Mourning Dove Read online

  Ella saw the red and yellow envelope as soon as she entered her office. She studied the label. It had been mailed from an office supply store in El Paso with an express counter. She wasn’t familiar with the streets in El Paso, but a glance at a map would probably indicate the big envelope had come from a store close to the military base. Jimmy Blacksheep listed his Shiprock area address, and a phone number she didn’t recognize. She hadn’t seen a phone at Jimmy’s home; maybe the number was for his brother, Samuel.

  Confirming it with a quick glance at Samuel’s FPD business card, she returned the card to her pocket and put on a pair of latex gloves. Then she carefully reached inside the already opened thin cardboard envelope and extracted its contents while her team members watched.

  A handwritten letter was stapled to an article about an earlier case Ella had solved. Below that was what, at first glance, appeared to be a short story using the animal characters that featured in the tribe’s creation legends and other names of people and places she didn’t recognize.

  Ella read the letter, then looked up at Ralph and Justine, who were understandably curious. “The victim said he knew me by reputation and my honesty was what prompted him to contact me. He said he was in danger and that if anything happened to him, this information would help give me what was needed to restore balance and protect the citizens.”

  “Citizens Dineh, or people in general?” Ralph asked.

  “Maybe the rest of the papers here will answer that question,” Ella said. “He wanted to be a writer someday, according to his brother.”

  “His writing wasn’t there yet,” Justine muttered. “I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. “The obvious Navajo names like Trickster, sure. But not those like Chopra. Isn’t he that guru guy?”

  “Yeah.” Ella studied the pages. Paper-clipped together was what appeared to be mostly a Navajo story, handwritten in inks of various shades and using more than one kind of paper. The pages were numbered, using ink that matched the last section. The narrative itself, from what Ella could tell, had been written over a period of time. She could see the evidence of coffee stains and greasy fingerprints on more than one page.

  Justine stood and walked over beside Ella. “What do you think? It’s obviously in code and very confusing.”

  “Did you both read it?” Seeing Tache shake his head, Ella read the story out loud. It was titled “What Mourning Dove Saw” and it was written in the first person, narrated by the animal character, Mourning Dove.

  “ ‘A terrible storm began in a distant valley, and a large hole appeared in the ground, trapping Big Monster. But when Big Monster disappeared from sight, smaller monsters appeared, preying upon the poor creatures still alive. Sun, who had caused the storm, sent the Proud Tribe from atop the local mesas of the Diné Tah into the distant valley to protect the poor creatures. This part of the tale began in the fall.

  “ ‘The Proud Tribe brought their own food—and were expected to share their provisions, delivering firewood, food, and arrows among the worthy. The Proud Tribe also brought beasts of burden to carry the load. I did my part as well.

  “ ‘Soon, I saw that, while most of the Proud Tribe was doing the work of Sun, a few from the Proud Tribe slipped into the shade, and became dark themselves. These Dark Ones decided that the rewards from Sun weren’t enough, so they decided to trade for other things they coveted. As always, Trickster—Coyote—was with the Dark Ones, but he often went his own way. Others who became the Dark Ones were Gray Wolf, Stripes, and Gopher. As time passed, the Dark Ones found trading partners—Walpole, Mountbatten, Chopra, and Weigel were the ones that I saw and heard, and bartering was very profitable. The Dark Ones acquired Nails, Shoes, Umbrellas, and even Gumdrops, and this made them happy, and greedy for even more. Other goods exchanged hands out of my sight, however, but were said to consist of mother of pearl, shiny quartz, and turquoise.

  “ ‘Konik and Bula, of the tribe, were told to make hiding places in the saddles and beneath the blankets of the beasts of burden for storing bartered goods, along with the shells and turquoise. After they did this, Konik and Bula unfortunately fell out of favor. A gray cloud came and they disappeared. I could not tell where they had gone, and why, though I suspected much.

  “ ‘All the Dark Ones, and those in the Proud Tribe who also knew how Sun was being betrayed but did not themselves barter, kept their secrets from Talking God, their earthly leader. They feared his stern discipline.

  “ ‘Coyote—Trickster to those who knew him well—watched and remembered everything he saw, though he did not see I was watching him. He took the bounty of turquoise and shiny quartz to a safe hiding place, hiding them behind his big eyes. One time when he came back, Talking God became suspicious. Trickster was sent away, his tail between his legs.

  “ ‘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.”