Chapter Four

Dr. Todachine and Sgt. Soto arrive in the late afternoon with their forensics crew and a wizened old Navajo man. “This is medicine man Zonnie Whitehorse, who has been sent by the Navajo National Council to do an Enemy Way ceremony before we can begin,” Dr. Todachine says.

Lt. Begay gives Dr. Todachine a brief look, and she looks away. He is unsure whether she is just behaving in the Navajo way by not making eye contact or if she is avoiding the risk of a small communication critical of the Council.

He reaches his hand to Whitehorse and says, “Yá’át’ééh abíní [Good morning].”

Whitehorse notes the unenthusiastic welcome.

He says, “Dooládó’ dooda da,” [Sorry], “but it is the right thing to be done, and our Council desires that this be handled in the Naabeehó [Diné or Navajo] way. This woman will bring harm to our people by touching this dead person as she does every day.”

“You know that you will waste important time—time that will help the murderer get away—Zonnie. It is my understanding of the way that the Enemy Way ceremony must involve the person—the patient—participating, and this person is dead.”

“A council of medicine men has met on this matter. It is a special case. I am to act as a proxy for the person’s departed spirit. I will sing the chant, do the dance, and the make the sand painting to rid our world of the Monster Slayer.”

“The ceremony lasts three days, Zoonie. We will lose valuable evidence. In this sun, the man will decompose rapidly. We beg of you to let us proceed with our work in order to find the person who did this terrible thing.”

“There is no hurry. This one is going nowhere. I have done this for many years, as did my father, Quincy Whitehorse, from Rock Meadow.”

With that, he turns his face away from Lt. Begay and busies himself with the preparations for the arduous Ana’í Ndáá’ [Enemy Way] ceremony. The Enemy Way rite is done as an exorcism to remove ghosts, violence, and negativity that can bring disease and do harm to the host’s [and may be taken to include the Navajo nation as the host] health and balance that lies ahead.

Both Naalnish and Haloke resign themselves to one more failure to preserve evidence in an unforgiving landscape. Dodge walks away and rolls his eyes at the mountains to vent his frustration, and to be sure that he is not seen doing it. Gaagii maintains his enigmatic and noncommittal facial expression and makes his way back to the forensics tent that the crew carried in under the blistering sun. He, too, knows that it will be a long wait, and nothing can be done to change that. He is better at the Navajo way than either Naalnish or Haloke.

At nine-fifteen the following morning, dispatch calls Naalnish on his iPhone.

“Lieutenant Begay,” he says.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. We have another one. We had four all of last year. I’m hoping we are not going to beat that record this week.”

Lt. Begay sighs, “What is this one, Ooljee?”

Ooljee Etcitty was named for her grandfather, a silversmith. Her name was prophetic. Never had there been a more moonfaced person who was not a Han Chinese.

“Sialea-lea Biakeddy was found dead in her yard about twenty minutes ago.”

“Don’t know her, Ooljee, should I?”

“Probably not. She is an old one. Before your time. She used to run the Navajo Lake Lodge store. That’s in Kane County, Utah. The local cops want a Navajo officer to handle it. Apparently the crime scene looks ‘Indian’ according to them. Should I tell them yes?”

“Why not? Dodge and I don’t having anything better to do for a couple of days. We’ll mount up and drive up there.”

Naalnish and Dodge are on US 180 West. Dodge is driving while Naalnish calls Blue Mesa dispatch on his cell phone.

“Hi, Ooljee, we’re about to turn off onto Apache Avenue on the way to I-40. Would you send an officer up to the crime scene in the park to keep Dr. Todachine and Sgt. Soto company?”

“Right away.”

“Thanks.”

Lt. Begay’s next call is to Dr. Todachine.

“Hello, Haloke.”

“Hello, Naalnish, having a nice trip?”

“It’s okay. How’s Zonnie getting along—any progress?”

“You know the man; he has one speed, and that’s low gear. These spiritual things can’t be rushed, and he has the power from the anointed.”

“The feds?”

“Good thinking, there, Naalnish.”

“So, where is he in the ceremony?”

“Half a day’s worth. He has done the rites and prayers to exorcize the ghosts and to remove violence and negativity that can bring disease and do harm to host health and balance. Right now, he is busy making a sand painting—appears to be his own design; so, who knows how long it will take.”

“I didn’t get time to ask you what you found on Mrs. Yazzie. Can you give me the short version, Haloke?”

“Not that much. Tox screen was negative. Almost nothing in her stomach. I presume she hadn’t eaten much of anything the whole day. The autopsy showed exactly one thing of interest: she was run through with a not very sharp double-edged blade—perfectly straight, angled upwards, all the way through. Cut a huge gouge through her heart and the ascending aorta. I think she exsanguinated into the sand by the school door.”

“Spear?”

“Likely, and one with a stone point, not steel. For all of her activism to modernize the schools in Navajoland, she was still a pretty old-fashioned Navajo woman. She was wearing hand-beaded knee-high moccasins, a pleated cotton skirt to her ankles, and matching long-sleeved, deep burgundy velvet shirt-like waist cut blouse. She had on a Concho belt and a turquoise squash blossom necklace. Although it was still pretty warm at that time of evening, she was wearing a patterned grey shawl.”

A pickup driven by a young woman holding a cell phone swerved in front of Dodge’s

4x4 Chevrolet Tahoe, causing him to hit his brakes. He puts on the lights and siren, and pulls around her to give her a wake-up call about what she is doing. Naalnish waggles his finger at her as a warning. They are going nearly eighty-miles-an-hour and have no intention of stopping. It is her lucky day.

They merge onto I-40 W. towards Flagstaff and take exit 211 toward Winona then onto County Road 394, where they have to slow down because of the several turns and the mounting traffic—Koch Field Road, Silver Saddle Road, and then onto US 89 North where they can get up to a reasonable—75–80 miles-per-hour—speed again for seventy-five miles and after a right turn onto US 89T for another forty-three miles. The approach into Utah requires a jog onto Coppermine Road and again on Lake Powell Boulevard, before moving back onto the straight shot through Utah on 89.

“I need a break,” Dodge says. “I’m starved, and I need to ease my springs.”

He pulls into a truck stop where they gas up and get pizzas and Cokes to go.

After another straight high-speed stretch of seventy-five miles, Dodge makes a couple of more jogs that put them into Cedar City, Utah. Dodge is using his truck’s GPS that shows a right turn onto 100 North. Utah rural towns are easy to drive in because they almost all have simple gridiron city street plans, but they always have construction delays. He returns to 89N for another forty miles to 14W, then turns onto Farm Road 053 for three miles, which brings them to the Navajo Lake Lodge and a well-cordoned-off crime scene.

Aside from the bustling activity all around the handsome old lodge, the scenery is magnificent. Cedar City is red-rock, semi-desert country. Twenty-six miles east in the Dixie National Forest is Navajo Lake—or the “Blue Mirror of Heaven” by its Indian name. It is situated in a deep narrow valley centrally located between Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks, and Cedar Breaks National Monument. Navajo Lake was formed when ancient lava flows dammed drainage in a narrow valley. The lake drains into both the Great Basin and the Colorado River drainage systems through sinkholes in the lake floor. It is cool there, with dense coniferous forests surrounding the lake and the nearby hillsides.

Naalnish and Dodge duck under the yellow crime scene tape and make their way to the tent where they expect to find the body of the victim. A large Utah State Trooper greets the two Indian policemen with a broad smile and extends his hand.

“Took your sweet time, gentlemen,” he says and makes a theatrical glance at his watch.

“Can’t let anything interfere with naptime,” says Naalnish and shakes the trooper’s hand.

They are old friends, and Sgt. Cliff Moon knows they have taken less than five hours to make a 360-mile long six-hour trip.

“Show me what you have, Cliff.”

“This nice lady is—was—Sialea-lea Biakeddy. Used to run the store here a while back. Apparently, she was back up here from Cedar for an Indian whoop-de-do.”

Mrs. Biakeddy’s body is lying three-quarters prone in a large pool of what is apparently her own blood. She is very dark-skinned and wrinkled from long years in the sun. She has snowy white—very well taken care of—hair. There is an obvious hole in the back of her blouse, presumably the entrance wound, and almost certainly the cause of death. She is dressed in Navajo “best dress”—fully beaded foot-high moccasins, a pleated rich blood-red colored velvet skirt and a matching long-sleeved blouse, and a silver Concho belt. She is wearing turquoise rings on both hands, a simple gold wedding band, and six or seven turquoise inlaid bracelets as bling. Around her neck is a striking ornate antique sterling silver petit point turquoise pendant.

“It apparently wasn’t a robbery,” Lt. Begay says, noting the obvious.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a nondrug related killing in these parts,” Sgt. Moon says. “I can’t even remember the last time I saw the murder of an uptown native-American senior.”

“You can say ‘Indian,’ Cliff. It’s back to being okay on the politically correct list,” Naalnish says.

Cliff nods, “Can’t be too careful.”

Cliff, Naalnish, and Dodge share a small laugh.

“TOD was pretty close to eight-forty-five this morning. We kept her as cool as we could. Our CSI team is about done. Not much to find or see except a box of flyers about school issues she was apparently handing out. I presume you will want to take her back to Window Rock for autopsy, no?”

“Yes. That will save you the grief of having to deal with the feds and the Indians, which is a very complicated and frustrating arrangement, as I know even better than you do. In fact this is our third homicide in the last two days; we’re having a run on them. Beginning to look like maybe the same MO. The vics are certainly similar—dressed-up, high class citizens, and Indians with at least one similarity besides their ethnicity. They all have had something to do with the movement to change the school system for our kids from the deeply entrenched old ways and more into the modern age; so, they will have a chance at competing,” Dodge adds.