He gestured to the chair beside the desk.
Leaphorn sat down. Yes.
Your Window Rock office called and told us a little about it, the man said. They said you particularly wanted to talk to me. Why was that?
I heard somewhere that the man to talk to about the case was Agent George Witover, Leaphorn said. I heard you were the one who was handling it.
Oh, Witover said. He eyed Leaphorn curiously, and seemed to be trying to read something in his face.
And I thought about the rule the FBI has about not letting anybody see case files, and I thought about how we have just exactly the same rule, and it occurred to me that sometimes rules like that get in the way of getting things done. So I thought that since were both interested in that copter, we could sort of exchange information informally.
You can see the report we made to the U.S. Attorney, Witover said.
If you’re like us, sometimes that report is fairly brief, and the file is fairly thick. Everything doesn’t go into the report, Leaphorn said.
What we heard from Window Rock was that you were at some sort of ceremonial, and saw the flashlight there with the name stenciled on it, but you didn’t get the flashlight or talk to the man who had it.
That’s about it, Leaphorn said. Except it was a battery lantern and a boy who had it.
And you didn’t find out where he’d gotten it?
Leaphorn found himself doing exactly what he’d decided not to do. He was allowing himself to be irritated by an FBI agent. And that made him irritated at himself. That’s right, he said. I didn’t.
Witover looked at him, the bright blue eyes asking Why not? Leaphorn ignored the question.
Could you tell me why not? Witover asked.
When I saw the lantern, I didn’t know the name of the helicopter pilot, Leaphorn said, his voice cold.
Witover said nothing. His expression changed from incredulous to something that said: Well, what can you expect? And now you want to read our file, he stated.
That’s right.
I wish you could tell us a bit more. Any sudden show of wealth among those people.
Anything interesting.
In that Short Mountain country, if anybody has three dollars its a show of wealth, Leaphorn said. There hasn’t been anything like that.
Witover shrugged and fiddled with something in the desk drawer. Through the interrogation rooms single window Leaphorn could see the sun reflecting off the windows of the post office annex across Albuquerque’s Gold Avenue. In the reception room behind him, a telephone rang once.
What made you think I was particularly interested in this case? Witover asked.
You know how it is, Leaphorn said. Small world. I just remember hearing somebody say that you’d asked to come out from Washington because you wanted to stay on that Santa Fe robbery.
Witover's expression said he knew that wasn’t exactly what Leaphorn had heard.
Probably just gossip, Leaphorn said.
We don’t know each other, Witover said, but John OMalley told me you worked with him on that Cata homicide on the Zuni Reservation. He speaks well of you.
I’m glad to hear that. Leaphorn knew it wasn’t true. He and OMalley had worked poorly together and the case, as far as the FBI was concerned, remained open and unsolved.
But Leaphorn was glad that Witover had suddenly chosen to be friendly.
If I show you the file, Id be breaking the rule, Witover said. It was a statement, but it included a question. What, it asked, do, I get in return?
Yes, Leaphorn said. And if I found the helicopter, or found out how to find it, our rules would require me to report to the captain, and he’d inform the chief, and the chief would inform Washington FBI, and then they’d teletype you. It would be quicker if I picked up the telephone and called you directly at your home telephone number but that would break our rules.
Witover’s expression changed very slightly. The corners of his lips edged a millimeter upward. Of course, he said, you cant be tipping people off on their home telephones unless there’s a clear understanding that nobody talks about it later.
Exactly, Leaphorn said. Just as you cant leave files in here with me if you didn’t know Id swear it never happened.
Just a minute, Witover said.
It actually took him almost ten minutes. When he came back through the door he had a bulky file in one hand and his card in the other. He put the file on the desk and handed Leaphorn the card. My home numbers on the back, he said.
Witover sat down again and fingered the cord that held down the file flap. It goes all the way back to Wounded Knee, he said. When the old American Indian Movement took over the place in 1973, one of them was a disbarred lawyer from Oklahoma named Henry Kelongy. He glanced at Leaphorn. You know about the Buffalo Society?
We don’t get cut in for much of that, Leaphorn said. I know what I hear, and what I read in Newsweek.
Um. Well, Kelongy was a fanatic. They call him The Kiowa because he’s half Kiowa Indian. Raised in Anadarko, and got through the University of Oklahoma law school, and served in the Forty-fifth Division in World War Two, and made it up to first lieutenant and then killed somebody in Le Havre on the way home and lost his commission in the
