Mourning Dove (7 page)

“ ‘But, alas, I was discovered as well. One day
Gray Wolf saw my shadow as I flew overhead, and he warned me not to tell Talking God or Sun about the Dark Ones or their secrets.

“ ‘But now I am no longer afraid. I will tell my story and reveal many secrets to Talking God. I will show everyone that Mourning Dove has courage. (Continued on page five . . . ’”

Ella shuffled through the papers. “That’s all of it, no page five, or six in here.
Jimmy must have kept the rest with him, or never finished it.”

“Maybe he had the rest of it in his car, and that was why he was stopped,” Ralph suggested.

“And they took the car in order to do a thorough search in private. That’s a possibility. Whatever it was, it was worth sending to me, and important enough to kill him for. Any thoughts?”

“Mourning Dove and Trickster are from our creation
stories. Gray Wolf too. But I don’t remember anything about Gopher or Stripes,” said Justine.

Ralph shrugged. “Me, neither. And I’ve heard of Chopra and Mountbatten but not Walpole, Weigel, or the ones with the short names.”

Ella looked down. “Konik and Bula?” Seeing him nod, she added, “Me, neither.”

“I wonder if this is connected to the victim’s experiences in Iraq?” Justine asked. “But if
that’s what it really is, there are some serious implications about the activities going on there, perhaps by some of the soldiers in his unit.”

Ella started putting the papers together. “Could be. The only answer that makes sense is that the victim was trying to tell me something, but was forced to disguise it because he was afraid someone else might see what he was writing.”

“Like maybe one
of his buddies?” Ralph suggested. “Privacy is a luxury in a combat zone. Everyone is forced to keep watch virtually all the time. If he was trying to keep a journal of what was going on without tipping off the others, this was one way to do it. Even if they saw a page or so, he could always claim he was writing a children’s book or something like that. After all, he wanted to be a writer someday,
correct?”

“Exactly,” Ella replied. “But if we’re going to read between the lines, we need more information to go on. I’ll start by verifying that there isn’t anything even vaguely like this in our creation stories. My brother should be able to tell me that much.”

Justine nodded. “That’s a good idea. In the meantime, I’ll get back to the lab. We’re still processing evidence.”

“So far, we’ve
recovered one nine-millimeter round that went wide and lodged in a road sign about fifty yards from where we found the body,” Tache added. “Also, there are some skid marks that show someone in a big van or truck made a quick stop, possibly when the attack went down, or just after. The location, near the broken glass, suggests it was beside the victim’s car.” Ralph paused, checking his notes, then
continued. “I’m also trying to track down the sales rep at Nationwide who rented the victim his vehicle. Maybe the employee will remember something about Blacksheep that’ll help.”

Justine was looking at her own notes, and spoke as soon as Ralph was finished. “There was glass from two vehicles and also two types of blood at the scene. One’s O positive and the other is
B. I’m sending samples of
both to Dr. Roanhorse so she can confirm which belongs to the victim. There are very few American Indians with blood type B. That blood factor is common in Northeast Asians, Siberians, Japanese, and such. The usual theory for that is that our Indians entered the New World across the Bering Straits from Asia. Of course the races have mixed, so it’s not impossible.”

“Okay,” Ella said. “Make sure
all those details are in your reports. We also need to talk to Officer Lujan again. And Blalock. And we need to find the missing car.”

“Justine, call FB-Eyes when you get back to the lab and see if the Feds can find a record of the victim buying a weapon after he was stateside. I’ll be heading out to my brother’s with a copy of this packet,” Ella said. “And, Ralph, would you run some of the recovered
blood over to the morgue while Justine continues working in the lab? Pick up the recovered slugs, too, and bring them back to her.”

He nodded. “One more thing. The photos from the crime scene are ready. I’ll put copies on your desk.”

“And by the time you return, I should have more information for you on the bullets,” Justine added.

“Good. Let’s get to work,” Ella said.

After making copies
of the pages and leaving a set along with a preliminary report for Big Ed, she locked the originals up. Soon, Ella was heading south down the Gallup highway. Her brother’s hogan was about twenty minutes’ travel from the station at posted speeds. As a medicine man, Clifford spent most of his days there or out visiting a patient—which could be anyone within a hundred miles or more. Theirs was a big
reservation.

Since Loretta worked these days and wasn’t at home, and Clifford refused to carry a cell phone, there was only one way to get hold of him—start a search, beginning at his medicine hogan.

The drive was short and, when she arrived she parked by the
medicine hogan, well away from the small three-bedroom pitched-roof home Clifford and Loretta had built by themselves. The house had started
as a two bedroom, but like most homes on the Rez, it had grown as the need arose. Rooms of different sizes had been added here and there with no thought taken to the overall design and resulting in what appeared to be a series of squares connected to a long rectangle.

In contrast to that, the big, six-sided medicine hogan had symmetry and elegance. Constructed of logs and chinked with mud, the
traditional structure stood as a silent testament to the knowledge and wisdom that sustained the
Dineh
, the Navajo People. Clifford pulled back the blanket that covered the east-facing entrance to the hogan, and came out just as Ella took her keys out of the ignition. Seeing Clifford wave, she went to meet him.

Clifford was as tall as she was, but two years older, and a staunch traditionalist.
Right now, with his white sash tied around his brow, he looked every inch the
hataalii
, medicine man, that he was. Clifford was as good a
hataalii
as she was a detective, and he was respected throughout the Navajo Nation for his skill and knowledge of
The Way
.

“What brings you here this afternoon, sister?” he asked. Clifford shared her high cheekbones and broad face. His black eyes were deeply
set and his gaze was amplified with an inner fire that spoke of intelligence and hidden knowledge. “You have that look about you that tells me you’re here on business, but I have a patient coming shortly, so I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Then let’s go inside. I need to show you something related to a criminal investigation.”

As they went in, Clifford gestured for her to take a seat on the sheepskin
blanket spread on the north side of the hogan. He sat on the west side, the Singer’s place. In the center, below the smoke hole, was a wood stove in place of the traditional fire. Two kerosene lanterns lit the interior when necessary, but, with the entrance open, no extra light was necessary this time of day.

Taking the copies of the pages she handed him, he leafed though them slowly, studying
the story. “Mourning Dove was a good choice for the writer since the creature was said to report things reliably and quickly. Mourning Dove also understood the special war language of Box Turtle and Long Frog. But the details of this story don’t match any that I’ve ever heard, so I find it puzzling. And there are a lot of non-Navajo names. Do you have the rest of it?”

“No, this is all I have.”

“I don’t think I can be much help. Do you have any ideas?”

“I suspect it’s mostly a coded message but I wanted to check with you and verify there isn’t a creation story like that one,” Ella said. “But you mentioned that Mourning Dove knew a special war language? That’s interesting because the person who wrote this was a soldier.”

He looked at her curiously, but didn’t comment. Clifford knew
she only took the biggest cases, usually major crimes, so Ella figured that he’d already linked her questions to Jimmy Blacksheep’s murder. But that wasn’t a topic to be discussed in a medicine hogan, and they both knew that.

Glancing down at the papers again, he added, “As far as I know there’s no story that’s even close to this.”

“Do you think this could be some kind of takeoff on the World
War Two Codetalkers’ system?”

Clifford considered it. “I have a patient coming by soon. His great grandfather
was
a Codetalker. If anyone can answer that question, he can. My patient was a soldier, too, and, because of his interest in history, he studied all of his grandfather’s battles and the code that made our people famous.”

“I’d like to talk to him myself.”

Clifford took a deep breath.
“I can ask him—that’s all. I have to respect my patient’s privacy much like an Anglo doctor should.”

“I know. I could come back in, say, a couple of hours. Would that be enough time?”

“Probably—but when you come back, take your cue from me. If he thinks you’re here to pressure him, he won’t help you at all, and I’ll lose a patient. He’s a proud man, and one who won’t approve of you.”

“Me, why?
Because I’m not a traditionalist?”

“No, it’s much more complicated than that.” Hearing a truck in the distance, he stood up. “Go now, and let me see what I can do. Do you want to leave the papers with me?”

“I can’t let them out of my sight without Big Ed’s permission. It’s potential evidence. All I can do is show the pages to your patient, without giving him details of the investigation I’m
working on, and then hope he can point me in the right direction. If he can’t, I’ll keep looking.”

“Sister, this man, my patient . . . well, he has issues of his own. There’s a good chance he won’t be willing to help you at all. But we’ll see what happens.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back.” Ella returned to her unit. She’d had trouble with traditionalists before. They saw her tribal police job as just
another arm of the Anglo world operating on their land. But if she was reading Clifford right, it was far more than that with this particular patient.

Ella fought the temptation to move slowly so she could catch a glimpse of the man, but then decided that it wouldn’t be fair to Clifford. She passed his vehicle without looking, then called Carolyn while on the road to the main highway.

Like her,
the good doctor still hadn’t had lunch, so Ella continued past the station, once arriving in Shiprock, and headed up toward the hospital on the mesa. Carolyn worked in the basement, where the morgue was located. Noting a roadside vendor alongside the highway, she pulled over and stopped. The man had set up a temporary counter and serving area on the tailgate of his pickup.

Ella had bought from
him before, though she couldn’t recall his name. The middle-aged man, dressed in flannel shirt, jeans,
and straw hat, sold Navajo-style sandwiches. In this case, the main fare was a homemade tortilla called a
naniscaada
, filled with ground beef, potatoes, sweet corn, and chile sauce, and individually wrapped in foil. The resulting burrito was mouthwatering. Getting an extra three for Carolyn,
who was probably as hungry as she was, Ella was soon on her way, the big paper bag on the seat cushion beside her. The scent was so enticing her stomach was growling.

Ella looked at her watch. By now, her daughter’s play had ended, assuming it had gone on as scheduled. The guilt failed to stave off her hunger, unfortunately, and she picked up speed.

After her arrival at the hospital, Ella took
the elevator down to the basement and hurried straight to the morgue. Not many things could tempt her to eat in Carolyn’s workplace—but the wonderful scent from the bag in her hand was motivation enough.

As she walked through the door, she saw Carolyn at her desk typing something on her computer. Carolyn glanced up as Ella came in, and sniffed the air. “I hope you brought plenty. I’m famished.”

Carolyn moved a stack of papers, laid down a section of today’s Farmington newspaper, and Ella emptied the contents of the bag onto the makeshift tablecloth. “Three for you, three for me. Let’s not talk shop until after we’ve finished, okay? I need a break.”

“Yeah, and so do I,” Carolyn said, taking a huge mouthful and giving Ella a happy, grateful look. “Wonderful,” she added, after swallowing.
She turned around in her swivel chair and poured two cups of coffee from a pot atop a file drawer, handing one to Ella, who nodded, her mouth too full to speak.

“How are things going with you?” Ella asked as she finished her first
naniscaada
.

“So-so,” Carolyn answered between bites. “The house seems impossibly large with all of Michael’s things gone. He had more stuff than I did, and tons of
reference books and journals.”

“I’m sorry about the way things turned out, Carolyn. I really was hoping you two could make it work.”

Carolyn nodded. “Me, too, and Michael really thought he was going to retire. But, after six months, he got bored and realized that he wanted to be free to pursue whatever interesting opportunities came his way. That meant being willing to travel at a moment’s notice
and even relocate. But I have responsibilities
here
, Ella, and a career I don’t want to give up. The tribe needs me and the way I see it, they paid for my medical degree so I owe them.”

“You’ve put in your time, girl,” Ella said, starting on her next burrito. “That debt was paid years ago.”

Carolyn shook her head slowly. “I belong here. Mind you, for a time there, I seriously considered going
with Michael. But without my job, I’d end up just trying to get through an endless string of days and, pretty soon, I’d see no difference between January and June, except for the temperature outside. Here, I have a sense of purpose and . . . destiny, too. This is where I was meant to be. I love Michael, but if I have to stop being me just to be with him, then neither one of us will be very happy.”

“I understand exactly what you’re saying. I’ve had second thoughts about keeping my job since the day Dawn was born. But I’d be lost without my work. Being a police officer is in my blood. Yet there’s nothing I love more than my daughter. I’ve spent years going through this tug-of-war with myself, trying to balance everything in my life. I’ve walked that in-between road all my life but this one
was the hardest to follow until I came to terms with who I am—a mom
and
an investigator. If there ever was a crisis where my daughter needed me, I’d be there—no contest. In the meantime, I’ll continue doing the work I was born to do.”