The Shape Shifter (14 page)

15

The good mood Louisa’s attitude had left with Joe Leaphorn lasted only about half an hour. While he was watching the professor drive away, with a mixture of sadness and relief, he heard his telephone ringing. It would be Grace Bork, he thought, calling to tell him that Mel Bork was, just as he suspected, the man found dead in the wreck. It would lead to a conversation he’d expected, something he dreaded. What could he tell her ? Only that he had wasted his time. But the voice on the telephone was Sergeant Kelly Garcia’s.

“Lieutenant Leaphorn,” Garcia said. “I want you to tell me how you knew that body would be Mel Bork?”

“I was just guessing,” Leaphorn said. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately. So it was him? What was the cause of death?”

Garcia snorted. “Wasn’t it obvious? You’re not satisfied with tumbling your car down into a canyon, landing
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upside down in what’s left of it, broken bones, multiple concussions and contusions, general bodily trauma?

That’s what we have. And you still want an autopsy.”

“Don’t you?”

That produced a moment of silence.

“Well, I guess I have to admit it would relieve my mind,” Garcia said. “I’d like to know what caused him to be so damned careless on that curve.”

“Have you asked about an autopsy?”

“Yeah, sort of suggested to Saunders that I’d like one.

And he said, What for ? And I said an old retired Navajo cop I used to know is sort of vaguely suspicious about it and asked me to check on the cause of death. And Saunders said the only problem about that is deciding which of his nineteen or so auto crash trauma injuries actually did the job. He offered to take me in there to look at the body and let me take my pick.”

“Is the pathologist still Roger Saunders?” Leaphorn asked. “I’ve always heard tales of how testy he was. Did he say you’d have to get a court order, or what?” Garcia chuckled. “You know about Roger then, don’t you? He told me he is backed up with work on actual homicide cases. But when I whined a little, he said that if we can arouse his curiosity, he’ll do it.”

“Tell him we think Bork might have been poisoned by a slice of fruitcake. That should get him interested.” Garcia laughed. “I don’t think so. I think he’d refer me to a psychiatrist. I’m dead certain he’d ask me why we think that. Why do we?”

Leaphorn described the urging he’d received to eat the special cake made by Mr. Delos’s cook and help-mate, a man named Tommy Vang, and how Bork had THE SHAPE SHIFTER

127

been given a slice of same as a snack just before he drove away from the Delos place, and how the timing made it just about right for Bork to be feeling its effects and losing control of his car about where he did.

Leaphorn added a few details to his explanation and awaited a response.

It was a skeptical-sounding snort.

“You’re not happy with that?”

“Well, it explains what you mean when you said you were guessing,” Garcia said. “About a dozen guesses to reach that conclusion. You guess that Bork ate the cake, and when he ate it, it took however long for whatever poison to work, that Mr. Delos has a motive, and so forth.”

“I plead guilty to that.”

“Well, I’ll go anyway. You have anything else we could tell Saunders to get him interested?”

“That’s it,” Leaphorn said.

“That’s it then. Come on,” Garcia said, his tone somewhere between scornful and incredulous. “But you still want me to push for the autopsy?”

“Well, there’s also the fact that Bork, a longtime law officer, is a very experienced driver in our mountain-ous country. He is extremely unlikely to have that sort of accident. Don’t you agree? And we can also argue that Delos probably thought Bork was poking into some sort of insurance fraud involving that tale-teller rug. Maybe that would satisfy the need for a motive. And then maybe you could get him to listen to that threatening telephone tape.”

More silence from Garcia. Then a sigh.

“Well, it might appeal to Dr. Saunders. He always
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seems to get a kick out of discovering different kinds of homicide weapons anyway. Breaks the monotony. Maybe that notion of a fruitcake as the murder weapon would appeal to him.”

“And Sergeant, would you please let me know what he finds out? Delos gave me a slice of that fruitcake, too.

I have it in a sack in my truck cooler box.” Garcia laughed. “Playing it safe, are you? Well, keep it there a while, and remind me of your cell phone number.”

Leaphorn provided the number. “And one more thing,” he said. “Do you remember the names of the FBI people who were there at Totter’s Trading Post? Working on it after the fire.”

“Well, let me think about that a minute,” Garcia said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Leaphorn said, and waited.

“Well, let’s see.” He chuckled. “One of them was Special Agent John O’Malley. I’ll bet you remember him.”

“Unfortunately,” Leaphorn said. “I had some trouble with him down through the years.”

“Me, too,” Garcia said. “And I remember Ted Rostic was there, too. Out of the Gallup office then, I think. Nice guy, he was. And then Sharkey. Remember him? Don’t recall his first name.”

“Jay, I think it was. Or Jason. Another hard man to work with. Anyone else?”

“Probably. They sort of swarmed in when it turned out the burned man was Shewnack. But I don’t remember who.”

“All retired by now, I guess.”

“Probably. I heard O’Malley had died back in Wash-THE SHAPE SHIFTER

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ington. Don’t know about Sharkey. I know Rostic is retired. I heard he lives in Gallup.”

“Good,” Leaphorn said.

“For what?” Garcia said. “What are you after?”

“I can’t seem to let this thing go,” Leaphorn said. “I mean that Totter fire. The whole thing. If I can get hold of Rostic, I’ll see what he remembers about it.” The information operator found no number for Ted Rostic in the Gallup directory.

“But, there’s a Ted in Crownpoint. Could that be him?”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Want me to ring him for you? For seventy-five cents?”

“I’m on Social Security,” Leaphorn said. “I’ll dial it myself.” He did, and Rostic answered on the fourth ring.

“Leaphorn. Leaphorn,” Rostic said. “That sounds familiar. Sounds like a young fellow I knew once with the Navajo Tribal Police.”

“Yeah,” Leaphorn said. “We met on that Ashie Pinto business. When one of our officers got burned up in his car.”

“Uh-huh,” Rostic said. “That was a sad piece of business.”

“I’m interested in another fire now. The one years ago at Totter’s Trading Post with an FBI Most-Wanted felon burned up in it. Do you remember that one?”

“Oh, boy,” Rostic said. “I sure do. Ray Shewnack was the victim’s name. I think that was my first real excite-ment as a police officer. Real big deal. Finding one of our top targets. A real genuine villain, that Shewnack was.”

“Any reason you can’t talk about it now?”
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“I’m retired,” Rostic said. “But it’s hard for me to believe anyone would still be interested. What are you doing? You wouldn’t be writing one of those serial killer celebrity books, would you?”

“No. Just trying to satisfy one of those old nagging questions.”

“Where you calling from?”

“Home in Shiprock. I’m retired, too.”

“And probably just as bored with it as I am,” said Rostic. “If you want to drive on over, I’ll meet you at that little place across from the Crownpoint High School. How about for lunch? Now you’ve reminded me of that business, I’d like to talk about it, too. Could you make it for noon?”

“Easily. Plenty of time,” Leaphorn said. “I’ll see you there.”

Plenty of time, indeed. Just about seventy miles from Leaphorn’s garage to the fried-chicken place across the street from Crownpoint High, and it was now just a little after sunrise. He would just cruise along, maybe stop here and there to see if he could find an old friend at the Yah-Ta-Hay store, and look in at the chapter houses at Twin Lakes, Coyote Canyon, and Standing Rock. In his days as Officer Leaphorn, patrolling that part of the Rez, he had learned the chapter house almost always had a pot of coffee on the stove and maybe a muffin or something to go with it while he updated information about current affairs involving cattle theft, booze bootlegging, or other disruptions of harmony. He would use this unhurried trip to see if he could get himself into the proper mood that the retirement world seems to demand, if one was going to survive in it.

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The stop at Ya-Ta-Hay was a disappointment. Those working at the place seemed to be universally of the much-younger generation. No one he knew. At Twin Lakes, the parking lot was empty except for an old Ford Pinto, whose owner was an elderly lady whom he had known for about forty years but who was the grumpy sort.

He was not in a mood today to be the audience for her in-exhaustible armory of complaints about the ineptitude of the Tribal Council, nor to provide explanations for why the Navajo Tribal Police could not stamp out the reservation’s plague of drunk drivers.

His luck got better after he made the turn toward the east onto Navajo Route 9. The morning sunlight was glittering off the early snowpack on the high slopes of Soodzil, Mount Taylor on
belagaana
road maps, or
dootl’izhiidziil
to traditional Navajo shaman; it was Joe Leaphorn’s favorite view. Locally it was called Turquoise Mountain, and known as the sacred mountain of the South, built by First Man of materials brought up from the dark, flooded third world, and pinned to the earth with a magic flint knife by that powerful
yei
when it tried to float away. As Leaphorn had learned in the hogan stories of his childhood winters, it had been magically decorated with turquoise, fog, and female rain, and had been made home of
dootl’altsoil

’at’eed
and
anaa’ji at’eed
, whose names translated to Yellow Corn Girl and Turquoise Boy, both friendly
yei
. The holy people had also made the mountain home for all sorts of animals, including the first flocks of wild turkey Leaphorn had seen.

But most important in Navajo mythology, it was where Monster Slayer and his thoughtful twin, Born for Water, had confronted Ye’iitsoh, the chief of the enemy gods.

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They had killed him on the mountain after a terrible battle, thus beginning their campaign to clear this glittering world from the evils of greed and malice, the nasty conduct that had caused God to destroy the third world and which, alas, had followed the Dineh up from below.

And, Leaphorn was thinking, it was still on the prowl in this part of the glittering world, or why would all these things that were puzzling him—and killing people—be happening?

As he pulled into the parking lot at the Coyote Canyon Chapter House and saw old Eugene Bydonie standing at the door, holding his big black reservation hat in his hand and saying good-bye to an even more elderly lady, Leaphorn climbed out of his car and waved. “
Ya teeh
albini
, Eugene,” he shouted. “Is the coffeepot on?” Bydonie peered, recognized him, shouted, “And good morning to you, Lieutenant. It’s been a long time, Joe.

What crime have we committed now to warrant some police attention again?”

“Well, you gave me stale coffee last time I was here.

How is it today?”

“Come on in,” Bydonie said, laughing and holding the door. “I just made a fresh supply.”

While drinking it, they discussed old times, mutual friends—many of whom seemed to be dying off—and the bad conditions of grazing, the price of sheep, and the higher and higher fees the shearers were trying to charge. They concluded with a rundown of which weaver had been selling what at last month’s Crownpoint rug auction. And finally Leaphorn asked him if he knew Ted Rostic.

“Rostic? There at Crownpoint? I think I’ve met him.

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They say he’s married to Mary Ann Kayete. Daughter of Old Lady Notah. Streams Comes Together people, and I think her daddy was a Towering House man.”

“Oh,” Leaphorn said. “What else do you know about him?”

“Well, they say he’s a retired FBI special agent. Guess he lives on his pension. Drives a Dodge Ram King Cab pickup. They say his wife used to teach at Crownpoint High School, and they tell me Rostic is sometimes called in to talk to students about the law.” Bydonie’s face, which was narrow, weathered, and decorated with a dry, gray ragged mustache, produced a wry smile. “These kids we’re raising today, they could use a lot of that kind of talk. Somebody telling them about getting locked up in jail.”

“Pretty mean around here?” Leaphorn asked.

“Pretty mean everywhere,” Bydonie said. “Nobody’s got any respect for anything anymore.”

“I’ve got to go see him to ask him about an old, old case he worked on. Anything else you could tell me about him that might be useful to know?”

“I don’t think so,” Bydonie said.

Though that proved to be correct, it didn’t prevent him from talking through a second cup of coffee. Thus, Leaphorn arrived at his luncheon meeting with Rostic almost seven minutes late.

He saw Rostic sitting at a table next to the window, menu in front of him, short, stocky, wire-rimmed glasses, looking exactly like an older version of the FBI special agent Leaphorn remembered.

“Sorry I’m late,” Leaphorn said. “Good of you to have some time for this.”

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Ted Rostic slid back his chair, stood, held out his hand, grinning.

“Lieutenant Leaphorn,” he said. “It’s been many a year since I’ve seen you. By the way, you don’t need to worry yourself any about my having time. As I said, I’m retired.”

Leaphorn was grinning, too, thinking how long and boring this retirement scheme could be if you took it seriously. “I’ve just started this retirement thing. I hope you’re going to tell me it gets to be fun once you get the hang of it.”

“Not for me, it isn’t,” Rostic said. He reseated himself, handed Leaphorn a menu. “I’d recommend either the hamburger or the hot dog,” Rostic said. “I’d steer clear of the pizza or the meat loaf dinner.”