He paused, then added, “But I’m really sorry that old man got cut the other day. We just figured we’d ruin a few chain saws.”
Again Ella tried not to let her anger show, recalling the nightmare the victim had gone through, and how Justine had beat herself up feeling guilty. Wanting desperately to know who was sponsoring all this, she considered finding a copy of the Navajo newspaper and showing him a photo of Arthur Benjamin, but knew that would be thrown out of court. Still, if she did manage to get a photo of Benjamin and place it among others in a photo array . . .
“How about that hogan? Did you set off the timer using a remote?” Ella knew that the person who planted the bomb was probably the Indian Harry had seen carrying in the box, but she wanted to check now to see how the two Anglos fit in.
James looked genuinely puzzled. “What hogan? We just blew up things like that pump house and the garbage container. Oh, and that outhouse. Blew the crap out of it, I guess. The bombs we got were just sticks of explosives with blasting caps and fuses. I wouldn’t know how to use a timer anyway. I just work as a framer. Never did any wiring.”
Ella stared at him, trying her best to look skeptical. Although she believed he was telling the truth, anything more he could add would just sweeten the pot.
“Why did this ’Indian’ choose you and James, and know where to find you?” Ella asked. “Did you see him talking to anyone else?”
“I didn’t notice him with any of the other guys who came to the union hall looking for work. I guess we were just lucky. Or maybe not, now that I think about it. Look, I’m trying to cooperate because I want out of here, but that’s all I know. Really,” James insisted.
Ella reached into her pocket and took out her small notebook. She tore out several blank pages, then handed them to James, along with a stubby pencil.
“What’s this for? A written confession?”
“No. We can get all the formal writing done when your lawyer is present. Just write down the times and places where you did a job for that Indian, and what you remember about each time. If you run out of paper, ask for more. The more incidents we know about, the more we can clear up and the better it will look for you in court. Anything you can add that will keep people from getting hurt cutting down those trees will also go a long ways in helping you avoid a negligent homicide charge.”
Ella looked at Neskahi, and added, “Sergeant, will you stay with James while he writes? I’m going to talk to Eric now.” Ella stood.
Neskahi nodded, bringing out his own small notebook. “I’ve got more paper, James.”
The prisoner looked up. “Do you happen to have a pocket calendar?” he asked Neskahi.
Ella slipped out and tried to interview James’s partner in his cell, but Eric simply sat there and glowered at her, even though Ella urged him to tell his side of the story.
Neskahi joined her a short time later and tried his luck next, but got no further.
An hour and a half later, Neskahi walked with Ella back to her office. “Things are going pretty well now, for a change. We’re making progress and it looks like we’ll clear up a lot of the open cases with these two, including the tree spiking. So why are you so quiet? What’s bothering you?”
“I’m not sure. For now, keep what we’ve learned from the prisoner to yourself. I want to play this real close until I’m ready to make a move on the person who’s behind this. These guys aren’t very bright, but they were sure getting good intelligence from someone.”
“You’ve got it. Let me know how else I can help.” “I will.”
Ella made out a report of everything she’d learned, but placed it in a limited distributions folder. For now, she would give it only to Big Ed, Justine, and the rest of her team, including Blalock. There was much she hadn’t put down in the report—but theories based on gut feelings had no place in the official document.
After proofreading it, she walked to Big Ed’s office and found him there, already working.
Ella went inside, then filled him in quickly, opening the file to the spot that contained a duplicate of the list they’d found in the men’s car. “The real problem is what the list implies.”
He studied it. “This is bad, Shorty. They knew I’d be at the Chapter House, and even that you park your unit behind the trees near the side of your house. That means that someone’s keeping tabs on us. And if these guys are telling the truth, we still don’t have a suspect for the blast at the hogan that almost killed two cops.”
“I wanted you to see the file right away because there’s something else I need to talk to you about. It’s hearsay, so it’s not in a report.” Ella told him about Arthur Benjamin. “I have no proof. All I know is what Jaime over at the newspaper office told me in confidence. But I want to look into this. The problem is that I’m going to ruffle feathers if I do, and it could all blow up in my face.”
Big Ed leaned back in his seat, lips pressed tightly together, and rocked back and forth in his chair—a regular habit—allowing the silence to stretch between them as he considered the matter.
Ella didn’t interrupt but, after a while, impatience began to gnaw at her, and the rocking started to get on her nerves.
“This disturbs me a great deal,” he said at last. “At one time both Arthur and Carl were friends of mine. Of course that all ended when I got the job of chief instead of Carl. After he died, his family came to the conclusion that losing the post to me was what killed him. I couldn’t do a thing against that belief.”
“Should I start looking into Arthur’s background and that of his associates and see if there’s any connection to the trouble we’ve been having? Almost all the major problems have been limited to the Shiprock district.”
He nodded. “Do it, but I’m willing to bet that you’ll find nothing. Arthur is a smart cookie. If he wants my job, he’ll play rough. But whether he’d actually risk lives—that I’m not so sure about. One thing I can tell you is that Carl was too soft on people and played by too many rules. But Arthur told me once that had he been the one competing with me for the post of police chief, he wouldn’t have lost.”
Big Ed paused, lost in thought. “But the reason Carl didn’t get the job wasn’t because of anything he did or didn’t do. It was because his heart condition showed up when he took the physical. It pretty much disqualified him as a police officer at any rank.”
“Does Arthur believe that?”
“Probably. He’s no one’s fool. But he still has an ax to grind. The real problem with Arthur is that he spent his entire life trying to prove he was smarter and better than his brother, but nearly everyone still preferred Carl.”
“So what you’re saying is that Arthur probably doesn’t really want your job—he just wants to accomplish what his brother couldn’t—become Shiprock’s police chief?”
“That’s my guess. It’s a complicated situation, Shorty. I’ve known that family almost all of my life. Carl was just another one of the guys, but Arthur never fit in anywhere. Admittedly, it was his own fault. He always held himself apart. Even now, he goes around dressed like an Anglo, wearing a silk tie and suit. He calls it having standards that define him and thinks he’s making an image for himself. But what he doesn’t realize—though he certainly should—is that around here what he’s doing is not a plus.”
“Suits?” Ella looked at the chief, then shook her head. She didn’t know any Navajos who wore suits and a cloth tie to work. Even Kevin dressed casually unless he was going to court or meeting with tribal officials.
“Western-cut suits, mind you, but never a bolo tie. And he must polish his boots twice a day! He’s never late, he’s never early. He arrives on the dot. Every time. Around here, we’re all on Indian time except for Arthur. But I’ve got to admit he can get the Anglos and the federal government’s attention with his role-playing tactics. He’s managed to get grants and programs for the tribe that none of our politicians could, and that’s what has made him friends here on the Rez.”
“Okay,
I’ll let you know if I dig up anything interesting on him,” Ella said. “But I’ll keep a low profile.”
“I’ll alert the other districts on the Rez who’ve had sporadic trouble with vandalism to be on the watch for Anglos, not Navajos. We’ve had the worst of it here in the Shiprock district, but everyone needs to be apprised. Also, make sure your team realizes that whoever hired these two could hire another pair to replace them. Without catching the man behind it, this is just a temporary fix.”
Justine was waiting in Ella’s office when she returned. “What’s up?” Ella could see the frustration on her partner’s face.
“I checked out the radio scanner in the car the two Anglos were driving. It can monitor all our frequencies, those of the forestry department, and even those FBEyes uses. That requires special refinements and parts that aren’t available to the public. I looked for the serial number in hopes I could track down the buyer, but the numbers had been filed off. It’s not in the original case, anyway. I think it was probably stolen from a federal vehicle originally, but I doubt it can be traced.”
Ella filled her in on the description of Eric and James’s Indian “employer.”
“There are some Navajos with mustaches, but not many,” Justine said slowly, “and a rough complexion could describe a lot of men.”
“It’s still too general a description, but at least it’s a start,” Ella said, then added, “Do you know Arthur Benjamin?”
“I know of him, but I don’t know him personally. Why?”
“I’d really like to know if he’s sporting a mustache these days.”
“I’ll check around and get back to you on that,” Justine said.
“Also, see if there are any other Indians, doesn’t matter which tribe, hanging around the Dinetah who fit that description.”
“Good call. To a lot of Anglos, an Indian is an Indian—one size fits all.”
“Yeah, you know what they say, we all look alike,” she joked.
As Justine left her office, Ella picked up the phone and called her brother’s home. Clifford spoke to a lot of people during the course of a day. Maybe he could get a lead for her on the Indian man who’d hired the Anglos. People were far more likely to talk to him freely than they would a cop.
After a quick conversation with Clifford, she hung up. He’d help if he could, but now it was a matter of waiting. She was getting ready to catch up on her paperwork when FB-Eyes, Agent Blalock, walked in.
“Tell me about the two Anglos you’ve got in the holding pen downstairs,” he said, dispensing with the small talk.
“They’re small-time, but the guy who apparently hired them is another matter,” she said, describing the list of targets, their Indian employer, and the altered police scanner.
“I’ll have Payestewa check out the pair’s phone records and their backgrounds. If we can figure out how this mystery guy chose them, we may find a lead we can use. I have a feeling they weren’t picked at random outside a union hall.”
“Me, too.” Ella rubbed her eyes. “But I don’t think we’ll find any easy trails. Nothing about this case seems to be simple.”
TWELVE
Rose glanced down at her bandaged hand. It throbbed every time Herman hit a bump in the road, but she wouldn’t complain. This morning she’d been really worried about being able to replace the ruined wood. Most of it had been contaminated with kerosene. Although the house was heated by LP gas, there were rooms like the den that got very little heat from the ducting system. Without the woodstove, some rooms in the house would become intolerably cold.
“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” Herman said quietly. “I like having the company.”
“My daughter expects me to stay home until my hand heals, but I can’t do that. I do avoid using it, but I won’t let this injury rule my life.”
“Your daughter is a police investigator with many responsibilities. She’s used to taking charge of others, and it’s natural for her to try to do the same with you.”
Rose nodded thoughtfully. “I love her, but I wish she’d chosen another profession. To make things even worse, she’s so dedicated she gives it everything she has. What she doesn’t realize is that her career will be a poor companion if that’s the only thing that defines her by the time she reaches my age.”
“What do you see when you look back on your own life?” Herman asked quietly.
Rose thought about his question, gently touching the moments and memories that had made up her past. “I see a life of great joys and great sorrows. All in all, a life well spent. But it’s the future that interests me more these days. There’s still a lot left for me to do,” she added. “And you, old friend, what do you see of your years and for the future?”
Herman kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “I see a life that has been hard. Very hard.” He thought of the son he’d lost in Vietnam and the daughter that had never made it past her eighth summer, a victim of lung disease. His wife had died many years ago, and with his only living son working in California he was now alone. Families no longer represented a unit that couldn’t be broken. “Some people fear dying,” Herman said. “But dying is easy. It’s the living that’s hard.”
A long silence born of understanding descended between them as the miles stretched out. Finally Rose spoke.
“And now here we both are, going to gather firewood, taking care of the business of living.”
Herman smiled at her. ’That we are, old woman,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “And your daughter is going to kill me when she finds out that I took you with me for this.”
“My hand is hurt, but my arms still work. I can help carry the firewood back to the truck. All you have to do is load me up.”
Herman shook his head. “You’re not a wheelbarrow. That’s for me to do.”
“I’ll do as much as I can,” she said firmly. “You’ll just have to trust that I know when to stop.”
“Just don’t get too tired out there. Your daughter’s a great shot,” he teased, “and she always carries a gun.”
They reached the forest site that had been designated for firewood gathering about an hour later. Herman got out and, working together, they selected several driedout pines that had been marked with an orange spot by foresters for cutting. They would be easy to cut down and still give them a good supply of firewood.
“Keep a sharp eye out for any spikes or nails, or other kinds of vandalism,” Herman warned, telling her about those who’d been injured using saws.
“At least all we have is an ax and a handsaw. There’s a limit to the harm that can be done to that or us if you strike a nail.”
They’d been working for about ninety minutes, Rose only carrying light loads back to the truck, when Victor Charlie, the tribal newspaper’s young cartoonist, came by. He had his own load of firewood in the back of his truck.
Victor pulled up besides Herman’s pickup and got out, greeting Rose and helping Herman cut up the last of the wood he’d selected. Victor wore a buzz cut hairdo, and had on a faded green olive drab military jacket with the original user’s black name tag still on it—Mortensen.
A perpetual teenager, though the man was in his twenties, Victor wore blue earmuffs that covered a set of headphones. Electric cords from each ear led through the neck of his jacket to a radio or CD player nested in an inside pocket.
“So how are things with you?” Victor asked Rose, apparently having turned off his music for the moment. “I heard about what happened at your home the other night. You must have been frightened.”
“Angry is more like it. I think those thugs were sent to scare me because I oppose gambling on our land. They fight like cowards, ruining an old woman’s firewood so she and her family won’t have a way to stay warm. They’re acting like those gangland hoodlums you see on TV.”
Hearing her comments, Herman put the last of the wood in the back of his truck, stowing away the ax and handsaw, then helped Rose into the passenger’s seat. “Well, good
luck to you, nephew,” he said, slipping behind the wheel. “We have to get going.”
As soon as they were away from there, Herman glanced over at Rose. “He works for the newspaper. Did you know that?”
Rose shrugged. “So? What did I say that wasn’t true?”
Herman exhaled softly. “I hope you have a lot of influence over your daughter.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s going to want to kill me now for sure—after she finishes with you, of course.”
It was late in the afternoon when Ella went to visit Arthur Benjamin. His home, west of the town of Shiprock in the farmland just south of the river, was a very un-Navajo-like building. The large one-story ranch-style dwelling was constructed in the shape of a U with an east and west wing. The courtyard in the center, enclosed at the mouth of the U by a tall wrought-iron fence, was barren except for a terra-cotta frog planter.
Ella knocked on the right side of the double doors at the end of the flagstone walk, and was shown inside by a polite Navajo man in his late twenties. He was wearing a white dress shirt and blue slacks and she assumed he was Arthur’s butler, assistant, or whatever.
Ella looked around the foyer, peering into the rooms beyond through the open doorways. The house was decorated like the pages of a magazine advertising southwestern decor—not the everyday kind, but the type actors and movie stars usually opted for. Painted cow skulls were mounted on the whitewashed walls, and a lamp fashioned from horseshoes stood next to an uncomfortable-looking leather-and-pine chair embossed with a cowboy cattle drive scene.
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