Skinwalkers

heard it—a nurse, an orderly. To a Navajo, any Navajo, the significance would have been apparent. The word of the bone would have reached Badwater Wash with the speed of light. So why hadn't he mentioned the bone gossip to the lieutenant who insisted on knowing every detail? Chee examined his motives. It was too vague to mention, he thought, but the real reason was his expectation of Leaphorn's reaction to anything associated with witchery. Ah, well, perhaps he would mention it to Leaphorn the next time he saw him.

Chee rolled onto his side, seeking comfort and sleep. Tomorrow he would go to the Farmington jail, where Roosevelt Bistie was being held until the federals could decide what to do with him. He would try to get Bistie to talk about witchcraft.

Chapter 9

Contents - Prev / Next

i think you're too late,' the officer on the jail information desk telephone said. 'I think his lawyer's coming to get him.'

'Lawyer?' Chee asked. 'Who?'

'Somebody from DNA,' the deputy said. 'Some woman. She's driving over from Shiprock.'

'So am I,' Chee said, checking his memory for the name to go with the deputy's voice, and finding it. 'Listen, Fritz, if she gets there first, maybe you could stall around a little. Take some time getting him checked out.'

'Maybe so, Jim,' Fritz said. 'Sometimes people say we're slow. Can you be here by nine?'

Chee glanced at his watch. 'Sure,' he said.

From the police station in Shiprock to the jail in Farmington is about thirty miles. While he drove it, Chee considered how he would deal with the lawyer, or try to deal with her. DNA was the popular acronym for Dinebeiina Nahiilna be Agaditahe, which translates roughly into 'People Who Talk Fast and Help the People Out,' and which was the Navajo Nation's version of Legal Aid Society/public defender organization. Earlier in its career it had attracted mostly young militant social activists whose relationship with the Navajo Tribal Police had ranged from icy to hostile. Things had improved gradually. Now, generally, the iciness had modified to coolness, and the hostility to suspicion. Chee expected no trouble.

However…

The young woman in the white silk shirt sitting against the wall in the D Center reception room was looking at him with something stronger than suspicion. She was small, skinny, a Navajo, with short black hair and large angry black eyes. Her expression, if not hostile, showed active distaste.

'You're Chee,' she said, 'the arresting officer?'

'Jim Chee,' Chee said, checking his reflex offer of a handshake in midmotion. 'Not the arresting officer, technically. The federal—'

'I know that,' said Silk Shirt, getting to her feet with a graceful motion. 'Did Agent Kennedy explain to you… did Agent Kennedy explain to Mr. Bistie… that a citizen, even a Navajo citizen, has a right to consult with an attorney before he undergoes a cross-examination?'

'We read him—'

'And do you know,' Silk Shirt asked, forming each word with icy precision, 'that you have absolutely no legal right to hold Mr. Bistie here in this jail with no charge against him whatsoever, and knowing that he didn't commit the homicide you arrested him for, just because you 'want to talk to him'?'

'He's being held for investigation,' Chee said, aware that his face was flushed, aware that Officer Fritz Langer of the Farmington Police Department was standing there behind the reception desk, watching all this. Chee shifted his position. From the corner of his eye he could see Langer was not only listening, he was grinning. 'He admitted taking a shot—'

'Without advice of counsel,' Silk Shirt said. 'And now, just at your request and without any legal grounds at all, Mr. Bistie is being held here by the police while you take your time driving over from Shiprock so you can talk to him. Just a favor from one good old boy to another.'

The grin disappeared from Langer's face. 'The paperwork,' he said. 'It takes time when the federals are involved.'

'Paperwork, my butt,' Silk Shirt snapped. 'It's the good old boy network at work.' She pointed a thumb in Chee's direction, something one polite Navajo did not do to another. 'Your buddy here calls you and says keep him locked up until I can get around to talking to him. Stall around all day if you have to.'

'Naw,' Langer said. 'Nothing like that. You know how the Federal Bureau of Investigation is about crossing all the t's and dotting the i's.'

'Well, Mr. Chee is here now. Can you get the i dotted and release Mr. Bistie?'

Langer made a wry face at Chee, lifted the telephone, and talked to someone. 'He'll be out in a minute,' he said. He reached under the counter, extracted a brown paper grocery bag, and put it on the countertop. It bore the legend R. BISTIE, WEST WING in red Magic Marker. Chee felt a yearning to explore that paper sack. He should have thought of it earlier. Much earlier. Before Silk Shirt arrived. He smiled at Silk Shirt.

'All I need is just a few minutes. Just some information.'

'About what?'

'Well,' Chee said, 'if we knew why Bistie wanted to kill Endocheeney—and he says he wanted to kill him,' he inserted hastily, 'then maybe we'd know more about why someone else did kill Endocheeney. Stabbed Endocheeney. Later.'

'Make an appointment,' Silk Shirt said. 'Maybe he'll want to talk to you.' She paused, looking at Chee. 'And maybe he won't.'

'I guess we could pick him up again,' Chee said. 'As a material witness. Something like that.'

'I guess you could,' she said. 'But it better be legal this time. Now he'll be represented by someone who understands that even a Navajo has some constitutional rights.'

Roosevelt Bistie came through the door, trailed by an elderly jailer. The jailer patted him on the shoulder. 'Come see us,' he said, and disappeared back through the doorway.