A Kachina Spirit

A Kachina Spirit

A blinking neon sign sent green streaks across the sand-beige adobe wall of the bar, a distorted signal that the Off the Rez Bar & Grill was open. The flashing red lights of the police cruisers in the alley washed out the welcome sign, but the victim, body lying face-down in the dirt, surrounded by cops, already knew his welcome was over.  I shivered suddenly, as though I had a premonition this murder was going to be a bad one.   

An old cop I knew named Joiner spotted me and muttered something about Indians and Detective Vigil. I nodded to the group of patrolmen and looked around at the familiar scene.

The OFF THE REZ is the favorite bar for city Indians who've come to Santa Fe to live with the white man-but want to hang out with their own. Of course, combining various tribes in one booze joint inevitably leads to drunken arguments over ancient land disputes and tribal pre-eminence. All too often, the disputes spill over into violence when too much liquor, tribalism, and poverty collide. As a full blood Jicarilla Apache and the only Indian detective in the Santa Fe Sheriff's office, I get all the cases where an Indian is involved. My boss thinks I have specialized knowledge and "cultural sensitivity."  Typical white-man's stereotyping, but it gave me a leg up on the promotion ladder, so I don't complain.

"Anybody know what happened?" I asked with hands on my hips.

Joiner answered. "Bartender says the victim got into a fight with a regular named Joseph Yazzi about two hours ago. After the fight, Yazzi left with the vic trailing behind him, still yakking. A little later, there were gunshots outside. No one in the bar saw anything; they were all in the john." He shrugged. "But you're not gonna believe the best part." He grinned at the dimwitted mental capacity of perps everywhere.  "Fifteen minutes ago Yazzi comes back into the bar with blood on his clothes. What a dummy."

"Where is he now," I asked.

"In a patrol car on his way downtown. He got hyped when we questioned him about the killing. Claimed he didn't know anything about it." He sneered and added, "Just another Saturday night at Off THE REZ."  

He was right. The dreary sameness of the violence in and around the bar gave all Indians a bad name. I sighed as I knelt and carefully rolled the body over. Three bloody holes surrounded by a speckling of gunshot residue revealed small-caliber bullet wounds to the heart. I put the light of my flash on the face and immediately recoiled as I recognized the victim. "Jesus, it's Jimmy Tewanima!"

I felt nauseous, like I'd been hit in my stomach. Every Indian in New Mexico knew about Jimmy Tewanima. A Hopi, raised on the reservation, he'd made it big in the white man's world: two-sport star athlete at UNM, Rhodes Scholar, and Harvard-trained attorney. He became the hero we all wanted to represent us to the white world. And he didn't turn his back on us.

Tewanima returned to Santa Fe and became a public-interest lawyer, challenging the Bureau of Indian Affairs on several important cases. He fought the bureaucrats and the big companies for all of us, most recently representing the tribes on the missing royalties owed on oil, gas, coal and other minerals taken from reservation lands. The tribal lands of the Navajo and Jicarilla Apache in the San Juan Basin of New Mexico hold the greatest oil and gas reserves in the country and the royalties had disappeared somewhere between the BIA and their constituents.

Now Jimmy Tewanima was dead in an alley behind a rummy bar. I knew this was going to be bad.  

****

         Two weeks later, the desk cop's voice came over my intercom, "Sgt. Vigil, Jimmy Tewanima's wife is here to see you."  

"Send her up," I said, and sighed, bracing for an emotional outburst from another grieving Yuppie widow. However, I wasn't expecting the wife of Jimmy Tewanima to be dressed as a traditional Hopi woman.

The shock must've shown, because she smiled sadly and said, "Detective Vigil, Jimmy and I feel it's important to maintain our cultural heritage. He only wore suits and ties when he needed to impress the whites. Does that surprise you?"

"No, no. I wasn't..." I stopped, fumbling for words that wouldn't come.

She came to my rescue. "Wanna know something funny? Because he lived on the Rez until his teens, Jimmy always thought in Hopi and had to translate to English." She grinned. "Sometimes, when he was drinking or under stress, it came out funny. He had to work at it."

I smiled back. Indian languages often leave out verb tenses and have other quirks when translating into to English. "I'll bet he did. I admired his determination to succeed." I shook my head. "He did a lot of good, and he'll be missed." I paused. "How can I help you? We arrested the man who killed your husband."

"That's why I'm here," she said. "I'm sure he didn't do it."

I was shocked and tried to hide my surprise with a question. "Why do you say that?"

"I know this will sound strange, but Jimmy comes to me in my dreams every night, dressed as a Protector Kachina. He tells me his killer is the thief that is robbing the People."

I paused to digest this, thinking maybe the higher-ups were right to put me in charge of 'Indian Affairs.' Most white detectives would've suppressed a laugh and shown Mrs. Tewanima the door. Not me. Indians believe in the power of dreams and spirits. And for the Hopi, the Kachina Spirits are the most sacred part of their religion. Mrs. Twanima wouldn't fool around with a story about dreams about a Kachina spirit unless she believed in it.

"I see," I said. "Do you have anything else besides these dreams to support this?"

"The day he died, Jimmy told me he'd discovered who set up the pipeline to siphon off the royalties from the Trust money. He was going to offer him immunity to reveal the details and the other people involved here and at the Bureau."

"He give you a name?"

"No, but his law partner, Sam Bleeker, knows. I went to Sam, but he couldn't give me the information because of client privilege. I thought the police could get the information."

"I can't promise anything. We've already charged someone."

I didn't add that I'd have a hell of a time justifying time spent on a solved case, especially on the basis of a dream about a Kachina spirit's revelations.
Perhaps I didn't have to, because she rose and said, "Thank you for your time. I had to try to get you to listen because I couldn't let Jimmy down. Even dead, his spirit helps the People."

When she reached the door, I said, "If it helps any, the Jicarilla believe in the power of dreams too."

She flashed a wan smile and was gone.  

****

While watching my taped interrogation of Joe Yazzi, I wasn't happy with my performance. I'd asked mostly perfunctory questions and disregarded his protestations of innocence because everyone 'knew' he was the killer. Now I looked for telltales, the subtle clues of body language and voice that might change my mind.

I picked up where I said, "If you weren't even talking to Mr. Tewanima at the bar, why did you punch him?"

"He called me a bad name, a crooked "Head-Breaker."

I suppressed a smile. "Head Breaker" was the Hopi pejorative name for Navaho, signifying the Navaho were still nomad barbarians with stone clubs when the civilized Hopi were building pueblos.  

"If you weren't talking with him, why would he say that out of the blue?"

Yazzi leaned forward and pounded his fist on the table. "I don't know!" he shouted. "That's why I got so mad."

His actions and voice expressed genuine outrage, I thought. I fast-forwarded to his explanation of his departure from the bar.

"Look, Man, I got a rap sheet. This guy's in a suit. I didn't wanna spend the night in jail, so I walked."

"Yeah, but he followed you outside."

"To apologize. He caught up to me and said he understood why I thought he was talking trash, that it was a Hopi language mix-up when he talks English." Yazzi laughed bitterly. "I've been there. So we shook hands. I left. End of story."

"Where'd you go?"

"To see my girlfriend. She wasn't home, but her mother was. We talked for an hour."

The time didn't matter. Shooting Tewanima couldn't have taken more than a few seconds. But on second thought, Yazzi didn't impress me as a stone-cold killer who could shoot someone, then spend an hour politely conversing with his future mother-in-law, a powerful figure in Navaho clan structure. Besides, why return to the bar when he saw the police cars, especially if he'd just killed a man in the alley?   
The final moments of the tape rolled. "Detective Vigil, I swear to you on my sacred bundle, I didn't kill Tewanima."

I knew there is no oath more binding for a Navaho. Perhaps I hadn't paid attention at the time because I wanted someone to pay for the death of Jimmy Tewanima? I turned off the VCR and lights and reopened my mind. Somewhere in the darkened room, I heard a spirit laugh.

****

The law firm of Bleeker and Tewanima officed in a typical Santa Fe building, modernized Spanish colonial-style architecture with glassed-in arches, fake vigas beams in the ceiling and carved wooden doors. Inside, there was more of the same with tile floors, colonial-style furniture and lots of Mexican and Indian art objects. It looked like serving the public interest wasn't a bad career.

A secretary ushered me into Samuel Bleeker's office where I found Bleeker standing on a chair, hanging a photo of himself and the Secretary of the Interior.

"Be with you in a second," he said, grunting with the effort of holding the frame while trying to hammer a nail. He was a heavy-set man, obviously without much handy-man experience, and seemed to be teetering on the brink of falling.  

"Let me help," I said and grabbed the frame with one hand and steadied his leg with the other.

"Thanks," he said and took another feeble swipe with the hammer.

The secretary cocked her head and said, "Better raise it a couple of inches," as she swept from the room. "And you need to get that wall repainted to cover the old spot where your Bureau picture was."

Bleeker obediently nailed the hanger up higher. We tussled with the frame, getting it level. When the nail was finally in place and the picture hung, Bleeker clambered down behind his desk.

"Thanks, I didn't expect you so quickly after you called. What can I do for you, Detective?"

"I'm investigating James Tewanima's death."

"I thought you'd caught the man at the scene, that it was over."

"I'm no longer sure he's the killer," I said, hoping he wouldn't ask me for my reasons. All I had was based on dreams, body language and oaths on sacred bundles.

"You've been talking to Margaret Tewanima. Poor girl can't get over Jimmy being killed in a senseless bar fight."

"Yes, Sir," I admitted, "but several things don't add up, so I'm checking everything again. Mrs. Tewanima said Jimmy was on the verge of finding out how the Trust Funds were looted. You know anything about that?"

"This an official investigation?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I won't break any ethical constraints if I tell you what I know. Jimmy found that the firm hired by the government to audit the Trust accounts was a false-front corporation, named to appear as though it was one of the big national accounting firms. A former Indian Bureau employee named Willard Parsons incorporated the company thirty years ago in Santa Fe. Jimmy planned to interview Parsons, but died before he could talk to him."

"Maybe he died because he talked to him."

"Jimmy would have told me if he had."

"Maybe he didn't get the chance. Where does Parsons live?"

"Jimmy said he lived north of town, Estrellitas Estates, I think."

Not far from the bar where he was killed, I thought. I rose to leave.

"I'll check Mr. Parsons out. Thanks for your help," I said.

"You too," he gestured at the wall where the photo sat over a long white rectangle and grinned. "If there's anything I can do, any of Jimmy's files you need, let me know. Jimmy was more than a partner; he was like a son to me. I want his murderer punished."

"So do I," I said, and left the office.

****

Estrellitas Estates is an exclusive community where every home is an architectural showplace set on multi-acre lots.I got past the gate guard by flashing my tin.

Parson's home looked like a huge modernized pueblo. I wondered if the man ever considered the irony of the embezzled funds from poor tribes funding his architectural tribute to their way of life.

No one came to the door when I rang the bell, so I went around to the side, hoping neighbors wouldn't report a suspicious Indian prowling the grounds. Peering in a window, I saw a body slumped down in a swivel chair behind a desk. I found the back door unlocked and went in. The stench of decay hit me at once. He'd died quite awhile ago. I called it in to the office and set some coffee grounds on the stove to burn and drive out the smell.

While waiting for the forensic investigative team, I looked around. The body showed a neat trio of bullet holes. I bet myself they'd match those in Jimmy Tewanima. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing to indicate a search of the premises or burglary. Then my foot crunched on a piece of broken glass. Looking to locate its source, I found myself staring at a blank white patch on the wall among the photographic trophies of a greedy life.

A quiet hoot of laughter seemed to fill the room, and I knew who killed Jimmy Tewanima.

****

His wife took me to his den and left us. He sat behind his desk, ignoring me while looking out over the golf course behind his mansion in Estrellitas Estates, not far from the Parson house.

"It's over Bleeker," I said. "You want me to read you your rights."

He swiveled around and snarled, "What do you mean? I'm not guilty of anything. I don't need an ignorant Indian cop to Miranda-ize me."

"Jimmy told you he was going to see Parsons about the Trust fund case. You'd concocted the embezzlement scheme with Parsons when you worked together at the Bureau of Indian Affairs over thirty years ago. Parsons left to set up the false-front corporation to fiddle the audits while you stayed at the Bureau and made sure the contract stayed with Parson's company. Your share went to the Caymans." I gestured around the room. "A retired bureaucrat and public interest lawyer couldn't afford this place.  After your retirement, Parsons closed the corporation, and you figured you'd made it clear-until Jimmy started to uncover things."

"You're guessing. There's no proof I was involved in anything like embezzlement. After all, I've been helping the tribes since my retirement from the Bureau."

"Yeah, setting up as a public interest lawyer was a nice touch. It let you keep up with all the investigations into the Trust money and steer the investigators away from you and Parsons. God knows how much money you've stolen from the tribes, but I'm betting the government can put enough pressure on the Cayman Islands government to trace your accounts."

"Even if you can prove Parsons stole the money, you can't tie me to Jimmy's death in that awful bar-or Parson's murder either for that matter.

"You killed Jimmy Tewanima because he found out that you and Parsons were partners. He'd probably seen a photo of you and Parsons at your office a thousand times, but nothing connected until he met Parsons and saw the same photo. You broke the glass when you stole it off his wall. Then you removed the one from your wall when you knew I was coming over."

"I was just cleaning out" he paused and licked his lips, "updating my walls." he said while wringing his hands together. "Besides, you've already arrested a suspect on Jimmy's murder at the scene with blood on his clothes at that Indian bar."

"You know, I wondered why Jimmy was in that joint. He must've called you and demanded a meeting at the closest public place to Estrellitas Estates after he left Parsons. Poor Jimmy. His adopted 'father' turned out to be a crook. No wonder he got drunk and started mumbling to himself at the bar.

That's when Joseph Yazzie thought he heard Jimmy call him a crooked "head breaker." What he really said was, "Crooked Head Bleeker" or something--thinking in Hopi without a verb but talking in English.  

"You must've arrived just as Yazzi left the scene. It was a perfect opportunity to shoot Jimmy and have the blame fall on a drunken Indian with no clout."

"All this is speculation. You can't string all these circumstances together and pin Jimmy or Parson's murders on me."

"That's an interesting comment Bleeker," I said. I pulled out a miniature voice-recorder from my shirt. 'That's the second time you've referred to Parson's murder-and I never mentioned it. I'll bet a jury will decide you had guilty prior knowledge of Parson's murder. You're under arrest."

I swear I heard a ghostly shout of satisfaction from Jimmy's Kachina Spirit as I led Bleeker away.