Story Teller, page 6
part #4 of Wind River Reservation Mystery Series
Suddenly Vicky found herself focusing on the newscaster’s voice. Another homicide. Latino or Native American male. Early twenties. She was off the stool and, in two steps, in front of the TV. She turned up the volume. “Denver police say the body was found this morning near the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte River. Exact cause of death is unknown, but the police believe it is homicide.”
“My God,” Vicky said, half to herself. “I’ve been trying to reach a young man from the reservation. He’s not around. His fiancee is worried he’s in trouble.”
“This is the city.” Marcy shrugged. “People turn up murdered from time to time. Chances are the victim isn’t anybody you know.”
Vicky was already around the island. She hurried down the hallway, ignoring Marcy’s voice calling behind, “Dinner’s about ready.” In the bedroom, she found Steve Clark’s card on the dresser where she’d left it. She carried it over to the phone and tapped out his number.
7.
The detective sounded both glad and surprised to hear from her: the exuberant tone, the questions tumbling out. How long was she in town? When could he see her? Vicky explained she was calling about the body found in the South Platte River.
There was a slow intake of breath on the other end, a long sigh. “What do you know about it?”
“A young Arapaho, a graduate student, could be missing,” Vicky said. She was beginning to feel like an overanxious mother. She had no proof Todd was actually missing. He might even have gone back to the reservation, for all she knew. Maybe he was in one of the cars on 1-25 below while she’d flown overhead. And even if he had dropped out of sight for a while, what evidence connected him to the body dragged out of the South Platte River?
She realized Steve had asked if anyone had reported the student missing, that he was awaiting the answer. She said, “I don’t believe so. But no one has seen him in the last few days.” She told him about stopping by the apartment, about the papers and mail.
“What’s his name?” The detective’s voice steadied into an official rhythm.
“Todd Harris,” Vicky said. Then she blurted out the rest. Twenty-four years old. About five foot ten. Black hair. Dark complexion. Handsome, a nice kid. About to finish a master’s degree in history at CU-Denver. She was thinking this could be a mistake. Calling police attention to an Indian kid in Denver, when there were probably a thousand rational explanations for the unclaimed mail, the stacks of newspapers.
“Physicals could be close,” the detective said. “But we don’t have an ID yet. I’ll call you as soon as we get one. You’re at Marcy’s, right?”
For an instant Vicky had the sense Steve might think the missing student and the news of a homicide were just fortunate coincidences she’d seized upon in order to call him, a way of saving face. Hurriedly she said, “I can identify the body, if it is Todd.”
A clanking noise sounded over the line, as if the detective had just set something down on a hard surface-a coffee mug perhaps. “You don’t want to do that, Vicky.”
“I’ve known Todd all his life,” she persisted. He was the same age as her own son, Lucas.
“You don’t understand.” A stern note came into the detective’s voice. “The body was floating in the river at least twenty-four hours before it got hung up on rocks and bushes near Confluence Park. And there’s something else.” Instinctively Vicky flinched, as if to ward off some unseen blow. She waited.
“There’s no good way to say this,” the detective began. “Looks like he was beaten to death, Vicky. The face isn’t what you’re gonna want to see every time you close your eyes the rest of your life. We’ll have a positive ID by tomorrow.”
Vicky pressed the receiver hard against her ear, silently cursing whatever it was that pushed her forward. She could have a relaxing dinner, a long heart-to heart with an old friend, and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she would know whether it was Todd who had washed up in the South Platte River or some other poor kid. Except she knew there would be no eating or sleeping, no respite from the anxiety fluttering inside her. She said, “I want to know tonight.”
A soft shush came over the line, as if the detective had taken a pull from a mug of hot coffee. “I was just about to leave the station.”
“I’ll come right away,” she said.
Steve was waiting outside the front entrance to the Denver Coroner’s Office, a five-story brick building across from the Denver Health Medical Center in an old, dust-strewn part of the city wrapped in the roar of traffic. Vicky had made the drive in twenty minutes, after leaving Marcy in the kitchen with a platter of linguine swimming in some kind of green sauce, saying she would explain later. Marcy had handed her a house key, which Vicky dropped into her handbag as she slammed out the front door.
A hot breeze plucked at her T-shirt, and the sidewalk burned through the soles of her sandals. Steve came to meet her, hands in the pockets of his tan slacks, the fronts of his blue blazer pulled back. She would have known him anywhere—the squared shoulders and sandy hair—lighter now, about to be invaded by gray-the dark eyes focused and intent.
“You look great, Vicky,” he said, his eyes traveling over her. “I appreciate this, Steve,” she said.
He moved closer and took his hands from his pockets. He let them dangle at his sides, as if he had considered putting his arms around her but had thought better of it. She extended her hand. His grasp felt warm and reassuring. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
Steve stepped aside, ushering her to the glass outer door that gave onto an enclosed entry. She waited as he pressed the button on the intercom in the outside wall. Suddenly the inner door swung open, and a young woman in a gray pantsuit stepped across the entry and opened the glass door. They followed her into an Lshaped waiting room, slabs of beige tile on the floor, and two rows of metal, straight-backed chairs against the green walls. Like a million waiting rooms, arranged for people who had nothing, really, to wait for. The air-conditioning hummed from a metal vent next to the ceiling, belching a stream of cold air that smelled of floor wax and antiseptic. Vicky shivered involuntarily.
“Meet Priscilla De Angelo the coroner’s investigator,” Steve said, taking Vicky’s arm and turning her toward the pant suited woman with short, brown hair and eyebrows penciled into a look of efficiency. Then: “This is Vicky Holden. She might know the homicide we brought in this morning.”
Vicky shook the woman’s hand and told her she appreciated the opportunity to view the body.
“Not a problem.” The investigator gave a quick shrug, as if to say it was a problem—a huge inconvenience to stay late because some woman had a hunch she knew the victim in the latest homicide in the news. But once in a while the hunches, the out-of the-blue calls, paid off, which was why she had agreed.
Flinging open an inside door, the investigator led the way down a corridor, past a series of closed doors before stopping abruptly and pushing one open. They followed her into a small room, with heavy drapes along the wall on the left, a small sofa on the right. There was a faint chemical odor, like air freshener.
“You sure, Vicky?” Steve asked, placing an arm lightly around her shoulders. Glancing up, she saw the worry behind the focused gaze, the hint of vulnerability that had made her trust him, had ensured they would become friends that day thirteen years ago when she had bumped into him on the steps of the North Classroom building and dropped her books and papers. He had scooped them up, apologizing all the while, when she was the one at fault.
She nodded, and he guided her toward the draped wall as the investigator yanked on a cord. Slowly the drapes parted against a wide window. On the other side, a figure bundled in white sheets lay on a gurney. Only the face was visible.
Vicky gasped. Her vision was filled with the dark face, the mashed cheek, the eye lost in a lump of flesh, the bulge above one ear. With all the outrage, she recognized Todd Harris.
She spun around, past Steve and the investigator, and ran out the door and down the corridor toward a door with the small sign: women. She barely made it to the row of white enamel sinks before the retching began, shuddering and violent, as if her insides had erupted. Nothing came. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, a fact for which she was grateful. After a moment she turned on the cold water, splashing it over her face. Anger gripped her shoulders and tightened the muscles in her chest, like some force of memory passed to her by the ancestors. Another of the Hinono eino slaughtered. Another broken body of a warrior. And for what reason? When would the slaughter stop? She dipped her face into the water cupped in her hands, allowing the cool wetness to run along her neck and down the front of her T-shirt. Finally she pulled some paper towels out of the holder and began blotting her face. Her hair was wet; a clump had worked loose from the barrette and fallen over her cheek. She pushed it back, surprised at the face that peered at her from the mirror, at the horror in the eyes.
“I’ve got to ask you a few questions,” Steve said as she stepped back into the corridor. He was leaning against the opposite wall, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks. Vicky held on to the edge of the restroom door solid and certain in her hand. In an instant Steve was at her side, leading her past the viewing room—the door closed now—and into a larger room with a conference table in the center. The investigator was already seated on the far side. Steve pulled out a chair and waited until Vicky sat down before claiming the place beside her, saying something about it never being easy the first time. She caught the note of sympathy in his voice.
“I’ve seen death before,” she said, her own voice trembling with anger.
Producing a small spiral notebook and pen from inside his blazer, the detective asked, “Who is he?”
“Todd Harris,” Vicky said, then repeated what she’d told him earlier on the phone, adding Todd’s address and the fact that he was a graduate student at CU Denver. The detective’s pen looped across the page, making a scratchy noise. She told him Todd’s grandparents lived in Denver.
Steve stopped writing. “They’ll have to identify the body.”
Rifling through her bag, Vicky found the little pad with Annemarie’s scribblings. She slid it along the table. “They’re old people,” she said.
“We’ll send a car.” Steve nodded toward the investigator who lifted herself out of the chair and sidled around the table toward the corridor.
“There’s something you should know.” He turned sideways toward Vicky after the investigator was gone. “This has all the markings of a drug murder.”
“What!” Vicky pushed her chair back and jumped to her feet. She started pacing around the end of the table, down the other side, and back—a full circuit. “You’re wrong, Steve,” she said, retracing her steps. “Not Todd.” She stopped, placed both hands on the table, and leaned toward the man who sat quietly watching her. “You didn’t know him. He was thirteen when his parents were killed in an automobile accident. His brother was only eight. They were shifted back and forth among relatives—a couple of years in Denver with the grandparents, back to the reservation with other relatives. That’s how they grew up. The only thing Todd wanted was to be a good brother. Everything he did was to show his little brother how to do it. That’s why he worked hard and went to college. Now you’re saying a kid like Todd Harris used drugs? Is that what he wanted to teach his brother?”
The detective placed one elbow on the edge of the table and rubbed his hand along his chin. “I’m sorry, Vicky,” he said. “It’s more than a guess.”
The room was quiet except for the gurgling of a pipe somewhere, the snap of a shut door. “What do you mean?” “There was heroin wrapped in dollar bills in his pockets. Either he’d just bought, or he was getting ready to sell. He had a pager on his belt.”
Vicky balled her hands into fists, knuckles blanching white, and stared at the man across from her. “This isn’t some poor Indian kid who came to the big city and got lost,” she said. “This is Todd Harris. There has to be some other explanation.”
8.
It was dark when Father John wheeled the Toyota into the campus of Regis University, which sat on a bluff surrounded by the tree-lined streets of North Denver. The Rocky Mountains rose a few miles to the west, white peaks edged in moonlight. The air was heavy, glazed with shadows under a sky shading into violets and purples. Circles of light glowed from the street lamps scattered across the campus. The curving streets followed the lanes carved out for wagons a century ago, when the Jesuits had started a school in a frontier town of log cabins and two-room shanties housing illiterate gold seekers with wild, preposterous get-rich-quick dreams.
On his left stood the oldest building on campus, a massive red-stone structure, haughty and imperturbable, dominating the modern classroom buildings and dormitories. A slow curve right, and he was in the parking lot behind another building—the modern three story Jesuit residence.
He climbed out of the Toyota and stamped his long legs against the asphalt, trying to work out the knots in his muscles. He’d driven five hundred miles across the endless stretches of Wyoming plains with the windows rolled halfway down to take the edge off the heat and Rigoletto blaring around him. He’d seen only a few more semis, some pickups, and several herds of antelope until he’d looped past Cheyenne and started south toward Denver, traffic, houses, and shopping malls accumulating with the miles.
Exiting the highway, he’d followed the side streets to Regis, a route he always took when the provincial called the Jesuit superiors in the region to a meeting. Except he hadn’t been summoned to this week’s meetings. He had summoned himself.
He grabbed the overnight bag from the far side of the seat and slammed the door—a sharp thwack that set a dog barking somewhere nearby. As he strode along the sidewalk that flanked the building, he felt oddly confident, even though the provincial’s emissary had turned thumbs down on the museum. Father William Rutherford was a reasonable man. A Jesuit trademark —reasonableness.
He let his finger rest on the doorbell at the front entrance. From inside came a muffled buzz, followed by a slow shuffle of footsteps. The door inched open. An old man with cropped, graying hair twinkling eyes, and a sardonic grin on his Irish face craned forward, peering through the opening. It was Timothy Butlec, one of the last of the Jesuit brothers, the jacks-of-all-trades who looked after the thousands of details that kept everything repaired and running smoothly. How many times Father John had wished the Society of Jesus could spare a brother for St. Francis Mission.
“Ah, Father O’Malley. You’re looking the bloom of health.” Timothy Butler stepped backward, a jerky movement, pushing the door behind him. “Is it you’ll be gracing us with your presence awhile?” “How are you, Timothy?” Father John asked, stepping inside. A soft amber light from the glass ceiling overhead flooded the small entry: the dark, tiled floor, the wooden bench flanked by two doors on the right wall, the staircase on the opposite wall. Quiet seeped through the residence. “Is it the provincial you’re wanting to see?” A grin broke across the brother’s face. “We may be graced with yourself for some time, Father.”
Father John stifled a groan. He’d promised Geoff he’d be back for the weekend in time for his assistant to spend a couple days, at least, backpacking in the Wind River Mountains. His assistant needed some time off, he knew. He’d been working alone for a month. It wasn’t easy, running the mission alone.
Nodding toward the stairway, Brother Timothy said, “You’ll be wanting the guest room on the second floor.” He reached over and attempted to take the overnight bag Father John held in his hand.
“Save your knees for the races ahead, Timothy,” Father John said. He started up the stairs, then stopped, one hand on the wood railing polished glass smooth, and looked back at the old man caught in the circle of amber light. “Is the provincial in?”
Brother Timothy’s eyebrows knitted together in a long, thin line. “Well, now, I wouldn’t know, Father. His suite is on the third floor. Should I find the man for you?”
“I’ll find him.” Father John gave a quick wave. He hurried up the stairs and strode down the corridor on the left. Rows of closed doors marched along both sides, and from somewhere came a loud guffaw and the electronic noise of a TV. He let himself into the guest room. A thread of light spilled past the drapes at the window on the opposite wall. He found the light switch next to the door and snapped it on. A dim yellowish light glowed over a desk, bare except for a phone, a chair shoved into the well, a cot like bed—white pillow, brown blanket stretched taut: a monk’s cell.
Just as he dropped his overnight bag on the bed, the telephone jangled, an impertinent sound in the quiet. He reached toward the desk and picked up the receiver, hardly believing his luck. Brother Timothy must have called the provincial after all, and the provincial was in.
“This Father O’Malley?” A man’s voice, infused with the politeness of a Native American.
“Yes.” He stretched the cord across the narrow space and perched on the edge of the bed, his muscles tensing with apprehension. Something must have happened on the reservation.
“This here’s Petey Wilkins. Just come from over at old man Doyal’s house. You know him, don’t ya? Doyal Harris?”
Father John shifted his thoughts. The call was from Denver and had something to do with Todd Harris’s grandparents, the elderly Arapaho couple he always tried to see when he was in town. Good people. He admired them. After their own son and his wife had died in an automobile accident, Doyal and Mary had helped to raise Todd and his brother.
“Are they okay?” Father John braced himself for the reply. “Wouldn’t say so, Father. Them victim’s assistance people just took ‘em over to the morgue. Looks like maybe that grandson of theirs, Todd Harris—you know him, don’t you?—well, looks like he might be dead.”
