Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. (5 page)

Rye snapped a dozen shots of the square spot on the shelf. He zoomed in on the debris pattern and the various items that had fallen during the assault on the case and took more photos. Added more notes to his book.

Lowering his camera and covering the lens, he stood, studying
the pattern of the glass shards, the damage done to the case, and the collapse of the displayed items. He imagined several approaches the thief could have used to attack on the case. Casting aside scenarios not matching the evidence, he decided on the path of the assault.

“The thief came at the case from this angle,” he said aloud to no one, inserting a mental note with a downward chop of one extended hand. “They would have taken a heavy item like a steel bar and smashed the glass right about here.” He took a few steps to his right and looked down. “What do we have here?”

In the debris of glass particles, two faint footprints were visible as if someone with dirty shoes had stood there. Rye turned his feet to match the stance depicted in the prints.

“Someone small.” He took a dozen pictures and wrote several lengthy descriptions. After fetching a rectangular-shaped evidence lifter, he peeled away the white backing, pressed the clear material onto the footprints, and lifted the material. He held it aloft, scrunching his nose while he stared at the debris.

Satisfied he had taken all he could from the footprints, Rye walked around to the undamaged displays in the room. One case contained several vases—circa early 1900s according to the display plaque—with Skinwalker designs painted on them. Those had to be worth some money, why not take those? Big market for Native American artwork. Another case contained objects of a Skinwalker murder investigation from 1932. A third case showed a dozen pieces of jewelry made of silver and turquoise stones. Nothing missing from them.

Why take a feather, a leather shield, and this third item, yet leave the more expensive stuff alone? Most thieves take items of monetary value. But not this one. Why?

One by one, he studied the large shadowboxes mounted on the walls. Each presented a diorama of a certain Skinwalker. Sepia-toned photos depicted aged Navajo males, dressed in traditional clothing. Each display included artifacts from their lives. A plaque mounted next to the display gave a brief bio of the Skinwalker. He stopped at the fourth one and stared.

Fingerprints smudged the front of the case as if someone put their hands on the glass and then rubbed downward. Rye leaned in close and could see no definable ridges. Nonetheless, he dusted the smudged prints and photographed them from several angles before recording them with transparent lifting tape. He dropped these into his case.

Iona stomped back into the room and snapped, “They claim the cameras don’t work. Yeah, right! They’re lying. I can feel it.” She stared up at the camera. “You’re lying, and I know it,” she yelled at the lens.

Rye waited a few seconds before responding. “Don’t worry about it. If needed, I can get a search warrant.” He pointed with his camera to the fourth display. “Come here and look at this case. What do you see?”

Iona peered at it for a microsecond and said, “Fingerprint smudges. You could have figured that one out.”

Rye rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the detailed input. I’ll remember to look for that next time. What’s in the case?”

Iona looked at the nameplate, then at Rye. “Dear, are your eyes going bad that you can’t read? It’s a display of the only known Mexican Skinwalker. Come on, Rye. Spill it. What’s on your mind?”

“For one, it’s the only case on the wall with fingerprint smudges.”

Rye’s
Have You Forgotten
ringtone sounded. He freed his cell phone from its belt holster. “Dawlsen, here.”

“Are there any bodies at the museum,” began Gabby, “because if there is then I need to contact the coroner—”

“Whoa, girl. This is a burglary not a murder. What do you got for me?”

“Two calls just came in. First, the mayor. He sounded like his shorts got twisted up his fat—”

“Enough, Gabby, I don’t need any more detail.”
Mayor Richard List. Comes from old Arizona ranching money. Lives in that four story glass monstrosity built into the side of a cliff. A self-serving politician if I ever saw one.

“Yeah … well … I wouldn’t want to be the one returning his call. That’s why you get paid the big buckeroos, Chief.”

“And the second caller?”

“Johnny Batts. He sounded … upset, but failed to give me any reason for why. Just said, quote, ‘I want to talk to the Chief. ASAP.’ Unquote. I think he’s been out in the sun too long. Town gossip is that he isn’t completely right in—”

“Thanks, Gabby. Bye.” He shut off his cell phone.

Both calls promised a bad day. A twinge of a headache forced his left eye closed.
Yep, the desert’s gonna play ugly.

<><><><><><><><><><>

“Mayor? Chief Dawlsen here. You called?”

“Chief Dawlsen?” Richard List’s fake sincerity leaked through the cell phone like a slow sewer. “Glad you got back with me.”

Whatever.
“I always do. What is it?”

“All business. I like that in the chief of police of my town.”

His town!
Yet, Rye hated to admit the veracity of the mayor’s statement. The List family owned most of the bars, some of the stores, and much of the ground the city was built on. And the mayor let everyone know it. Rye pressed his lips together. Silence made people antsy to fill in the quiet. Seconds ticked by.

The mayor cleared his throat. “I called because I heard you threw a Mexican citizen into jail this morning. I want to know why.”

News travels fast.
“Yes, sir. This particular Mexican male threatened customers in a local business, causing panic, and then he resisted arrest.”

The mayor’s restrained sigh came over the phone. “Don’t stonewall me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” The mayor’s fake sincerity vanished, replaced by an arctic tone.

Rye didn’t reply. Instead, he scanned the shadowbox using a grid pattern similar to investigating a crime scene.

A sigh. “Chief?” A pause. “Is it too much to ask for some detail?”

“Mayor.” A pause. “I’m currently investigating a break-in at the Navajo Museum.”

“Stop screwing with me,” the mayor spat. “No one gives a hoot about that outhouse.”

“Look,” Rye snapped back. “To maintain the integrity of an investigation and not lose the case on a technicality, I have to maintain control over a case’s information.”

The mayor cursed. “Just tell me what you got.”

“If you insist …” Rye replied in a deadpan monotone. “Officer Reese responded to a call this morning about a disturbance at the
Drive-In Diner. The Mexican male in question had shown a gun to the girl working the cash register. In the process of Officer Reese’s effort at detaining him, the alleged robber escaped to the parking lot where he was apprehended. He carried no ID, and has refused to give us his name.”

“That’s it?” Rye thought he heard relief in the mayor’s voice. “Your officers do Whiskey proud. May I call you Rye? I think we got off on the wrong foot with this conversation.”

“Yeah … about that … this conversation started off on the wrong foot months ago. And may I call you Dick?”

“I’d prefer you called me Richard.” The brief pause between each word added to the sudden icy tone in the mayor’s voice.

“Okay, Dick. I’ll call you Richard, Dick. And I prefer you refer to me as Chief.”

There was silence on the phone. A smirk formed on Rye’s lips as he imagined the mayor struggling to control his anger.

The mayor cleared his throat, waited a second, and said, “I want that Mexican prisoner released. This morning. Consider it a favor.” List paused. “One that will allow you to keep your job.”

Rye’s jaw twitched.
How dare this pompous douche bag threaten my job.
“The man stays under arrest pending further investigation.”

More silence.

List cleared his throat and said in a frigid tone, “Come to my office. We will negotiate a release.”

“No deal. No release. No way.” Just then, a detail in the Skinwalker photo caught Rye’s search.

“Listen, Dawlsen.” Something shattered in the background on List’s end. “I need this man released. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“No, you listen … Dick. As Chief of Police, I have a sworn duty to protect the good people of Whiskey. I intend to perform that task. Whiskey will be off limits to criminals. I have reason to believe your man’s tied to a Mexican cartel. Officer Reese is on his way to Yuma Medical due to injuries received during the apprehension of your … acquaintance.”

“Nice speech,” List sneered. “Just release the man into my custody.”

“Forget it.”

“Chief Rye Dawlsen, are you listening to me?”

“Mayor, I’m investigating the scene of a crime. I have to go.”

With the mayor’s protests ringing in the phone, Rye ended the conversation and returned the phone to his belt clip.
What is it about that photo?

Then he spotted what nagged his subconscious.

“Look carefully. Give that photo a good once over,” Rye told Iona.

In the sepia-tinted picture, a man stood on a rocky ledge, snow-covered Superstition Mountains behind him. That meant winter or early spring
.
The subject wore all black clothing and a duster. Cold, detached eyes peered out from under the brim of his worn-down western hat. A feather jutted from the hatband. Wrinkles like canyons lined his Aztec facial features, indicative of Mexican lineage
.
One hand carried a shield close to his chest. The other hand held up a square amulet.

“What is it?” she said, her eyes moving while she scanned the words. Her gaze returned to the photo. “Besides the smudges, what’s so important?”

“I saw that man this morning.”

“Youuu … did?” she said, her inflection rising on the second word. “According to the plaque, a Navajo medicine man discovered that this man was a Skinwalker and called him on it.” She pointed at the Skinwalker. “The guy died three days later.”

“I can read, thank you. But I did see this man this morning at the diner. Look close.”

Iona leaned in to study the photo. “Oh my …” She glanced at the shattered case then back at the picture. She pointed. “Could that be the missing feather that’s in his hat. And … and that’s the shield.”

“Right on both accounts. See the amulet in the man’s hand?” He pointed at it. “It’s hard to tell in the photo, but it appears to be the same size and shape of our third missing item.”

With one eyebrow raised, Iona studied him for several seconds. Doubt tinted her words. “You saying we got ourselves a real live Skinwalker?”

“I’m not saying any such thing. Right now, I’m just turning over some rocks to see what crawls out from underneath them.” Rye tapped the glass over the photo. “But this man was at our crime scene this morning.”

Iona sighed. “This’ll make great copy. I can see the headline.” She motioned with her hand. “Dead Skinwalker Haunts Arizona Town.”

“Forget the tabloids. He’s not dead, and he’s not haunting.” Rye shrugged. “Ugly maybe, but definitely not dead.”

“Perhaps I oughta kick over some journalistic rocks of my own.”

“Just be careful. Something about this whole business reeks of donkey dung.”

“What did List have to say?”

Rye detailed the conversation while she shook her head, fists on her hips. “Perhaps I oughta kick over his rocks,” she said

Rye laughed. “Now I have to return Johnny Batts’ call. Gabby said he sounded agitated.”

Iona patted his back. “A heck of a morning so far.”

“Yeah. Things are just getting warmed up, and it’s not even 10:00 yet. I can’t hardly wait to see what the afternoon brings.”

<><><><><><><><><><>

“State your piece,” Batts’ drawl came through Rye’s cell.

“Hey, Johnny, this is—”

“Yeah, I know. Seen your number pop up on the screen. Chief, you got a problem.”

After a few seconds of silence, Rye rubbed his forehead as if probing for a headache. “Go on, Johnny, I flunked mind-reading. Perhaps … a few more details …?”

A spit of hesitation then Batts said, “Discovered a body up one of them washes on my property. It ain’t a purty sight. Cut up and all.”

“Did you get a look at who it might be?” Rye touched his dog tags.
Just what I need. A murder.

“I ain’t stupid, Chief. I watch CSI. I know better’n messin’ with a crime scene.” Rye couldn’t miss the agitation in Johnny’s voice. “So can you get up here? I got some sheep I need to take to pasture, and that body’s blocking the way.”

Rye stole a glance at Iona.

Batts rambled on about trespassers getting their just rewards, and Rye turned his attention back to the call.

Batts concluded, “Nuthin’ I can do ’bout a dead body. But my sheep are alive … and thirsty. That I can do sumpthin’ ’bout.”

“Okay, Johnny, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”