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Short Stories & Tall Tales
THE TRADITION THIEF
BV Lawson
It was like patterns on a Navajo crystal rug--rays of azurite blue and ochre red from the morning sun forming a backdrop behind the tumble-down shanty. Scott Drayco squinted at the cracked beams of the small hut, marveling it was still standing. Neither a trailer home like so many others in Chinle and on the Rez nor a traditional hogan, it was an architectural half-breed.
Drayco turned to his friend and asked, “Not much to look at, Josh.”
“What did you expect? You’re the one who wanted to tag along on a murder case, man.”
“I was hoping said murder case might take us a little closer to something more interesting, like Anasazi ruins.”
“You know the drill--time and crime wait for no man. And that architectural wonder over there IS a ruin. Of sorts.”
Drayco did know the drill, from his own caseload. And he suspected Navajo criminal investigators like Joshua Whitethorne had as little free time as he did, breaking up gang fights or dealing with meth addicts. But at least Drayco was getting a lovely tour of desert scrub on this trip.
Whitethorne nodded at the shanty, “Magnus Zorman’s lived in that thing for twenty years, ever since his ranch failed and he moved here with his Diné girlfriend. She left him, he stayed.”
“Is either ranch or girlfriend the reason he’s suspect numero uno?”
“Among other things.”
“Why did his ranch fail?”
Whitethorne tipped his hat back and rested his hands on his hips, looking like a Hollywood sterotype of a Western lawman. “He says it was a Navajo curse. Odd excuse, seeing he took up with a native woman, himself.”
Drayco didn’t reject the curse view outright. Ranching had its share of curses. Besides, if you were the one on the receiving end, you didn’t care if your bad luck was caused by whims of mother nature, legal sleight-of-hand or political shenanigans, because you were equally screwed.
“If you ask me, Drayco, and I can tell you were going to, it was pigweed poisoning that killed Zorman’s cattle--the real reason his ranch went tits up.”
“But how does that tie Zorman in with the artifact thefts near Canyon de Chelly?”
“A long list of thefts on his rap sheet. As for murder, maybe Zorman wanted revenge on the natives he blamed for ruining his ranch.”
Drayco thought back to the autopsy results he’d seen on Glenn Tsosie, the victim. Preliminary tox screens showed he died from an overdose of jimson weed tea. Drayco just wasn’t sure how the dots connected artifact thefts to herbal tea to murder.
“You said Glenn Tsosie was a hataali, that’s medicine man? You’d think he would have known better than to drink a toxic brew.”
Whitethorne grinned. “I knew there was a reason I put up with your sorry ass. It’s those one-eighth Navajo genes. Yes, Tsosie was a native practioner of the ancient medical arts. Guess he just got careless.” Whitethorne motioned to the shack. “Shall we go in?”
His knock brought a shirtless man to the door, chest hair sprinkled with gray matching his pony tail, and a face like weathered sandstone. The man scowled, but let them in. The interior of his house made the outside look like a palace, more peeling than paint, surfaces piled high with pottery, a variety of rusted farm tools and maize-colored papers that crumbled when Drayco brushed against them. There wasn’t any place to sit, so Whitethorne stood near the entrance while Drayco wandered over to a table with pottery shards.
Whitethorne asked, “You been keeping your nose clean, Magnus?”
Zorman snorted. “Been legit for years. You know that.” He looked over at Drayco who was fingering one of the pots. “Who’s your goon? FBI?”
Drayco looked at Whitethorne, who shook his head slightly. Drayco understood. Might as well make Zorman sweat a bit. After all, it wasn’t a complete lie, since Drayco was a former agent.
Whitethorne ignored Zorman’s question. “Magnus, you heard about Glenn Tsosie, didn’t you?”
“You play with fire, you get burned. That charlatan doctor had a long list of enemies itching to do him in.”
“You know, I didn’t say his death wasn’t from natural causes. Just a lucky guess, Magnus?”
Zorman’s eye shifted between Drayco and Whitethorne. “You think I had something to do with it? I ain’t no murderer.”
“A piece of valuable pottery went missing from his house. A prize like that would be right up your alley.”
“Oh, no--you ain’t going to pin this thing on me. I told you, I’m legit. I only deal in pieces I buy from people on the Rez.”
Whitethorne said to Drayco, “Zorman here is a doorknocker. They canvass Indian reservations like old-fashioned buffalo traders trying to get natives to sell their heirlooms.”
The July air in Arizona around Chinle had already hit the 80s, but with single-digit humidity, it was hard to break a sweat. Yet Zorman had drops of perspiration from his forehand down to his waist. The man growled, “Look, I told you I’m clean, I didn’t steal no pots, I didn’t kill Tsosie, and from what I can see, you ain’t got no proof. So arrest me or get the hell out.”
Realizing the interview was a dead end, the detective pair walked back to the Chinle PD car. Drayco said, “He’s right, you know. Pretty circumstantial.”
Whitethorne sighed. “I know. I didn’t expect him to confess, but hopefully he’ll get nervous and slip up.”
Whitethorne’s cell phone rang, and he excused himself with a nod to Drayco. “Yeah, Mandy. What can I do for you?” The voice on the other end was high-pitched and agitated, like a tape on fast-forward. Whitethorne barely got a word in. “Are you sure about that? OK, thanks for the tip.”
Drayco raised an eyebrow. “Not your mistress, I take it?”
Whitethorne bopped him on the arm with the phone. “Mandy Tsosie, Glenn’s daughter. She was so distraught when her father died, all she could tell me was a couple of the pieces in his collection were missing. Now that she’s had time to make a thorough inventory, she’s figured out the stolen artifacts were antique Hopi yellow ware.”
“What would a Navajo medicine man be doing with Hopi pottery?”
“The Navajo and Hopi may have our land disputes, but we’re not ready to go on the Indian warpath, junior.”
Drayco rolled his eyes. “This yellow ware is valuable?”
“It can fetch up to eight grand. Or more. It’s old, it’s rare, people like it. Go figure.”
They rode in companionable silence back to the Chinle police headquarters, Drayco enjoying the change of scenery. Sometimes living in the D.C. area was a little like living in the jungle, concrete islands surrounded by a sea of trees. But with the desert expanse spreading out toward a flat horizon, city claustrophobia evaporated like heat shimmer above the sand.
As they headed into the office, Drayco asked, “Zorman’s cows were killed by pigweed poison and Tsosie was killed by jimson weed. Too coincidental?”
“Perhaps.”
Once his eyes adjusted to the light difference, Drayco could see they weren’t alone. A man dressed in an identical brown uniform to Whitethorne’s was seated behind a desk, and Whitethorne made the introductions. “Drayco, this is fellow officer Delano Nez. Del, this is my good friend Scott Drayco. He’s from back East, but we won’t hold that against him.”
Nez rose to shake Drayco’s hand. “You know the cliché, any friend of Josh--”
“Is someone who owes him money,” Whitethorne finished the sentence for him. “Present company excluded, of course.” He peered at the message board. “No calls.”
Nez sighed. “No, thank God. But the day’s young. How’d it go with Zorman?”
“He’s a stubborn old coot, I’ll hand him that.”
Drayco plopped down in a chair, and started drumming his fingers, as if on an imaginary keyboard. “If Zorman’s your chief suspect, who are the others?”
Nez replied, “Could be meth users desperate for cash. A big ring was busted up in Oregon. Authorities seized artifacts from a ring of thieves who’d looted over a hundred sites. Caused over a million dollars in archaeological damage.”
Drayco knew looting was a problem, but in the old days it was just one guy with a shovel. The thought of entire gangs of crooks decimating native sites was hard to stomach. They often destroyed as much as they stole, shard by shard. “How would they be moving the goods out of the area?”
Nez responded, “Truck maybe. Could be using Chinle Municipal Airport.”
Drayco knew the place quite well, as he’d flown in there just a couple of days ago on runway one-eight, all 6,900 feet of it, plenty long for jet traffic. The day he’d arrived, though, there was only one other small plane which looked harmless enough.
Nez’s face grew a little wistful. “I’ve always wanted to fly. Never had the money.”
Drayco smiled. “I’d be happy to take you up. Just say the word.”
“You a pilot?”
“Private pilot. And it would be no trouble to have you tag along.”
Drayco glanced at each officer in turn. “Did either of you know the murder victim well?”
It was Nez who spoke up. “I did. He treated my little sister. She had pancreatic cancer.”
“So he healed her?”
Whitethorne cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes. Nez just shook his head. “No. She had a drawn out, painful death. But she swore by Tsosie the entire time. Said he helped her with the nausea.”
Drayco winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
Drayco’s mind wandered a moment to a place he’d rather not go, to his own little sister and her losing battle with leukemia. Neither was a pleasant way to die. Seeing the glint of tears in Nez’s eyes, Drayco decided a change of subject was in order. “So, do Navajo stations have the same pond-sludge coffee the FBI does?”
His friend Whitethorne grinned. “Even sludgier. I could pour in some partially-hydrogenated powder and processed sugar, if that will help?”
“Nope. I like my sludge black.”
Whitethorne headed to the back to start a pot, and Drayco studied the office. Standard white walls and institutional furniture, although the floor looked like Arizona Cypress wood. “You haven’t said you agree with Whitethorne that Zorman is your man, Nez.”
“Makes sense. He’s the only local who’s been arrested for dealing in artifacts. It was small-time stuff, sure, but once a thief, always a thief.”
“He seemed a little non compos mentis to orchestrate a murder. All the planning, checking out herbs Tsosie had on hand, figuring the right amount to cause heart failure. I’d guess Zorman’s more a spur-of-the-moment criminal.”
Nez tipped his chair back and put his feet on the desk. “True. But he’s had a lot of financial problems and the lure of something as big as yellow ware would be awfully hard to avoid.”
Whitethorne returned, juggling three cups of coffee and handed one to Drayco, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Nez. Drayco asked, “When your sister was ill, Nez, did you accompany her to Tsosie’s house for healing ceremonies?”
Nez nodded. “A few times.”
“Enough to know the house well?”
“It’s not exactly the Taj Mahal. You could tour it in five minutes.”
“Have you been there recently?”
“Since Tsosie’s death? No.”
Whitethorne gave Drayco a sharp look, as Drayco took a sip of the hot liquid and swallowed, his gaze never wavering from Nez. Finally Whitethorne said, “You got something, Drayco?”
“I’m just wondering how Del here knew it was yellow ware stolen from Tsosie, when you just found out a half hour ago.”
Nez replied, “I must have overheard it.”
Whitethorne shook his head slowly. “No, Del. I only heard from Tsosie’s daughter this morning while at Zorman’s.”
Nez’s posture was relaxed at first, but as he looked from Whitethorne to Drayco, both of them now staring at him warily, realization dawned on his face. He jumped up, grabbed his gun and pulled it on the other men. “I don’t want to shoot you. Just stay here and don’t follow me.” He backed out the door slowly. Once outside, they could hear the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel as he ran toward his car.
The second Nez was out the door, Whitethorne darted after him, sprinting toward the squad car still warm from its earlier trip, with Drayco on his heels. Whitethorne and Drayco peeled out of the lot, kicking up clouds of gravel and dust, but managed to keep an eye on the back of Nez’s ‘67 Chevy as he sped through the streets. They seemed to be gaining on him until Whitethorne suddenly slammed his foot down on the brake and yelled, “Damn!”
Drayco saw what his friend had seen, a group of school kids chasing after a ball in the road. The kids screamed and managed to get out of the way, but not before Drayco’s pulse rate shot into orbit, and Nez’s car had disappeared.
Drayco asked, “Where would he go, Josh?”
“Nez doesn’t have any family. His sister Mary was it. He’s got a house in Chinle, but I doubt he’d head there. Maybe the clan homestead, an old hogan on the canyon rim.”
They sped up the steep inclines of Route 7 and onto South Rim Drive, past the Tsegi and White House Overlooks. Drayco had hoped to take in the Canyon’s beauty at some point, but right now it was more of an orange and green blur as they whipped around the curving road, with the famous White House ruins and Anasazi cliff dwellings just out of their line of sight.
Finally they pulled in front of a hexagonal dwelling with a domed roof. Parked right next to it sat a blue Chevy. Whitethorne, his own gun in hand, moved cautiously toward the opening. He peered inside the hogan, and shook his head. Drayco noticed tracks leading away, which they followed for half a mile until they spied a lone figure perched on top of the white limestone that made up Spider Rock Overlook.
Nez saw them coming and raised his gun. Whitethorne approached Nez slowly, talking softly but loud enough for Nez to hear. “Think about this, Del. Hasn’t there been enough violence? We can work something out.”
Nez laughed derisively. “Not unless you have a cure for terminal pancreatic cancer. Like sister, like brother.”
Whitethorne eyes grew wide and Drayco could tell this was news. Nez laughed again. “Welcome to my life. One cosmic pile of dung the universe keeps stepping in. My sister had complete faith in Tsosie, but he abused that trust. Abused her. He slept with her, told her it would stop the pain.”
Drayco could see Nez’s gun hand shaking. Drayco hoped to draw his attention away from Josh. “Del, why the Hopi pottery? Was it a smokescreen?”
Nez shook his head. “Police health insurance won’t cover all the costs for surgery and chemo. Thought I could make up the difference with money from selling those pots.” Nez laughed again, a hollow sound not too far off the cry of a trapped coyote. “Found out later the survival rate for pancreatic cancer. Seven percent, tops. Might as well use the money for a nice casket.”
Drayco cast a sideways glance at Whitethorne. “I’m sure Josh meant what he said. They’re not going to throw you into jail with terminal cancer. Come back with us, Del. I haven’t had a chance to give you that plane ride I promised.”
Del looked at Drayco, and a slow grin crept across his face. He put the gun down on the ground and kicked it over toward Whitethorne. But he didn’t head toward them, he took several steps backward. Drayco tried to estimate how many seconds it would take to reach Del before it was too late, but he knew they didn’t have that many seconds.
Del spread his arms out at his shoulders, turned, and launched himself out over the edge. Whitethorne screamed, “Del, No!” But Drayco knew that with the canyon floor a thousand feet below, Del didn’t stand a chance.
Whitethorne’s gun slipped from his hand to the ground, and he stood with his head bowed. He and Drayco stood in shared silence for a few moments until Drayco heard a sudden noise behind and turned to see a golden eagle as it seemed to come out of nowhere. He watched as it rode a thermal upward in lazy circling patterns.
Whitethorne had seen it, too and straightened up, resolutely. “Believe it or not, Drayco, Del really was a fine officer.”
Drayco put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What does that Navajo chant say? Remember what you’ve seen, because everything forgotten returns to the circling winds?”
Picking up the guns, Whitethorne nodded, “Del will be remembered, all right, just not the way he’d hoped.”
The eagle flew ever higher until the pair lost sight of it in the glare of the noonday sun. Drayco wondered if Del had felt a little like an eagle himself as he’d sailed off into the torrid Arizona winds and into oblivion.
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