Dead mountain, p.9
Dead Mountain, page 9
“How disturbed were the burials?” asked a council member.
“The main disturbance was the scuffing of one of the skulls and the breaking of the rim of a micaceous pot buried with the remains.” She described how she’d covered the burials with a plywood frame to protect them. “And, as you know, the petroglyphs in the rear of the cave were gouged and scratched.”
Another uncomfortable silence.
“Could there be more burials under the surface?”
“It’s doubtful,” said Nora.
“How about elsewhere in the cave?”
“I would say unlikely. We surveyed the cave quite thoroughly.”
Another hush followed. Then the governor said, “If there aren’t any more questions, we’ve reached the point where we have to make a decision as to whether to move the remains and rebury them here, on Isleta land, or leave them in their original location.”
He turned to Nora and Stan. “Would you mind stepping out? I doubt this will take long.”
Nora and Stan went into the waiting room. Ten minutes later, Tenorio ushered them back in.
The governor spoke. “Due to the profanation of the cave, the vandalism, the presence of what might be murder victims, the publicity, and our inability to protect the location, we’ve decided to disinter the remains and rebury them on Pueblo land.”
Nora inclined her head; she wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. “I think that’s a sensible decision.”
She found the governor looking at her. “According to NAGPRA,” he said, “we need to establish that these are Isleta ancestral remains. Do you believe we’ve done so?”
“Beyond question.”
After a hesitation, he continued. “Would you be willing to disinter the bones on our behalf? Councilman Tenorio will help you make sure it is done properly.”
This surprised Nora, but she quickly recovered. “I’d be honored to help,” she said.
“When can we disinter the remains?” the governor asked.
“I’m not absolutely sure about the protocol,” said Nora, “but at the very least it would mean getting a federal permit, and that would mean interacting with the Forest Service and possibly also the sheriff’s department. Basically, it boils down to a lot of governmental red tape.”
At this the governor smiled broadly. “We at Isleta are no strangers to red tape. Any guess as to how long before we can get clearance?”
Nora hadn’t given the question a lot of consideration, but she knew how long it took to get even the simplest permit from the Forest Service or Department of the Interior. “Returning Kennewick Man to the related tribes took over twenty years. This will be a lot quicker, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re talking six months or even a year.”
Nora could see the wheels turning in the governor’s mind. He finally spoke.
“The site has been desecrated. The individuals buried there have had their rest disturbed. They are spiritually suffering.”
Nora inclined her head in agreement.
“We’ve established, with your help, that those remains belong to us under NAGPRA. Do you think it’s just, asking us to remain patient for months or years while our ancestors are in distress?”
“I would say not,” Nora replied. She was acutely aware, from previous experience, just how serious Pueblo Indians were about the spiritual rest of their dead.
“We have no way to protect the cave. Its location is now known, and has—or will—attract substantial public interest. There won’t be any feasible way for us, or you, or even the FBI to protect it night and day.”
Nora nodded.
The governor leaned forward in his chair. “Will you go up there tomorrow and disinter the remains for us?”
Nora was speechless for a moment. “You want me to dig up the bones tomorrow?” she asked. “No permit—just like that?”
“As an archaeologist, you know how to do this respectfully and professionally. Councilman Tenorio will go with you to perform the proper ceremonies. He’ll bring a van. You’ll simply put the remains in the van, and he’ll drive them back here for reburial.”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Nora stammered.
“We’ve determined the remains belong to us. NAGPRA law says once that happens, the bones are ours to do with what we wish. I assert that taking them now would be perfectly legal.”
“I’m no lawyer . . .” Nora hesitated. “But you might be right.”
“Would it be unprofessional for you to do this?”
Nora thought about this. The request was not out of line. Professionally, she would not be violating any standards—far from it, in fact. The feds might not like cutting a few bureaucratic corners, but would they object? Probably not. The ownership of the bones was clear, and there were innumerable legal precedents to back this up. Certainly, popular opinion in New Mexico would overwhelmingly side with the Isleta Indians and their efforts to protect the remains of their ancestors. Nobody at the Archaeological Institute would object—in fact, given how the treatment of indigenous artifacts had evolved in recent decades, they’d applaud.
“I think my professional responsibility as an archaeologist would be well served in helping you preserve those remains from further desecration,” she said, keeping her tone measured. “The Institute works closely with the Pueblos all the time: the remains are yours and we’d simply be helping you repatriate them.”
“So, Dr. Kelly—will you help us?”
Once again, Nora paused. The National Forest people might object, and the sheriff probably would. But she could disinter the remains in an hour, and then it would be a fait accompli. That was the key: moving the bodies before the local authorities could jump in and muck up the works. Once it was done, who could object?
But trumping these considerations was something else: it was the right thing to do. Just thinking of all the permissions, the hearings, the blowhard expert witnesses, and the attention-seeking politicians who would weigh in with uninformed opinions made her head reel. Meanwhile, the cave would be a target for looters and vandals. And at a fundamental level, the governor was right: there was nothing illegal about it. NAGPRA case law was clear: the remains belonged to Isleta and had to be returned to them.
She was aware of a more selfish motivation as well. If she did the work herself, she might be able to glean some important archaeological data—perhaps even involving the micaceous pottery.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Good. We can provide diggers.”
“Not necessary, I’ll be able to do it with Stan—if he’s willing.” She turned to him. “Sorry, I should have asked you before. What do you think?”
Morrison shrugged. “I’m fine with it.”
She turned back to the governor. “I’ll enlist my brother to help us—he works for the Institute and has archaeological field experience. The three of us will be sufficient. Mr. Tenorio will be there to make it crystal clear—should that prove necessary—that what we’re doing is officially sanctioned by and at the behest of Isleta Pueblo.”
The governor laid his palms down on the table and looked around, smiling. “This is good news. Are we all agreed to this plan?”
When everyone nodded, the governor turned back to Nora. “What time tomorrow?”
“It’ll take me the morning to get my tools and equipment together. Let’s say, two o’clock?”
“Very good. Mr. Tenorio will be there at two PM with a Pueblo van, carrying an official letter from me authorizing your work. He will bring the remains directly back here after exhumation.”
“Agreed,” said Nora.
The governor rose, and she and Stan did as well. “I know I speak for the entire Pueblo in thanking you, Dr. Kelly, for helping us bring peace to our deceased ancestors. We will never forget your service to our people.”
18
SOCORRO COUNTY SHERIFF’S Office, Homer Watts speaking.”
“Hello?” came the old-crone voice.
“This is the sheriff. Can I help you?”
“Hello?”
“Ma’am, can you hear me? This is Sheriff Watts.”
“Speak up, sonny. I’m just a mite hard of hearing.”
“Can you hear me now?”
Corrie held the phone away from her ear. “You don’t have to shout. I may be hard of hearing, but I ain’t deaf.”
“How can I help you?”
“There’s a rattlesnake under my trailer, and I’m afraid to go out.”
A pause. “Ma’am, did you say a rattlesnake?”
“Are you hard of hearing too? Yes—and I want you to come get him.”
“Come get him?”
“Sonny, do you always repeat everything another body says to you?”
“Ma’am, how . . . how do you know it’s a rattlesnake?”
“’Cause I done shot his head off before I ran into the trailer.”
“So . . . he’s dead?”
“I reckon he must be, with his head blown clean away. Unless he’s some kind of zombie.”
Another pause—longer this time. “Ma’am, I don’t understand. If the snake is dead, why are you afraid to come out of your trailer?”
“’Cause I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
“But . . . wait . . .”
Corrie had hoped to string the sheriff along another minute or two, but the croaking was starting to hurt her throat and, instead of speaking, she burst out in laughter.
“All right, who is this?” Watts’s voice turned indignant. “It’s you, isn’t it, Gus? When I catch your ass, I’m going to—”
“Why, Sheriff,” Corrie said, stifling her mirth. “That’s no way to speak to a lady.”
Another perplexed silence, this one briefer. “Corrie?”
Sitting in her car in the field office lot, she again dissolved into laughter.
“Corrie Swanson, a la maquina! You’re a little devil!”
“A big-time sheriff like you has to keep on his toes.”
“Well, you got me, all right. I can’t deny that.” And they both laughed for a moment.
To be honest, Corrie hadn’t quite known how best to say hello to Homer Watts. They’d worked together twice before on law enforcement cases, and . . . well, she wasn’t really sure if they were now associates, friends, or perhaps on the way to being something more. All she knew was that she felt awkward calling him up out of the blue, and messing with him was the first thing that came to mind.
“Any idea why I’m calling?” she asked.
“You miss me desperately and want to ask me out?”
“No.” She said this too quickly and immediately regretted it.
“Oh.” A beat. “Then I’ll bet it has something to do with those two bodies they found up in the Manzanos. I saw you on TV.”
“That’s right. I’ve been assigned to the case.”
A whistle.
“The thing is, I feel like I’m five steps behind everybody else—you know, being new to the area. I hadn’t even heard about the Dead Mountain hikers until my new mentor told me.”
Another whistle. “You are a greenhorn.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping you could rectify that, fill me in on all the rumors and chatter that won’t be in the FBI files.”
“Sure. I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’ll buy you lunch.”
A resigned chuckle. “All right. I know just the place.”
Jaramillo Eats was a shabby, dusty joint with swinging doors, just like in an old Western. Watts got there first, and as he saw her and stood up from the booth, Corrie caught her breath. She’d almost forgotten how young he was, and how handsome, with his brown eyes, curly black hair, and teeth straight out of a dental advertisement. As usual, he wore his two-gun rig . . . but there was something different about him. Then she realized what it was: the expensive silver-belly cowboy hat he always wore. It had been ruined in the last case they’d worked on together, and now he had a new one: in black.
“You gone over to the dark side?” Corrie asked as she sat down, nodding at his hat.
He chuckled. “I’ve always wanted to be the bad guy,” he said. “You’re looking great. Seems the FBI suits you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “So what happened to that old scorched wreck you used to wear?”
“It’s in my office now, hung on the wall along with my other retired hats.” He took off his new one and placed it on the table, brim up. “These Resistols are a bit like mustangs: you gotta break ’em in slowly.”
They laughed as a waitress came over and dropped two menus on the scuffed table. “Two coffees,” Watts told her. “One black, one sweet and thick.”
Corrie smiled inwardly, pleased he remembered. “How did you pick out this town for us to meet? Not that you could call it a town: it’s more like two speed limit signs five hundred yards apart.”
“Veguita? Why, it’s a bustling metropolis with a post office, two churches, a volunteer fire department, and a Dollar General. What else could you ask for?”
They glanced at their menus a moment, laminated in plastic. “Actually, this is just about as far north as my jurisdiction extends,” he explained. “We’re a stone’s throw from Valencia County. Besides, I figured it was a shorter drive for you. And the chuck here is pretty damned good.”
“Thanks, Homer—that was thoughtful.” And it was. There was something about the sheriff that always made her feel self-conscious.
“So you’ve been assigned to the Dead Mountain case,” he said. “I wasn’t involved in the initial one, of course—I was twelve at the time—but it sure stuck in my mind. Tell me what you know and I’ll fill in the missing pieces.”
Corrie couldn’t argue with this request from a fellow law officer. After all, there wasn’t all that much to tell, and the only important information being withheld—the identities of Wright and Tolland—would be formally confirmed by an expert the next morning, with autopsies set for the following day.
Watts listened in silence as she told him, in a low voice, about the drunken students, the ancient burial site they trashed, and her investigation with Nora Kelly that located the two bodies. He listened with rapt attention as she described the bizarre knife wounds.
He sat back. “Whew,” he said, running a hand through his hair as the waitress came over to take their orders. He waited until she’d walked off before speaking again. “Well, it seems you’re pretty much up to speed on the backstory. I remember the stories we told in the schoolyard were pretty crazy.”
“What were they?”
“We were sure that an Abominable Snowman had appeared in the door of the tent and they freaked out and ran.”
“You still believe that?”
“Naturally.” He smiled. “There have been dozens of Yeti sightings up in those high mountain areas. None confirmed, of course.”
“Seriously—do you have a theory?”
“Those peaks have mountain lions and black bears. I used to think that maybe a hungry animal poked his nose into the tent and scattered everyone. But that theory kind of falls apart when you consider how far some of them went. No bear would chase them for miles like that. And they were experienced winter mountaineers. To run out into that blizzard in bare feet and underwear, or whatever—they would have known that was certain death. Better to face the bear. So, to answer your question—I really have no theory. What about the last missing body? The ninth student? Any idea where that might be?”
Corrie shook her head. “We’re doing a thorough search of the area, and I’ve asked Nora Kelly to take a close look at the tent site as well as the cave where the two were found.”
“Where exactly was this cave?”
“More or less along a line due north from the tent.” Corrie paused. “That’s one thing I’m still getting familiar with—the geography of the area. It’s nothing but a maze of forest roads and muddy paths—and then that huge wilderness area.”
“You got a map?”
Corrie took out her phone, and he came around to her side of the booth to look, while she brought up the USGS topo map, acutely aware of his thigh touching hers.
“So here’s where the tent was,” she said, “and that’s the location of the fire where three bodies were found. Here’s the ravine. And here’s the cave.”
“All in a line due north.”
“Right. So we’re focusing our search for number nine on that same corridor. You know the area?”
“Not really. I’ve hiked up in there a few times, but there are a hellacious lot of mountains.”
Their lunches arrived and Watts returned to his side of the booth. “So I was wondering,” Corrie continued, “if they weren’t heading for something in particular, why did they keep going like that? Were they trying to get somewhere specific in those mountains?”
“There must also be natural caves up in that area like the one those kids recently found.” He shook his head. “Shame they desecrated the place.”
“If they hadn’t, Sheriff Hawley would probably have finished the job for them.”
Watts suddenly frowned. “Hawley? Christ, he’s not involved, is he?”
“Yup. He was rooting around that cave like a pig in a truffle patch until I put a stop to it. He also did us the favor of calling in a camera crew. Only thing he forgot were the neon signs and reelection buttons.”
“Figures.” Watts took a bite of his sandwich.
This response surprised Corrie. “Tell me about him.”
Watts swallowed, shrugged. “There’s bad blood between the sheriff’s departments of Torrance and Socorro—has been for a long time. Hawley’s the reason.”
“How so?”
“I . . .” Watts hesitated. “Sorry, I don’t feel right talking trash about a fellow sheriff.”
“I’m a fed. We’re colleagues. I need to know.”
Watts sighed. “That county, Torrance—well, Hawley’s been sheriff there forever. Always gets reelected, greases palms, kisses up, kicks down. There’s only fifteen thousand people in the whole county, and so it’s like a little fiefdom for him. He’s uneducated, a clown, morally unfit—and a bully. But he has this uncanny ability to sniff out a person’s soft underbelly and rip into it.”
