Sacred Clowns

Chapter 15

SAMMIE YAZZIE seemed to be in charge of radio station KNDN when Chee pulled up off of Farmington’s Main Street into the parking lot. He was about Chee’s age, with a neat mustache, a short haircut, and a harassed look, if he had enjoyed the excitement of broadcasting a confession earlier in the day it had worn off long ago.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you. Like I told the deputy, and the Farmington police, and the state cops, and the tribal policeman who got here this morning, the guy just walked in and went to the open mike there and did his thing.”

“I’ve got the police report,” Chee said, displaying the copy he picked up at the Farmington police station. “It gives the facts: medium-sized, middle-aged male, probably Navajo, dressed in jeans and jean jacket and billed cap with CAT symbol on crown, wearing dark-rimmed glasses, driving a dirty green pickup, possibly Ford 150 or Dodge Ram. Parked in front, walked in, went to the open mike, said he wanted to broadcast an announcement. Was told to wait until end of record. Waited. Was given signal. Then he made his statement, walked out. Drove away. Right?”

“Right,” Yazzie said. “That’s what happened. Except I think Ellie told the officers that she couldn’t read the license plate when she went to the window to look. And the bumper sticker.”

“Yeah. That’s in here.” He read again: “’License obscured by dirt. Witness noticed sticker on tailgate: ernie is the greatest.’ That’s a funny thing to put on a sticker. You have any idea where it’s from?”

Yazzie shrugged. “That’s a new one to me. Maybe it’s one of those you get made up. Like, ‘My kid’s an honor student at Farmington High.’ Or ‘My kid can whip your honor student at Farmington High.’”

“Maybe,” Chee said. “How about shoes? Boots?”

“You better talk to Ellie,” Yazzie said. “She got the best look at him.”

Ellie looked like she was about a year out of high school and was still enjoying talking to cops – especially a good-looking young cop.

“Boots?” she said, and closed her eyes to show that she was thinking hard and had long, pretty eyelashes. “No. He had on high-top work shoes. I remember because I noticed he had tracked in dirt and I looked.”

“Anything else? That might be useful?”

“How would the boots be useful?”

“Well,” Chee said. “What if he was wearing tall lace-up boots? That might tell us he worked for the telephone company. Or the power company. A lineman. Pole climber.”

“Oh,” Ellie said. “Or if he wore those big heavy shoes with the steel cap in the toe, maybe for the pipeline company.”

“Right,” Chee said, returning her grin. “Now if we’re lucky you’ll remember he had a patch on his jacket that said member san juan county sheriff’s posse, or lions club. Something easy like that.”

Ellie displayed her eyelashes again, deep in thought. “No,” she said. “I just remember he looked sort of nervous and scared, but that’s not unusual. Lot of people are nervous when they pick up the mike. You know. About to broadcast on the radio. And he was kind of old.”

Chee looked at the report. “It says middle-aged here. Was he older than middle-aged?”

“That’s kind of old,” she said, and shrugged. “You know. Maybe past thirty. And nervous.”

It would be natural to be nervous, Chee was thinking, when you’re going to tell the world you killed somebody.

“Nervous, you said. But he didn’t ask anybody how to use the microphone? How to turn it on? How far to hold it from his face? Any of that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He just picked it up and seemed to know how to do all the right things?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I didn’t think about that. Some of the people who come in to make announcements need to be told. You know, they’re from out in the country. Wanting to announce a funeral, or a sing, or a Girl Dance, or a meeting of the grazing committee at their chapter house. Something like that. And they don’t know anything about using a microphone.”

“One other thing,” Chee said. “I understand these open mike announcements are taped while they’re broadcast.”

“That’s a government requirement,” Ellie said. “We have to do that. It’s automatic.”

“Could I get a copy?”

“We already made one for the sheriff,” Ellie said. “And for the Farmington cops.”

“How about for me?”

Ellie inspected him, and giggled. “Why not?” she said. “You’ll have to wait a minute.”

While he waited, Chee peered out into the parking lot at his pickup and the other vehicles there. Through the glass at this range he couldn’t read the courteous driving saves lives or the buckle up, it’s the law stickers on his own bumper. He made out the National Rifle Association membership sticker on the adjoining truck only because it was familiar, if Ellie had read the Ernie sticker on the suspect’s truck it must have been printed large. He’d ask about that when she got back, which was at that very moment.

“Here it is,” she said, handing him a cassette. “No charge to a policeman.”

“Thanks,” Chee said. “You remember where the man’s pickup was parked?”

“Right there,” she said, pointing. “The nearest spot.”

“You’re certain about what the bumper sticker said? The report says the truck was muddy. There was dirt on the license plate.”

“Not on the sticker,” Ellie said. “It looked brand-new. And it was great big. The letters, I mean.”

“Well,” Chee said, “thanks a lot.” He handed her two cards, one identifying him as a Navajo Tribal Policeman and giving his office number, the other identifying him as a hataalii and a singer of the Blessing Way and giving the number of the telephone in his trailer. “Home and office,” he explained. “Would you give me a call if you think of anything else? Anything at all that might help me find this guy.”

“The only other thing I can think of that was funny was the cap he had on.” Ellie blinked at him, exposing eyelashes against a smooth cheek.

“Funny like how?”

“I don’t mean ha-ha funny. Funny strange. It was one of those baseball caps like everybody wears but it looked like somebody had sat on the bill. It went out straight from the crown and then it was bent up, like this.” Ellie raised her right hand to her forehead. She recreated with her fingers the oddly bent cap bill. “It looked like the bill was broken.” She made a disapproving face.

“That was a good thing to notice,” Chee said, smiling at her. “It’s the sort of unusual thing which might help us find him. Can you think of anything else?”

Ellie’s expression said she was trying. She thought of something, considered it, looked doubtful, went back to thinking.

“You thought of something,” Chee said. “What was it?”

She giggled. “I don’t see how this will help. But I remember the funny way he smelled.” She wrinkled her nose, and laughed. “He smelled like onions.”

“I’ll bet he’d been eating a hamburger,” Chee said. “Maybe a Lottaburger. They have lots of onions.” Which was the reason Chee favored them himself.

“No,” she said. “It was morning. And it was his clothing, I think. Strong enough to make your eyes water.” She was looking at the cards he’d given her. “You’re a hataalii,” she said, looking up at him. “Really? I didn’t know you can be a medicine man and a policeman at the same time.”

“I’m beginning to think you can’t,” Chee said.