Authors: John Fortunato
F
RIDAY
, 10:40
A.M.
A
LBUQUERQUE
P
OLICE
H
EADQUARTERS
, 400 R
OMA
A
VENUE
NW, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO
Joe sat in Captain Carmen Chavez's corner office at police headquarters. Their friendship went back years. They'd first met at a regional police shooting competition. Joe was good, but Chavez had proven better. She'd won four of the seven revolver matches, becoming the first female officer to ever achieve that honor. Several National Police Shooting plaques hung on her walls. “Good guy?” Joe asked. Chavez oversaw personnel, including Bobby Lopez.
“He's a sexist pig with a bad attitude and a worse temper,” Chavez said. “He's had so many excessive-force complaints made against him that I keep his file in my desk. It saves time when I need to send it to IA.” She shook her head. “Somehow he gets out of them.”
A knock at the door.
“That's the prick now.” She stood and came around the desk. “I'll let you talk to him in here while I grab a cup of coffee.”
She called Lopez in and made the introductions. Joe showed his credentials and gave him a business card. They shook hands. Lopez's grip was a little too firm, his eye contact a little too long.
“I guess you can have a union rep if you want,” Chavez said. “But Joe's questions concern a matter prior to your employment. It's your call.”
When he learned it was about Faye Hannaway, Bobby agreed to talk.
Chavez nodded to Joe on her way out. He got the message: Good luck.
Lopez's gaze followed the captain's backside out the door. Chavez had this guy pegged.
“Thanks for talking to me. Can I call you Bobby?”
“That's my name.”
Bobby dropped into the seat across from Joe and reclined as though not having a care. He was intimidating, with his tightly cropped blond hair slicked back, his compact frame, no neck, and powerful arms. Joe guessed steroids. The man before him looked like a G.I. Joe action figure. His name tag read
B. LOPEZ.
“Is Bobby short for Robert?”
“Nope. Bobby Joe.”
“Where're you from, Bobby?”
“I'm from Grants,
Joe.
”
Joe decided that trying to build rapport with this asshole would only waste time. “What can you tell me about Faye?”
“She ran off with that Edgerton fuck and left me on the hook for her apartment. She's a whore. Did you find her?”
“No, but I hope to.”
“Drag her ass back here to New Mexico so everyone can see what a cunt she is.”
Bobby had charm. “I take it you didn't care for her?”
“You must be a college boy.”
Joe smiled. “Everyone seems to think Faye was having an affair with Edgerton. What do you think?”
“She'd spread her legs for anybody. I screwed her the night we met. That's why I moved in with her. Easy. Not someone you would take home to Mom, but okay in the sack.”
Joe leaned forward, moving into Bobby's space. “I read in the file that when you met her you were unemployed and living at a veterans shelter. Then you moved in with her. I guess she was a free ride in every sense, right?”
Bobby was silent for several seconds. “Yeah, I got out of the army and was having difficulty finding a job.”
“Discharged after Grenada. Did you suffer from PTSD when you got back?”
“Is that important, or are you just a nosy prick?”
Joe waited.
“I wasn't nuts. I had problems finding a job. So what? So did other guys. Grenada was a big cluster fuck.” He rubbed the back of his forefinger over one eyebrow, then rubbed again. “Our friggin' commander ordered us to jump at seven hundred feet. No point in carrying a reserve, 'cause you don't have time to deploy it. So we carried extra ammo instead. We came in low and hot. The drop zone was an airfield. Do you know what it's like to hit asphalt and concrete coming in that low with extra weight? More than half my unit took leg injuries on landing. A big fucking cluster. All to get out a bunch of Commie students. Most didn't even wanna leave.”
“That piss you off?”
“Hell yeah. A big fucking waste.”
“Did Faye's affair with Edgerton piss you off, too?”
Bobby's nostrils flared. “Is that supposed to be your big interview technique? Surprise questions? Catch me off guard?”
“Wanted to see how you'd react.”
“Do you have any real questions, or are you going to waste my time with bullshit?”
“Tell me what you were doing the day Faye went missing.”
“It's in the file. Read it. You got a degree.”
Joe embraced the silence; it was often an ally during interviews.
“I don't remember,” Bobby said. “It was over twenty years ago.”
“Everyone else seems to remember that day.”
“I don't care about anyone else. I don't remember.”
“Why are you different?”
“I said, I don't remember.” Bobby's attention drifted to the desk. He seemed to find Captain Chavez's files interesting.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“It's a simple question.”
“I was drinking back then. And doing weed. I don't remember.”
“Convenient.”
“It's the fucking truth.”
“Unemployed. Drinking. Drugs. A real catch.”
“What?”
“Did you beat her, too? Offer her the deluxe package?”
“Fuck you.” Bobby got up, yanked the door open, and walked out.
Joe silently chastised himself. He'd allowed the creep to get to him. Joe wasn't a tenderfoot. He knew better.
O
CTOBER
1
F
RIDAY
, 11:11
A.M.
G
ALLUP
D
ISTRIBUTION
, R
OUTE
66, G
ALLUP
, N
EW
M
EXICO
A crowd of about seventy Native Americans milled along the sidewalk of Gallup Distribution. The facility, a small warehouse, distributed beer to regional bars and liquor stores. A few nonnatives also joined in the milling. It had rained earlier, so the ground was still wet. Some of the people carried umbrellas. They looked bored.
Cars passed by, tooting their horns in response to the hand-painted signs the protesters carried:
HONK! TO STOP THE GENOCIDE; ALCOHOL IS KILLING OUR NATIVE SONS & DAUGHTERS; STOP THE CONSPIRACY, JOIN NAVAJO
NOW.
Bluehorse wasn't sure if the honkers agreed or were making fun of the group. While he watched from his unit, which was parked at a gas station a little ways down Route 66, a metallic blue Toyota with extended chrome rims and tinted windows swerved close to the sidewalk where the protesters circled. The Toyota hit a small puddle along the curb. Water sprayed, people jumped back, and cries of anger followed. An empty soda or beer can flew from the Toyota's passenger side. The sound of it bouncing along the roadway carried all the way to Bluehorse. The officer in the Gallup PD patrol car parked next to his vehicle also had been watching the protesters and turned on his flashers and took off after the troublemakers. Bluehorse put his Tahoe in drive and headed over to the now partially wet group.
He pulled into the lot beside Gallup Distribution. Two employees standing by the front door waved to him, probably hoping he would move the group along.
Curious faces looked over from the protest groupâunfriendly faces. Before getting out, Bluehorse checked the driver's license photo for Dwight Henry, aka Hawk Rushingwater. He spotted him. Dwight stood to the edge of the crowd, drinking from a bottle of water, carrying a red bullhorn, and staring at Bluehorse. Dwight's was one of the unfriendly faces. So was the big heavyset man's next to him. The big man wore a black T-shirt that read
MY ANCESTORS SURVIVED THE LONG WALK
.
Bluehorse approached Dwight. The big man stepped forward, standing in front of his little leader.
“Dwight Henry?” Bluehorse asked.
“This isn't the rez,” the big man said.
“I wasn't talking to you.”
“You don't have any authority off the rez, Mr. Police Officer. The white man makes sure of that.”
“I thought your group was about protecting people's rights. Who needs authority to talk to someone?”
A skinny Navajo walked over. He wore thin wire-rim glasses and a polo shirt. “Hello, Officer. How can we be of help?”
“I need to talk to Dwight. Who are you?”
“I'm Sleeping Bear. And if you would, please refer to Dwight as Hawk. We use our spiritual names.”
“Fine,” Bluehorse said. He looked around the big man to Dwight. “Can we talk for a few minutes, Hawk?”
People started to drift over. Eavesdroppers.
“Can't you see I'm in the middle of a protest?”
“When would be a good time?”
The horn blasts from passing vehicles diminished now that the sign holders had left the sidewalk to gather around Bluehorse's little party.
Rushingwater stepped forward to stand beside his bodyguard. “What's it about?”
“I don't think you want to discuss it in front of all these people.”
Rushingwater raised his hands. He still held the bullhorn. “I have nothing to hide from my oppressed brothers and sisters. We are all used to the white man's government trampling our rights as the great herds of buffalo once trampled these lands. We're mere cattle to the white man, and the reservation is our range.”
Sleeping Bear said. “Buffalo? This isn't theâ”
“I have no secrets,” Rushingwater repeated, raising his voice, playing to the crowd. “What is this about?”
“It's about Arlen Edgerton,” Bluehorse said.
The eavesdroppers seemed impressed. Heads turned to Rushingwater.
“Tell that reporter to get back here,” Rushingwater said to Sleeping Bear. “Tell him the NPD wants to interrogate me regarding Congressman Arlen Edgerton's disappearance.”
Sleeping Bear shook his head. “Hold on. Let'sâ”
“I didn't say that,” Bluehorse said. The honking from passersby had entirely stopped. All seventy or so protesters formed a shoulder-to-shoulder ring around Bluehorse and Rushingwater.
“I heard you say it,” a woman in her sixties said. “I'm a witness.” She bore a mound of turquoise necklaces around her neck.
The heads around Bluehorse bobbed up and down like chickens at feed time.
The hair on the back of Bluehorse's neck jumped up and tried to get his attention, yelled at him to get the hell out of there. “Look, I just want contact information for you.” Where was that Gallup officer? Was he still ticketing that knucklehead in the Toyota? He glanced over at the two employees by the front door. They were watching the show. Why didn't they call the police? Because they thought he was the police, that's why. If things went bad, Bluehorse would be on his own.
“Why do you want to know how to find him?” the old woman said. “So you can get him alone? Make him disappear?”
What was she talking about?
“Ask your questions here,” Rushingwater said. “In front of my people. The people you sold out.”
Someone bumped Bluehorse from behind. He moved his hand to cover his holster and turned to the threat. A wall of faces stared back.
“Okay, everyone, move back,” Bluehorse ordered, his voice loud but slightly high-pitched.
“Are you afraid of your own people, officer man?” Rushingwater said.
Another bump. Bluehorse spun around and drew his Taser, afraid to draw his gun.
Get out of there!
his neck hair screamed.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Sleeping Bear yelled, arms raised, moving to stand beside Bluehorse. “This is a peaceful demonstration. Let's not get carried away. This officer only came to talk.” He stepped forward, pushing his hands out toward the people. They moved backâslowly.
“Everyone just back up,” Bluehorse said. He turned, showing the Taser to those around him. When the Taser moved in the direction of Rushingwater, the old woman reacted.
“He's going to shoot him!”
A fist caught Bluehorse on the left side of his head. His vision blurred. He staggered. Another blow glanced off the back of his head. He fought the reflex to fire the Taser. An arm wrapped around him.
“Stop! Back up! Back up!” It was Sleeping Bear standing next to Bluehorse, holding him up.
“What are you doing?” It was the same woman. “He tried to shoot Rushingwater!”
“Shut up, old woman!” Sleeping Bear started moving Bluehorse backward toward the vehicle. “Nightwind!”
A hand grabbed onto Bluehorse's right arm. He was turned around, walking forward now, his head clearing, his left ear ringing.
“That was stupid, man,” Sleeping Bear whispered. “Never mess around with a crowd. Some of these people are crazy.”
“Yeah,” Bluehorse said, holstering his Taser. “Lesson learned.” He shrugged off the helping hands. The crowd was moving back toward the road. “Which one hit me?”
“Come on. You know I can't say. I got you out of there. Be grateful.”
Bluehorse looked from Sleeping Bear to the other man who'd helped him. It was the big guy with the Long Walk T-shirt. Nightwind. He didn't look pleased to have saved a cop.
“All right,” Bluehorse said. “Thanks for your help. But I still need to talk to him.”
“No one's stopping you. Just not here. We stay in a trailer three miles northeast of Chinle Chapter House.”
“Why so helpful now?”
“Our supporters aren't around now,” Sleeping Bear pointed with his lips toward Rushingwater, who was getting attaboys from the other protesters. “He can't look weak before the man.”