away.”
“It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll get lucky. I’ll call the mortuary director and Pudge and let them know to keep quiet about the preliminary autopsy.”
21
RIVERA DROVE PAST the pump jacks and vineyards of the Converse Ranch and pulled to a stop in front of the ranch house. Bill Converse must have heard the door of Rivera’s pickup truck close, because he came out on the porch a moment later. He gestured for Rivera to come up on the porch and have a seat.
“I heard someone shot that Navajo sheepherder.” Converse lowered himself into a chair.
“Yeah,” said Rivera, sitting down. “Most likely a rifle shot.”
“I also heard the body was stolen from the mortuary.”
News travels fast out here, thought Rivera. “The theory is that his people stole it so they could bury him in accordance with Navajo customs. They didn’t want an autopsy.”
Converse nodded his understanding. He thought for a long moment, stroking his mustache. “No autopsy then. Well, if you already know the cause of death, it’s probably not important anyway. I wonder why he was shot. You got any theories?”
“My hunch is that it’s drug related, but I can’t be sure. Same with the Masons. Trouble is, I can’t find anyone who’s seen an aircraft utilizing that airstrip.”
“Couldn’t it be a vehicle-to-vehicle transaction? Out there on the road?”
“It’s possible, but if that were the case, they probably wouldn’t make the transfer at the same place more than once. There’d be no need to kill witnesses.”
“What if the witnesses recognized the parties involved in the drug transfer?”
“Not likely, since the Masons were from California and Nez was from the Big Rez.”
“Makes sense. You know, I feel really bad that I complained about him bringing his flock onto our grazing lease.”
“No harm done.” Except for Nez’s resentment of all cops, Rivera thought to himself.
“I guess not. Still…” Converse didn’t finish the sentence.
Rivera thought about the grave near the airstrip. “You’ve lived here a long time, Mr. Converse. About fifty years ago, there was a young man named Woody who passed through this area. Ever hear of him?”
“Woody?” Converse thought, shook his head. “No. Can’t say I have. He got a last name?”
“No. Just Woody. A nickname.”
“No.”
“Ever hear of anyone being buried out by the airstrip? It would also have been about fifty years ago.”
“No, but if that had happened, I’m sure I would have heard about it. Let’s see, fifty years ago, I would have been twenty-three. Just home after serving my time in Nam. There weren’t many people in the area back then. The oil and gas play hadn’t gotten this far north of the river. Route 347 wasn’t gravel or graded—it was a rutted dirt road. The airstrip wasn’t built yet. Something like a burial on BLM land would have been big news. Everyone within a hundred-mile radius would have been talking about it. You telling me someone’s buried out there?”
Rivera wasn’t ready to discuss the details. He shrugged. “Just something I heard.”
“I’ll ask around and let you know if I learn anything.”
“Appreciate it.”
As Rivera drove off the ranch, he felt increasingly frustrated by his inability to learn anything useful to his investigation. He would keep digging for information, as he always did, but he felt like he’d run out of sources. Now he was reduced to revisiting old sources and asking questions he’d already asked. He felt like a man who had been fishing for days but hadn’t gotten a single bite.
As Rivera pulled to a stop at the Dryden ranch, Bobby Dryden was just coming out of the ranch house. He looked at Rivera with a surly expression and headed for his Maserati.
Rivera rolled down his window. “Bobby, is your father at home?”
Bobby, without breaking stride, said, “He’s back in town, planning to spend more of my inheritance on that damn football team. This time it’s new uniforms and equipment.” He slid into his vehicle and started the engine. He floored it, spun a 360 on the gravel, and sped off in a cloud of dust.
Rivera closed his window and remained in his vehicle until the dust cloud settled. He wonder
ed what drove Bobby to behave like a spoiled child. Was he angry with the world about something? Mad because his mother had passed away? Or had it something to do with his birth father? Sam Dryden had said he’d tried to bring the boy up right as a promise to his wife on her deathbed. Somewhere along the way he had failed. A thirty-six-year old man of wealth should have developed grace and manners by now.
Rivera knocked on the ranch house door on the chance Alicia was there. No one answered. He walked back to his vehicle and looked around. Saw no one. Then he noticed that the sliding door of the garage which housed Sam Dryden’s antique car collection was ajar. Rivera’s brother David had an interest in antique cars. He owned a 1980 Camaro Z28 and a 1966 Mustang GT, both of which he doted on and polished weekly. David enjoyed driving them in parades and displaying them at car shows. Rivera decided to take a peek. He didn’t think Sam Dryden would mind.
As he approached the building, a dark-skinned man appeared from within the garage. He was muttering something in a language Rivera didn’t understand and putting his hands on the door as if ready to push it closed. When he noticed Rivera, he stopped, nodded.
Rivera introduced himself and learned the man’s name was James Atcitty. “Any chance I could get a look at Mr. Dryden’s car collection?”
“Sure, c’mon in. Mr. Dryden wouldn’t mind. I was just coming to close the door so all that dust Bobby stirred up doesn’t drift in here and settle on the cars. I think he does that on purpose, just to irritate his old man. And make extra work for me.”
Rivera stepped inside the building, and the man slid the door closed. The sodium vapor lights mounted on the ceiling were bright and caused the chrome on the vehicles to sparkle like diamonds. There were about thirty antique vehicles arranged in four rows on the polished concrete floor. He told Atcitty about his brother and the two antique cars he owned. Atcitty acted impressed, said he needed to get back to work, and invited Rivera to feel free to wander around and look at the cars. “But please don’t touch them. Mr. Dryden can spot a smudge at thirty yards.”