Authors: David Thurlo
“Western-cut suits, mind you, but never a bolo tie. And he must polish his boots twice a day!
He’s never late, he’s never early. He arrives on the dot. Every time. Around here, we’re all on Indian time except for Arthur. But I’ve got to admit he can get the Anglos and the federal government’s attention with his role-playing tactics. He’s managed to get grants and programs for the tribe that none of our politicians could, and
that’s
what has made him friends here on the Rez.”
“Okay, I’ll
let you know if I dig up anything interesting on him,” Ella said. “But I’ll keep a low profile.”
“I’ll alert the other districts on the Rez who’ve had sporadic trouble with vandalism to be on the watch for Anglos, not Navajos. We’ve had the worst of it here in the Shiprock district, but everyone needs to be apprised. Also, make sure your team realizes that whoever hired these two could hire another
pair to replace them. Without catching the man behind it, this is just a temporary fix.”
Justine was waiting in Ella’s office when she returned. “What’s up?” Ella could see the frustration on her partner’s face.
“I checked out the radio scanner in the car the two Anglos were driving. It can monitor all our frequencies, those of the forestry department, and even those FBEyes uses. That requires
special refinements and parts that aren’t available to the public. I looked for the serial number in hopes I could track down the buyer, but the numbers had been filed off. It’s not in the original case, anyway. I think it was probably stolen from a federal vehicle originally, but I doubt it can be traced.”
Ella filled her in on the description of Eric and James’s Indian “employer.”
“There are
some Navajos with mustaches, but not
many,” Justine said slowly, “and a rough complexion could describe a lot of men.”
“It’s still too general a description, but at least it’s a start,” Ella said, then added, “Do you know Arthur Benjamin?”
“I know
of
him, but I don’t know him personally. Why?”
“I’d really like to know if he’s sporting a mustache these days.”
“I’ll check around and get back
to you on that,” Justine said.
“Also, see if there are any other Indians, doesn’t matter which tribe, hanging around the
Dinetah
who fit that description.”
“Good call. To a lot of Anglos, an Indian is an Indian—one size fits all.”
“Yeah, you know what they say, we all look alike,” she joked.
As Justine left her office, Ella picked up the phone and called her brother’s home. Clifford spoke
to a lot of people during the course of a day. Maybe he could get a lead for her on the Indian man who’d hired the Anglos. People were far more likely to talk to him freely than they would a cop.
After a quick conversation with Clifford, she hung up. He’d help if he could, but now it was a matter of waiting. She was getting ready to catch up on her paperwork when FB-Eyes, Agent Blalock, walked
in.
“Tell me about the two Anglos you’ve got in the holding pen downstairs,” he said, dispensing with the small talk.
“They’re small-time, but the guy who apparently hired them is another matter,” she said, describing the list of targets, their Indian employer, and the altered police scanner.
“I’ll have Payestewa check out the pair’s phone records and their backgrounds. If we can figure out
how this mystery guy chose them, we may find a lead we can
use. I have a feeling they weren’t picked at random outside a union hall.”
“Me, too.” Ella rubbed her eyes. “But I don’t think we’ll find any easy trails. Nothing about this case seems to be simple.”
Rose glanced down at her bandaged hand. It throbbed every time Herman hit a bump in the road, but she wouldn’t complain. This morning she’d been really worried about being able to replace the ruined wood. Most of it had been contaminated with kerosene. Although the house was heated by LP gas, there were rooms like the den that got very little heat from the ducting system. Without the woodstove,
some rooms in the house would become intolerably cold.
“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” Herman said quietly. “I like having the company.”
“My daughter expects me to stay home until my hand heals, but I can’t do that. I do avoid using it, but I won’t let this injury rule my life.”
“Your daughter is a police investigator with many responsibilities. She’s used to taking charge of others,
and it’s natural for her to try to do the same with you.”
Rose nodded thoughtfully. “I love her, but I wish she’d chosen another profession. To make things even worse, she’s so dedicated she gives it everything she has. What she doesn’t realize is that her career will be a poor companion if that’s the only thing that defines her by the time she reaches my age.”
“What do you see when you look
back on your own life?” Herman asked quietly.
Rose thought about his question, gently touching the moments and memories that had made up her past. “I see a life of great joys and great sorrows. All in all, a life well spent. But it’s the future that interests me more these days. There’s still a lot left for me to do,” she
added. “And you, old friend, what do you see of your years and for the
future?”
Herman kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “I see a life that has been hard. Very hard.” He thought of the son he’d lost in Vietnam and the daughter that had never made it past her eighth summer, a victim of lung disease. His wife had died many years ago, and with his only living son working in California he was now alone. Families no longer represented a unit that couldn’t be broken.
“Some people fear dying,” Herman said. “But dying is easy. It’s the living that’s hard.”
A long silence born of understanding descended between them as the miles stretched out. Finally Rose spoke.
“And now here we both are, going to gather firewood, taking care of the business of living.”
Herman smiled at her. ’That we are, old woman,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “And your daughter
is going to kill me when she finds out that I took you with me for this.”
“My hand is hurt, but my arms still work. I
can
help carry the firewood back to the truck. All you have to do is load me up.”
Herman shook his head. “You’re not a wheelbarrow. That’s for me to do.”
“I’ll do as much as I can,” she said firmly. “You’ll just have to trust that I know when to stop.”
“Just don’t get too tired
out there. Your daughter’s a great shot,” he teased, “and she
always
carries a gun.”
They reached the forest site that had been designated for firewood gathering about an hour later. Herman got out and, working together, they selected several driedout pines that had been marked with an orange spot by foresters for cutting. They would be easy to cut down and still give them a good supply of firewood.
“Keep a sharp eye out for any spikes or nails, or other kinds of vandalism,” Herman warned, telling her about those who’d been injured using saws.
“At least all we have is an ax and a handsaw. There’s a limit to the harm that can be done to that or us if you strike a nail.”
They’d been working for about ninety minutes, Rose only carrying light loads back to the truck, when Victor Charlie, the
tribal newspaper’s young cartoonist, came by. He had his own load of firewood in the back of his truck.
Victor pulled up besides Herman’s pickup and got out, greeting Rose and helping Herman cut up the last of the wood he’d selected. Victor wore a buzz cut hairdo, and had on a faded green olive drab military jacket with the original user’s black name tag still on it—Mortensen.
A perpetual teenager,
though the man was in his twenties, Victor wore blue earmuffs that covered a set of headphones. Electric cords from each ear led through the neck of his jacket to a radio or CD player nested in an inside pocket.
“So how are things with you?” Victor asked Rose, apparently having turned off his music for the moment. “I heard about what happened at your home the other night. You must have been frightened.”
“Angry is more like it. I think those thugs were sent to scare me because I oppose gambling on our land. They fight like cowards, ruining an old woman’s firewood so she and her family won’t have a way to stay warm. They’re acting like those gangland hoodlums you see on TV.”
Hearing her comments, Herman put the last of the wood in the back of his truck, stowing away the ax and handsaw, then helped
Rose into the passenger’s seat. “Well, good luck to you, nephew,” he said, slipping behind the wheel. “We have to get going.”
As soon as they were away from there, Herman glanced over at Rose. “He works for the newspaper. Did you know that?”
Rose shrugged. “So? What did I say that wasn’t true?”
Herman exhaled softly. “I hope you have a lot of influence over your daughter.”
“Why?”
“Because
she’s going to want to kill me now for sure—after she finishes with you, of course.”
It was late in the afternoon when Ella went to visit Arthur Benjamin. His home, west of the town of Shiprock in the farmland just south of the river, was a very un-Navajo-like building. The large one-story ranch-style dwelling was constructed in the shape of a U with an east and west wing. The courtyard in the
center, enclosed at the mouth of the U by a tall wrought-iron fence, was barren except for a terra-cotta frog planter.
Ella knocked on the right side of the double doors at the end of the flagstone walk, and was shown inside by a polite Navajo man in his late twenties. He was wearing a white dress shirt and blue slacks and she assumed he was Arthur’s butler, assistant, or whatever.
Ella looked
around the foyer, peering into the rooms beyond through the open doorways. The house was decorated like the pages of a magazine advertising southwestern decor—not the everyday kind, but the type actors and movie stars usually opted for. Painted cow skulls were mounted on the whitewashed walls, and a lamp fashioned from horseshoes stood next to an uncomfortable-looking leather-and-pine chair embossed
with a cowboy cattle drive scene.
Asked to wait in what was apparently the den, Ella walked around the large room, trying to get a feel for Arthur Benjamin. Among some of the Santa Fe upscale art was a painting by a well-known New Mexican artist. It depicted a hogan and a herd of sheep on a solitary mesa, surrounded by windswept piñons that reminded her of bonsai plants on steroids.
Ella studied
the painting, trying to figure out how Arthur Benjamin viewed it. Did he see the setting as the
ideal, an old lifestyle to be overcome, or simply another aspect of Navajo life?
Hearing footsteps in the doorway to her left, Ella turned her head.
“I’m Arthur Benjamin,” he said. Glancing at the painting she’d been studying, he added, “That’s a classic, isn’t it, Investigator Clah?”
Benjamin was
a tall, slender Navajo man in his late forties with a thin, dark mustache. Since Navajos weren’t known for thick facial hair, it wasn’t particularly attractive. To her, it looked like Arthur had been sniffing charcoal.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Arthur continued, crossing his arms across his chest. He was wearing an expensive wool sweater and gray slacks. “The artist depicts our past realistically,
but in a modern medium. He uses acrylic pigments exclusively.”
Ella nodded slowly, still unable to get a handle on the man. “Are you a new traditionalist, then?” No other faction on the Rez straddled lines the way they did. They incorporated the old into the modern. They claimed to believe in the old ways—at least in spirit—yet lived more like Anglos and used technology like radio, television,
and the Internet to spread their message of Navajo pride and increase their foothold on reservation life. She’d seen traditionally shaped hogans made of stucco, heated with natural gas, and with tiled or plush carpet floors, but still used for worship. It was a peculiar blend of old and New Age, but it seemed to be gaining more advocates every year.
Arthur shrugged. “I don’t like labels, but
if I had to choose one, I’d say I was a realist.” He waved to the couch, the only comfortable-looking seat in the room. “Why don’t you sit down?”
The cushions were too soft. Ella had to fight the feeling that she was resting on quicksand, and would be unable to extract herself before being sucked out of sight.
“So what brings you here, Investigator Clah?”
Ella knew that she had to phrase things
very carefully. Arthur Benjamin had powerful friends and the last thing Big Ed needed was more people breathing down his neck.
“I’m aware of your experience in law enforcement and your interest in our police department, and I was wondering if you would share your thoughts with me about the current situation? The police department, particularly the Shiprock district, is under siege from vandals.
But it’s not youth gangs this time. We’re facing what seems to be an organized campaign to make us look foolish.”
“I would have said incompetent,” he answered with a vaguely mocking tone. “But surely you didn’t come here just for an old cop’s opinion.”
“You’re not currently involved with law enforcement, I believe, but you’re in contact with both our people and our leaders. I thought your insight
might prove useful to me as I continue my investigation.”
“The biggest problem facing our tribe is the police’s inability to cope with the current situation, which has hit almost everywhere on the Rez, though, as you pointed out, the incidents of vandalism are far greater in this district. None of it is the department’s fault, mind you—they just don’t have the funding for enough officers. That’s
why I believe your chief is being irresponsible taking a stand against gaming. With the extra money that would provide, we’d finally have the resources the department needs to get ahead of the criminals.”
“Do you think the increase in crime is being engineered by those wanting the adoption of gambling on the Rez?”
He smiled mirthlessly. “I’ve heard the gossip you’re referring to, that I’m somehow
responsible for this crime wave because of my ambition. But you can check out my activities on the nights in question. I’ve been making appearances at Chapter House meetings all around the Rez and visiting with our leadership nearly every evening
lately. When they’re at home and away from their offices, the current officials have more time to discuss the issues the tribe is facing.”