Song of the Lion Page 2

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  “Hey, you guys! Stop. I’m a police officer.”

  The boys broke into a gallop, increasing the distance they already had on her, splitting off in different directions. She berated herself as she turned back to the burning car. First she couldn’t find a dying man, and now she let possible suspects get away.

  Then, in the distance, she saw the welcome red flash of ambulance lights against the night sky. Moments later, she heard the wail of the sirens. An ambulance and, behind it, a fire truck. Something wound tight inside her relaxed a fraction of an inch. The situation was bad and could still become disastrous, but in a few minutes she and Sam wouldn’t be facing it alone.

  She stopped to catch her breath, thinking of what to tell the emergency folks. Then she saw two sets of headlights on the road right behind the ambulance, with turn signals indicating they were headed for the gym. The vanguard of the expected stream of parents, aunties, and neighbors coming to pick up the kids who attended the game. More would follow.

  The fire truck and ambulance headed toward the smoldering car, and Bernie ran to meet them. The truck stopped outside the entrance to the gym and two firefighters got out. She knew the taller one, Mike Hannigan, but he looked right through her and headed toward the uniformed rookie standing by the side door.

  She yelled. “Hannigan. Bernie Manuelito, Navajo Police.”

  He stopped. “Hey, Officer. What’s cooking?”

  “I heard the explosion about half an hour ago. No more since then. Officer Sam and I are the only law enforcement here. We found one victim.” She moved toward the ambulance. The driver lowered the window. “Follow me.”

  She jogged to where Lee waited with the injured man. The ambulance rolled along behind, lights flashing.

  The driver called to her out the open window. “Only one person hurt?”

  “That’s all we’ve got for now.”

  She heard another siren and noticed more responder lights approaching from the distance. Much quicker than she’d expected. Thank goodness.

  The ambulance crew went to work and Lee stepped aside.

  “He’s hanging on.” Lee kept his gaze on the injured man. “We said some prayers. He didn’t speak, but I know he heard me. Poor guy.”

  “Thanks for your help. I need your ID. I’m sure the feds will want to talk to you.”

  Lee showed Bernie his Arizona license again and she jotted down the information. The game would officially be over in a few minutes if it didn’t go into overtime. For many fans the combination of fear, curiosity, and fatigue would overpower their respect for an elder like Mr. Franklin. She envisioned the chaos and kept moving to coordinate the response.

  The firefighters had begun to assemble what they needed to spread flame-retardant foam on the smoldering car when a San Juan sheriff’s car pulled into the parking lot.

  Sam left his post by the door and ran to the car. Bernie felt her anger rise, but evidently he told the deputy she was in charge because the cruiser drove toward her. She recognized the man at the wheel, an officer she’d talked to that summer when her sister had been arrested. She didn’t recall his name at the moment, and didn’t recognize his partner. He lowered his window.

  “You guys got here quickly.”

  The deputy stroked his mustache. “Amazing, I know. What’s up?”

  “A car exploded and seriously injured one man. So far, nothing else has blown up but we have another problem.” The fumes had irritated her throat and it hurt to talk. “People already want out of the gym and there’s a lineup of cars waiting to pick up kids. The game will end soon, and that’s when the real fun begins.”

  The deputy nodded. “If there’s a sniper, another bomb . . .” He turned to his partner, a husky woman with gray in her hair. “You try to keep people in the gym. I’ll drive back to the gate and block the entrance. Stop the confusion from getting worse.”

  Bernie looked at the female deputy. “Mr. Franklin, a tribal official, is helping inside.” She described him, and told the officer the names of the security guards.

  Already, about a dozen more vehicles had come in. The sheriff’s deputy managed to stop them from getting close to the crime scene, and so far, no looky-loos had climbed out of their cars. But that was just a matter of time.

  More people began leaving the gym, using the side doors. She heard the deputy yelling, “Go back,” and watched as more people ignored her.

  Bernie stayed by the bombed car, on the lookout for anyone who took a close interest in it, tried to pick up a souvenir or interfere with the firefighters. She’d warned people away from the flames and smoke and made sure no one drove off in the cars closest to the one that had been bombed. The chaos accelerated as more fans left the gym. When they saw the ambulance and fire truck, some people froze. Some began running. A little girl tripped, fell, and started to cry. A man scooped up the child and hurried away with her bundled in his arms. Bernie saw a woman whose foot was bleeding from where the sharp shrapnel had penetrated the thin sole of her shoe. A growing press of cars and trucks pulling out of their parking spots created a jam of vehicles and added engine fumes to the stench of the burning car. The deputy managed to hold most fans at the exit, at least for the moment. She heard the ambulance doors close. Then Lee came over to her. She noticed the blood on his jacket.

  “That poor soul didn’t say a word. I hope he couldn’t feel anything either.” He pointed toward the gym. “Want me to stand at the side door and try to keep some order?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Whatever you want, ma’am.”

  It wouldn’t be long, she hoped, before the FBI team arrived from Farmington, half an hour to the east. They’d secure the scene and do a thorough investigation in the morning. If he was available, the FBI contact would be Jerry Cordova, she figured, the agent based in Albuquerque who spent a lot of time in Farmington and Gallup these days. A smart guy. Maybe a little too fond of himself, but a solid, professional cop.

  More flashing lights in the distance now caught her eye. Another Navajo officer, maybe, or the New Mexico State Police. She heard horns honking, an uncommon sound on the reservation.

  Then she saw a man bend down to pick up something in the parking lot.

  “Hey, don’t touch that. Leave whatever that is alone.”

  He stood straight, startled.

  “I’m a cop.”

  He laughed, “Yeah, sure. And I’m the reincarnation of Muhammad Ali.”

  Bernie walked closer. “What do you have there?”

  He opened his fist and showed her a bent piece of rusted metal. She showed him her ID.

  “Put it down and get back in the gym.”

  He tossed the metal down and took off, running away from her farther into the parking lot.

  She should have made Sam guard the bombed car, she thought. With his uniform and height he would have gotten more respect out here than she could. Now, one of the rent-a-cops, Larry, was running toward the ambulance team. After a brief conversation, attendants went with him back into the building. Meanwhile, a dozen more fans left.

  Officer Sam walked up to her.

  “It’s hopeless keeping people in—you try it.”

  She looked at him, speechless.

  Sam stood a little straighter. “Just so you know, I called a tow company. Some of these vehicles down here aren’t drivable.”

  “What are you thinking? The ones closest to the target can’t be moved until they get checked for bomb fragments.”

  “Who made you God?” He glared at her for a moment, then walked back to the gym.

  The New Mexico State Police arrived, and a few minutes later a black sedan with flashing lights glided through the crowd. She recognized the car. Cordova in his usual style. She sighed with relief. There had been tension among the FBI and the Indian cops in the past, in her mentor Lieutenant Leaphorn’s heyday. Some ill feelings undoubtedly remained, but she respected Cordova. And she knew he’d take charge.

  She watched h
im park far from the bombed car, climb out, and put on his protective vest with FBI panels front and back. It made her aware, again, that she was out of uniform. He trotted up to her, his badge on a cord around his neck, all business.

  “Fill me in.”

  Bernie told him everything she knew about the explosion and the aftermath. It didn’t take long. “When I came out of the gym, I didn’t see anyone running away or any vehicles driving off. I called it in. The rookie showed up, and I went back into the building to get the rent-a-cops and a volunteer to keep the spectators calm. Or try to.”

  Cordova said, “Did you ask security if they noticed anything?”

  “No.” She should have, she realized, but that could come later. “There’s more.”

  She told him about the pack of teenagers who had ignored her and run off in different directions. She told him about the victim. “The ambulance left about five minutes ago. He was alive then.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Male. Maybe five eight, one-seventy pounds. It looked like he had on some sort of brown jacket.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Not to me. A volunteer stayed with the victim until the ambulance got here.”

  “Who was that?”

  “An army medic who came late to the game.” She thought a moment and conjured up his name. “Byrum Lee. I have his info.”

  “Did you find a cell phone on the injured guy?”

  “I didn’t search him.” Another mistake, she realized.

  She noticed Cordova looking at her, realizing she was out of uniform.”Why are you here, Manuelito? Just lucky?”

  “I came for the basketball. This is a big game.”

  “So who won?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’s here besides us?”

  “Two San Juan County deputies.” She gave him the names. “I saw the state police pull up out there just before you arrived. And Officer Sam has been helping with crowd control at the gym.”

  “Sam who?”

  “Wilson Sam. He’s our new guy.”

  “I haven’t met him.”

  “I’ll introduce you when we get a chance.”

  Cordova bent down and picked up a piece of metal, stood up and showed it to her. It seemed similar to the debris the man had tried to leave with, but it was smaller. “See how this looks rusted? That’s from the bomb.” He replaced the metal. “ATF has a bomb squad on the way from Albuquerque with a sniffer dog. Our bomb techs should be here tonight, too.

  “You keep an eye on the scene here while I discover what’s happening in the gym and get some interviews organized. I’ll radio the state police team out there, tell them to hold everyone in the lot in and keep everyone outside the fence out. Some bombers like to hang around, enjoy the chaos.” He picked up his radio. “Don’t let anybody near these cars, even if they own them.” Cordova headed for the gym. She shoved her frozen hands into her pockets. Cordova was in charge now, telling her to do what she’d been doing as though the idea wouldn’t have occurred to her.

  A man with a buzz cut, wearing warm-up pants and a Shiprock Chieftain sweatshirt, walked directly toward the burning car. She took a breath and prepared to repeat what she’d said dozens of times that night: she didn’t know what happened, and he should wait in the gym. He turned toward her and spoke first.

  His voice trembled. “I can’t believe this. It’s a nightmare.” He kicked at the ground with his Nike. “Did you see what happened?”

  “I heard the explosion and saw the fire. I’m a Navajo police officer. I got here right after the explosion. You need to go back into the gym.”

  “I loved this car. Look at it now.” He started to walk to the smoldering metal, avoiding the fire hoses and stepping around the puddles of liquid from the hoses and the car.

  Bernie moved in front of him. “Stop. So this is your car?”

  “Was my car. My Beamer. My sweet baby.” He looked at her. “I know you. You played with the Lady Chieftains, right?”

  “Right.” She realized the man was the leader of tonight’s alumni squad, the star center on the Chieftain team that had won the state championship two years in a row when she was in high school. “And I remember watching you guys win state. Bernadette Manuelito.”

  The man gave her a worried smile. “I’m Aza Palmer. You guessed that. What happened out here?”

  The fumes made her cough. “You know anyone who’d blow up your car?”

  “No. People liked that car. You don’t see many of them, even in Phoenix.”

  She rephrased the obvious. “Do you know someone who wants to harm you?”

  He glanced at the wreckage again and then turned back to her. “Judging from this, I guess so. In my line of work, you make enemies and I’ve had some threats.” Palmer laughed nervously, then stopped, embarrassed. “Was anybody hurt in the explosion?”

  “Yes. Was someone waiting for you out here at the car?”

  “No. Not that I know of.” Palmer began to move toward the vehicle again. Bernie put her hand on his arm.

  He pushed against her grip. “I just want to check out what happened.”

  “Sorry. It’s a crime scene.” She gave him a stern look. “There’s an FBI agent here who will need to talk to you. He’s in the gym.” She described Cordova. “Go inside where it’s warmer. You can’t do anything helpful here.”

  “But it’s my car. And I have to know . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She swallowed, and her throat felt scratchy. “Don’t argue. Go on in.”

  The November night was clear. Níłch’its’ósí, the month of small winds. She looked up at the stars, icy pinpoints in the dark velvet sky. Her eyes teared from the smoke. The calendar said it was autumn for another few weeks, but thirty degrees qualified as winter in her book. She realized her ears ached with cold and wished she had a hat.

  The flow of people from the gym stopped. Evidently Cordova had taken charge. She wondered if he’d given the rookie a lecture.

  Who among the people of Shiprock would want to harm Aza Palmer? Half the girls she knew in the high school had a crush on him, not just because he was one of the starters on the boys’ team but because he was a nice guy. She’d read the article the Navajo Times had put together about the game, mentioning that ticket sale proceeds would benefit a program to end domestic violence. The article had a picture of the championship team from the old days and a “where are they now” paragraph. Palmer seemed to still be the star, a partner with a law firm in Phoenix, one of those with eight names on the letterhead.

  Bernie remembered something else about him. In his senior year, back when she was a sophomore, someone Palmer dated, a quiet girl named Lona, got pregnant and everyone knew about it. After Palmer graduated, they got married and moved away.

  Cordova came out of the gym a few minutes later. “I’d like you in there with me so we can speed things up and let these folks get home. You’re good with people. I told your rookie to guard the car.”

  “Sure. Did Palmer find you?”

  “Palmer?”

  “The guy who owned the car.”

  Cordova blinked. “Where was he?”

  “Out here, assessing the damage. I sent him to look for you.”

  Cordova looked at the smoking ruin again. “I haven’t seen him yet, but he’s not going anywhere.”

  Cordova and the San Juan deputy, with Councilor Franklin’s help, had done a good job of organizing the crowd. Teachers in the audience had come forward to stay with anxious children and teenagers waiting for parents who had been detained outside the fence. Bernie got their names and then arranged for the kids to meet their grown-ups near the administration building. Next, she took the names of parents waiting with children, then the elderly and their companions and asked them each a few questions. Lastly, she focused on able-bodied adults—some impatient and grumpy, some philosophical, most wondering what all the fuss was about. She assessed who might be helpful for follow-up
interviews if needed. Although no one she spoke to said they’d seen anything unusual, some hesitated. They might recall something later.

  Not a single man or woman she interviewed mentioned someone missing, or asked about the person who had been taken away by ambulance. Did he have no friends? Was he the bomber? Was he associated with the teens who ran, or with some of the fans who left the scene before Bernie could talk to them?

  She noticed Cordova and Palmer deep in conversation and then Palmer sitting alone on the bleachers, head in his hands. Then Cordova was standing beside her in his FBI vest, waiting until she’d finished getting information from a distraught woman in a fringed jacket.

  “Take a break, Manuelito. You don’t want to make a mistake.”

  “I’m OK.”

  “You are. Take a break anyway. Come outside with me. I’ll tell your rookie to come in, warm up, and do some of this.”

  The stench of the burned car still hung in the night air. Cordova had cajoled or persuaded the San Juan deputies to guard the crime scene. The fire truck remained, the crew waiting to see if their services would be needed again. Behind the yellow-and-black Keep Out tape, the slick puddles of goo that had quelled the car fire glistened in the dim light. When she thought of hazardous duty as an officer, she’d pictured getting shot at, spit on by drunks, or chased by guard dogs. She hadn’t imagined working with flood victims when the hard male rain fell too fast for the parched ground to absorb. She had not anticipated that she’d be working long hours in a blizzard to help stranded families, hunting for suspects in a sandstorm, or walking for miles in the merciless sun searching for a lost child. Now, she could add to the list breathing toxic smoke and fumes that made her nauseated.

  They talked as they walked toward her car. “Did you ever smoke, Manuelito?”

  “No. After all the junk I’ve breathed in tonight, I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “I used to. Actually made some interesting contacts that way. I quit when my wife and I started dating and she said kissing me was like licking an ashtray.” He laughed at the old joke. “So, tell me how come you’re here again?”