Chapter Seven

Patrolman Dodge Maryboy sits on a rough lumber stool on a dirt floor facing a wiry leathered Navajo whose face is as wrinkled as the layered red sandstone hills surrounding the hogán in which they are meeting. The old man sits cross-legged on an old—and likely very valuable—handwoven carpet. Although it is hot in the conical hogán, it is a good fifteen degrees cooler than the world outside the rectangular doorway.

“Yá’át’ééh abíní [Good morning],” he says.

The medicine man, Tsosie Halne’é, insists that they speak only Diné Bizaad [Navajo], and Dodge is scrupulous not to let any English slip in.

Halne’é nods. He is waiting to speak until he thinks there was something worthwhile to say.

“T’aa shoodi [Please], Mr. Halne’é, you know why I have come. Three of our people are dead—murdered—and maybe because they were opposed by some of the people who love the old ways because they wanted to teach our children the ways of the outside world. I need your help to find the killer, or killers, before someone else is hurt.”

“I don’t like policemen. The old ways are better,” Halne’é replies, maintaining his taciturn expression.

Dodge is determined to avoid getting off subject; so, he lets the non sequitur pass. He really is not in the mood to hear why—in police matters—’the old ways are better.’

He waits. That does not provoke any further speech.

“Mr. Halne’é,” he says for shock value, “did you kill Bertha Yazzie, Sialea-lea Biakeddy, and Hyrum Kieyoomia?”

Dodge sees a brief dark anger cloud pass over the medicine man’s face.

“No,” Halne’é answers in a monotone voice. “I did not know a person named Sialea-lea Biakeddy. Maybe she is a foreigner—maybe from New Mexico or Utah. Not one of our Arizona people. And, young man, you have lost your Navajo ways. It is not our way to speak the names of the dead.”

It was a non sequitur or maybe even a lie, but was certainly accurate about the strong Navajo taboo against saying dead people’s names because it disturbs their spirits.

“Did you kill any one of those people?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No. Bad people, I guess.”

“Do you know people who hated the ones who are dead?”

“Many who respect the old ways do not want the children to be stolen away.”

“I need to talk to them. Please tell me who was a hater?”

“Beware, young man. Do not open your mouth when you see a snake, or he will jump in. You know that.”

“I have to do my job, Mr. Halne’é. I will not be afraid of the snake when I see him. Give me a name today, and I will have a talk with him. Then seek the wisdom of the spirits or our people to find others. I will come by your home later today when I drive back to Blue Mesa.”

“It would not be desirable to see you again. Remember, don’t point at a rainbow with your finger. The rainbow will cut it off or break it.”

Dodge takes that as a veiled threat, but decides not to challenge the old man.

Tsosie—the name means, skinny—Halne’é becomes thoughtful.

“Maybe you should go see Lashena Tall Woman. She is a talker.”

It was obvious he was not going to get anything more from the stolid medicine man; so, Dodge decides to follow up on the one new lead he now has, however dubious it might be considering Halne’é’s obvious reluctance to communicate.

The patrolman knows where Mrs. Tall Woman lives. There is no address for her eight-sided hogán, and he has only experience in the desert to go on. It will take him until noon before he can get to her place. The heat is now altogether oppressive; so, he tanks up on all the water he can force down to avoid the dangers of dehydration.

He is thinking about that as he makes his way over the rocky and steep ground on the mustang he tamed himself. He leaves his truck and horse trailer in a flat area out of sight of Halne’é’s home. He does not trust the old man, and he knows the medicine man holds him in contempt. Maybe enough to steal from him, or to destroy his belongings, or even to carry through with that superstitious old threat about the ‘rainbow’ cutting him.

Sweat drips into his eyes; so, he is unsure of what he is seeing. The usual water-on-the-sand mirage is there. More than one desert traveler has perished chasing after that water. However, in the middle of the shimmering mirage, he sees a man—or an apparition—on an off-white, greyish horse watching him from afar. The rider on the pale horse is carrying a lance with an eagle feather and looks like a throwback to the old ones who were here before the coming of the conquistadors. Dodge blinks to clear his eyes and gives his horse a gentle nudge with his heels. He rides up a small hill. The apparition or man or whatever he is seeing is still there. He rides down into a shallow arroyo where he can no longer see the figure. When he again reaches high ground, the figure is no longer visible. He wipes his face and looks again. The water mirage remains, but the antique Indian is gone. Dodge thinks he has been out in the sun too long.

Naalnish meets the Biakeddy family in the UHP offices on East Canyon Commercial Avenue in Cedar City. The parking lot is busy. A tow truck is hauling an old Toyota sedan into the back lot to be torn apart to search for illicit drugs. The I-15 corridor through Utah is a major distribution artery in both directions and keeps the troopers almost as busy interdicting drug traffic as they are in dealing with DUIs.

Naalnish waits until the three patrol cars and the tow truck clear the parking lot before finding a parking place. He is grateful to his old friend, Sgt. Moon, for getting the family together on short notice.

“What’s this about, Officer?” Leland Biakeddy asks, assuming the role of patriarch and spokesperson for the family.

Biakeddy is a tall, fit, very strong appearing man in his early fifties. He has a hard face, and not a handsome one. It is pockmarked from untreated acne or chicken pox from his youth. It is deeply bronzed, over and above his ethnic coloring. His hair is black with grey streaks and hangs down to his shoulders. It is held back from his wide sweating forehead by a handmade beaded headband. He is wearing a colorful Indian pattern long-sleeved shirt, faded denims held up by a wide belt with a rodeo championship buckle, and saddletan Indian Wells rough buckskin type high-heeled boots. His Navajo straw hat with a turquoise inlaid sweat band sits on the table beside him.

Naalnish notes that three of the family members give sidelong glances to each other and one of them rolls her eyes, probably at the presumptiveness of Leland, who likely takes charge almost any place where he is in a group, Naalnish thinks.

“I am a lieutenant in the Navajo Department of Criminal Investigations. It is my responsibility to find the killer of your relative, Sialea-lea Biakeddy; and, for that purpose, I have traveled from the NDCI headquarters to interview anyone who might be able to shed light on her murder.”

“What have you people found out thus far?” Leland asks, none too politely.

“I think it will be best if I ask the questions and you give the answers, sir. This is a formal police investigation, and a record will be made of what is said and done here.”

“Officer … do you, by any chance, know who I am?”

Naalnish’s inward response is, No, and I don’t care, but he keeps it inward.

“I’m afraid I don’t. Have we met?”

Leland snorted, “Not likely. I am currently a San Juan County commissioner and a member of the tribal council. And—in fact, as of yesterday—I am running for the office of president of the tribe.”

He gives Lt. Begay a small smirk of a smile, having put the upstart cop in his place.

Naalnish flips his notebook open and checks a few pages.

“Ah, yes. Leland Biakeddy. I understand that there is stiff competition in that race. If you were to be elected, you would be the first person from Utah and the first Democrat to get to the office. I wish you well.”

“I intend to,” Biakeddy says.

None of the old humble bit for him.

“So, tell me, Mr. Biakeddy, did your mother have any enemies? Anybody that she got crosswise with? Anybody that might have been carrying a grudge?”

“No, sir. Everybody loved her. We all think this was a robbery gone bad, a random kind of thing.”

Naalnish watches the faces of the rest of the family. At least three of them shake their heads almost involuntarily and look down for a moment. He makes a mental note to ask them what they know.

“Those were general questions, Mr. Biakeddy. Because of the nature of this investigation, I am going to ask the state troopers to take each of you to a separate room; so, I can get independent information. It will make the process a little longer, and for that I apologize; but it is important.”

“Important?!” Leland snapped. “Have you any idea how important my contribution to the tribe is and how little time I have for this nonsense? You need to get out there and find the criminal who did this. You make us sound like suspects.”

“For the moment, I am only talking to you, sir. And in deference to your very busy schedule, I will take you aside first.”

“Oh, you will, will you? And what if I just don’t see an interview fitting into my schedule, Officer?”

“For the record, it’s lieutenant, Mr. Biakeddy. I repeat that this is a formal police investigation, and you are going to answer my questions. I suppose I should warn you that you have the right to have an attorney present, and if you cannot afford one, the tribe will appoint one to represent you. Now what is it going to be?”

“Young man, you might want to rethink what you are doing. I can be a good friend or a bad enemy for a young police officer trying to climb the ladder in his career. Perhaps your roots don’t go deep enough, but you might give a thought to one of our Navajo taboos: the important Navajo elders and respecters of the ways of the people say that if coyote crosses your path, you should turn back and do not continue your journey. Maybe I am your coyote.”

“I am aware of that tradition, Mr. Biakeddy. You didn’t finish the description. The rest of it says that if you keep traveling, something terrible will happen to you. You will be in an accident, hurt, or killed. Telling that allegory suggests a threat to me. You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you, Mr. Biakeddy?”

“Of course not, you dolt. Let’s get on with the questioning. Big waste of time.”

The three family members who had rolled their eyes at each other when Leland usurped the position of spokesman for the family and again when he made the pronouncement that everyone loved his mother and that this could only have been a random robbery gone wrong did so again. Their expressions go unseen by Leland because they are behind him, but their body language seems intended for Naalnish. He makes another jot in his mental notebook to ask them about it.

None of the family members are all that happy to be going off to separate rooms to waste their day, but none of them seems particularly upset about what they deem to be a necessary evil.

Naalnish signals a patrolman to have him find a formal interview room. The important tribal office candidate is not the least bit happy to be required to go to a stark room with a two-way mirror.

“Now, let’s begin for real. Here’s how it goes. I ask, you answer. And, I might add: you answer truthfully. You can have that lawyer I talked about, and if you do, this interview will be videotaped.”

“You can’t do that. It might get leaked. I have enemies and serious opponents, you know. Forget about the lawyer; I don’t need one. Ask away; I have nothing to hide.”

“Did you kill your mother, Mr. Biakeddy?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners, Officer? That’s a dangerous insult.”

“And one you must answer today or during another session which will include a court stenographer and a video camera. Did you kill your mother? Yes or no will do.”

“I most certainly did not,” he said. “What a thing to ask a grieving son.”

Naalnish was aware that he has rattled the self-important politician.

“Who did?”

“I have no idea.”

“Of course you do. You have thrown your hat into the ring of the most highly contested election in the history of the tribe. It’s more than the usual accusations and counteraccusations of fraud and malfeasance, inept administration, cronyism, and all the rest of it. You are on one side of the most burning issue the tribe faces—how to educate our children. You have real enemies. Your mother—bless her soul—was not an outspoken supporter of you and your opinion. She was a member of the Save the Minds of the Navajo Children activist group. You are more inclined towards the Navajos of 1491 group. She must have been an embarrassment if not an outright detriment to your campaign. Right?”

“We had differences of opinion, sure, but she was a headstrong woman who wanted to take us back to the days when our kids were sent off to state and church schools; so, they could become good little second-class white kids. She wanted all that science, English lit, world history, and American flag-waving claptrap. She wouldn’t listen to reason; and yes, she was hurting my bid to set the Navajo Nation back on the right path. What of it?”

“You killed her to shut her up, didn’t you, Leland?”

Naalnish expects an outburst; instead, he gets back a glacial-ice response.

“I did not. I will win the election in spite of her and her so-called progressives. I loved my mother; and once I am elected, it will all be a thing of the past. Families are like that. You don’t seem to know any more about family life than you do about the inner life of the Navajo, Begay.”

“If you didn’t kill her, which of your jingoistic supporters was capable of doing such a thing? I need names. I will be back after you in the most inconvenient times and places if I don’t have other persons of interest to question. I am going to find out who killed Sialea-lea Biakeddy no matter how important or how obscure the killer or killers might be. I don’t give a pine nut for anybody’s position in life. Murderers have to pay. Now, give me names; so, I can get you on your way.”

Leland grits his teeth and then shrugs and says, “Any one of the old medicine men—there are twenty-four certified shamans—and who knows how many others. Start with the most absolute ones like Tsosie Halne’é, or Benally Many Feathers. And there’s the newspaper woman, Lashena Tall Woman. She more or less speaks for the Navajos of 1491 group. Mind you, I don’t belong to that group; but I can’t disagree with their principles of having our Navajo boys and girls learn their ancestral language, their heritage, and their real identities. They are not second-class whites; they are Navajos and should be proud of it. If I’m elected, I will see to it that the schools cool down the white world science, English language, and corrupt morality of that world. We will return to the good days of our tribe, or I will know the reason why!”

He is genuinely worked up now. Naalnish considers that someone will have to get down to brass tacks with the 1491ers. He decides he knows just the person to do it. McGee is coming into the res tomorrow, and he can rattle their cages.