the third shelf was an 8?10 photograph of Lolo Long in her battle fatigues, steely-eyed, disciplined, and without the scar. There was also a photo of Clarence Last Bull being awarded the armed forces prize for his culinary skills, and a large silver trophy. It was almost as if it was a program for the current investigation.
My eyes came back to Lolo Long.
The young man joined me at the wall case and pointed at a toy vehicle complete with little machine guns alongside a very real Bronze Star Medal with Valor. “They gave her that one for hauling all the bodies out of the Humvee-even the dead ones.” He shot a look down the hall to make sure the coast was clear. “When she got home she was so loaded up with antidepressant, antianxiety, and antipanic medicine that everybody started calling her ‘Anti.’ Have you driven with her?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus, wear your seat belt and a helmet if you’ve got one.” He leaned in. “I swear to God she still thinks she’s in Iraq and that there are bombs and RPGs all along the roads. That’s why she drives so fast, trying to outrun ’em.”
“Are you coming?” We both glanced up to find the top half of the chief hanging out from the vestibule. “Or have the girls in accounting caught your attention, too, Sheriff?”
He yelled down the hall to her. “Hey, can I have a gun?”
She yelled back, “No,” and then disappeared.
“You’ve got one, and so does he!” He stuck out his hand. “Barrett Long.”
I shook it. “Little brother?”
“Yeah.”
Human Services was a three-office complex with a communal area and a reception desk that barred the way to the inner sanctum, along with the sign in bold print that Lolo had mentioned. When I got there, Chief Long was staring at the photographs on the desk, from the kind of photo packages taken at discount stores. There was one of Audrey holding Adrian, another of Clarence with a chef’s hat and white coat holding a casserole. There were a few more of Ado, smiling at the camera in confusion, and a piece of paper with tiny multicolored handprints.
“You guys know why the chicken crossed the road?”
We turned, and there was KRZZ’s morning drive man, still wearing his top hat with the feather, and beside him in a wheelchair a younger man with two of the most powerful looking arms I’d ever seen. “For the indigenous Indian-because it is the chicken’s inherent right.”
“Herb?”
“For the old Indian-the chicken was escaping from residential school.”
“Herb.”
“Rez Indian-what’s a chicken?”
She gave up and just stood there.
“BIA Indian-the chicken crossed the road because CFR 133, section 242, gives them the authority to do so under Department of the Interior regulations; they wrote a grant and we funded it. We are very proud of that chicken.”
The young man in the wheelchair turned and looked at us. “You’ll have to excuse my uncle-he’s retarded.”
Herbert glanced down at his nephew and smiled. “That’s not politically correct.” He turned back to us with a sigh. “Sorry, I was attempting to lighten the mood. I guess it’s official, then.” He looked at us. “We heard that Audrey met with an accident.”
Lolo gestured toward me. “This is Sheriff Longmire; he’s helping me with the investigation.”
“We’ve met.” He gestured toward the young man with no legs. “The one who doesn’t think I’m funny is my nephew, Karl Red Fox.”
I extended a hand and thought for a moment that he was going to pinch it off. “Hi’ya.”
Herbert looked back at Lolo. “Investigation?”
I nodded and noticed a few more people in the adjoining offices, including Loraine Two Two, quickly dodging back into their own rooms. I threw a hand toward Herbert’s doorway. “We’d like to have a few words with you if we could?”
“Sure.”
He glanced at Karl, who nodded. “I’ll roll out and talk with Barrett about the girls in accounting.” He popped a wheelie and rode it into the hallway.
Herbert led us inside, carefully closing the door of the windowless room behind him. We chose a few straight chairs, and he rounded his desk. His face and his expression were flat with the exhaustion that goes along with public service, but there was also a deep-seated concern. It was an expression I saw in the mirror every morning. “So, it wasn’t an accident.”
“We’re thinking not.”
He sat and shared his sadness with us. “So, how can I help you?”
I waited as Lolo asked the inevitable. “We were wondering if you knew of anybody who might wish Audrey ill or might want to do her harm.”
“You mean to the point of…?”
He seemed dismissive of the idea, so I softened the angle of the conversation. “We’re not absolutely sure that that’s the case, but we’re going to follow up on all the possibilities.”
I glanced at the framed photos Herbert had on his desk-there was one of Audrey, one of the Two Two mother and daughter, and of course, one of Karl-I was beginning to get worried that the entire tribal government was related. There was also a poster of Karl in the wheelchair with his arms raised in triumph as he crossed a finish line with a ribbon stretched across his chest.
I nodded toward the poster. “Where was that taken?”
He smiled as he took a cigar from his shirt pocket along with the clipper and lighter. “At the Oita International Wheelchair Marathon in Japan.” He turned to look at us. “Lolo knows, but he lost his legs in a car crash; he was drinking. We’ve got a problem in the family. You really think somebody killed Audrey?”
Lolo answered. “Can you think of anybody?”
He shook his head and then clipped the end of his cigar, gesturing toward us. “Would either of you care for one? It’s the only vice I allow myself anymore.”
We looked at each other and then back to him. “No, thanks.”
He leaned forward and lit the cigar with the cut-down Zippo I’d noticed yesterday, then switched on a fan mounted in the wall above his head. “No windows, but I’ve got my own exhaust fan, so nobody complains.” He studied me. “You were in Nam?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
He turned to Lolo. “Hey, Chief, how many Vietnam vets does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
She stared at him. “I don’t know.”
He pointed his cigar at her in an agitated fashion. “That’s right, because you weren’t there, man!”
We shared a smile as he slumped back in his chair and tossed the lighter onto the desk toward me. “Got that from a friend who was in Saigon in ’67.”
I picked up the tarnished, encrusted lighter. Across the front was SAIGON, 67–68, 101ST AIRBORNE, and on the back, WHEN THE POWER OF LOVE OVERCOMES THE LOVE OF POWER,THE WORLD SHALL KNOW PEACE
I handed it back to him. “Thoreau?”
“Hendrix, Jimi.” He sat there for a minute, puffing on his cigar. “We get the usual malcontents in here; people that are angry just because-and don’t get me wrong, they’ve got a right to be angry. We only get so much support money and we go through a lot of it at the beginning of the month. People have problems, I mean real problems, and we’re the ones with the money so they come here.” He paused to take another puff, and you could see him going through a mental list of everybody who might’ve ever threatened the young woman. “I’m not sure I want to implicate anybody on just hearsay.”
Long cleared her throat. “You’d rather whoever did this got away?”
He darted his eyes between us. “No.”
“Then why don’t you give us a few names to go on; just anybody that might come to mind.”
Even though the door was closed, he lowered his voice. “Have you spoken with Clarence?”
Long started to speak, but I cut her off. “Why would we want to do that?”
