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  Ella approached Detective Ute, the officer in charge of the scene, and stepped aside as Sergeant Tache, working with Blalock at his shoulder, photographed each piece of physical evidence in place. “What have you got?”

  Ute held out the clipboard where he was writing a narrative description and showed her the name, “Stanley Bitah.” “Have you heard of the victim?”

  She nodded, respecting the tribal custom not to mention the deceased by name, particularly here where he’d met his death. “He’s an activist in this area. I’ve seen him mentioned in a few newspaper stories. Who found the body?”

  Detective Ute shrugged. “The helicopter pilot who inspects the power lines spotted the body as he flew over at noon.” Ute gestured toward the steel towers standing in a row all the way to the horizon, like armless giants.

  “What else can you tell me?” Ella continued.

  “The deceased worked as a mechanic, helping maintain the heavy equipment at the mine. He was most likely beaten to death with some kind of club. I’ll know more in a while.”

  Officer Justine Goodluck, Ella’s petite young assistant, came out from behind a small stand of junipers. “We’ve really just started focusing on identifying and protecting the physical evidence. Even FB-Eyes over there is helping out.” Justine nodded toward Blalock, who was placing small, wire and plastic flags beside footprints for Tache. The agent had received the nickname from Navajo officers because one of his eyes was blue, and the other brown.

  “I can tell you a little more of what we’ve learned so far,” Justine continued. “Okay, Harry?”

  Ute nodded and looked back down at his narrative. Ella followed the youthful cop/lab tech toward an area filled with scuff marks, footprints, and droplets of blood. “Clearly, a struggle took place here.”

  Ella studied the ground. “From the spray patterns of blood on the ground, and the other signs, I’d say the murder also occurred here.”

  Justine nodded. “That’s what Detective Ute and the others concluded, too.” She crouched by Ella, and pointed. “Four people were present, and one—not the victim—ran away down the arroyo, escaping, maybe.”

  “Do you know where the others went?”

  She shook her head. “I was just about to follow up on that when you arrived.”

  They followed three sets of tracks, which ended abruptly at the highway. Black tire marks indicated a vehicle had taken off in a hurry. “This is a bit of luck,” Ella said. “These tracks are really clear. Ask Tache to take several shots and see if you can identify the type of vehicle they belong to. Blalock might be able to hazard a guess on the spot, so make sure you ask him. He told me recently that he was becoming an expert on tire patterns common to the area.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m going to talk to Dr. Roanhorse,” Ella said, glancing up and seeing that the medical examiner was working alone, as usual, talking into her tape recorder as she examined the body.

  As Ella went up to her friend, she couldn’t help but sympathize. Nobody ever hung around Carolyn for long. Fear of the chindi, of contamination by the dead, was always present among those of their tribe. Even the kids, who seemed to go out of their way to discount other traditional Navajo beliefs, stayed clear of the M.E.

  As she approached, Carolyn switched off her tape recorder. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

  “I had another emergency call on the way. I’ll tell you about it in a little bit, since it’s going to end up on your desk, too. But first, do you have an opinion on how this all went down?” Ella looked at the victim, and had to force herself not to cringe. The murder had been particularly brutal.

  “In layman’s terms, this man died as a result of several—four or five—heavy blows to the left side of the skull. The last three or four were probably unnecessary. The location and angle of the attack suggests the killer was right-handed, or had a wicked backhand for a lefty. The murder weapon was a blunt object, like a pipe, wooden club, or something of that nature. He’s been dead less than eight hours, which would put the approximate time of death around dawn, plus or minus an hour or two. It’s pretty straightforward from what I can see.” Carolyn stood up slowly, and signalled for Ute to join her.

  Ute, who always wore a glum expression, looked even more miserable now, as he put down his clipboard and walked toward them.

  “You like to pick on poor Harry, don’t you?” Ella whispered.

  Carolyn smiled. “Don’t begrudge me my little pleasures,” she said, reaching for the body bag.

  While Carolyn and Detective Ute loaded the victim’s body into the M.E.’s van, Ella walked up to where Tache and Justine were working.

  Blalock was nearby, placing blood-encrusted sand from individual droplets into separate plastic vials, labeling them as he worked.

  “Hello Ella,” Blalock nodded congenially, looking up from his work for a moment. “How’s your family?”

  “Doing real well. I’ll tell them you asked.” Ella knew that her mom and brother didn’t care too much for Blalock, but at least they had acquired some grudging respect for the man. He was dealing with the Dineh with a lot more tact nowadays, especially since working with her the past two years. As ex-FBI herself, she had managed to instill in Blalock the need to pay more attention to their cultural differences if he wanted to get anywhere on a case.

  Ella glanced at Tache, who had finished loading the camera. “Have you photographed the murder weapon?” she asked him.

  “We haven’t found it, at least not yet.”

  “Why would the killer or killers take it with them?” Ella mused. “They didn’t try to hide the body, or obscure other evidence.”

  Justine joined them. “One of the three had enough presence of mind to balk at the thought of leaving a club full of fingerprints behind?”

  “Maybe the blood tests will reveal that more than one person was cut up enough to bleed,” Ella said. “That will help us later on in the investigation when we have a list of suspects. I have a feeling this crime is going to be far more complicated than it looks.” Ella looked at Justine, then Tache. Wariness shone in their eyes. They knew about her hunches.

  “It’s time to get to that twenty-four/twenty-four rule,” Ella continued. “The two most important things in an investigation are the last twenty-four hours of a victim’s life and whatever we find within twenty-four hours after the body is discovered. Get me everything you can find on the deceased,” she said, looking at Justine. “I want to know about his activities at the coal mine and his personal life. I want to know who he trusted, who he worked with, who he hung around with, and who his enemies were.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” Justine said, writing everything down in her notebook.

  Ella looked at Tache. “I’d like the photos you’ve taken here developed as soon as you get back. Have them all on my desk before you go home tonight and make copies for Blalock, too.”

  Carolyn came up as Tache went back to help FB-Eyes, who was still collecting bloodstained sand. “You’re really pushing on this one. How come?”

  Ella looked at Carolyn, then Justine.

  “I have things to do.” Justine said, turning to leave.

  Ella shook her head. “No, you might as well hear this now instead of at the station. I was detoured on my way over here answering a ten-forty-seven—a drunken driver—endangering traffic. But that’s not what I found.” She recounted what she’d seen, the convulsions, the unresponsive stare. “I have a feeling we’re going to be getting a lot of heat on that one, and just at a time when we’re going to need all our energy for this case.”

  “Why should that accident be different from any other drug-or alcohol-related death that happens on the Rez? Who was in the car?” Justine prodded.

  “Senator Yellowhair’s daughter.” Ella saw Justine take one step back as if she’d been hit. She reached out to steady her assistant.

  “Are you okay, cousin?”

  “I went to school with her…” J
ustine muttered, her voice shaky. “Are you sure—”

  Ella nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “You said she was under the influence, or having some kind of attack?” Carolyn asked.

  “I saw what appeared to be convulsions, but I can’t even guess at a cause,” Ella answered. “That’s your department.”

  Carolyn expression was guarded. “You want toxicology?”

  “I want you to establish the cause of death, like you always do. Unless I miss my guess, the accident didn’t kill her.”

  “You’ll most likely want a full autopsy then.” Carolyn took a deep breath, then let it out again.

  “Is there something wrong?” Ella looked at her friend curiously. She’d never seen Carolyn hesitate on anything pertaining to her job. Senator Yellowhair was bound to cause problems, it was certainly one of his major talents, but Carolyn had never been known to run from trouble.

  “Let’s just say I know how our senator operates,” Carolyn answered with obvious distaste. “My findings are always substantiated by tests, so I can cover myself and my department. But he’ll object to my doing tests or an autopsy on his daughter because he’s going to want her buried quickly and without scandal. You can expect major-league trouble from him when I don’t release the body right away. Cover yourself as best you can. He’ll be after somebody’s ass on this. Count on it.”

  Ella nodded. “Don’t worry. I can handle whatever comes. I know what I saw.”

  “Which case do you want given priority?” Carolyn asked.

  “This one, the homicide. Do the workup on it first. The faster we move, the better chance we have of not having it end up a real luncher.”

  “We won’t have to eat this case,” Justine answered flatly. “We’ll solve it.”

  “Idealism of youth,” Carolyn said, walking away.

  Ella saw the spark of anger in Justine’s eyes and laughed. “Relax, Justine. She just said that to annoy you. We’ll do our jobs. And, speaking of our jobs, let’s get back to work. There’s a lot left for us to do here before we can release the scene.”

  TWO

  Ella sat at her computer. She’d run a check on Bitah, and he was certainly no model citizen. From what she’d turned up, he’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly just two days before his death. He’d been in a fight with an Anglo by the name of Louis Truman, fellow employee of the mine, in a Farmington bar. The two of them had pretty much torn up the place. Truman, unlike Bitah, had no previous local arrest record.

  Ella picked up the telephone and dialed Blalock’s mobile number. She wanted to know more about Truman’s background, and experience told her that the Bureau’s files would be more comprehensive than her own. Though the Bureau was supposed to cooperate with tribal law enforcement, she hated asking for favors, and she knew that was exactly how Blalock would view her request.

  Ella smiled as Blalock practically barked his name into the phone. “I see you’re in Bureau mode,” she said.

  “Whatcha need?” he snapped. “I already spoke to your assistant earlier today. The vehicle tracks are too common to identify.”

  “Were you voted Mr. Congeniality in your graduating class at the Bureau?”

  “First runner-up. How did you guess? Is there a point to this conversation?”

  “I need you to check the Bureau’s computer and see if you come up with anything on an Anglo by the name of Louis Truman. He lives in Farmington,” she said, giving him the background and Truman’s street address.

  “I’ll run it through, then meet you at the guy’s house. I assume you’ll want to question him ASAP.”

  “I can be there in forty minutes. How about you?”

  “Same ETA. I’ll see you there.”

  Ella picked up her jacket and stepped out of her tiny office. On her way down the hall she passed the lab. Justine was hard at work processing the trace evidence. Tache was nowhere to be seen, but the red darkroom light was on. Ella continued walking down the hall. Justine’s talents were better used here for now than assisting at the upcoming questioning.

  Ella drove out of the station parking lot, taking the highway east. As she approached the low-income housing area that bordered the road, she noticed fresh graffiti spray-painted on the cinder block walls. The reservation was changing, and it wasn’t all for the better. Youth gangs, an ever-growing presence she’d thought she’d left behind in L.A., were now making their appearance here as well. Navajo kids, caught between cultures and needing something to identify with, were lured by the excitement gangs offered them. Passing the subdivision’s main turnoff, Ella saw kids wearing baseball caps on backwards, baggy pants, and black pro-team jackets staring at her.

  Drug use and juvenile crime were on the upswing, especially auto theft, and Jeeps were popular targets. She shook her head sadly. Though the tribe would survive this surge of lawlessness, as it had other dangers through the decades, anything that attacked their youth threatened the very existence of the Dineh. She wondered what toll this would take on the tribe, before harmony was restored again.

  Ella continued her drive through the gap in the Hogback that had been worn by the San Juan River, passing the coal mine and power plant in the distance. It was here that Bitah had been employed, and here he had worked as a Navajo rights advocate on the side. She’d never agreed with the methods of most activists but, in this case, her sympathies were with them. It was hard to see Anglo companies making a profit from the few resources on tribal land. Though it was true that the companies that came in were required to hire a certain number of Navajos and pay the tribe a percentage of the profits, it saddened her to know that so much of the money from these resources left the reservation. But the Dineh needed jobs, and they hadn’t had the expertise to manage the operations themselves. That’s what had opened the doors to outsiders.

  At least nowadays, Anglo companies were required to work with the land rather than ravage Mother Earth. Yet that was small consolation to those who’d had to relocate their homes and deal with contaminated water.

  As Ella left the reservation, she brought her mind back to the case. The murder of a Navajo rights activist was bound to foster even more unrest within the tribe. The faster she cleared up the matter, the better off everyone would be.

  Twenty minutes later, as she entered the city of Farmington, Ella weaved through the residential streets until she found the address she was searching for—a small wood-framed cottage in a rundown area among the cottonwoods which lined the river.

  Ella pulled up next to the curb and saw a man in his mid-thirties sitting out on the porch in a folding chair. He was drinking something from a can, but from her vantage point she couldn’t tell if it was a beer or a soft drink. She bet on beer. Blalock wasn’t in sight yet but, to be fair, she’d made good time and was a few minutes early.

  As she switched off the ignition, the man rose from his chair and headed her way. Ella noted he was weaving slightly as he approached, and the beer can she now could see clearly in his hand, confirmed his condition. Hating to deal with drunks, she decided to remain in her car until she could gauge his mood.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, coming out into the street and over to the driver’s-side door.

  “I’m Special Investigator Ella Clah, of the Navajo Tribal Police. If you are Louis Truman, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The man’s expression suddenly went sour, and he stepped back, throwing the can against her windshield. The container bounced off the glass without leaving a scratch, spraying beer everywhere.

  He splashed himself as much as the car, and that only made him more angry. “I’m so sick of you Indians!” He crossed over to the toy-scattered lawn and picked up a kid’s baseball bat. “Question this!” he yelled, swinging the bat down on the hood of the Jeep with a thump, leaving a groove in the sheet metal. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here.” He stomped around the vehicle toward her door again.

  Ella reached for the PR-24, the new standard-issue baton with
a side handle, and pulled back from the window, as if terrified. The moment Truman drew close, she threw the door open hard, catching him in the chest. He stumbled back into the street, gasping for air. The bat flew across the asphalt, out of his reach.

  Ella jumped out of the car and pushed Truman back toward the lawn using the tip of her baton. He tried to scramble to his feet so, with a quick lunge to the right, she hit him behind the knees. As Truman tumbled to the grass, she knelt on his back as she cuffed him. “Calm down,” she snapped. “You’re in enough trouble already.”

  She was lifting him to his feet when an approaching siren wailed in a short burst. She glanced up and saw Blalock’s car screech to a halt behind her own.

  “What’s going on?” Blalock stepped casually out of his vehicle. “This Truman?”

  Ella filled him in quickly. “Will you call Farmington PD and have him taken in? I’d also like that baseball bat bagged and tagged as evidence. The M.E. said Bitah was killed with a blunt object.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody,” Truman slurred. “You’re just looking for some white man to put in jail.”

  Ella shoved him against the Jeep. “Pipe down,” she snapped, then read Truman his rights.

  “I’m going to ask for a search warrant while I’m at it, too,” Blalock said, walking toward his car.

  Ella held on to Truman, trying to shut out the tirade of obscenities while she waited for FPD to arrive. “I’ve heard all of those words before, buddy,” she said, feigning boredom. “How about telling me something that may actually reduce your jail time?”

  Truman sputtered, then tried to yank away. Ella pushed him back against the Jeep, forcing him to lean forward and stay off balance. “Your choice: You can stand here, or lay facedown on the ground.”

  Truman coughed, then made a gurgling noise. “I’m sick, let go.”