Authors: John Turney
Rye disconnected the call and speed-dialed Gabby.
“Whiskey Police Department,” she said.
“Gabby. Dawlsen, here.” Rye tilted his head, watching Iona bend over. Using tweezers, she picked up a hair from the floor and held it aloft to study it. “Listen, I need you to send someone over to the Batts’ place.”
“Whitewolf just walked in. I’m sure—”
Rye cut her off. “Send him. This takes precedence over anything else. I’m heading there now. Any more phone calls?”
“No. Just what I told Iona ’bout—”
“Sorry, Gabby, I’m not trying to be rude, but I gotta git.” He disconnected the call. “What do you got?” Rye asked Iona.
She turned the tweezers back and forth. “Just some hair. I’ll bag it. You okay? You’re sounding stressed.”
“Stressed? Me?” Rye pointed both hands at his chest. “Let’s see, an attempted armed robbery. A museum break-in. And now … a potential murder. Dee’s calling me for some reason. I had to talk to the mayor. And I still got a ton of paperwork waiting for me back at PD. No stress at all.”
“When it haboobs, it gets dusty. Now, you done venting? If not, I can recommend a good shrink.”
“There aren’t any good shrinks,” Rye said scrunching his face. “The very idea of someone tinkering inside my cranium makes me want to puke. Besides … we’re done here.”
She shot him a coy look under the brim of her hat. “So, I guess that means you’re heading off to Batts’?”
“Yep. Let’s rope off the scene of the crime.” Rye said. “I want to be at Batts’ when Whitewolf arrives.”
“You know,” Iona said, fixing one end of tape to the wall. “Helen and Terrance won’t appreciate you roping off their most popular exhibit.”
“Can’t be helped.” Rye finished tying off his end.
“So now …” She shrugged.
“A trip to Johnny Batts’ place. Care to join me?”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
“We’re going to a murder scene. I don’t take dates to crime scene investigations.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face up the hallway. “However, I can use an extra set of eyes, your detective mind, and that mystery writer’s intuition of yours.”
With Iona in front of him, they headed towards the front door. Rye couldn’t help but admire her backside.
She’s putting a little extra swing into her step just to tease me. I bet that’ll be the best thing I see all day.
<><><><><><><><><><>
Twenty minutes later, Rye pulled his Tahoe onto Batts’ drive, twin lines of packed dirt going up a small grade. Gravel pinged in the wheel wells. A dusty haze hung above the creosote bush-covered hill, shimmering in heat waves. Rye slowed the SUV to a crawl.
“Looks like someone got here before us,” Iona said.
“Appears that way.” Rye leaned on the steering wheel and stared at the sky through the floating grit. “You know, if there’s a body, then why aren’t there any buzzards? A fresh kill should’ve brought ’em circling.”
“Yeah,” Iona said, drawing out the word. “That’s a bit odd.”
Rye eased the Tahoe up the rutted path. “And as a former investigator who now writes mysteries, what do you make of that?”
“I write romantic whodunits,” Iona said, slouching in the passenger seat. “That genre would preclude I should know something about the
feeding habits of vultures.” She paused. “However, the absence of them is like … X-Files weird.”
“Don’t go all sci-fi vampire nuts on me, Twilight Twinkle toes.” He poked her in the arm.
“Something’s keeping the birds away.” She looked at Rye. “There’s got to be a logical explanation.”
“Perhaps the birds evolved into vegans.”
They topped the hill, and Rye eased the Tahoe to a stop. Batts’ property spread out in front of them. In the valley an SUV, surrounded by a cloud of dust, weaved through the valley towards the far side. There, a log cabin and a couple of weathered outbuildings squatted on the flat summit. The hill jutting up behind the house contained the Batts’ mine.
“That’s gotta be Whitewolf,” Rye said, recognizing the WPD car.
Minutes later, Rye pulled his SUV in front of the cabin. The smell of sheep touched the air. He stepped out of the car’s AC chill, and the desert’s heat desiccated his body, dispelling any comfort he had enjoyed in the vehicle. Fetching his crime bag from the backseat, he watched Johnny Batts slide out his cabin, its door creaking loudly in the quiet. Arms folded, Batts waited on his rickety porch.
Rye studied the man. Batts folded and unfolded his arms while he shifted his feet back and forth like a bulldozer scraping topsoil. The man muttered whether he spoke to anyone or not. His thin frame hunched over from years working his mine. He wore a beat-up, sweat-stained western straw hat that saw better days years ago. Long, gray hair sprouted from under the hat like shrubby coldenia. Gray stubble coated his jaw. His sunburnt, snake-like arms swung from his sleeveless denim shirt, and the jeans he wore had more patches than denim.
Batts ambled over to them, puffs of dust kicking up at his boot heels. “Chief,” Batts acknowledged him with a mumble.
“Johnny.”
Noah Whitewolf got out of his patrol car and approached them, carrying his own crime scene case. The officer wore a pristine western hat of the WPD, and his shiny black hair spilled out to his shoulders in a perfect stream. The officer’s shirt and jeans had been duly cleaned and ironed. A silver bracelet with turquoise stones and his Chiricahua moccasins hinted at his Apache heritage. He walked with precise steps and stood with a Marine’s “at ease” stance.
“Hey, Chief,” Whitewolf said, stopping alongside Rye. “Morning, Iona.”
Iona hugged Whitewolf. “How’s your sister?” The Apache towered over Iona by at least six hand widths.
Twice, Batts spat out a sodden wad of chewing tobacco.
“She does well,” Whitewolf answered. “She’s teaching young girls our dances and—”
“Ain’t got no time fer chitchat.” Batts cut off further discussion. “I got me a ranch to attend to. Foller me.”
Rye raised an eyebrow at Batts’ brisk demeanor, but said nothing.
The miner led them with his lumbering gait as if he still walked a narrow mine tunnel. They passed a sheep pen full of bleating animals. Spits of dust kicked up with each animal’s movement.
“I need this cleaned up quick so as I can pasture my sheep,” Batts said over his shoulder.
“And I have a crime scene to attend to,” Rye snapped. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”
Muttering about losing his animals, Batts led them down a trail
that crossed another valley similar to the first. They crossed a dry creek bed and headed up another incline. At the top, a canyon opened to their view. In the distance, Rye noticed metal reflecting sunlight.
“That’s List’s place,” Batts said. “An ugly building fer one ugly man. This way.”
For several hundred yards, Batts escorted them along a path skirting the canyon rim. Rye peered over the ledge. A straight drop of seven stories into more of the rocky Arizona desert.
He clenched his eyes closed as a shiver iced his spine. An impression of a bloody dagger occupied his mind’s vision with its gory image.
“Chief? You okay?” Whitewolf gripped Rye’s shoulder. “Chief?”
“Yeah.” He licked his lips again. “I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”
The path led into a split in the wall.
“Body’s up thatta way some.” Batts pointed up the canyon. “I did some investigatin’—without disturbing the scene mind you—and there’s tire tracks down the hill some.” Batts took off his straw hat and ran a hand through his wire-brush hair. “Stupid sheep wouldn’t come out of the cut. Stood there just bleatin’ their complaints. That’s when I noticed the body.”
“We appreciate you leaving the crime scene intact,” Rye said. “The three of us will take it from here. Go back and take care of your livestock.”
“Good.” Batts rubbed his stubbled chin. “’Cause I ain’t waitin’ out here bakin’ in this heat like no fool.”
“If you could, I’d like you to stick around your cabin for a little while.” Rye took off his hat and swiped his forehead. “I have to ask you some questions about last night.”
“Am I under suspicion or somethin’?”
“Do you have a reason to be?” Rye watched the man’s reaction, but Batts seemed more put out about his sheep than being a murder suspect. “Look, in any investigation we find the guilty by ruling out the innocent. I’m more interested in establishing your innocence than trying to nail you.”
“I’ll be at my cabin or in the barn.” Batts nodded up the cleft. “I gotta get my sheep some water.” With that, he headed back up the cut in the rock.
“That went well,” Rye said. “Nothing like pissing off a neighbor. Noah, you examine the tire tracks.”
“Sure thing, Chief,” Whitewolf answered and strolled down the wash, sticking to the shade whenever possible.
Rye checked his watch. “Yuma’s ME should arrive in a half hour or so. Iona, let’s do a grid search on the way to the body. We can’t process the body, but we can cover the area.”
They started up the slope, side by side. In the canyon, the temperature skyrocketed. Anything at a distance shimmered in the heat. The glare ricocheted off the rocks and hurt his eyes despite his sunglasses.
Not more than a dozen feet up the wash, they discovered the car tracks had stopped.
“What’re you thinking?” Iona asked.
“When the vehicle came to a halt, someone was in a lot of trouble. More ‘n likely,” he nodded uphill towards the body, “our victim.”
“I can’t be sure of the exact make of the car,” Iona said. She pointed at the tire tracks. “Safe to say it wasn’t an RC Cooper.”
Rye started walking toward the body, but stopped. “We have three sets of prints. If I had to make a guess, I’d say the middle one
was coerced. See the drag marks.”
“Think we’re looking at a drug deal gone bad?”
Rye tilted back his Stetson and rubbed his sweaty forehead. “That or gang violence. Let’s check it out.”
They headed up the canyon, eyes searching the ground for evidence. Though he mostly maintained his investigation, Rye stole several side glances at Iona. She looked good in tight jeans.
Using her forefinger like a speed-reader, Iona scanned the ground in search of clues. She stopped. “Are you staring at me, Rye Dawlsen?”
“No, I’m just … ummm … looking your way.”
She nodded once with a half smile. “Sure you were.”
Pain stabbed his heart; Dee used to smile at him just like that when they were being silly—before he started drinking heavily and lying to her about it.
And how did he respond to Dee? How many times had he watched disappointment spread across her face? Ignored her tears? Ridiculed her anger? Returned her outbursts? Mocked her religion?
And missed her after she left.
But Iona was a good woman, as well. She dropped hints like breadcrumbs to get his attention.
She’s got a tough spirit but a soft heart. She knows I struggle with the bottle. Perhaps, she offers redemption. Among other things.
“What’s wrong, Rye?” Iona’s voice cut through his reflection. “You having one of those vision things?”
“No. I’m just thinking about the scene.”
About you. About us.
“You know, this is a curious place to dump a body.”
She gave him a one-eyed look of skepticism.
“What?”
“No. I agree,” she said. “They should have taken it to The Whiskey Burial Grounds. Much nicer option than dumping it on someone’s property.”
“That’s the writer in you. You know, with these footprints, I ought to have Whitewolf cast them before they deteriorate anymore.”
Iona peered upward at the pale blue sky, a hand shading her eyes. “Still no carrion birds.”
“Yeah, maybe human flesh is out of season.” He held up a finger then got his cell phone. When Whitewolf answered, Rye said, “Listen, we have three sets of footprints here. Cowboy boots. Hiking shoes. And dress shoes. Can you cast them?”
“Sure thing. Once I’ve finished with the one I’m making of one of the vehicles.”
Rye disconnected and met Iona’s gaze. “Whitewolf’ll take care of preserving the footprints.”
“Then, let’s check out the vic.”
They inched their way to the victim’s body, on the lookout for other clues waiting in the desert ground to be found. Rye noted the area around the body had been disturbed by a number of people as testified by all the prints covering one another. A lot of blood had been spilt at the site. The victim’s clothing appeared to have been ripped to shreds by some kind of razor device.
“Iona, I don’t think this is a dump site.” Rye made a note to compare the vic’s shoes to the prints.
“I agree. This is looking like the scene of the crime.” She rubbed a hand across her mouth and squinted. “And it looks to be a bad one.”
Rye agreed. He set down the crime kit and got out the camera. Holding it out, he asked, “Could you take some photos?”
She shrugged and took the camera. “Sure.”
He took his notebook out of his shirt pocket and began sketching the position of the body, scribbling notes. He had always considered a murder scene to be some sort of sacred ground. A place where a soul departed this life in a violent way. With things left unfulfilled. A place of tragedy, of suffering.