S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Do you have the cannunpa wakan?” Abby asked, referring to the sacred pipe.

“ Hau,” Alex responded. “Where is the medicine bundle?”

Abby touched the unwrapped bundle next to her. She lifted up a small glass jar and passed it to Alex. He stared at the contents and grumbled.

“I know you are not enthused about this,” Abby said.

“The purpose of a sweat lodge is to pray for the sick, to communicate with the spirits in helping someone in need. Not for this. You are trying to control fate.”

“Fate has already been determined. I’m just trying to hurry it along. This is necessary for Samantha’s mental and emotional health. We are to pray for our loved ones and that is what I am doing. I call this laying the foundation for Sam’s future.”

Alex moved around uncomfortably. “I call this sweating my ass off.”

“Shhh,” Abby whispered. “You will anger the spirits.”

“YOU will anger the spirits, foolish woman. Using the spirits to play Cupid.”

“Go, then. I will pray on my own. I do not need a nonbeliever in my midst.”

Abby took her rattles and bags of tobacco from the bundle.

“You would probably mess things up; it’s been too long.” Alex tossed more water onto the rocks. Sweat trickled down his chest as he unscrewed the bottle cap. Abby handed him a lock of Sam’s hair. He carefully dropped it into the bottle where it lay haphazardly among the hair clippings Abby had saved when she cut Jake’s hair.

They worked silently. Alex tied the bundles of tobacco to the sticks that surrounded the fire. Abby drew a circle in the dirt and placed the glass jar and a handful of medicine beads in the center. Alex picked up the horned rattle and shook it as he sang, “ Ah Hey Yah.” Abby lit the pipe, and after pointing it to the four directions beginning with the east, she took a puff and passed it to Alex.

Sam checked the clock on the stove. Seven-thirty at night. The house was uncomfortably quiet. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but for some reason the silence was deafening. She opened the refrigerator and studied the contents.

Her uneasiness had a lot to do with Benny’s call. He had apologized for not calling her earlier but had wanted to wait until his visitor left — a forensics expert with the Bureau. She assumed a soldier missing since the Korean War was probably going to attract the Pentagon. But the Bureau?

The cold from the refrigerator was chilling her legs, but she wasn’t even looking at the chicken or potato salad. Instead, her mind was wandering, thinking back to Hap, a line drawn from him to… where? To Preston for one. And to many others whose faces were blank right now. Her father’s byline kept creeping into the picture. And the lightning bolt shapes. Lightning strike. The words again echoed in her head.

The doorbell interrupted her thinking. She was surprised to see Frank and Jake. Frank carried a briefcase, Jake an accordion file folder.

“I’ll just set it all down here.” Frank laid his briefcase on the dining room table and snapped it open.

Sam removed the grapevine tree trunk arrangement from the center of the table. She heard the refrigerator being opened and walked into the kitchen to find Jake setting out plates and silverware. He knew exactly where everything was which made her wonder just how many visits he had made here to see Abby.

“Let’s see, chicken, potato salad, kidney bean salad.” He looked up at her. “Anything else you’d like to eat?”

She surveyed the buffet he had spread on the island counter. “Fruit salad.”

Jake opened the refrigerator again and located the fruit salad. Sam brought out a pitcher of iced tea.

“Benny called,” Sam announced. “Seems the FBI has sent a forensics expert from their Chicago office to examine Hap’s body.”

“That’s not unusual,” Jake said.

Frank loaded his plate and followed his colleagues into the dining room. “The guy was AWOL. I guess someone in Washington would be interested.” He found an empty spot between the papers strewn around the table.

“So, why not the military instead of the Bureau?” Sam cranked open the bay windows to welcome the mild breeze. The sun was disappearing behind the trees, casting the last of its warmth on the west side of the house.

The two men didn’t respond. They ate as though they hadn’t had a decent meal in months. Abby had a way of making even leftovers taste like a two-hundred-dollar meal in an upscale restaurant.

“One thing that Benny discovered was that Hap had a bullet wound.” Sam read from a fax. “A bullet perforated the left clavicle, first rib, resulting in a depressed fracture.” She slid the printout across the table to Jake and Frank. “It’s Benny’s conclusion, and the FBI examiner was in agreement, that at one time in his life Hap had been shot in the back.”

“Any idea how long ago?” Jake asked.

“The FBI called D.C. and talked to Hap’s sister. She said he wasn’t in any gangs in his youth and never had any type of bullet wound before he went to Korea,” Sam said.

“How about a cause of death?” Jake asked.

Sam looked up from her notes. “Inconclusive. Benny said it’s difficult to determine if he died before being put into the concrete. There were ligature marks on the neck but not defined enough to point to strangulation. Neck wasn’t broken but there was a slight skull fracture. It’s possible he was hit first with a blunt instrument.”

Jake smiled smugly and said, “So much for asphyxiation.”

“Why was that left out of the report?” Preston sat behind the mahogany desk in his study, the picture on the wall was pulled away, the safe opened. Preston held the gold lightning bolt pin in his fingers. He had just placed a call to Captain Murphy.

Murphy’s voice blared from the speaker phone. “It was the call of the primary on the case.”

“And who’s that?” Preston snapped his fingers and pointed toward the bar. Like a lap dog, Cain obediently rose from his seat and lumbered over to the bar.

“Jake Mitchell.”

Cain returned with two glasses of Jack Daniels, handed one to Preston, and then sat down across from him.

“He handled security for me last Saturday night, right?”

“Yes,” Murphy replied. After a few seconds, he added, “I understand from the medical examiner’s office that the FBI sent a forensics expert to examine the body.”

Preston closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He opened his eyes again, swallowed the contents of the glass, and waved it in front of Cain to signal he wanted a refill.

“What’s the Bureau looking for?” Preston asked.

“The deceased is an alleged deserter, not to mention an African American. We’ll be lucky we don’t have the NAACP, Jesse Jackson, and god knows who else looking into this case.”

“Great, just fucking great,” said Preston. “I have to have another dead nigger screwing up my…”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I just don’t need this grief right now. I’m leaving it up to you to play this down. He’s been identified. He was drunk, a victim of strange circumstances. Make sure the autopsy report shows a high level of alcohol, or…” he snapped his fingers, “drugs, a high level of drugs. Then just let the story die. The headlines will be filled with something else in no time and people will forget.”

“It may not be that easy.” Murphy’s voice sounded strained.

Cain eyed the contents of his glass while keeping one eye on Preston. Cain always seemed to know how to respond based on Preston’s reactions. And right now, he didn’t like the sound of Preston’s voice.

Preston’s voice softened, a sinister smile spread across his face. “Did I tell you we are creating a police commissioner post? This qualified person will be over the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners, even the Chief of Police.” Preston’s smile broadened. He had hit a hot button. “You know our city is just growing too fast and one police chief isn’t enough, yet it doesn’t make sense to have two.”