Black Thunder (23 page)

“That’s not all they know,” Sheriff Taylor said through a clenched jaw. “The article also mentions that all the vics at the Hogback site were Navajos killed execution style—two shots to the back of the head. This added credibility to the dice found at the scene—according to the reporter.”

“None of that information was supposed to be released,” Ella said, “not
the dice, nor the number of wounds. We met as a group at the site and instructions were clear to everyone present.”

“The reporter, Don Cardwell, only cites an ‘unnamed source,’” Taylor said. “But other news services have picked up the story, too, so now it’s on the AP, Reuters, and even the Internet.”

“The story also hints that Romero and Bowman may be responsible and are in this area,” Big
Ed added.

“Our job just got a lot tougher,” Ella said.

Big Ed looked at Taylor. “I will personally vouch for my people. The leak didn’t come from this department. In a later report I filed here, I clarified where the dice had come from—the Bitsillie boy, not the killer.”

“Cardwell quotes this unnamed source as saying that the police are keeping the details of the case under wraps to the detriment
of public safety.” Taylor cracked his knuckles. “The source insists he’s acting solely on the public’s behalf. That strikes me as coming from a politician wannabe.”

“You’ve got someone in mind, don’t you?” Ella observed.

“Yeah, an individual in our department who’s already posturing to run in the next election cycle. Unfortunately, I’ve got no way of proving it,” Taylor said. “Putting pressure
on Cardwell, the reporter, won’t work either, I’ve met the guy. If anyone tried to get the name of his source,
that
would be the focus of his next article.”

“If we don’t plug this leak it could compromise the entire investigation,” Ella said.

“We know,” Big Ed said. “That’s why we spoke to Agent Blalock. He’s agreed that we should alter our normal procedures. Neither you nor Nez will submit
any written reports to us until the case is closed. The ones your team members file will go directly to you two, with a cc to Blalock. If the higher-ups scream, Blalock says he’ll threaten to use his Bureau jurisdiction and split the case up, leaving county twisting in the wind with no cooperation whatsoever.”

“Sounds like the old FB-Eyes is back. I’ll get my team together for a briefing. Does
Detective Nez already know about this?” Ella asked.

“He does, and he should be arriving to talk to you at any moment,” Sheriff Taylor said, glancing down at his watch.

When Ella returned to her office, she saw Dan standing at the far end by the window facing the mesa. He turned around as she walked in. “Before you ask, I don’t know who the leak is. If he or she is part of county’s on-site team,
rest assured that person’s days in the department are numbered. But I have a question for you. How sure are you of the people on
your
team?”

“I’ve worked with them for a long time and I’ll go to the wall to back them up,” Ella said, reminding him about the dice. “That leak didn’t come from the tribal P.D. Everything we release to the press goes through Chief Atcitty first.”

He nodded slowly.
“For what it’s worth, I tend to think that the leak’s on my side, too, but I haven’t been with the department long enough to know who can’t be trusted. Time will tell. In the meantime, what’s your plan?”

“Let’s wait until my people are here, Dan, then we’ll go through it.”

The rest of her team soon came into her office, and Ella asked everyone to pull up a chair. First, she briefed them on what
had happened, including the fact that the bullet used to take out the SUV tire was a reload, then updated them on their new orders regarding the leak to the press. “We’re on our own, people, but the press will be dogging our footsteps. Watch what you say, text, or e-mail, and don’t discuss anything pertaining to this case over our radio network.”

She paused as she looked around the room. “Now
let’s move on. Where do we stand right now?”

“At the time our tire was shot out, Ross Harrison was in civil court,” Justine said. “His employee, Bruce Talbot, works for him part-time only. He has a clean record and, unlike Harrison, doesn’t have a concealed-carry permit, although he does own several weapons, including a Glock nine-millimeter. Talbot hunts deer and ducks in season, and belongs
to a gun club. Talbot appears to be just a leg man. Logically, he would have been on route to Farmington when the shooting went down, but I can’t confirm that. He has no alibi.”

“Nothing seems to add up right here,” Ella said. “The only suspects we have, Romero and Bowman, are in-your-face gunmen who act and react on impulse. They’re not snipers.”

“Then let’s focus on our victims,” Dan said.
“We now know that two of the four were killed on the same month, years apart. We may, or may not, have Ignacio Candelaria to take into account, too, though he wasn’t killed on the Rez.”

“The M.O. on that murder is too different. From a standpoint of logic alone, I’d say Candelaria’s death is unrelated to our case,” Ella said.

“Not necessarily. Candelaria was shot twice, in or near the head,
and June—killing season for our suspect—is only days away. Those details fit in,” Dan said.

“But everything else is off,” Ella said. “The four victims were killed, literally, in their Hogback graves. They may have even been forced to dig them.”

Benny spoke next. “Anything new from the Bitsillie family? Has the boy remembered anything else about the guy in the white car?”

Ella looked over at
Dan.

“We’re sharing officers with Farmington P.D. and trading off watching the family, but I haven’t heard about any new revelations,” Dan said, then looked back at Ella.

She shook her head. “Me neither. I think the shooter was initially worried that the boy had seen his license plate. Once we didn’t show up at his door, he knew he was safe and that he’d overreacted. I doubt the Bitsillies have
anything else to worry about—but keep providing the protection for now.”

“Will do,” Dan said. “County will also continue following up on the Candelaria shooting. All we know so far is that the victim was legally drunk at the time of his death—that’s according to the tox screen from the lab.”

“Anything new on Romero and Bowman?” Ella asked, glancing around.

“Arizona highway patrol reported a
white pickup stolen from a campground near the Grand Canyon by two Navajo men about three days ago,” Justine said. “The description was too generic to be of any help.”

“A man fitting Romero’s description was seen buying gas for a white Ford pickup at a Farmington station just this morning,” Nez said. “Our off-duty officer started to tail him but lost the suspect when he got cut off by a carload
of drunk teens. There’s an ATL out on the pickup’s driver and the vehicle.”

“Unfortunately, we’re no closer to finding a motive for the murders over at Hogback. There’s got to be some commonality between these victims, people,” Ella said, looking around the room.

“Johnson and Kelewood went to the same high school for two years,” Neskahi said. “It’s possible they were friends back then, and very
likely that they knew each other. That’s the only connection I’ve been able to find between them.”

“That would make it random,” Benny answered with a nod.

“Keep digging. Run down former classmates, teachers, and neighbors at the time,” Ella said.

“What about road rage, as with Romero and his pal, only someone else completely?” Joe asked. “From what we know so far, the victim’s vehicles were
moved. If they were driving home or to some other Rez destination and cut some sicko off, maybe somebody who’d just been in an accident, he might have retaliated. And after the first incident, he went looking for trouble, deciding to make examples of poor drivers. There are plenty of them in New Mexico, that’s for sure.”

“He chose the Rez for his victims because there are a lot fewer cops around,
maybe?” Benny added. “And it’s not about money or killing for their cars. It’s personal, in a disturbed way.”

“Serial killers have had stranger motives. Let’s keep it in mind, anyway, guys. Moving on—has anyone here heard of anything shady going on at Stepson, Inc.?” she said, then explained what she’d learned about Chester Kelewood.

“They have an office in Farmington and another here in town,
up on the mesa among the tribal offices,” Justine said.

“I say we tackle this from both sides of the line and see if we get some answers,” Dan said.

“I like your approach. Let’s do it,” Ella said. “Justine, you’re with me. The rest of you, continue with the interviews. We need to ID the other two vics.”

EIGHTEEN

Justine slipped behind the wheel as Ella fastened her seat belt. “Stepson’s offices are right across the street from Kevin’s. The tribe must have rented them some space,” she said.

As Justine drove, Ella logged into her office computer remotely.

“What are you looking for?”

“Kelewood was investigating safety issues at the mine on behalf of the state of New Mexico, but our tribe has
its own systems in place, too. You can bet someone here was also looking into the problem. I want to know who that was.”

“Those kinds of investigations always have political undertones. It’s even more so when there’s reason to believe safety regulations are being compromised and there might be a cover-up. Why don’t you check with the special investigator to the tribal president?”

“Logan Bitterwater,”
Ella said with a nod. “I remember when the president first hired him as an executive bodyguard. It was after that mob scene outside the council chambers a few years ago. He saved the president’s life, if you can believe the stories.”

“Bitterwater was at the right place at the right time all the way down the line. After the tribal casinos started operations, there was a lot of flak about possible
law enforcement corruption with all the money that was floating around. So all of a sudden our president created a new position for his favorite warrior—executive special investigator,” Justine said. “Nice work if you can get it.”

“What still bugs me is that Bitterwater has no law enforcement training whatsoever.”

“Loyalty’s good, but I think the president’s gratitude went a little too far.
I hear Bitterwater pulls down close to six figures,” Justine said.

“That really pissed off Big Ed. He wanted to see the job go to someone from the tribal police—or at least a Navajo with a law enforcement background. Near as I can figure, Bitterwater has never taken part in any investigation—before or since.”

“That we know about,” Justine said.

“Either way, he’s kept his post, so he must be
doing something right,” Ella said. “Let’s go talk to Joe Preston, the local head of Stepson, Inc., then we can track down Bitterwater.”

On the way, Ella typed Bitterwater’s name into the tribe’s database, and searched under “executive special investigator,” but nothing came up. “He’s not listed. Maybe he’s already out of a job.”

“Try the tribal president’s staff.”

“Nothing,” Ella replied after
a moment. “I’ve never heard of any tribal employee this far below the radar. Maybe the position was cut during the latest belt-tightening.”

“Or maybe he’s meant to stay under wraps,” Justine replied, then after a long silence, added, “Try using the key words ‘special category president’s staff.’”

The screen changed and Ella saw Logan Bitterwater’s name listed along with his title, but there
was no telephone number or address there. “Interesting. I guess we’ll have to go through the office of the president to contact him. His job sounds more like a political payoff than anything else. He probably sits behind a desk drinking lattes all day long.”

“Jealous?”

Ella laughed. “You bet. You know what the coffee’s like at the station.”

They topped the slope leading up the mesa on Shiprock’s
north side. Ahead at the stoplight they could see what appeared to be an accident. Several cars were logjammed around it. Justine switched on the emergency lights and siren and they drove past the line of vehicles by using the shoulder of the road.

As they drew closer, Ella spotted a subcompact car on its side, pinned to the road by the front end of a large pickup.

“Stop. I think someone’s trapped
inside the car. See those men? They’re pulling away the windshield,” Ella said. “Call it in.”

As she jumped out, Ella smelled gasoline and saw liquid on the asphalt. She glanced at Justine.

“Clear as many vehicles as you can from the intersection,” she said as Justine racked the mike. “If something sparks that gas, we’re all toast.”

Ella grabbed their vehicle’s fire extinguisher from underneath
the dashboard and headed to the accident. “Get back,” she yelled at the excited onlookers as she ran up.

One man remained by the overturned car, pulling windshield glass away despite the cuts on his hands. “The driver’s trapped inside,” he said as she came up.

Ella took a closer look at the crushed car. Both doors were inaccessible—one was pinned against the highway, and the other beneath the
big wheels of the truck. “Where’s the pickup’s driver?”

“Right here,” the man with the cut hands replied, not looking away from his work. “I tried to back up and get the truck off the car, but I can’t get it into reverse. My transmission locked up.”

Hearing the sound of a really big engine approaching the scene, Ella turned her head. A man in a blue western-cut suit was driving a yellow backhoe
right toward them. Across the road, she could see an empty tractor trailer parked beside a mound of gravel at a construction site.

“Good thinking!” Ella yelled at the guy in the suit, then turned to two onlookers who’d slipped past Justine. “Help the officer and keep everyone away. The backhoe will need more room to work.”

Ella ran over to meet the impromptu backhoe operator, who’d stopped several
feet from the car, engine idling. She held up her badge. “Police officer. This your machine?”

“No. I couldn’t find the operator, but I can handle this baby. I paid my way through college working construction,” the man yelled back.