Authors: Aimée & David Thurlo
Big Ed looked down at the incomplete Navajo story Jimmy Blacksheep had sent Ella, skimming it for several minutes before looking up again. “He was trying to tell you
something and you’ve got to figure out what that is.”
“I’ll keep digging,” Ella said.
Big Ed nodded. “What about the other members of his Guard unit? What do they have to say?”
“I’ve only interviewed one so far, his platoon lieutenant—whose civilian job is with FPD. Justine got a list for me, and I’ll be paying the others a visit starting with the Navajos living on the Rez. All were from his
section, or at least his platoon, I believe.”
“And his sergeant?”
“Name’s Kent Miller, also an FPD officer. The man’s supposedly unwinding—gone fishing—but Farmington PD has somebody trying to track him down. Miller’s not with family, and nobody knows where he might be. There are a lot of places to fish around here.”
“Especially when you include southern Colorado. Keep on it.”
After leaving
the chief’s office, Ella went directly to Justine’s lab. “Anything new for me?”
“Jimmy Blacksheep didn’t check in at any area motels. Tache and I called every place in Farmington and on his route here within an hour of travel time. And we stopped at places next to river crossings and where ditches or ponds were close to the road. Nobody saw any impromptu bathers today or last night.”
Ella nodded,
frustrated, but tried not to show it.
“I’ve finished processing the evidence, but you’ve already got everything I have, Ella. I did find out that Randy Billey, one of the men who served with Blacksheep, got a hero’s welcome at the Cudei Chapter House when he was well enough to return home,
following recovery from his wounds. He’s severely disabled now, and next week he’s headed for a rehab program
the Army has set up for GI’s and Marines at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington. His wife is going with him.”
Ella nodded. “I heard about Randy’s return, but I can’t remember what . . .”
“He saved three other soldiers who were trapped when their supply truck got hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. He got shot up in the process and lost use of his legs, and one of his arms. Randy’s been home a
month now, so he wasn’t with the unit when they shipped back.”
“But they spent months together in Iraq, and Randy was in Jimmy’s section, so he might know something. I want to go see him today. Who else have we got in this area from that unit?”
“John Lee Charley.”
Ella nodded. “Wasn’t he one of the guys we hauled in on a drunk-and-disorderly over near the chapter house a few days ago?” Ella
asked.
“Yeah. His enlistment was up a week ahead of most of the others, so, unlike Jimmy, he was discharged as soon as the unit returned. John sure ruffled some feathers at the chapter house. Always had a wild streak a mile long. Guess the military didn’t settle him down any. Glad to be rid of him, probably.”
“Do you know these men?”
“In passing. They’re friends of Jayne’s. She dated John Lee
for quite a while,” Justine said, with a sigh. Jayne was Justine’s sister, and Justine’s polar opposite. Jayne had her own wild streak, and it was no secret that the two sisters were often at odds. “I’ve got their addresses. Shall we go pay them a visit?”
“Yeah—but we’re going to have to tread carefully. To the tribe, those men are heroes because of their service in a war zone. If any soldiers
are involved in what happened to the deceased, we’re going to have to get some very solid evidence before we make any waves,” Ella said.
“Randy can be ruled out, I’d guess, because of his injuries. And I’m not sure what, if anything, he’ll want to talk about. He got a silver star, by the way, but I’m told he left it in the box and never looks at it.”
“That isn’t unusual. Many vets do the same,”
Ella responded. The medals represented nightmares they’d relive for the rest of their lives—a time when they’d seen friends die. Medals were for the public, who often needed heroes. They were a symbol that was held up for others to see—a standard in an age where few ever rose to the level of courage and honor where special recognition was due. But the label of a hero could also demand that the
recipient meet the expectations of others. The public wanted the larger-than-life fantasy of legendary deeds of war, but the reality was much more down to earth, stained with blood, pain, and the stench of death.
Justine nodded. “Soiling the reps of any returning soldiers will put the entire department on risky political ground, and it could hurt our community support.”
“We’ll be careful but
we can’t afford to let anything keep us from doing our jobs. If the killers are Navajos, I’m going to nail them to the wall—whether or not they were soldiers.”
“Let’s go talk to them,” Justine said.
“I need to stop by Agent Blalock’s office first,” Ella said.
“Okay.”
While Justine drove, Ella considered everything she’d learned. Instinct told her they’d barely scratched the surface, and there
might be a dozen or more witnesses with important information still untapped. As usual, the pressure to find answers mounted with each passing hour.
Realizing that time was critical, she used her cell phone to call Tache and Sergeant Neskahi, giving them potential witnesses from Jimmy Blacksheep’s unit to interview. They were to report their findings to her in writing, by phone if the information
was more immediate and critical.
They arrived at Agent Dwayne Blalock’s Bureau office, atop the mesa north of the river, a short time later. The generic brown brick-and-glass office was located in a row of several tribal agency buildings, part of a complex that once had held a boarding school.
Dwayne Blalock had earned her respect over the years. He worked hard and expected a lot from himself
and any other resident agent assigned to his office—which partially explained why none of the younger agents who came ever stayed. The other half of the explanation, as Big Ed had pointed out earlier, was that no agent in the Bureau ever moved up the ladder by handling cases here. If you wanted advancement, you needed to be in the New York, Chicago, DC, or LA offices.
As they walked in, Ella
saw the middle-aged but fit-looking Agent Blalock at his old metal desk, phone in hand. Blalock looked up at her and Justine, nodded, and waved them toward chairs. The office had held two agents, but even pared down to one again, it seemed small. At least he had a window.
As Blalock hung up and looked over at her, Ella was reminded of why the Navajos had nicknamed him FB-Eyes. A hard-edged but
good-looking man with a tinge of gray around the temples, Blalock had one brown eye and one blue. “I’ve been cross-referencing the blood types Justine found on the scene,” he said.
“Cross-referencing them against what?” Ella asked.
“I took a shot in the dark and decided to take a closer look at the other men in Jimmy Blacksheep’s unit—at least in his platoon. I figured that was something I could
do to get the ball rolling in another investigative direction, just in case the carjackers weren’t in on this.”
“And the Army gave you the men’s records?” Justine asked, surprised.
“No, not ‘gave’, not exactly. I went around the usual roadblocks and got the information unofficially.”
“How—” Ella started, then clamped her mouth shut when he
held up a hand. “Never mind. Forget I asked.” She looked
over at Justine, who rolled her eyes.
“Here’s what I’ve got, though you two already know the first part. The deceased had blood type O, so that leaves the source for type B as unknown. Based on my information none of the men from his unit who live in this immediate area have type B blood.”
Ella sat back and regarded him thoughtfully. “That brings us back to the carjacking ring. These perps are
careful and they’re savvy. I would have added cool under pressure, too, but the thing with Jimmy puts that under question.”
“My gut feeling is that Jimmy Blacksheep was itching for a fight. Our guys go through some pretty rough times over in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was the same in ’Nam. Normal rules just don’t apply. There’s no front line—just bombing, sniping, quick and dirty firefights, and
praying you come back in one piece.”
“We’ve got a complicated case with lots of pressure coming down on us and more on the way,” Ella said.
“It’s going to get even worse pretty soon. I found out that the National Guard is sending someone from regular Army to investigate. A real hard-ass—Chief Warrant Officer Neil Carson. He’s already working an internal investigation that may have direct tie-ins
to what happened here. But my contact was very sketchy about the details.”
“Can you get back in touch with him? I really need to see the whole picture. So far, all I’m catching are glimpses of Blacksheep’s life here and overseas. And if it turns out the carjackers had nothing to do with the murder, I’m really going to need a much clearer idea of what I’m dealing with.”
“What’s your gut tell
you?”
Ella’s intuitions were legendary. Some ascribed esoteric explanations to it related to her ancestral background, but, to her, it was simply instinct based upon experience. “There’re too many loose ends in this case. To find the big picture we’re going to have to understand how things connect. Everything, even the details
of a crime, form a pattern once you understand their relationship
to each other. But without identifying that pattern we won’t get anywhere.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s like that Navajo balance and harmony thing. Works more than I’d normally admit, at least in my experience here on the Rez. I’ll try to get something for you, Clah.”
Ella stood. “Will you be getting another agent anytime soon to help out?”
“I hear rumors—mostly no one wants the post. You know
how it is. And priorities have shifted to fighting terrorism, something we don’t see too much around here—at least lately.”
Ella nodded, recalling a situation not too many years ago that preceded the 9-11 attacks. A group of armed activists had occupied one of the local coal power plants, threatening to put it out of commission during the dead of winter. “To Bureau agents on the way up, this
may not be the end of the world—but they’re pretty sure they can see it from here.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
Ella walked back out to the parking lot with Justine, then remained silent as they drove back south through Shiprock, crossed the river, then headed west on Highway 64. Ten minutes later, they turned north in the direction of the river, which at this location flowed northwest toward Colorado,
then Utah. Off in the distance, silhouetted by the sun—now low in the sky—she could see Ute Mountain, which resembled a sleeping warrior from this position.
“What background do you have on Randy Billey? Do we avoid the use of names as much as possible, or is he a modernist?”
“Modernist. He was an okay guy according to my sister, who dated him before he got married, fortunately, and is on good
terms with his wife. But his injuries have really made him reevaluate his life. Right now he’s working hard to regain as much mobility as he can get and hopes that his upcoming trip to Walter Reed will help him learn to cope better around the house. He can still paint—he used to be an artist—only now he’s selling his paintings on the
Internet and through a tribal cooperative that sells arts and
crafts from all the Indian nations via catalog,” Justine said, then in a somber tone, added, “Randy’s paid such a high price. In a case like this, I wonder if dying’s better,” Justine mused.
“No, partner. I suppose it could be argued that things might have been easier for him then, but the fact that he’s still alive means he’s got unfinished business on this plane.” Ella thought back to the time
she’d been buried alive, and had stopped breathing. “I think we’re each given a certain number of things to accomplish while we’re here, though we may never know specifically what those are. After we complete them, then we can go on. But you also have to consent to die. Randy didn’t. That’s my personal opinion based on my own experiences.”
Justine nodded, lost in thought. “Ella, someday I’d really
like to hear more about what you went through down in that mine.”
“Someday,” Ella said. Truth was, she didn’t like discussing it with anyone. They invariably tried to either discount it or take it as a new gospel—of sorts—and she wasn’t comfortable with either. She still remembered every vivid detail of her own near-death experience but it was entirely possible that the answers to what a person
found in the hereafter were as varied as the people who passed.
“So, how’s your mom?” Justine asked, sensing Ella’s change of mood.
Ella smiled slowly. “Sometimes I wish I were more like her. She’s so together, partner, except for that tension-related episode this morning over Dawn’s school play. I think it’s just the pressure of making that big decision. It looks like things are getting serious
between her and Herman. Marriage serious.”
“That’s serious. How do you feel about that?”
Ella considered it before answering. “I’m happy for her, but Dawn and I will have to do some heavy-duty adjusting if Mom decides to move out. I depend on Mom a lot, more than I care to admit sometimes.”
“Rose depends on you, too,” Justine answered. “Think about it. It’s true.”
“Maybe . . . I mean, I hope
so,” Ella said then added, “But you know what hurts? My mother has a more active love life than I do.” She burst out laughing.
They arrived at Randy Billey’s home, a wooden framed collection of added-on rooms like Clifford’s, a short time later. Assured the family wasn’t traditionalist, they didn’t wait by the patrol unit to be invited to approach. Justine and Ella walked up to the front door,
which now had a new concrete ramp instead of steps, and knocked.
Soon an elderly Navajo man came to the door. He was wearing jeans and a faded red sweatshirt. Though he looked to be in his seventies, he appeared to be remarkably strong and muscular. “Yes?”
Ella identified herself and Justine, holding up her badge. Justine nodded, not speaking. “We’d like to speak to Randy Billey.”
“I’m his
father. Come in. My son’s just finished his nightly physical therapy session, so he’s a bit tired. But visitors are welcome, even the police. Is this about the soldier from his unit who was killed?”