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  Questions swirled in Rivera’s mind. Why had Nez been killed? Was it for the same reason the Masons had been killed? And what reason was that? Why hadn’t Herman also been a victim? Could all this be related to drug trafficking? Just what was going on around here? Was the killer still in the area? That last question caused Rivera to retrieve a body armor vest from his unit and strap it on. If the shooter was still nearby, Rivera didn’t want to become his next victim. He dropped his hand onto his Glock and started down the trail to the spring, scanning the terrain in every direction.

  In the distance he spotted the Navajo. Scattered on the hillside beyond the dead man was a flock of Churro sheep. Some were grazing on the yellow grass, some were nervously milling about as though confused about what had happened to their sheepherder. Others seemed to be wandering aimlessly away from the scene. A few of the sheep just stood there and stared at Rivera, as though waiting for him to tell them what to do.

  At the spring, Rivera was completely out in the open. His feelings of vulnerability made him cautious. Once again, he surveyed the surrounding area. His eyes examined each rock outcropping, each juniper bush, and each fold in the terrain. His line of vision followed along the hilltops, to the old shed at the end of the airstrip, to the knoll where Woody’s grave was located, and back in the direction from which he had come. There was no sign of another human being.

  Relieved, he turned his attention to Nez’s body. It was lying face down in the dirt, arms and legs splayed out, with a gunshot wound in the center of his back. His black cowboy hat had fallen off, exposing long gray hair tied in a bun. Rivera checked for a pulse and found none. The blood around the wound was tacky and the corpse’s muscles had begun to stiffen. Rigor mortis was beginning to set in. Rivera estimated the man had been dead for two or three hours.

  He surveyed the crime scene. He saw nothing out of the ordinary except the corpse and Herman’s five-gallon plastic water jug lying on its side. There were no useful footprints in the area because the surface of the ground was predominately pebbles, small rocks, and sandstone. Rivera took a couple of dozen photographs of the crime scene and then cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape. He inventoried the Navajo’s pockets, finding only a handkerchief, thirty-six cents, a penknife, and a soapstone amulet in the shape of a bear. What had taken place was pretty obvious. The shooter had approached the victim from the high ground some distance away and killed him with a rifle shot—probably from the crest of one of the surrounding hilltops.

  Rivera needed the body picked up, moved to the mortuary, and the bullet extracted and held as evidence. Other than that, there wasn’t much more he could do except notify the Nez family of the tragedy and have them send someone to round up the Churros and take them home. He called the dispatcher, briefed her on the situation, and requested that the medical examiner and a mortuary vehicle be sent. It was then he learned the ME had left for Los Angeles this morning to attend a training seminar. He would be back in three days.

  Rivera didn’t want to wait that long. He requested permission to use the services of Dr. Pudge Devlin, medical examiner for Grand County. Devlin had worked with Rivera on many of his cases, and they became close friends. Rivera was sure Devlin would come to his aid without delay. Sheriff Zilic approved the request.

  Two hours later, Devlin arrived carrying a black bag. He was a short man with a florid face and a paunch which hung smartly over his belt. He was panting, despite the short distance from Herman’s place to the crime scene. He smiled and waved when he saw Rivera.

  “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to pull a vintner from his winemaking duties?” Devlin’s true love was winemaking. He’d sold his successful medical practice in Denver, moved to Castle Valley in Grand County, and planted a vineyard. Now he produced a limited supply of his Porcupine Rim Merlot, an excellent wine which was in high demand by the locals. Demand far exceeded supply however, since Devlin drank most of the wine himself. To keep his hand in medicine, he’d become the part-time medical examiner for Grand County.

  “Sorry, Pudge, but I’m kind of in a bind.”

  Devlin glanced over at the corpse. “What have we got here?”

  “A dead sheepherder. Looks like he was shot in the back.”

  Devlin put on a pair of disposable gloves, knelt next to the body, and inspected the wound. He probed the entry point, then rubbed some of the blood between his fingers. He rolled the corpse over, checked the eyes, mouth, nose, and abdomen. “He looks Native American. In this part of the country he’d either be Ute or Navajo.”

  “Navajo. Name’s Nez. He lives about five miles south of here on the northern edge of the Big Rez. Brings his sheep up here where the grazing is better.”

  “Well, it looks like the cause of death is certainly that bullet he took to the back. Let’s get him to the mortuary, and I’ll do a preliminary autopsy.”

  “The mortuary vehicle is on the way now. After they finish here, I’ll go to the Rez and notify the family.”

  Devlin stood up. “Navajo, you say?”

  Rivera nodded.

  “Are the family members traditional Navajos?”

  “I’m sure they are. They’re sheep camp Navajos who live the old way. They make rugs and blankets from the wool of these Churros.”

  “You know, those Navajos have some different beliefs about burying their dead. They prepare the body a certain way, then get it in the ground or under a pile of rocks in some remote canyon as soon as they can. They’re probably not going to be happy about any delays for an autopsy.”

  Rivera shrugged. “Nothing we can do. In the case of a murder, the corpse has to be shipped to Salt Lake City for a final autopsy by the State Medical Examiner.”

  “I know. We’ve got to follow regulations. But I’m just telling you, they won’t be happy about it.”

  Three hours later, Rivera left the scene. Devlin had officially pronounced Nez dead and the people from the mortuary had arrived, picked up the body, and taken it to Blanding. Devlin had told Rivera that later in the day, he would go to the mortuary, inspect the body there, and remove the bullet.

  As Rivera hoisted himself into his pickup, Herman came out of his dwelling. He looked pale and upset. The dogs were subdued.

  “Herman, are you gonna be okay?”

  “There have been too many disturbances to the tranquility of this place. I hope it ends soon. I’m not sure I can take it much longer.”

  Rivera nodded. He tried to produce a reassuring face but couldn’t. “Maybe you should stay in a motel until this is over.”

  Herman shook his head. “This is my home. I’ll stay here.”

  Rivera started the engine, turned the vehicle around, and headed back to Route 347. Now the worst part of Rivera’s job awaited him—notifying a family they had lost a loved one.

  18

  THE ONLY PERSON visible in the Nez compound was Dibé, the sheepherder’s daughter. She was busy working at her loom, her practiced hands deftly advancing a shuttle through the vertical warp yarns stretched out on the weaving frame. Rivera noticed that, since his first visit, she had added a couple of inches to the rug she was weaving. She spotted Rivera, pinned the shuttle between some strands of yarn on the loom, and stood up.

  She walked toward him, her expression proud and stoic.

  Rivera felt a knot in his stomach as he got out of his truck.

  “Yá’ át’ ééh, Mr. Policeman,” she said.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. Just tell them, former Sheriff Leroy Bradshaw had always counseled. Don’t hesitate or beat around the bush. You can’t make the news easier to swallow, no matter what you say. So just tell them.

  Rivera pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and removed his hat. “Ma’am, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” Her black eyes were locked onto his. Rivera swallowed. “A sheepherder with a flock of Churros was found dead this morning at the spring where he waters his animals.” He showed her an image of the man’s face on his cell phone.

/>   She covered her mouth with her hand. Said nothing. Her face tensed and her eyes welled up with tears.

  “He was shot in the back,” continued Rivera. “We have no idea who did it or why. I’m terribly sorry to be bringing you this news.”

  She remained motionless, speechless.

  “His body has been taken to the mortuary in Blanding. After a few days, it will be transported to Salt Lake City where the State Medical Examiner will do an autopsy to make a final determination of the cause of death. That is required by law in the case of a homicide or any suspicious death.”

  Dibé wasn’t looking at Rivera. She stared past him for a long time, as if adapting her mind to a new reality. “He was seventy-six years old. Enough years for a good life,” she said, almost to herself. “But he was very healthy. He should have had more.”

  That was the last thing Rivera expected to hear. He waited for more. It came after a long pause, her eyes now searching the horizon behind Rivera, as if trying to figure out what she should do next. “I’ll send someone up there to bring back the sheep.” Another pause. “We do not wish an autopsy. We will take care of the body in accordance with our customs.”

  “Your customs?”

  “Yes. We clean the body, wash the hair with yucca suds, reverse the shoes on the feet, and bury the body as soon as possible in a place where it won’t be found. There’s not much ceremony. We consider corpses to be dangerous things.”

  Rivera waited for more but Dibé didn’t elaborate. “There is a legal requirement that an autopsy be done.”

  “We do not wish that.” A tear began rolling down Dibé’s cheek. She quickly wiped it away, as though it had no business being there. “We wish to handle the body our way. The same way we have done it for generations. Since long before the white man arrived. We must start preparing the body tonight.” Her tone of voice became plaintive, urgent. “Please, we do not wish to do it the white man’s way.”

  Rivera was at a loss about how to respond. He knew the wheels of the state’s bureaucracy would turn slowly, inexorably, and impersonally, processing the dead man’s body at its own speed, adhering to the required procedures, filling out the prescribed forms, getting the necessary approval signatures. It would take a couple of weeks, maybe more. Worst of all, he knew an autopsy would be pointless, would add absolutely no information to what he already knew, would serve no purpose. But what could he tell this woman? It was out of his hands, out of his control.

  He gave her the name of the mortuary in Blanding and the telephone number, but he knew the Nez family had no telephone. Perhaps they could drive to the chapter house in Aneth and call from there. A sense of shame engulfed Rivera as he drove out of the Nez compound, making him feel like a heel.

  He forced his thinking back to the three killings, trying to imagine a motive that would explain them. The Mason killings and the Nez killing were related, of that he was certain. Coincidence of place and time demanded that conclusion. He reviewed the chronology of events. First, the Masons visit an old grave to pay homage to a young boy who had died there fifty years ago. They are shot with a handgun at close range. Then the handgun is pressed into Matthew Mason’s dead hand and the murder scene is staged to look like a murder-suicide. Three days later, Nez is killed in the same area with a rifle shot.

  Rivera puzzled over the motive for the killings. What did a California couple on vacation and a sheep camp Navajo have in common? The answer came quickly. Absolutely nothing, except for being in the same place during the same week. Had the three of them seen something they shouldn’t have? That seemed likely. It reinforced Rivera’s initial hunch—that the old airstrip was back in use by one of the drug-running cartels and that the Masons and Nez had stumbled upon the operation and seen a transfer of product from an aircraft to a vehicle.

  But if that were true, why hadn’t Herman also been eliminated? Easy enough. Rivera figured it was because his dwelling was not visible from where the shooter had stood at the end of the airstrip. The Masons and Nez, however, were visible.

  Rivera wondered if it was time to notify the DEA of what had taken place but rejected that idea as soon as he thought of it. The DEA would ask him a few pointed questions. Are the killings drug related? Are you sure? What evidence do you have? And he would have to admit he had none.

  His thoughts returned to the Nez killing and Dibé’s pleadings about the burial, and that brought back feelings of sadness, frustration, and helplessness. The white man once again forcing his laws on the subjugated Navajo. He dwelled on that for a long time. Then he made a decision which he knew was probably foolish and which he might one day regret. He pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed Dr. Pudge Devlin’s number.

  “Pudge, have you extracted that bullet from the Nez corpse yet?”

  “Not yet, Manny. I’m having dinner in Blanding. I’ll head over to the mortuary in about thirty minutes. The director is expecting me.”

  “How about waiting for me. I’d like to be there when you do it.”

  “Sure. Then you’ll have the bullet right away.”

  “Thanks, Pudge. Let’s meet in the lobby in about an hour.”

  “See you then.”

  19

  THE MORTUARY BUILDING was a one-story brick structure with four white, colonial-style columns forming the facade. A pair of now bare cottonwood trees sat starkly on a straw colored front lawn. The building was sited on a slope, the ground falling away toward the rear. There was an asphalt parking lot on the left side and a connecting driveway which led to the back of the building. Rivera drove into the lot and circled around behind the building where he saw a small loading dock and a set of double doors on the rear wall. On each side of the entryway was a large translucent window. He circled back to the parking lot and parked next to a Ford pickup truck which he knew belonged to Pudge Devlin.

  Rivera met Devlin in the lobby. The ME was carrying the black leather bag which contained the tools of his trade. They were met by the director, a bald man wearing a dark suit, who welcomed them in a whispered voice and a subdued manner, even though there were no other living souls in the building. They followed him to the rear of the building where a refrigerated room held three body carts, two of which were empty and the third occupied by Nez. The director said he was leaving for the day and asked Devlin to exit through the front door which would lock itself automatically when closed.

  Devlin put on a face mask and a pair of disposable gloves and asked that Rivera do the same. Rivera complied gladly, not wanting to leave incriminating fingerprints on what he was about to do. Devlin began removing the Navajo’s shirt and pants as Rivera waited and watched. The bullet had struck Nez in the center of the back—a single well-placed shot. Devlin checked the corpse’s eyes, skin, and throat. He worked slowly and methodically, checking arms, legs, and torso. As Devlin continued his work, Rivera began wandering around the room, looking at nothing in particular and acting like he was just killing time. When he reached the first window, he glanced back at Devlin who was now sliding some kind of extraction instrument into the wound, his face close to his work. Rivera studied the window latch, deciding it would slide without making much noise. One more quick glance at Devlin, then he reached up, slid the latch, and unlocked the window. A moment later, he looked back over his shoulder at Devlin. Devlin was looking at him, smiling, and holding the extraction instrument in the air. The instrument’s pincers held a blood-stained bullet.

  “Here it is,” said Devlin. “This is hardly a thorough autopsy, but I’d say this little fellow was definitely the cause of death.”

  Rivera studied the bullet. It looked like a .30 caliber, a common caliber for hunting rifles. He removed a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket and held it open. Devlin dropped the bullet into the bag and Rivera sealed it, adding the required identification information.

  After Devlin finished up, Rivera turned out the lights and the two men left the building. He thanked Devlin for his help, hopped into his vehicle, and found his
way back to the Navajo Reservation in total darkness.

  The Nez camp was illuminated by a large campfire burning in the center of the compound. As Rivera pulled to a stop at the edge of the camp, he counted eleven pickup trucks parked around the periphery. The Churros were back in the sheep pens and the Nez family and their friends were gathered around the campfire. There were over thirty of them and they seemed to be holding a meeting. Their expressions were serious, even grim. Rivera got out of his vehicle and heard the muttering of men’s voices in a foreign tongue. He pushed the vehicle door closed with a loud thud to announce his arrival.

  Abruptly the Navajos stopped talking. Dark faces and dark eyes turned in his direction. For the first time, he began thinking he might have done something stupid. He knew nothing about these people, and no one else in law enforcement knew he was out here. In the eyes of these Navajos, Rivera represented the white man’s laws, the laws that said they could not have old man Nez’s corpse so that it could be properly prepared for its journey into whatever came next.

  A single figure broke from the crowd and walked over to Rivera. It was Dibé Nez.

  “Yá’ át’ ééh,” she said. Her voice and manner were polite, as Rivera had come to expect from the Navajos, but her face was tense and her body rigid.

  Rivera handed her a folded piece of paper, noticing that some of the young men in the crowd had moved a few menacing steps in his direction. “Dibé, this is a map of how to find the mortuary building in Blanding where the body is being held. The name of the mortuary is written on the paper. There is also a sketch of the building. Your people should drive around to the back of the building. There are two windows there, one on each side of a double door. The window on the right is unlocked.” He paused, giving her time to comprehend. “Do you understand?”

  She studied the paper, then looked up at Rivera. Her face seemed to relax and a hint of a smile appeared. She nodded.