Turquoise Girl (2 page)

Ignoring him for now, Ella turned as someone from the construction company, wearing a gray company shirt, walked up to join her. The man, his name tag identified him as Stover, was a tall, light-skinned Anglo. His expression suggested he was barely restraining his temper.
Ella moved back her jacket, showing him her badge, which was clipped to her belt. Her pistol was also there, holstered. “I’m Investigator Clah. My partner is Officer Goodluck.”

“Sending in the big guns, huh? It’s about time. We called the tribal police over a half hour ago. Security around here is a joke.” He motioned with his thumb toward an overweight nineteen-year-old redhead in a brown security
guard’s uniform. The boy had a flashlight, a small can of pepper spray on the belt of his ill-fitting uniform, and a two-way radio in his pudgy hand. He looked more relieved than concerned at the moment.

“Bring me up to speed on what’s gone down here so far,” Ella said, not responding to his criticism.

“I chose this time to bring in our equipment because it would avoid traffic tie-ups on the
main highway. I had also hoped to avoid any more protesters. With actual construction about to begin, I figured—”

Another tribal police unit pulled up, emergency lights on. Ella knew from the number on the patrol cruiser that it was Officer Michael Cloud, one of Herman Cloud’s twin nephews. Her new stepfather was related to two of the best patrol officers in the department. Michael Cloud was
an excellent officer with a cool head, just the person she wanted as backup.

As Michael got out of his unit, one of the construction workers used a pair of bolt cutters to snap the chain the protestors had used to lock the gate. The second it opened, another employee slipped through with a fire extinguisher and ran toward the fire. The drums stopped as the drummers hurried to block the way, but
the man with the bolt cutters joined his ally, waving the heavy tool at the closest protestor, snapping the jaws. The workers outside the fence shouted their encouragement, and began moving toward the gate to join their more adventurous colleagues.

Ella knew she had to intervene before the two groups met or the situation would spiral out of control. “Keep them outside the fence,” she yelled to
Michael as she and Justine passed through the gate.

When the man with the fire extinguisher tried to douse the fire, one of the protestors, a tall but fit-looking Navajo man, broke the stick holding his sign over the worker’s hard hat, then tore the extinguisher away from the worker’s hands. Without skipping a beat, he ran to the gate and tossed the extinguisher into the windshield of the company’s
pickup.

Ella took advantage of the distraction to grab the bolt cutters from the other worker’s hands, then motioned toward the vandal, who was about to bolt. “Detain him, Officer Goodluck.”

The protestor ran into the darkness, Justine on his tail.

Ella whirled around, checking to see what the construction workers were doing.

Officer Cloud had closed the gate, and was blocking the way with
his body now. “Touch the gate, and you’ll get a eyeful of Mace,” he said, the cannister in his hand.

The redheaded security guard now came over to join Michael, a container of pepper spray in his hand. “Ya’ll back off!”

“Benjamin Harvey!” Ella shouted, trying to find him among the remaining demonstrators, who’d moved forward to defend their two drummers. He’d been the organizer on the past demonstrations.

“Yeah, I know. We’re under arrest!” He stepped forward so she could see him, then held out his hands, palms up. “Cuff me. But the
Diné
will be back!” he announced, turning toward the man with the camera. Unfortunately the guy had disappeared.

Benjamin looked around, obviously upset that his big moment wasn’t being recorded for posterity. “Where’s the camera?”

“You’ve made your point, people,”
Ella said to the demonstrators. “Go home now, or spend the night in jail.”

In the distance, she heard the sound of a motorcycle racing off. The perp Justine was chasing must have hidden his transportation elsewhere in the dark.

“What about my windshield?” the Anglo named Stover asked, coming up to the gate, then stopping as Officer Cloud turned in his direction.

“One problem at a time, sir,”
Ella responded, her eyes searching in the direction Justine had gone. Then her cell phone rang.

Motioning with her head, Ella gestured for the two construction workers to step back outside the gate, and, as the first one passed, she handed him the bolt cutters.

“Yeah?” she said into the mouthpiece of her cell, still looking for Justine.

“One of our officers called in a 10-58, Priority One,”
the dispatcher said, giving Ella the address and the details. “We’ve also contacted Agent Blalock of the FBI, but he’s in transit down from Colorado. Your Crime Scene Unit and the ME will meet you on-site. Officer Marianna Talk is there now.”

Ella took a breath. A 10-58 was a report of a dead body, and Priority One designated it as a murder victim.

It was going to be one of those nights. Seeing
Justine finally returning, alone, Ella glanced around once more, trying to locate the man who’d been filming. If he was trying to get a story, or record the incident, why had he left as soon as the action started? It didn’t make sense.

“The vandal got away. Had a motorcycle stashed in an arroyo. I suppose you heard?” Justine said, shrugging. “I was able to ID the plate, though. I also called
in a description of the perp, and they’re running down the tag already.”

Ella turned to Michael. “I just received a 10-58 call. Once you get some backup, we’re leaving.”

“It looks like we’ve got things covered here. Go ahead.” Michael pointed with his lips toward the highway.

Ella looked past him to see that Officer Philip Cloud, Michael’s twin, had just stepped out of his unit and was walking
toward the crowd. Sergeant Joe Neskahi was with him.

As the officers approached the fence the protestors began to walk toward their own vehicles.

Ella surveyed the scene. The gate was all the way open now, and two of the construction workers were shoveling sand onto the burning logs while the young security guard watched. Other workers were already climbing into their vehicles, knowing they’d
have to move off the road to let the protesters leave. “The crisis here is over. It’s time for us to move on,” Ella said.

Stover came up to join them. “If you catch the guy who busted my windshield, my company will be pressing charges.”

“We’ve got a lead on him,” Ella answered. “One of our officers will get your statement, and you’ll be contacted.”

Ella and Justine were on their way a short
time later. Yet, knowing what lay ahead, Ella remained tense as they raced to downtown Shiprock.

“Where did they find the body?” Justine asked, her eyes on the scant traffic. With a four-lane highway and the divider between east- and westbound lanes, they could make good time this time of night.

“In the apartment just behind the Morning Stop,” Ella said. “Are you familiar with that café?”

Justine nodded. “They fix a decent breakfast burrito. Stan Brewster, an Anglo, runs it these days. His wife is Navajo, and she actually owns the place.” Justine checked her watch. “But the place has been closed for hours. Brewster only caters to the breakfast and lunch crowd. I think they close at two or three
P.M
.”

“We don’t have an ID on the victim, but the first officer on the scene was the
rookie Marianna Talk,” Ella said. “She comes from a traditionalist family so she won’t want names mentioned if at all possible,” Ella said. “Just a heads-up.” Although tribal police officers adapted to the demands of the job, some habits were too deeply ingrained. “Apparently Marianna responded to an anonymous tip.”

“Will Agent Blalock meet us there?” Justine asked.

Ella shook her head. “He’s
in transit from Colorado, so we’ll be working the scene on our own.”

The relationship between the FBI and the tribal police had been very strained at one time. The law dictated that the FBI had to be involved in felony investigations because if prosecution followed, the case would be handled in federal court. Yet the Bureau’s presence had served to antagonize more than help. Special Agent Dwayne
Blalock and she went way back and, after a few rocky years, they’d finally learned to work well together.

Justine raced down the road with lights flashing. No need for sirens, they were too late to do anything for the victim. But crime scenes were fragile things, and they had no way of knowing what vital evidence might remain outside, exposed to the elements. Crucial evidence could already have
blown away.

“Has Ralph been called yet?” Justine said. These days their Crime Scene Unit was comprised of only three regulars—Ella, Justine, and their photographer, Officer Ralph Tache. Sergeant Joseph Neskahi often came in on special assignments, but the rest of the time he was involved in routine patrol duty.

Ella nodded. “Dispatch made the call. He’ll be there. And so will Carolyn,” she said,
referring to the tribe’s ME. Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse was one of a kind—a Navajo woman who was a forensic pathologist. The tribe had paid for her education and though that debt had been paid many times over, Carolyn had chosen to remain on the reservation, using her skills on behalf of the tribe. Dr. Carolyn Roanhorse served above and beyond New Mexico’s centralized OMI system, and was a valuable
asset to the Navajo Nation. Yet fear of the
chindi
had made her a virtual pariah around many Navajos. Few wanted to be around someone who worked with the dead.

Justine pulled into the small parking lot in front of the Morning Stop Café, located just east of the downtown junction with Highway 491. The officer at the scene had cordoned off the area with police tape, so they had to park about fifty
feet away from the front entrance.

Ella got out first, and went directly to meet Officer Talk, who was standing just outside the tape perimeter. The rookie officer had to look much younger than she was, since the department didn’t take sixteen-year-olds. Officer Talk was barely five foot two, and that height was enhanced by the boots she was wearing. Although she was standing guard like a professional,
protecting the crime scene, Ella saw the slight tremor in her hands as she raised up the yellow tape to let Ella pass beneath.

“I don’t have much to give you, Investigator,” she said, turning to speak across the barrier but avoiding using Ella’s name. “I responded to an anonymous tip that came through Dispatch at twenty-two-fifteen. A man who wouldn’t give his name reported a break-in at this
location and claimed he’d heard a woman screaming. The call has already been traced to the pay phone just down the highway at the Quick Stop. I was dispatched Code Three Priority One, and was promised backup as soon as possible.”

Ella sensed the struggle going on inside Marianna Talk, who was fighting hard to keep a tight lid on her emotions. The jargon helped neutralize the reality sometimes,
but Ella was willing to bet this had been her first Code Three—emergency—and Priority One—homicide—call. Although as an officer for the tribal police, Marianna must have known she’d quite possibly be the only one at the scene for some time, the reality of it must have hit her hard. Her upbringing as a Navajo told her that staying near a corpse was dangerous, yet her duty as an officer demanded the
opposite.

“When I arrived on scene, it was quiet,” she said in an unnatural but steady voice, as Justine passed by. “Nothing seemed out of order, and there were no individuals in the area. I checked out the doors and windows of the café, but there was no sign of entry, forced or otherwise. So I went around back to the other building, the apartment, I guess it is. That’s when I saw that the door
had been forced. Inside it’s a mess and the body…well, once you go inside, the sounds reported by the witness who made the call will make a lot of sense.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“No, ma’am. I left everything as it was then came out here to secure the scene.”

“Excellent. You’ve done a good job, Officer.”

Officer Talk nodded, then glanced down the highway watching for additional units. “Unless
you need me, I’ll remain outside the perimeter and provide security while your team works.”

Ella stepped carefully into the apartment, what might have been called a cottage in other regions, pulling on latex gloves—two pairs—as she did. The extra set of gloves would insure she didn’t touch anything that had come into contact with the dead. Not that she was a traditionalist, but some teachings
went too deep to ignore. The practice of wearing two sets of gloves was one followed by most of the officers in the force and, in particular, those in her Crime Scene Unit.

Justine, who’d been taking photos around the entrance, followed Ella inside, evidence kit in hand. Ella paused, taking in the small, simply furnished three-room apartment at a glance. The place had been tossed and, judging
from the blood splattered all around including the floral patterned wallpaper, Ella suspected the victim had been beaten, and probably hadn’t gone down easily.

After doing a preliminary walk-through, she called back to Justine. “Body’s in the bedroom. From the wounds and the blood splatter it appears the vic was either knocked into the wall mirror or she fell into it during the fight.”

Ella
focused on the victim, her concentration total as she studied the way the killer had posed the body. He’d arranged her in a kneeling position against the side of the bed, as if in prayer. Her hair was still a bit damp, and had been dripping water discolored by blood at one time. A
jish,
a medicine bundle filled with pollen and soil, had been tied to one of her wrists and a closed Bible was on
the bed in front of her, a handwritten note on top of it. Ella acknowledged the other evidence, but continued to concentrate on the victim.

“Bathtub’s full,” Justine said, “the water is bloody, and there is a lot of spillage on the floor. Maybe a forced baptism—after at least some of the cuts were inflicted?”

Ella focused on the immediate area around the body. It had been cleaned up…staged.
Paper towels had been used to wipe away some of the spilled blood and water from the carpet. The wastebasket against the wall was full of bloody paper towels. Streaks on the carpet made it clear it hadn’t just been the perp’s intention to clean the blood off himself. Her initial impression that it had been a simple burglary gone bad faded as she took in the facts.