by Darrel Bird
they got nothing to hide Rupert, then what’s the harm in giving me accounts reports? A lot of money has gone missing somewhere between the Billings office, and the local agent. They are feeling the heat when they chance killing or wounding an FBI agent.”
“Yeah, I hear you Gordon, but you just can’t go roughing up BIA agents. I’ll put heat on the BIA in Billings for the report, but fer heavens sake, take it easy down there Gordon, the BIA answers to nobody but congress.”
“Even Congress is not free to murder people Rupert, and I had to shake the tree a little with that local BIA man.
“Yeah, I hear you Gordon, but you can’t go shoving people through walls, ya hear me Morgan?”
“Yes mother.”
“Be careful out there Gordon, I don’t want anything to happen to you, you’re one of the best agents I have.”
“Did you know something about this mess when you sent me out here Rupert?”
“Goodbye Gordon.” The phone went dead.
He had just hung up the phone when Gale Lone Elk walked in again, “What news does the most beautiful woman I have ever seen have for me today?”
“Oh yeah, a woman in jeans, and an old shirt. You must have hit your head on a rock out there. For one, I have your dog. The doctor says you’ll be out of bed later on in the week.”
“I suppose you will be up at that cabin when I get out? I might need you in court later.”
“No, actually I will be at my house on the res. I was just finishing my work up there, and I will be making reports to the department of fish and wild life soon. That will take about a week, and then I’ll be out of a job again.”
“Then I’ll be out to see you perhaps early next week.”
“Is the FBI interested in the wolf population?”
“No, just the wolf keeper.”
“The she wolves are dangerous.” She turned to go harboring a smile on her face.
“I’ll be very careful around them.”
“Uhuh.”
After she had gone, the vacuum she left behind made him realize the loneliness he had endured for a long time. The wall he had built for himself against his very heritage began to crumble. Akule had called him apple, but the truth was, he was not red on the outside, and white on the inside, but the poverty that had driven him from the reservation was still here, and the BIA was still stealing from the Indians without impunity, except this time murder was involved. All he had to do to solve it was follow the money.
On Friday he left the hospital with the objections of the doctor, “I have to get back to work doc, I can’t stay here another day.”
“Well, if your hip begins to feel like cut glass again, you get yourself back here immediately, other wise you may be walking with a permanent limp. I have prescribed you some pain medicine; it’s at the front desk. Don’t take more than two at a time. That bullet took a chunk out of your hip bone.”
“Thanks.” He shook hands with the doctor, and limped to the front desk, where he signed out after the girl handed him a bottle of pills. He found the Bronco parked in a space outside the small hospital, and drove to his office in the court house.
When he arrived back at his desk, he found a very thick envelope lying on top of his desk. He sat down and opened it. It was the Billings report he had ask for. Thank you Rupert, you old scoundrel, I don’t know what you hid from me when you sent me out here, but I have the feeling I am about to find out.
The report was a computer generated report with notes written in long hand explaining various errors. He ignored those, and separated them from the actual report which contained about five hundred pages.
The sheriff walked in with paper cups of coffee in each hand, “Double shot of Americana Gordon.” He sat the cup down on the desk. Gordon reached for the cup, and opened it, the steaming black coffee giving off a heavenly aroma to his nose. He took a sip of the coffee, “Ahhh, that’s more like it.”
The sheriff dragged a chair and sat down in front of his desk, “Bob, do you know if there is a certified public accountant on the res?”
“Sure, Clifford White Horse, he works for the BIA.”
“No, I need a CPA that has nothing to do with the BIA, I need some help with these reports.”
“There’s Walt Goodman, he has an office just down the street. I can recommend him as an honest man; I use him from time to time. Want me to have my secretary give him a call?”
“Please, if you would. Ask him if he could come here today, I have to go out to the res tomorrow and collect my dog from Gale Lone Elk.”
“Now there’s a woman to ride the river with.” The sheriff smiled when he said it.
“Who said anything about riding any rivers Bob?”
“Why don’t you settle down in White Peak after you catch these killers? I need a good man like you. Its not so glamorous as working for the feds, but I got the feeling Gale really likes you. The res needs a man like you to keep the feds from stealing them blind like they have for a hundred years. It was said that evil triumphs when good men do nothing.”
“First I need a CPA to help me look at these reports Bob.”
“Typical FBI man, just one step at a time huh?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll step down there and drag him out of his office myself, see you later Gordon.” The sheriff left the room, but he hardly noticed as he turned the pages of the report.
Forty five minutes later a middle aged man with thick glasses and a bald pate knocked on the door.
“Come.”
The man opened the door, and stuck his head in, “Bob said you might need some help from me?”
“Yes, please come in, I would like for you to study some financial reports for me. You can use my desk; just tell me if about three million dollars got to Billings, and if it was disbursed to White Peak.”
The accountant read the headings on the reports, “That’s BIA stuff man, I can’t get mixed up in that.”
“Why?”
“Why? If the government wants too, it can take my little license in a heart beat, and I value my ability to make a decent living, that’s why.”
“All I want you to do is decipher the reports, nothing that is said will leave this building Mr. Goodman. I’m not looking for errors in accounting, I just need to know a top down view of the reports, just a glossary.”
“Well, I guess I can do that for you Mr. Masterson.”
“Good, just sit right down here, I need to go back to the Elk Horn, and give my hip a rest. You can call me on my cell when you have something for me.”
He left the accountant who was already busy turning pages in the report, and drove the Bronco the short distance to the Motel. He got a coke out of the drink machine, and walked to his room. He downed two of the pain pills and lay down with a sigh; his hip had begun to throb.
He dreamed he saw Indians dancing before a great fire, and wild horses were stampeding through the camp. Above all the melee was a blood red moon. He awoke to the sound of his cell vibrating on the end table next to his bed, “Hello?” His mouth was so dry he could hardly speak.
“Mr. Masterson, I’m done with the report, can you come down to your office?”
“What time is it?”
“Its nine o’clock, I realize I finished a little late.”
“Give me ten minutes, I just woke up.”
He hurriedly splashed water on his face and head, and the cold water revived him some what. He combed his hair, and hobbled to the Bronco, and in five minutes he walked into his office. The accountant was still sitting in his chair, so he pulled up a chair and sat in the front of his desk.
“What did you find?”
The accountant laid his elbows on the desk and peaked his fingers, “Well, ignoring the numerous, and I mean numerous…errors…the money was disbursed from Billings, but that’s where it gets fuzzy. In all my days as an accountant, I’ve never seen anything quite like this. The disbursements were to projects that can have no bearing on the res whatsoever.”
“For instance?”
“For instance fifty thousand for the study of Quail eggs.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“I wish I was, the list goes on, and on. The corruption I see here is open and obstinate, not to mention the errors. I think the errors are because individual accountants just put in a small part, and of course, see a small part. That kind of system would be error prone as hell. Imagine fifty people writing a book when no one of them is given the plot for the book? I could work a year on this one report as a bad example of book keeping.”
“And the end result?” Gordon stared at the CPA.
“Endless thefts, money disappears, and cannot be tracked with a system laced with so many errors, honest errors or not, an error in accounting is still an error. The end result is Indians left in abject poverty, but that’s not news around here.”
“But if the Indians got a casino, and it profited?”
“A profitable venture like that would mean bottom up accounting instead of top down. A win for the Indian if the Indian accountants are honest.”
“I’ve got to head home Gordon, or my wife will think I have a young thing hidden out down here, if there’s anything else I can do for you, give me a call. It’s been an