Mourning Dove (3 page)

“His house is over across,” Lujan said, pointing with his lips, Navajo style. “Family name’s on the mailbox.”

“Over across” could mean on the other side of a field, or in Albuquerque, hours away, but
since he’d pointed to an area beyond the cattle guard that apparently contained only a few houses, she’d be able to narrow it down. “Thanks.”

Ella checked with Carolyn, who was still by the body. “I’m going to check out the victim’s home,” she said, interrupting the M.E. “We don’t know yet if the perps paid a visit there as well.”

Carolyn nodded absently, then gestured toward the stretcher and
body bag visible in the back of her open van. “I’ll need help. Get Neskahi for me before you leave.”

Ella gave her a bemused smile. “Still paying him back for that crack he made about you? That was ages ago.” Contact with the dead was extremely difficult for any Navajo. Even the M.E. and the Crime Scene Unit used two sets of gloves as a precaution so that they wouldn’t touch anything that had
touched the dead. But the job
no one
wanted was helping the M.E. move the body. Knowing that, Carolyn always asked for Neskahi when the time came, no matter who else was around.

“Get him.”

“Okay,” Ella said, knowing the futility of arguing with Carolyn about anything like this. Several years back, Neskahi had made a half-hearted joke about Carolyn’s weight and since that fateful day Carolyn
had made it her mission in life to make Joseph as uncomfortable as possible at every crime scene.

Ella whistled, caught Neskahi’s attention, then gestured to Carolyn. Neskahi’s downcast expression as he approached spoke volumes.

As he walked past her, Neskahi muttered, “I even tried flowers. How long is she going to remember?”

“For the rest of your life, Joe,” Ella said softly. “And don’t
ever
send her candy.”

“Come on, Sergeant,” Carolyn said with a grim smile. “Quit dragging your feet!”

E
lla arrived at a crumbling gray stucco house less than five minutes later. As she stepped out of the SUV she studied the home, which seemed typical of the area. From the construction it was obvious that rooms had been added two or three different times. The roof was red, layered in rolls of mineral-covered fiberglass and sealed around the edges with black roofing
compound and galvanized nails. There was probably no insulation anywhere, but, judging from the roof vents and a big LPG tank, the house had a furnace and cook stove. There was also electricity, thanks to the power lines along the paved highway less than a half mile away. Electricity and gas heating were a blessing still too rare on the Rez where the twenty-first century had yet to arrive. A small
pump hose indicated a well. Running water was a luxury not everyone had on the Rez.

She stopped by the mailbox at the edge of the driveway and noted that the dirt road continued down toward the river and another house, barely visible beneath a willow. The mailbox, hand lettered with the name Blacksheep, was so full of mail that the door wouldn’t close. If Samuel was stopping by to check on the
house and take care of the mail, he hadn’t been by for several days, maybe more.

Ella put on a pair of latex gloves, then took a closer look at the
envelopes inside. Based upon some of the postmarks, the oldest mail had been there for at least two weeks. Along with the many advertisements there was an electric bill and two issues of a National Guard magazine. Then she noticed something peculiar.
The mail, even the flyers, had been sorted according to size, unlike the jumbled mess that was normally rubber banded together and delivered to her home, and both sets of mail were delivered by the same post office in Shiprock.

Someone with a penchant for order had looked through the stack, leaving the rubber bands in a neat pile by the base of the mailbox before placing the mail back in the
box. She doubted it was the carrier. Glancing down, Ella studied the four rubber bands, the kind the postal carriers in her community used. A barely discernible layer of dust covered them, suggesting they’d all been placed there at the same time, and probably recently.

Had Jimmy Blacksheep’s assailants come here before or after attacking him and checked his mail? Jimmy had died less than two
miles from his home after making it back from halfway around the world. That was either very bad luck or no coincidence at all.

Deep in thought, her senses alert for more clues, Ella noted a single set of fresh vehicle tracks that had been disturbed just enough by the wind to blur the tread pattern. Photos would have to be taken soon to preserve any record at all.

Ella climbed back into her
vehicle and drove up to the house, avoiding the previous trail. The tire tracks left by the last visitor showed the vehicle had pulled up and turned around, probably facing back down the driveway to facilitate a quick exit. Vague imprints showed the driver had gotten out and walked to the house but, despite searching, she couldn’t find any traces of blood. That told her one thing at least—the wounded
perp hadn’t been the one to walk around here afterward.

Dust had accumulated on the front porch, and she saw the vague footprints that went all the way up to the door. Looking
closely, Ella then noted the absence of dust anywhere on the doorknob. Someone had come here recently, checked the mail, then gone inside the house, either using a key or, since there was no sign of a forced entry, maybe
the door had been unlocked.

Ella knocked but no one answered. Gloves still on to avoid leaving fingerprints, she tried the knob. Many traditional Navajos didn’t bother to lock their doors, though people in law enforcement, like Samuel Blacksheep, generally didn’t share the public’s illusions about safety on the Rez.

The door
was
locked. Ella looked around, searching the usual hiding places for
keys. She checked atop the door frame first, then started looking under the four empty flower pots on the wooden floor. Her search was unsuccessful.

Ella listened but there were no sounds coming from inside at all, only the faint whistling of the breeze sweeping across the porch. She peered through a crack in the curtains and saw a sparsely decorated living room and beyond, in the next room,
a kitchen table.

Ella heard the sound of an approaching vehicle and looked back toward the road. A Farmington police cruiser was racing down the side road trailing a rooster tail of dust. The vehicle turned sharply into the driveway, and a few seconds later slid to a stop beside her own, unmarked unit.

A stocky, barrel-chested Navajo man clad in the blue uniform of the Farmington Police Department
stepped quickly out of the driver’s side.

“Special Investigator Clah?” he called out, walking toward the porch.

“That’s me,” she said, going to meet him.

Navajos, even modernists like police officers, rarely shook hands, and today was no exception. “I’m Samuel Blacksheep. I’ve been appraised of the situation. What progress have you made so far?”

His tone was brisk but his eyes were wet and
reddened and
there was pain etched in his features. Remembering her father’s death, she felt a wave of sympathy. His brain was telling him
okay, get on with it
, but his heart was breaking into a million pieces.

“How you doing?” she asked him softly. But even as she spoke she knew that the last thing he wanted was her sympathy. Officer Blacksheep’s eyes were lit by an inner—and dangerous—fire,
and his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. Anger was easier to release and let run free than was overwhelming grief. She’d seen this before. Everything in him demanded retribution—a life in exchange for a life. But those feelings would have to be reined in if he expected to remain a police officer.

“I’m coping,” he answered. “But I need to know what happened.”

She nodded. “How’d
you get here so fast? We just called it in,” she said, giving him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

He opened his mouth to speak, but there was a pause before he answered, as if his brain and his vocal cords weren’t quite working in tandem. “I was on patrol on Farmington’s west side when the desk sergeant notified me that there was a situation here involving my brother. He didn’t have any
details, but they took me off duty so I could come to the scene. When I arrived I was told my brother . . .” his voice wavered slightly. Pausing, he cleared his throat. “Officer Goodluck said you’d be here and would want to talk to me,” he finished in a strangled tone.

Ella knew he’d gone way over the speed limit to make it here this fast—even if he’d been where he said he was. She watched Officer
Blacksheep, trying to determine how much to tell him. He was already on the edge and trying like crazy to hold it all in.

“We
will
take down whoever’s responsible for the death of your brother. You can count on it.”

“I’ll hold you to that. But I want to know what happened. Where’s my brother’s vehicle? Do you have a suspect yet?”

“We’re still working, so all I can tell you right now is that
his body was found by the road about an hour ago—no vehicle,” Ella
replied. “Right now I’d like to go inside his home and take a look around. I understand you’ve been taking care of the place. Do you happen to have a key on you?”

“How did you know . . .? Oh, right. Lujan told you.” Samuel nodded, searching his pocket. “My brother deserved a better homecoming than this.”

“How long has it been
since
you
were here?” Ella asked.

“About a week—give or take. Has someone been here since?”

“Someone stopped by after yesterday’s dust storm, maybe earlier this morning, I know that. I found vehicle tracks and vague footprints that had to have been made since the dust began flying.” She indicated the tracks. “I stopped at the mailbox. It looks like whoever it was checked the mail, sorted it
all together, then stuck it back into the box. The rubber bands normally used to carry a day’s mail are still on the ground, sitting atop yesterday’s dust. Only that person knows if anything was taken. Any idea who it might have been?”

“No. Do you think that someone was waiting for my brother to show up, and came here first, before killing him and hijacking his car?”

“I can’t say, not yet, though
it would make more sense than coming here
afterwards
.” She gestured to the door and waited.

Samuel went through the contents of his pockets, then cursed softly. “Damn. Must still be on my kitchen table. But step aside. Getting in is easy.”

“It’s locked,” Ella warned.

“Yeah, but the lock isn’t worth crap.” He lifted the knob, jiggled the door, and it popped open. “I’ve been meaning to put in
a deadbolt, but there’s nothing of value inside. My brother’s TV, radio, and electronics are all over at my place. Most of his good clothes, too.”

Samuel took a few steps into the room, Ella behind him. It smelled dusty, which was natural, considering yesterday. But the dust was especially abundant. It probably hadn’t been cleaned
since Jimmy reported to his Guard unit, and that must have been
more than a year, easily.

Ella stepped around him to get a clearer view of the living room. At a glance she could tell that the place had been searched—but not tossed—as burglars were prone to do. On the desk, which held mostly papers and old mail, she could see small, clean areas because the movement and replacement of letters hadn’t been exact. A thick, worn spiral notebook was in another spot.
It was virtually dust-free on top but not the edges. Something that had rested on top of it had been removed.

Without picking it up, she turned a few pages and saw it was a writing journal for James Blacksheep’s English Four high school class. She crouched down, noting footprints on the vinyl floor leading to places farther into the house. “Someone has been here. They looked through things, and
didn’t put them back in exactly the same place, so the dust markings are off. And check out the floor.”

Samuel saw what she was referring to, then added, “They looked behind the photos hung on the wall, too. They’re slightly off-kilter.” His voice reverberated with anger. “So they killed him, and then came here to see what else they could take from him?”

“Probably the other way around, but either
way, this wasn’t a regular burglary,” she said. “Who else has a key?”

“No one.”

“The intruder was here recently, or else the clear spots would have been covered by dust by now. And whoever was here wanted to hide their entry. But this may not be connected to the carjacking. Maybe a teen—they’d be prone to shake the door—or even a nosy neighbor,” she said, thinking out loud.

“Yeah, you’re right.
A burglar would have trashed the place. Whoever did this was careful—just not careful enough.” He turned around in a circle, then shrugged. “Nothing’s missing that I can tell.”

“Something was taken from on top of this old spiral notebook. Any idea what it could have been?” Ella indicated the spot.

He nodded. “Another spiral notebook. But that’s weird. Why would anyone want it? My brother kept
his stories—kid stories he wrote—in those. He wants . . . wanted to write children’s books someday. Who’d take them?”