No one left, p.21
No One Left, page 21
The Navajo Nation’s capital was an hour and a half from Shiprock, but it was a trip Barbara made frequently as a councilwoman. She navigated the streets easily once they arrived in Window Rock, and after they parked, she guided Lorraine by her arm to the large office building that contained just about all of the politicians and judges on the reservation. Barbara had her own office there. One she hadn’t been to in nearly a month. The judges’ offices were two floors above hers.
When they found Judge John’s office, Barbara knocked once loudly, waited only a second, and then turned the knob and cracked open the door.
“Judge John?” she called. She heard some shuffling and could see a sliver of his desk through the crack.
“Please wait one moment,” a voice said. Barbara glanced at Lorraine, who looked like she might cry.
When Judge John did open the door, he looked puzzled.
“I don’t have any meetings scheduled this afternoon. Are you ladies in the right place?”
And then, Lorraine did burst into tears. “Little Robbie,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
The judge’s face paled. He looked desperately at Barbara. “Excuse me?”
“Judge John, this is Lorraine Claw. She’s your aunt.”
“My aunt?” The judge looked down the hallway as if for an exit route.
“You were born on the reservation to Allison Claw. This is your mother’s sister, Lorraine.”
“This is . . . unexpected,” the judge said.
“Can we come in for a minute?” Barbara asked. Since you just told us you don’t have any meetings.
“I . . . uh . . . all right,” the judge stammered. “Briefly. I’m quite busy today.”
He walked stiffly to his desk. His hair was cut short, not worn traditionally. He was of average height and stocky. He wore a button-down with a dark-green vest, which he tugged down as he sat.
“How did you . . . how did you find out where I was?”
“You’re in a pretty public position here, yes?” Barbara asked, making a show of looking around. Lorraine was still standing. Perhaps waiting for a hug. Or at least, some sort of acknowledgment.
“I am . . .” But before he could finish, Lorraine jumped in.
“You were just a little thing the last time I saw you,” she said. “So happy, too. So full of life. You used to make us all laugh, and you liked that. You liked being funny.”
Judge John seemed speechless. Finally, he gave her a strained smile.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
A short burst of laughter came from Lorraine’s mouth, and the judge looked startled by it.
“Of course you don’t,” Lorraine said. “Can I . . . can I hug you?”
John looked at Barbara again, and she looked right back and hoped that he understood she wasn’t going to help him get out of anything.
“Okay.” He walked awkwardly around his desk. She hugged him tight and sobbed into his vest.
“All right, then,” he said twice, before Lorraine finally pulled away.
“You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you?” she said, looking around the office, wiping her eyes.
“I have,” he said, sounding a bit steadier. He sat again, straighter this time, more in command of the situation. The shock was passing.
“So, your family was good to you,” Lorraine said.
“They treated me like their own. Gave me everything they could.”
Lorraine nodded. “Well, that says something, then. I’ve missed you. But maybe it wasn’t all bad.”
“My parents died, didn’t they?” John asked. “I probably would have, too, if I’d stayed.” There was no compassion behind those words, Barbara noted. He was stating facts. His tone cold.
“I would like to think we would have protected you,” Lorraine said. “But I guess we couldn’t protect Allison. So, maybe you’re right.”
“Are you living well now?” the judge asked. “Do you need me to help you out in any way?”
Lorraine looked horrified. She still hadn’t sat down. “You think I came here for money?”
The judge tilted his head to the side. “You didn’t?”
Lorraine furrowed her eyebrows. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I’m not that kind of person.”
The judge looked at Barbara. “And you are a friend of my aunt’s, I presume?”
“She is my constituent.” It wasn’t exactly true. Lorraine lived off the reservation, but Barbara considered all Diné her constituents. “I am a council member.”
“Your name is?”
“Barbara Tully.”
“Well, Councilwoman Tully. Lorraine. Aunt Lorraine. It’s been a lovely surprise, but I really must get back to work. Perhaps we can set up another time to meet.”
Lorraine looked a little less dazed now and maybe a little hurt.
“Soon?” she asked. “I’ll leave you my phone number. I’m always around. Just an old lady now.” She laughed, but it sounded forced.
Judge John gave her a polite smile. “Please do.” He handed her a pen and paper.
When Barbara stood to leave, so did the judge. Lorraine said her goodbyes and gave the judge one more hug. They were just about out the door when Judge John grabbed Barbara’s arm.
“I’m not sure why you brought her here today, Councilwoman Tully. But I’m going to find out,” he whispered.
“Brother,” Barbara said, quietly but steadily. “I brought her here because family is a special thing. You are new to the reservation. We are all your sisters and your aunties. That is the Diné way. We are all happy you’re home.”
63
WAYNE
Monticello, Utah, had snow on the caps of its mountains and a little on its sidewalks, too. The Bensons lived in a brick home not far off Main Street. Well, they had, at least. In 1952. Wayne wasn’t so sure they’d still be there. He had tried calling before leaving Kayenta, but no one answered and there was no answering machine.
They had left early that morning, and after a two-hour drive, what Wayne really wanted was a coffee and a stack of pancakes and two over-easy eggs. Kay insisted on going straight to the Bensons first, though, since “old people were up early.”
The woman who answered the door with the chipped red paint was indeed old. Possibly too old to be who they were looking for. She wore a curly white wig, and Wayne guessed she might be bald underneath. Her dress was too large and hung from her shoulders.
“Hello, ma’am,” Wayne said. “I’m looking for a Betty Benson. Does she live here?”
“Well, that’s me,” the old lady said.
“My name is Wayne Tully.” He glanced at Kay out of the corner of his eye. He had, again, asked her to let him do the talking, but he never knew with Kay. “I’m a police officer down on the Navajo reservation. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
The old woman squinted at him. “About that boy?” she asked.
“What boy?”
“The one we took in,” she said.
“It is related. In a way.”
Behind her, a tall old man shuffled into view. Betty’s husband, Thomas.
“Thomas Benson?” Wayne asked.
“What’s this about?” the man asked in a raspy voice. It sounded like he’d just woken up, but he was dressed for the day in pressed slacks and a dress shirt.
“They want to know about the Indian boy we had here all those years ago,” Betty said.
The old man shook his head. “We’re not talking about him anymore. Whatever he’s done now, we aren’t responsible. We weren’t his parents, you know. His parents ought to have parented him. We only did what we could.”
“Wasn’t he with you for nine months out of the year?” Kay asked. Wayne was surprised she’d lasted this long. But he was glad she’d said it.
“That’ll be all,” the man said. He reached over his wife to close the door.
“Wait,” Wayne said. “We aren’t here about him, we’re here about his father. Lester Tallsalt. Did you have any kind of relationship with him? Have you kept in touch?”
“No, but Cynthia did . . .” Betty started to say.
“Enough,” Thomas grumbled. “Good day.”
And then the door closed in their faces. Wayne turned and Kay followed. When they got in the car, he looked at her.
“What was I supposed to do, just stand there?” Kay asked.
“You’re right,” he said. “The guy’s an asshole.” He shifted the car into gear. “We’re going to a diner now. Before one more word is spoken between us.”
The only diner in town was starting to fill up. Still, they got a table, and every time Kay started to speak, Wayne shushed her. He would enjoy his breakfast in peace.
Finally, with a clean plate and a fresh, hot cup of coffee, he said, “So, do you think Cynthia is the girl from the photo?”
Kay nodded. “Their daughter, maybe?”
“This town’s small enough,” Wayne said. He waved down their waitress.
“Hey there . . .” He moved his head until he could see the waitress’s nametag. When she realized what she was doing, she uncrossed her arms and grinned. “Ella! I’ve got a question for you.”
He went into his back pocket and pulled out his badge.
“We’re from the reservation, and we came up here to talk to some folks who used to participate in the LDS Indian Student Program. Do you happen to know the Bensons?”
“Oh, sure,” Ella said. “Betty Benson. She was my mom’s schoolteacher.”
“Well, perfect for the LDS program, then,” Wayne said.
Ella put a hand on her hip. “You would think. But that program did the darndest thing to their family.”
We certainly lucked out with this waitress, Wayne thought. But that was how small towns were. You just had to ask. Ella—and everyone else in this town—was just bursting with secrets.
“Oh?” he asked.
She looked over each shoulder before answering. “Their daughter, Cynthia? She became downright ornery after befriending that Indian boy. And she’s deaf, too. Can you imagine trying to yell at a deaf child? Anyhow, she’s moved on now. To the big city. They don’t speak anymore. Well, I guess she never really did speak. You know what I mean, though. They had a falling out.”
“Do you know what it was about?” Kay asked.
Ella shook her head. “Only that the Indian boy had something to do with it. That was the rumor, anyway.”
“And now she’s in Salt Lake City?” Wayne asked.
“Salt Lake City?” Ella looked confused. “Heavens no.”
“You said the big city,” Wayne said.
Ella chuckled. “Not that big. She did move clear across the state, though. St. George.”
“Huh,” Wayne said. “Well, thanks. That’s good to know. We’ll make sure not to bring her up, then.” He winked at Ella, and she blushed.
“That’d be smart,” Ella said. “Big scandal around here.” She picked up their empty plates. “Anything else I can get you folks?”
“Just the check.”
64
JAMES
James was at the Albuquerque Journal’s archives office. He had just hung up with the registrar’s office at the University of New Mexico School of Law and was now making a copy of one of those newspaper articles that mentioned Bobby Tate. The one with his photograph.
When he was done with that, he drove to the police station. Lark was out, which suited James just fine. He wanted to peek into Duncan’s desk and wouldn’t mind doing so without someone breathing down his neck. The cubicle where Detective Duncan sat was part of a larger “pit” with other homicide detectives. It was empty today. As James sat in Duncan’s seat in the corner, he thought again how stupid it would be for a homicide detective with as many years as Duncan to “forget” to put something into evidence. It was a cocked-up story. Lark must have known it. Duncan must have known Lark would know it. Maybe Duncan wanted to get kicked off the case. Or at least didn’t mind if he did.
There was a photo of a teenage girl on his desk, half grinning, half rolling her eyes at the camera. His daughter. James grabbed a napkin and opened Duncan’s drawer. Typical stuff. Loose papers. Photocopies of reports. Notepads. Chewing gum and mints. Packets of sugar. A plastic knife and fork and napkin packet. A card with a kitten on it. He picked up the card and flipped it open. Best wishes, it said. And then someone had written, On your last case with the New Mexico State Police.
Just then, James heard footsteps in the distance. Maybe some other detective. Maybe Lark. He glanced at his watch. It was about time for Lark to show up. He stood, still holding the card.
“Pinter,” Lark said as he approached. “You ready to grab lunch?”
“Sure am,” James said. “Quick question.” He held up the card. “I thought I would check in with your guy, Duncan. Saw this card on his desk. You know he was retirin’?”
Lark paused, and James took note of his expression. Then Lark shook his head. “If he’s planning on it, he hasn’t said anything to me.”
James nodded. He slipped the card into his back pocket. “How ’bout that deli on the corner of Carlisle and Constitution?”
“I spoke with the owner of the Purple Dog and three of the bartenders who worked the evening of Isaiah’s death,” James told Lark. They were sitting outside by a fountain, eating their sandwiches.
“Was he working?” Lark asked.
“Sure was,” James said.
“They notice anything unusual? Any special customers? Strange occurrences?”
“Not really. One of the bartenders said a few guys who Isaiah seemed to know stopped by to chat and order a few drinks. But they all agreed it was a pretty average night.”
“Would he be able to identify any of those men?”
James shook his head. “I asked if he could describe them. He said, ‘Not really. They didn’t stay that long, and it’s always kinda dark in there.’”
“Sounds like they knew exactly what Isaiah was up to. Protecting those customers’ identities like that.”
“You’re probably right,” James conceded.
“What else you got? Progress on Bart and Cathy Winters?”
James finished chewing a bite of his sandwich. “Gonna talk to the Navajo bank when I get back this afternoon. The warrant came through regarding the transfer of funds from Donald Andrews’s account to the reservation.”
Lark nodded. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do.”
Lark took a bite of his sandwich. James watched an orange-and-black bird land at the edge of the fountain. A Bullock’s oriole. Rare. Especially this time of year.
“That all?” Lark asked after he swallowed.
“Yep.”
65
CECIL
Bobby Tate was not connected to any drug dealer or supplier from Mexico up through Albuquerque into the reservation. It was a forgettable name, but Cecil’s colleagues were not forgetful people.
He must be related, then, to the murder of Isaiah’s parents and, therefore, James Pinter’s case. Which was good for Cecil and for Ronnie, because that’s where James’s attention was already. But Cecil Cody did not like to leave things to chance.
He was confident that Ronnie at least hadn’t been sloppy. It could have been anyone, and if Isaiah had suspected this Bobby Tate, then Cecil would make it so.
He needed to speak to someone with connections to the same world as Isaiah’s parents. He remembered the swearing in of one of the new judges of Jackson’s court. Cecil assumed all of Jackson’s picks had secrets to hide. Secrets Jackson could use to control them. Or they were, at the very least, vulnerable. Susceptible to manipulation. He knew this, because he knew what the new court was. They all did.
Cecil made his way to the judge’s office early one morning. John. That was his name. Cecil knew a few John families, but they all lived on the reservation and had for his whole life. This John was a fresh face, and Cecil was a little surprised by Jackson’s willingness to trust a newcomer. Though, he supposed newcomers might be easily molded.
The office was locked. Judge John wasn’t there yet, and so Cecil waited in the hall. Just about no one worked Cecil’s hours except for his sons. Up at 5 a.m. with Byron and not down again until midnight. Though, Ronnie was often up later than that, and Byron was making coffee before Cecil was even dressed.
Byron had been out looking for locations that morning. Jackson was introducing a new program and needed Byron to find a location for it. Preferably a building that could be repurposed. Jackson wanted to avoid building for this particular project, but if Byron couldn’t find anything, they’d talk land plots.
Byron was in charge of these sorts of logistics for the Shiprock Chapter of ONEO—the social services arm of the Navajo Nation. The funding for this project was different, though, Byron had said. It was coming from a private, anonymous source. Not a government grant. Cecil didn’t particularly like private, anonymous funders. He’d have to see what he could get out of Jackson later. Byron didn’t even know what the project was about yet, which was also unusual.
Cecil was trying to guess what it might be when light, quick footsteps interrupted his thoughts. A stout man came around the corner. Judge John. Cecil watched him approach. He was not a man at ease. That much was clear.
“Good morning,” he said to Cecil.
Cecil nodded once. “Judge John.” He never had to introduce himself on the reservation, but he did anyway. “I’m not sure if you remember me from the council. Cecil Cody.”
“Of course, Mr. Cody. Please come in.” The judge unlocked his office door and switched on the lights. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked as they sat.
“I’ve got a question about some goings-on in Albuquerque,” Cecil said. “I understand that’s where you were before you came to the reservation.”
“That’s right.”
“And you practiced law there.”
