Killing Custer (5 page)

Father John sipped at the hot coffee he had brewed and read through the black text on the screen. When he had typed “reenactments” in the search box, a page of Web sites had materialized, and he had clicked on “My Life as Custer, a biography of Edward Garrett.” The first pages had been a travelogue of the cities and counties, parades, rodeos, and county fairs where Garrett had appeared as Custer. Sometimes with 7th Cavalry reenactors; sometimes with his wife, Belinda Clark, dressed like Libbie Custer; sometimes alone. Photographs dotted the text. Garrett, in buckskins and wide-brimmed hat, squinting in the sun, aiming a rifle at some distant point, serious-looking and straight-shouldered, a man in command.

I found an old buckskin jacket in the thrift store where we used to shop and begged Mother to buy it for me. It was perfect. Could have been worn by the great man himself. Mother wasn't happy about laying out the money on what she called my wild dreams, but I promised to pay her back. I gave her every dime I made off my paper route until I had paid off that debt, and I was proud. I was sure Custer was the type of man who never welshed on a debt. From somewhere else, I got a wide-brimmed hat that looked like Custer's. That was the beginning. I read everything about Custer. I knew how to walk and talk like him. Some of his famous Custer luck rubbed off on me, and I started acting like Custer in school shows. I talked myself into parades. Soon as I got out of the army, I found other reenactors as inspired by Custer and the 7th Cavalry as I was, and we started putting on mock battles based on the Little Bighorn battle.

“From those beginnings,” the article went on, “Edward Garrett has become the foremost interpreter of General George Armstrong Custer in the nation. He has appeared before crowds of thousands who no doubt wish that the fate of the great general might have been different. Look for Garrett at the reenactments of the Battle of the Little Bighorn . . .”

Father John closed the site. A wave of senselessness washed over him. Edward Garrett, alive on the Web site, reminiscing about how the larger-than-life image of Custer had taken hold of him as a kid, how he had wanted to be like Custer. Year after year, reenacting the Battle of the Little Bighorn, where Custer's luck had run out. Now Garrett was dead.

He read down the next page of Web sites and clicked on “Reenactments—Living History.” The text that popped up on the screen explained that hundreds of men and women participated in reenactments of famous military battles across the country. Most reenacted Civil War battles, such as Fredericksburg, the Battle of the Wilderness, Gettysburg. But reenactments were also staged of famous battles in World War I and World War II. The only reenactments on the plains, it seemed, were those of the Battle of the Little Bighorn.

Those who dedicate time, energies, and money to reenactments do so out of a love of history and the desire to bring history alive. “We are educators,” explained Herb Finer, part of the reenactment of the Battle of Bull Run. “We are living interpreters of the past, and our goal is to help people understand major historical events that shaped the present. When you see a soldier shot from his horse, it is real. The image stays in your mind, and you never think of history again as dull, dry, and unimportant.”

While it is true that reenactors portray battles in which many men died horrible deaths, the battles took place between armed combatants. The results might have gone either way because the combatants were equal. Civil War battles were fought between armed warriors, unlike the massacres of unarmed civilians by soldiers that occurred during the Indian Wars. Such massacres as Sand Creek and the Washita were hardly equal fights, and are unworthy of reenactment.

Father John closed the site, then typed in a new search: “Battle of the Little Bighorn reenactment.” Dozens of sites appeared. He clicked on “Historical Interpretation Video.” A panoramic view of the Little Bighorn River Valley swept across the screen. Bluffs, narrow ravines, slopes of tall grass surrounding the blue-green river that twisted through a valley at the base of sandy cliffs. The sound of drums and the
Hi yi hi
cries of the Indians coming from a distance, moving closer. The faint outlines of white tipis materializing alongside the river, like ghosts. Dozens of tipis at first. Hundreds. Thousands.

He tried to remember what he had once taught his American history classes about the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Fifteen years ago, a different lifetime, and even then, he remembered, Custer and the Bighorn had seemed remote, a footnote. Now he had the sense of watching the actual camp come alive. Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho under the leadership of Sitting Bull, the spiritual leader, and Crazy Horse, the war chief. The largest Indian camp ever assembled. Four thousand Indians. What a sight the village must have presented to Custer's scouts when they topped a bluff high above the village.

Cutting through the drums and the cries was the sound of a bugle playing the jaunty, familiar melody of “Garry Owen.” A column of troopers rode across the grassy slopes. Blue uniforms and a mixture of blue caps and gray wide-brimmed hats, rifles strapped on backs, metal harnesses and stirrups clanking with the music. Riding ahead were officers, Benteen and Reno. Father John recognized Osborne and Veraggi. Edward Garrett in the lead, blond hair almost hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, dressed in buckskin shirt and trousers with fringe running down the arms and legs.

He shut down the video. It was like watching men riding to their deaths.

5

AN
GELA RUNNING BEAR
concentrated on the man's voice coming from the radio on the dashboard. The Honda shimmied. Engine humming, exhaust smells drifting. The news still seemed incredible. Edward Garrett shot to death at the rodeo parade yesterday while she had been curled on a lounge chair on the balcony of the condo in Jackson waiting for Skip to finish his meeting. They were going to dinner, fancy restaurant in a hotel. They would be seated on the patio, waiters hurrying about, wine stewards bowing to Skip Burrows, bringing the best wine. He was important. She felt important when she was with him. They had driven back to Lander in silence, music playing softly on the radio. Then the interruption, the news. A murder on Main Street.

Now the radio voice droned on with more details as she backed down the graveled driveway that led from the rental house—a one-room shack, really—past the old two-story where busybody Betty Black lived. Probably a hundred years old, with nothing to do but watch Angela's coming and going and who she came and went with. Skip always parked a block away and walked down the back alley. She let him in the side door. It wasn't good business for the town to know he was having an affair with his secretary. Half his age, Arapaho. People would talk, and one thing about Skip she had learned over the last months was that he liked to control the gossip about himself. Last night he had walked her down the alley. Stayed for an hour before he had swung out of bed, saying he had to get to the office early this morning.

It bothered her, a prick of discomfort in the happiness. He had broken off with his old girlfriend. Why did they have to sneak around, walk down alleys, spend weekends in Jackson where Skip said no one cared if they were having an affair? Why couldn't they live like a normal couple, love each other in the open? Friday afternoon, she had left the office before he did—they never left at the same time. She had waited at her apartment. At every muffled sound from outside—the squeal of a tire, the sound of an engine cutting off or a dog barking—she had thought, He's here. Except she knew he would walk to her place. Finally he was there, filling up the living room, taking up all the space, breathing all the air. And something different about him, she had thought. Something on his mind as they had driven to Jackson making small talk.

She had dreamed about the house he was building on the beach in Cabo. They could live like other people there. Morning swims, afternoon siestas, cozy dinners with the last of the sunlight splayed on the water, and the nights alone, just the two of them. She wondered when they would move to Mexico.
Trust me
, he always said. He had made some big investments that would pay off soon. Money never seemed a problem for Skip. Big house in Lander, the silver BMW. She had seen the stacks of cash in the briefcase he had brought to Jackson this weekend.

Angela turned into the street, shifted into drive and took a side street to Main. The radio voice was like background noise. “It is believed the murder occurred when about thirty Arapahos broke ranks and started galloping around the cavalry. Hundreds of onlookers were on the curbs, and police have asked anyone who may have seen the shooting or noticed anything unusual to contact them.”

She hit the off button, dragged her bag onto her lap, and burrowed inside, steering with her knees to avoid the cars parked at the curb. She pulled out the cell and punched in Skip's number. Everybody would be stopping by today. Edward Garrett—
Call me General—
murdered in the street! She could picture the man striding into the office in his fringed buckskins, like those worn by the Rendezvous guys who dressed up like traders and camped on the Wind River outside Riverton like it was the 1800s and the Indians were about to show up and trade buffalo hides for sugar and coffee. Living in the past, like the general. She wished she could do that, turn back the clock.

The familiar voice, low in her ear. “This is Skip Burrows. Sorry you've missed me. Leave your number.
Chou!”
She hit the end key, realizing she should have called the office. Skip always came in early. Brewed coffee. Answered e-mails, dictated letters, and read documents, the mundane work of a law practice that he couldn't get done during the day with the phone ringing and people dropping by.

She called the office. “You've reached the law offices of Skip Burrows, attorney at law.” It was her own voice. She tapped the off button again and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

How many times had the general stopped by? Two? Three? Never an appointment. “My buddy Skip in?” he'd say, and Skip would appear in the doorway and beckon the man into his private office. Everybody in town knew they could stop in and chat with Skip whenever the notion struck them. Coffee always hot. But the general wasn't a townie. She had no idea where he came from, only that he would show up from time to time.

Angela drove through the residential street, swung right, and worked her way down the block toward the white-painted brick building that faced Main Street. They had argued, Skip and the general, the last time Garrett had dropped by. Tuesday? Wednesday? She used to jot the names of drop-ins in the appointment book, until Skip told her not to bother.

She turned into the parking lot behind the building and pulled into the vacant spot with Burrows Law Firm painted on the curb. Skip's slot next to her was empty. Odd, she thought. He was always in the office before she arrived.

She got out into the warm breeze that swept across the pavement. Sunlight bounced off the chrome on the other parked cars. A new thought hit her, rose out of nowhere, and she knew it was part of the uneasiness she had been trying to ignore: Where had Skip gone last night after he'd left her? The ex-girlfriend's place in Riverton, Deborah something? A little pain sliced through her. She wanted to trust him. Why didn't she trust him? She fixed the strap of her bag across her shoulder and tried to steady her footsteps on the pavement, images of Skip floating ahead. Dark blond hair tousled on her pillow, sleep-logged eyes blinking at her, the slow smile when he said “Good morning, beautiful.” Oh God, she loved the man.

The back door swung open as she reached for the knob. She had to swerve sideways as Bob Peters, the accountant across the hall, plunged outside. “Sorry, Angela,” he said, holding the door for her. “Heard about Custer?”

“General Garrett? Yeah, I heard.”

“Who could have done it?”

“I have no idea.”

“They're your people,” heading toward the car parked at the curb.

“You have some inside information?” She called over her shoulder. She felt a mixture of anger and puzzlement as she headed down the hallway. Something was missing: the familiar smell of hot, brewed coffee that usually floated toward her.

She grabbed the doorknob beneath the pebbly glass window with two rows of painted black letters: Skip Burrows, JD, Attorney at Law. The knob jammed in her hand.

There was the swish of the back door opening and closing, the sound of footsteps pounding down the hallway. “Didn't see him come in this morning.” Peters was holding a brown envelope. He leaned into his own door, pushed it open, and disappeared.

Angela knocked on the glass and waited for the sound of Skip pushing himself away from his desk, crossing the office, muttering out loud, “Use your key!” She wanted to talk about Garrett getting shot, go over what they knew, try to digest the information. She wouldn't mention the argument between Garrett and Skip. She didn't want to watch the confident expression dissolve at the edges as he digested the implications. He'd argued with a murder victim!

She swung her bag around and dug into an inside pocket past the comb, lipstick, package of gum, and assorted receipts. Squeezing the key between her thumb and index finger, she dragged it out of the bag and stuck it into the lock. She stepped into the office and stopped, feeling as if she had hit an invisible wall. Drawers hung open; batches of papers and files littered the floor. Motes of dust floated in the sunlight drifting past the blinds. The surface of her desk was clear, just as she had left it Friday evening with Skip urging her to hurry. He'd see her at her place later, he'd said. She had tried to hurry, which had made her drop a glass of water, which bounced off the edge of the desk and took up more time—picking up the pieces of glass, patting paper towels against the carpet.

The little table next to her desk was vacant. Her computer was gone!

An eerie quiet hung over the office. She dropped the bag on her desk and walked to the side door. A car passed outside, a door slammed somewhere in the building. Her hand trembled as she opened the door.

She stood frozen in place. A tornado? Bomb? Vandals? Skip's desk overturned, drawers hanging open. File folders and papers strewn over the floor, books tossed off the shelves. No sign of his computer. The neatness, the everything-in-its-place that Skip insisted upon, had been desecrated, Skip's personality obliterated. Someone was screaming. She jammed her fist into her mouth to stop the noise and forced herself to walk into the office, her mind a jumble of thoughts. Skip could be lying behind the desk, hurt, dead. It was a crime scene, and his voice went round and round in her head:
Damn fools! Don't know better than to touch anything at a crime scene
.

Only the blizzard of papers littered the floor behind the desk. She used the ends of her blouse to turn the knob on the bathroom door and peered inside. Empty, and as clean and groomed as Skip himself. He wasn't here, and a faint sensation of relief trickled through her. Then she saw the opened window, the right pane pushed across the left, leaving a gaping hole that overlooked the parking lot. And here was something—a trail of blood drops on the windowsill. When she looked closer, she saw the drops of blood among the papers between the desk and the window. Outside, the window screen lay in the branches of the bush below.

She swung around, threw herself toward the door and across the outer office. She managed to yank the cell out of her bag, her fingers skittering like butterflies as she punched in 911. “Your emergency?” The woman sounded half-asleep. “Something terrible has happened,” Angela heard herself saying. “Somebody broke into Skip Burrows's office on Main Street. Something's happened to Skip.”

“Your name?”

Angela gave her name, then heard a disembodied voice rambling on about how she was Skip's secretary and had just gotten into the office and found the chaos.

“Officers are on the way.”

At the edge of her view: a shadow moving across the glass door. “He's back!” she shouted.

“Who's back?”

“Whoever did this. He's in the hallway!”

“Angela ?” It was Bob Peters's voice, his fist pounding the wood paneling.

“It's okay,” she said. Her legs felt rubbery; she propped herself against the edge of the desk to keep from falling. “It's the accountant from across the hall.”

“Don't let anyone in. Understood?”

Angela said she understood, then pushed the end key.

“Angela!” Peters had already let himself in. “Are you all right? I heard somebody scream.”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had turned to sandpaper.

“Good heavens.” Peters started across the outer office toward the opened door that framed an oblong view of Skip's office.

She lunged for his arm. “You can't go in there. Police are on the way.”

When he turned toward her, she saw her own shock mirrored in his eyes.

“Skip's gone,” she managed.

“What do you mean, he's gone?” He wrinkled his nose and turned his head, sampling the air. “I don't smell any coffee.”

Angela had to stop herself from grabbing hold of Peters's white shirt and shaking him. “You must have heard something. What did you hear? How could anyone trash the office and force Skip out the window and you not hear a thing?”

Peters was shaking his head. “Sorry, Angela. Only thing I heard was you screaming.”

* * *

THE TWO UNIFORMED
officers stepped around the office, craned their necks outside the window, apprised the parking lot. The cars, people hurrying over. Angela looked away. She leaned against the door frame and watched the officers moving about like robots, silent, lips pressed together. Finally they started toward her, and she backed into her own office. Peters was bent forward in a side chair, hands clasped between the knees of his khaki trousers. He looked up as the officers planted themselves in the center of the room.

“He's hurt,” she said. “You have to find him.”

No one spoke. The tall, blond officer started scribbling something in a notepad and took a couple of steps toward Peters. “What time did you arrive?”

“Just before eight.” Peters straightened his shoulders and gripped the armrests. “Skip comes in early most days, like me. His car wasn't in the parking lot.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Know him? Not well. ‘How's it going? Another hot day.' The kind of stuff we talked about. Skip was never very serious, if you get what I mean.”

“Why don't you tell us?” The other officer tossed the question over his shoulder and moved closer to Angela. She felt as if she might jump out of her skin. Skip was out there someplace, hurt. He could be dying. They should do something! She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

“Hey, Angela here will tell you. Skip's everybody's friend. Always got a friendly hello, how-you-doing for folks. People love the guy. Isn't that right?” Peters glanced at Angela, as if he'd stumbled out onto the edge of a cliff, and it was up to her to pull him away. “Isn't that right?” he said again.

“Right,” she managed. Skip Burrows, the best-liked man in town. He knew everybody. Everybody knew him. Want to hear a new joke? Need a laugh? Need a friendly clap on the back? Stop in and see Skip Burrows. It was a wonder he ever got any work done. How many times had she apologized to his scheduled appointments, left flipping through magazines while Skip and one of his friends told jokes in his office?