ANTELOPE GIRL – CHAPTER 15

Given the federal government’s superior position when it came to dealing with the Navajo people, Dalton Singer knew exactly how the jurisdictional game would be played in the destruction of Mary Malone’s prized equipment at the bottom of the Little Colorado River. The FBI would take control of the USFWS investigation. The Navajo police would be contacted only if local help or knowledge was required.  

He wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t heard a word from Agent Jones since they parted ways after their hike into the Little Colorado. Jones had promised to touch base with him every day, but Dalton hadn’t heard a peep from the bossy FBI man.  

Captain Nez, who ran the Tuba City substation, seemed mildly interested in the mess. “Outsiders did this,” Nez pronounced. “Might be good to ask around at the Cameron Trading Post and Gray Mountain to see if anyone has seen or heard anything that might be connected to the vandalism.”

“The helicopter also seems like a good lead to check out, too,” said Officer Singer as he stood in the doorway of Nez’s tidy office.

The fireplug Navajo captain nodded his head as he looked over the daily logs on a clipboard. “Sure, that might work too. But there are lots of choppers around here. You don’t know what it looked like, right?”

“Just small and black,” said Dalton as he fingered the leather band on the inside of his cowboy hat.

“Well, that’s not a lot to go on, but maybe it’s worth a shot,” said Nez. “Just keep me in the loop.”

Meanwhile, Officer Singer’s boss in Window Rock, Captain Blackthorn, a beast of a man in both size and demeanor and ostensibly the second in command of the entire Navajo law enforcement shooting match, told him in no uncertain words to stay out of the Fed’s way. “Why should the Navajo Police care about some smashed-up fish monitoring equipment? If the FBI wants our help, they will ask. Otherwise, steer clear.” 

With competing orders, Dalton decided to do some quiet snooping around on his own.  

As he suspected, the helicopter connection proved a dead end. There were lots of registered choppers in the area: tour guides, mining operations, and private owners. No one filed a flight plan. Helicopter flight was a giant free-for-all.

Officer Singer was eating lunch at the McDonald’s in Page when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number. It was FBI agent Travis Jones.

“This should be interesting,” said Dalton to himself as he put down his Filet-o-Fish sandwich. “Officer Singer here.”

“This is FBI Agent Jones. I wanted to check back in with you, as promised. See if you had anything to report. Discuss the Malone case with you after I did a little more digging.”

Dalton wondered if he had judged the white man too quickly. Maybe he wasn’t as big a jerk as he seemed.

“Thanks for reaching out,” replied Dalton. “I looked into the helicopter connection and it led nowhere.”

“Yeah,” agreed Agent Jones. “Too many birds in the air. Could’ve been from almost anywhere. So I decided to come at this from another angle. Who had an ax to grind with Ms. Malone? The answer was obvious.”

“The Russians,” said Dalton.

“Exactly,” said Jones. “I read the transcript of the Navajo Tribal Council meeting. She offered some pretty incendiary testimony against the Grand Canyon Esplanade. Given the fact that her regulatory agency has the authority to stop the project dead in its tracks if they were to determine that fish—what’s it called?”

“The humpback chub,” answered Dalton.

“Precisely. If Malone said the humpback chub would be wiped out by the resort, then Vladimir Petrov would stand to lose millions of dollars. That’s some strong motivation for cutting that lady’s study project short.”

“I’d say you’re right,” replied Dalton. “And he could probably get his hands on a copter quite easily.”

“Well, it turns out he owns several choppers,” said Agent Jones.

“There you go,” said Dalton. “Motive and opportunity. At the council meeting, he had an impressive security force who probably knew how to cause some serious damage, given the order.”

“My thoughts exactly,” replied Jones.

Then, there was silence. Because Agent Travis Jones had not called Dalton about Mary Malone. What he really wanted to talk about was the sudden death of Hunter Maxwell. But the death occurred on the Navajo Reservation, and that meant the Navajo Tribal Police had full jurisdiction and absolute control of the case. The FBI could not muscle their way in on this one. The shoe was now on the other foot, and Travis had to tread lightly.

Dalton knew exactly what was happening, and he was relishing the rare taste of power. But it wasn’t in Dalton’s nature to gloat or treat others with disrespect. So he threw the agent a lifeline.

“The suicide of Hunter Maxwell sure caught us all by surprise,” Dalton said.

“Is that what you really think it was? A suicide?” asked Travis.

Dalton considered his words carefully. He didn’t want anything he said to come back and bite him in the ass. For all he knew, Agent Jones was taping their conversation.

“There were a lot of things that didn’t add up at the scene,” Dalton answered.

“You think it might have been murder?” Travis asked, pushing ahead. 

“Maybe,” replied Dalton.

Travis had had enough. “Look, we both know he was murdered by the Russians,” blurted Travis.

“Big country,” chuckled Dalton. “Can you narrow it down a bit?”

“Who was looking for paybacks with Maxwell?” Jones asked.

“The Russian bodyguards,” said Dalton without hesitation.

“Yes. According to your own report from the night of the meeting of the Council, there was a nasty fight outside the Navajo Tribal Headquarters. Hunter Maxwell had the Russian head bodyguard on the ground and was pummeling him. If you and your partner hadn’t pulled him off the man, he might have killed him.”

“So you think Maxwell’s suicide was staged, and the Russians were just getting even?”

“Exactly,” Agent Jones replied. He exhaled loudly. “But your report listed the cause of death as a probable suicide. So officially it’s still a suicide.”

“All the physical evidence indicated that it was a suicide,” Dalton answered. 

“You strike me as a very perceptive fellow, Officer Singer. Is that really what you thought happened? You were the first officer on the scene. Didn’t it strike you as odd that Maxwell drove all the way out to the middle of nowhere to kill himself?”

“Well, he was some sort of environmental leader who liked to run the Colorado River. Maybe he parked out there because it had a nice view of the river.”

Travis laughed. “He could have found a spot much closer to his home in Flagstaff. Hell, he could have gone out to the Esplanade site and killed himself at Cape Solitude. That would have made a helluva lot more sense, right? He could have martyred himself for the cause.”

“Does seem odd,” agreed Dalton.

 “So it will be really interesting to see what the autopsy reveals.”

Dalton laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t hold your breath with that. Because our pathologist, Dr. Hillerman isn’t very detail-oriented, if you know what I mean. He probably isn’t going to dig real deep.”

“That’s why the FBI now has the body. Didn’t you hear? Your captain in Window Rock—I forget the fellow’s name, Blacktick or something like that—said he would welcome our assistance. We took possession of Maxwell yesterday.”

Travis tried to hide his shock. He couldn’t believe the Navajo Police would hand the investigation over to the feds just like that. “Hey, I’ve been assigned to Tuba City lately. I haven’t been back to Window Rock in days. So I’m kind of out of the loop.”

Travis continued. “Maybe our lab trackers here at the FBI, with all of their high-tech resources, can find that the cause of death was not carbon monoxide poisoning. Our forensic folks can usually find whatever doesn’t want to be found.”

Dalton suddenly saw a troubling connection. “Do you think Maxwell’s death might be linked to the Mary Malone case?”

Agent Jones was silent on the other end. “The thought has crossed my mind. That’s why I think we should pay Mr. Petrov a visit.”

“We?”

“The crimes took place on Navajo land. Technically, that gives you jurisdiction.”

“But my captain told me the FBI was handling the Malone case and I was to steer clear.”

“Look, Officer Singer, I don’t really care what your captain said. Frankly, it’s hard to tell who the hell calls the shots out there on Navajo.”  

“It can get confusing sometimes,” Dalton replied.

“I’m meeting with Mr. Petrov at his fancy resort down in Scottsdale tomorrow. Tell your captain that in the spirit of cooperation, the FBI has invited you to come along.”

Dalton’s head was spinning. He knew that Captain Blackthorn—the same Captain Blackthorn who had just handed over Hunter Maxwell’s body to the feds—wasn’t going to like it. The FBI never cooperated with the Navajo Tribal Police unless they had an ulterior motive. But what would that be? Was this a setup? To what end?

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning down at the FBI headquarters in Phoenix at nine. Don’t be late,” said Agent Jones as if ordering a subordinate.

“Okay with me,” said Dalton. “The Navajo police are here to help the FBI in any way we can.”

Agent Jones had already hung up.