Bad Medicine (5 page)

Not that Ella herself was always welcomed with open arms. Acceptance was slow in coming, particularly within the department. Many still resented her for having been part of the FBI once. Among the
Dineh,
some saw her as too modern, a product more of the Anglo culture than of her own. Although there had been a time when she would have taken that as a compliment,
Ella didn’t feel that way anymore.

She drove toward the open pit coal mine, which was adjacent to the power plant it fed. As she’d been leaving the hospital, Blalock had called to ask her to meet him there. He’d been angry about something, though he hadn’t been willing to specify what it was over the radio. Her curiosity was definitely up.

As she pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the operation,
she caught a glimpse of Blalock a few feet ahead. His car was a maze of spray-painted graffiti. The paint would be impossible to get off.

“Look what they did to my car,” he said, as she climbed out of her Jeep. “The punks. They’re lucky I didn’t catch them.”

“The Bureau will pay for the repairs. Don’t sweat it.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say. You don’t have to write the report.” He shook his head.
“This never used to happen here.”

“Yeah, well, the outside is catching up to us.” She glanced at several teenagers—who probably should have been in school—sitting in a highly polished old car, laughing and listening to rap music. Their clothing, and the way they wore it, suggested they were members of a gang. “Did you talk to them?”

“Yeah, but I got the usual smart mouth comments.”

“You want
me to give it a shot?”

He rolled his eyes. “You won’t get anywhere either, Navajo or not. They might be Navajo by birth, but they’re at war with everything, including their own people.”

“They’ve lost sight of who they are, and grabbed onto the first and worst things they’ve seen of other cultures.” She shrugged. “But tell me, what brought you here to the mine?”

“I wanted to know which Anglos
Bitah had a problem with, or if there were any he considered friends.”

“What did you find out?”

“Bitah wasn’t big on Anglos, good or bad. There are a lot of racially motivated problems in this company, despite the line of corporate harmony the supervisors tried to shove down my throat.”

“There has always been tension within the tribe about the role of mining companies on the reservation.”

“My take on this is that the Navajo and Anglo workers are struggling against each other for power. Whichever faction wins will end up speaking for the workers as a whole, and will control the best jobs. There’s some serious trouble brewing here, believe me, and the company knows it. They’ve been having a teacher from the college come over to teach the Anglo supervisors the Navajo language but, unless
I miss my guess, that’s not going to help much, especially since Navajo is so damn tough to learn.”

“Who’s doing the teaching?”

“Your old friend, Wilson Joe.”

Wilson was one of the few people Ella trusted implicitly. He’d be able to tell her more about what was going on out here. She made a mental note to pay him a visit soon.

“I’ve got a feeling this case is going to involve more than just
a labor relations issue before it’s resolved,” Blalock said softly.

As a cold breeze enveloped them, Ella felt a sense of foreboding that echoed his words. Forcing it aside, she looked toward the portable building that served as the mine’s field office and first aid station. “Did you happen to find out if Bitah was close to anyone?”

“Jonathan Steele, his supervisor, said Bitah got along well
with Billy Pete, another Navajo worker, and the only person he had major league problems with was Frank Smith.”

“I know Billy. He’ll talk to me without any problem. But who’s Frank Smith?”

“An Anglo Bitah had it in for. According to Steele, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Smith comes in every day, does his job and leaves. Still, he and Bitah had a couple of go-arounds.”

“About what?”

“From what I
heard, Bitah started it, accused him of trying to stir up trouble among the Navajo workers.”

“In what way?”

“Missing objects belonging to one Navajo would turn up in another Navajo’s locker, that sort of thing.”

“The most innocent-looking guy sometimes
is
the troublemaker, you know.”

“Maybe. But I ran a check on him. This guy’s a family man, and has never even had a traffic citation. I talked
to several of the Anglos here, and they all said that Smith was an honest man. Churchgoer and all that. He belongs to the same denomination your father did.”

Once again her skin prickled. “So do several million other people around the country.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I just thought it was an interesting coincidence.”

“I’ll go find Billy Pete,” she said, heading for the office. “You coming?”

“No. I’d better get this car scrubbed and make arrangements to have it repainted. After that, I’ll track down Frank Smith and have a talk with him.”

Ella stepped inside the mine offices, and was told that Billy Pete had just punched his time card and left. Ella rushed back out to the parking lot and found him in the employees parking area at the far end. She jogged up to meet him.

“Wait up!”
she called out, getting his attention.

Billy smiled, recognizing Ella, then grew somber. “It’s been a long time. Are you here as a friend or as a cop?”

“Do they have to be mutually exclusive?” Ella countered.

Billy nodded slowly, pushing his Kansas City Chiefs cap up so he could look her in the eyes. “In this case, yes.”

“Explain,” Ella asked, leaning back against his car and looking over
at the mountains of coal being formed by the drag line of an enormous crane over a mile away.

Billy’s black eyes shone with wariness. “Are you still L.A. Woman, or are you truly one of the
Dineh
again?”

“L.A. Woman was always a Navajo.”

“Maybe, but she was trying to forget that. Like them,” he said, pursing his lips and pointing Navajo fashion at the gang now standing by their car, smoking
cigarettes.

“No, never like that. They haven’t a clue who they are or what they’re doing.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I won’t take a Navajo’s side if he’s wrong, just because he’s Navajo, if that’s what you’re really asking me. My job is to uphold the law, and that’s what I intend to do by tracking down the murderer who took the life of your friend.”

“It won’t be easy, not the way
things are around here.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

Billy remained silent for several minutes, watching the gang members joking and strutting back and forth in front of the row of parked cars. Finally, he spoke. “There are many we fought with, but it’s one thing to argue, and another to kill.”

“Who’s we?”

Billy started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut and shook his
head. “I can’t say anymore. You’ll have to find your own answers.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to catch the killer? I need your help to do that.”

“I have no knowledge of the killing. What I’m involved in is a matter of tribal rights and, more specifically, our rights as Navajo employees of the mine.”

“Like your friend who was murdered?” she pushed.

“Whoever did that made a big mistake, and
will pay a heavy price. But my concern now is for the living.” He moved past her and slipped inside his car. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where are you off to in such a hurry? It’s not the end of your shift, is it?”

He looked up, but didn’t answer her. A moment later, she watched his car disappear across the parking lot. The more she learned, the more her sense of disquiet grew. Something was happening
here on the reservation, right under her nose. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was sitting on top of a powder keg with a burning fuse.

As she walked back to her vehicle, her pager went off. Identifying the caller, Ella jogged quickly back to the car, picked up the mobile phone, and dialed her assistant’s number. “I’m here, Justine. What’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you. Can we meet
at the Totah Café?”

“I can be there in twenty.”

“Good. I’ve made some progress, and I need to talk over the details with you.”

Ella drove quickly, intrigued by the tone of Justine’s voice. Her assistant hadn’t attempted to discuss the matter on the cellular, or suggested the radio, so that meant something important was up. Eager for a fast break on the case, she hurried to Shiprock’s Totah
Café. As she entered, Justine waved to her from a booth at the back.

Ella walked across the almost empty diner. It was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the dinner patrons: a perfect time for a meeting. She joined Justine and sat with her back to the wall so she’d have a clear look at anyone who came into the diner. It was a habit she’d developed after one particularly bad scene
in an L.A. restaurant.

“We’ve got trouble. We finally located the senator after a tip was called into the station. He’d had one drink too many, and was with a blonde cutie at a motel in Farmington when his wife walked in. They were having a knock-down-drag-out when the cops arrived. The news shut them up real fast. About the only thing they’re both in agreement on now is that they want their
daughter’s body released.”

“Not until Carolyn finishes the autopsy,” Ella shrugged. “We need a cause of death.”

“That’s the other thing. When the senator learned we were doing an autopsy, he went ballistic.”

“Does he understand why one’s necessary? Was he told about my report?”

“Yeah, and he’s gunning for you. He thinks that you’re either nuts, or negligent because you didn’t pull her over
immediately.”

“I explained all that to Sergeant Neskahi. It’s in his report.” She shook her head. “The senator is just looking for someone to blame.”

“I drove to the site and went over everything again with the sergeant. There were no skid marks anywhere or signs that she tried to hit the brakes. Until we get the toxicology report, we won’t know for sure, but Angelina wasn’t reputed to be a
drinker. This isn’t just another DWI accident, I’m certain of that.”

“Carolyn is expecting trouble from the senator, so she’ll get us answers as quickly as possible.”

“I did examine Angelina’s car at the impound. Except for crash damage, everything seemed normal, including the brakes. It’s a new car, practically, and from what I found in the glove compartment, it had been serviced recently.
I spoke to the mechanic at the station she uses, and he insisted there was nothing wrong with the car when he serviced it last time. I had him check it out again, and he agreed there were no new mechanical problems except those caused by the crash.”

“Any reason to doubt the mechanic’s skill?”

“No. Arnold Buck is as good as they come.”

Ella’s pager went off, and she glanced down at the number.
“Blalock. I better get to a phone.”

Ella returned to her cell phone in the car, preferring the privacy it would give her, and dialed the number. A moment later Blalock’s voice came through clearly.

“We’ve got a problem,” the agent snapped. “Truman’s employee union got him an attorney. He’s pushing for a hearing no later than tomorrow morning.”

“Bail’s going to be set high for assault on an
officer. Will he have the resources?”

“There’s no guarantee of a high bail, apparently. The lawyer’s claiming you were in an unmarked car, and didn’t identify yourself properly.”

“That’s a load of … manure.”

“Yeah, well, it’s par for the course. I think we should question Truman as soon as possible. He’s going to get cocky now that he’s got an attorney.”

“How about meeting me over there now?”
she suggested.

“Let’s do it.”

They entered the Farmington lock-up forty minutes later. Ella studied Blalock, who stood with his back to the wall while they waited for the prisoner to be brought in. He looked as fresh as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. She wasn’t quite sure how he did that, particularly with the blowing sand that accompanied the afternoon winds.

She blew a strand of
hair out of her eyes, noting the gray dust all over her boots. Maybe the FBI had developed a Teflon coating for agents since she’d resigned.

Moments later, an officer led Truman in. His shackled feet were connected by a chain to stout handcuffs so he was forced to take small, deliberate steps. Ella studied the man’s openly hostile expression. His eyes were bloodshot and, if she’d had to bet,
she would have laid odds he had one hell of a headache.

“I won’t say another word until my lawyer gets here.”

“We have you up on some serious charges,” Blalock said. “Being uncooperative isn’t going to get any of them reduced.”

Truman glared at them, but said absolutely nothing. A minute later, a young, well-dressed attorney, wearing a western cut suit and a bolo tie, sauntered into the room,
setting his expensive leather briefcase on the small table separating cops from accused.

“I’m Jeff Martinez, Mr. Truman’s attorney. I hope you officers haven’t been badgering my client. You know the rules as well as I do.”

“We’ve only just arrived,” Blalock said with obvious distaste.

“All right then. We can begin.”

Ella glanced at Blalock, and saw his imperceptible nod. She took the lead.
“After I identified myself as a police officer and stated my intention to ask you some questions, why did you attack me?”

“My client didn’t hear you identify yourself as an officer—who was out of her jurisdiction, I might add.” Martinez answered.

“Unless you’re clairvoyant, counselor, I’d prefer if your client answered the questions,” Ella said calmly.

“Tough,” Martinez responded.

Ella looked
directly at Truman. “You and I both know I identified myself quite clearly. You attacked me after you knew who I was.”

“You might have a lot of power on the reservation, but here in Farmington, you’re no better than anyone else. Don’t try to intimidate me.”

“I’m no better than anyone else, anywhere. And neither are you. Haven’t you heard about the Bill of Rights?” Ella countered smoothly.