The Shaman Laughs (11 page)

Moon didn't look at the special agent. "Victim?"

Hoover slammed his palm against the table. "The homi-cide, dammit! Was it by gunshot, a knife, blunt instrument, what?"

A tiny light sparkled in Moon's eyes. "Well, we don't know exactly how Big Ouray met his end." He wrinkled his brow in pretended concentration. "Could be something he ate. Maybe some Jimson weed."

A muscle twitched in Hoover's jaw. "You suspect he was poisoned?"

The Ute sipped at his coffee. "Could be," he said, "we won't know until the car… the remains are examined by Doc Schaid."

Parris was trying hard to understand, then he put it together. Big Ouray was the dead bull Moon had mentioned earlier. This had to be stopped. "Hoover, I think you've mis—"

"I'll handle this," the FBI agent snapped. He glared at Moon. "Any marks on the body?"

"Yeah," the Ute replied, "from what Gorman told me this morning, you could say there were marks."

The special agent found a small leather-bound notebook in his coat pocket. "Well? What kind of marks?" Hoover didn't attempt to hide his impression that he was dealing with an oaf.

"Well, let me see," Moon said. "Oh yeah. His ears."

"Ears? What about his ears?"

"Gone, both of 'em. Like politicians right after election day."

Hoover paled. "You mean… purposely removed?"

"Snipped off." Moon took a long drink of coffee. He leaned forward dramatically and lowered his voice to a hoarse stage whisper that could be heard across the restaurant. The truck drivers had forgotten their beer, the teenagers had lost interest in the jukebox. Taxi was scribbling furiously on the margins of a coffee-stained manuscript page. "That's not the worst part."

Unconsciously, Hoover flattened his back against the plywood booth. "What…"

"Big Ouray's balls. Sliced off slick as a whistle." Moon made two quick knifelike motions with his hand. "Both of 'em. At least that's what Gorman says."

The notebook slipped from Hoover's fingers. "You haven't viewed the body yet?"

"Only heard about it this morning. I'd planned to get out there this afternoon, but Gorman says Doc Schaid will take care of everything. I guess there's no hurry now."

Hoover closed his eyes and bowed his head. "This is simply astounding. A Ute has been murdered and mutilated, and you're sitting here, calmly having lunch…"

"Well…" Moon paused thoughtfully, then replied, "I never exactly said he was a Ute. You can't always tell by looks. Fact is, Big Ouray's got a whiter face than yours." He took a quick drink from his coffee cup. "I'd say he was from Anglo stock."

Hoover was slightly embarrassed at his presumption. "With a name like Ouray, I naturally assumed…"

Moon appeared sympathetic with Hoover's confusion. "These days, you can't tell by a name. Now there's a little Filipino woman who lives just north of town. Calls herself Blue Bird Feathers, but she's no Indian, Ute or otherwise. Reads the stars, predicts the future, sells magic potions and garlic candy. Stuff like that."

Angel stopped by to ask if Hoover was ready to order. The special agent waved the man away. "We can't sit here until the corpse rots. Get a camera, all the analytical equipment you have available. And understand," he pointed at Moon, "I am officially taking charge of this investigation."

"Look," Parris said, "I don't think you understand. Before you go off half-cocked—"

"Perhaps
you
don't understand," Hoover snapped, "murder on an Indian reservation is a matter of federal jurisdiction."

"Well, we don't know for sure it was murder." Moon wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin and raised his massive form slowly. "But as far as I'm concerned, whatever you say goes."

Hoover started to reply, then his hands trembled. He clenched his hands into fists, then turned quickly and headed for the door.

Moon cupped his hand to his ear. He frowned at Scott Parris. "Is it just me, or did you hear that thumpity-thump sound?"

Parris listened intently. "Hear what?"

"Opportunity," the big Ute said with a merry twinkle in his eye, "opportunity knocking."

Charlie Moon watched Hoover's Ford sedan in his rear-view mirror. "Road's going to get kinda rough for that little street car. Not near enough clearance."

Parris reminded himself that he was acting chief of Southern Ute Police. Among other duties, he was responsible for maintaining good relations with the Bureau. "You'd better tell Hoover the truth about that bull."

The Ute assumed a pious expression. "Nothing I told him wasn't the truth."

Hoover followed the tribal police Blazer into the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu;
he felt the muffler dragging as the little Ford struggled through deep ruts. When Moon stopped for Scott Parris to open the gate, the special agent abandoned his sedan and slid into the front seat beside the Ute. Parris closed the barbed-wire contraption after Moon drove the Blazer through the gate, then climbed into the rear seat of the four-wheeler. The Ute nosed the squad car slowly up the canyon in low gear, examining the landscape to the right of the dirt lane.

Hoover was leaning forward with both hands on the dash board. "How far is it to this Ouray fellow's house?"

"Big Ouray had no use for houses," Moon replied. "Al-ways lived out of doors, night or day, rain or shine."

"Remarkable," Hoover said, "a real eccentric. Was he a loner?" He loved this job.

"Wasn't acquainted with him myself," Moon said, "but those who knew him said he was kind of hostile. Liked bein' with cows more than with people."

Parris dropped his face into his hands. Moon was determined to do this thing.

"The sexual mutilation," Hoover said with a professorial air, "is a classic giveaway. Ten to one it's his wife."

"He didn't have himself a wife," Moon said with an air of sadness. The Ute adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch Parris's face.

"If the victim wasn't married, look for a jealous girlfriend. Or her husband. Of course," Hoover added thoughtfully, "maybe he wasn't interested in girls. You know anything about his sexual preferences?"

"From what I hear," Moon said, "Big Ouray's… what I guess you'd call… uh… straight."

Parris groaned as the Ute winked in the mirror. In more than one way, the acting chief of police was just along for the ride.

As they rounded a heavy stand of scrub oak, Moon stomped the brake pedal. A green Dodge van was blocking the road.

The Ute cut the ignition and muttered under his breath. "Doc Schaid's truck. Didn't expect him to get here so soon; Gorman must have really leaned on him."

Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "The medical examiner?"

"What passes for one," Moon said.

A heavily built man appeared through the sage, followed by a small woman dressed in a man's shirt, faded jeans, and high leather boots. The veterinarian, who carried a small tripod-mounted camera in one hand, was returning to his truck. Moon noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily. His companion, an attractive brunette with a rich olive complexion, was lugging his black bag of instruments and med-ications. Schaid was a hulking man whose stooped posture belied his six-foot-four height; the picture of him carrying only the camera while the tiny woman strained at the heavy medical bag was ludicrous.

Moon opened his door. "You fellows sit tight for a minute. Doc Schaid's more likely to talk if it's just me and him."

"I guess that's okay for now," Hoover agreed doubtfully, "but I'll need to interrogate him as soon as-—"

"Hey, Harry," Moon yelled, "what's cookin'?"

The veterinarian's response was a sullen grunt.

Moon was irrepressible. "How did you talk Mrs. Night-bird into doin' duty as your packhorse?"

Emily Nightbird smiled sweetly. "I needed something to keep me busy, Charlie. And," she added tenderly, "I love to be around the animals."

Schaid scowled, leaned the tripod against a dwarf oak, and displayed a bandaged right hand. "Got injured. Shorthanded, gotta make do." Moon sniffed the faint odor of whiskey. So the rumors were true; the vet was hitting the bottle. According to the stories that floated around Angel's Diner, Schaid's marriage had gone sour. The local gossips also whispered that the vet's wife had found herself a rich boyfriend. Barbara Schaid hadn't been heard from since her husband reported that she left to visit her ailing sister in Virginia. The veterinarian had evidently realized that his wife, who served as his surgical assistant, wouldn't be returning soon. He had hired Herb Ecker to assist him in the surgery. The Belgian exchange student had stayed with the veterinarian for barely a month, then left to sell insurance for Arlo Nightbird. Now Arlo's wife was working with Schaid. The Ute studied the bandages. Schaid also limped slightly. "What happened to your paw, Harry?" Veterinarians who worked with large animals were injured almost as often as rodeo cowboys.

The veterinarian hesitated before answering. "Damn mare stepped on it." He moved the bandaged hand behind his back. "Who'd you bring with you?"

Moon nodded toward the Blazer. "That's my pardner Scott Parris in the back seat. He's chief of police up at Granite Creek; he's pinch-hitting for Severo." He pointedly ignored Hoover, knowing this would raise the veterinarian's interest.

Schaid, who was always suspicious of strangers, squinted at the squad car. "Who's that city cowboy?"

Moon dropped his voice and nodded toward the car. "Oh, him? He's down from Denver."

"Denver?" Schaid's face was a question mark.

Moon gingerly nudged a pebble with the scuffed toe of his boot. "He's determined to examine the carcass." The hint of a smile flitted across the Ute's face. "I just didn't know how to say 'no.'"

Neurons began to misfire under the veterinarian's thick skull. Big Ouray had been a valuable animal. The insurance company might send an expert consultant to perform an examination. Schaid cleared his throat and spat. "City boy. Probably couldn't find his ass with both hands." The last thing Schaid wanted was a qualified veterinary pathologist nosing around this carcass. This was his turf.
His
carcass. "He here representing the insurance company?"

"No." The Ute looked away, toward the towering figures of the Three Sisters sitting in eternal comfort atop the mesa. "He's representing the government."

"Government?" Schaid had a habit of repeating key words.

Hoover had waited long enough; he ejected himself from the car and flipped his I.D. wallet open to display his credentials. "Hoover. Special agent, FBI." He snapped the wallet shut. "I'll inspect the body. Right now."

Schaid stared blankly at the special agent. "Body?"

Hoover pocketed his credentials. "I'll want a signed copy of the autopsy."

The veterinarian's voice dropped to a whisper. "Autopsy?"

"And," Hoover nodded at the woman, "I'll want to interrogate your assistant."

"Interrogate?" Emily decided that enough was enough. "What is this all about, Mr___"

Hoover tipped his hat at her. "The Bureau investigates all major crimes on Indian reservations, ma'am." He had seen all the John Wayne films and knew that western gentlemen addressed ladies as "ma'am."

"I'll need to find out everything you know about the Big Ouray murder."

"Murder… Big Ouray?" Emily's brows made inverted Vs over her lovely brown eyes. She glanced at Moon. The Ute avoided her eyes.

Hoover blinked at the woman. There was no shortage of empty heads around here. Must be inbreeding. He turned his attention back to the "medical examiner."

"Where," he demanded, "is the body?"

"Body?" Schaid looked helplessly at Moon.

The Ute policeman pushed his hat back and allowed himself a quick grin. "Mr. Hoover wants to have a look at what's left of Big Ouray."

The veterinarian pointed toward the general direction of the carcass.

Emily watched Hoover's back disappear through the brush. "You have some very strange friends, Charlie." Scott Parris got out of the car and slammed the door. He tipped his hat at the pretty woman, and was rewarded with a shy smile. She reached for Schaid's instruments, but Scott Parris grabbed the heavy bag. "Allow me," he said gallantly. He followed her to the van.

"Why," Schaid growled as he watched Emily chatting with Scott Parris, "does a fed want to look at a dead animal?"

"Those FBI types," Moon said with an air of mystery, "don't tell us ordinary cops more'n we need to know. Could be," the Ute added in a conspiratorial tone, "this dead animal is tied into some bigger case he's working on."

Schaid hitched his thumb under his belt to steady a rhythmic twitching in the injured hand. "Old Gorman may have a hard time collecting his insurance money on that dead bull, unless I can make a good case for natural causes. Don't you let that fed screw things up."

"Harry," Moon asked, "do you know who wrote the policy on Gorman's cattle?"

The veterinarian used his uninjured hand to wipe perspiration from his forehead. "Gorman didn't say when he called, but it don't matter much. They all want the same information, only the forms are different. You want a guess, I'd say the policy was written on National Farmer's Union. Gorman probably used one of the agencies in Durango or Pagosa."