Finally, she saw flashing lights on the highway and heard the wail of a siren. It would be great if it were Chee, but it wouldn’t be. Her husband, a sergeant, was on duty tonight at the other end of the district, following a bootlegging case. Otherwise, he would have come to the game with her.
The arriving officer was probably Officer Bigman, she figured, at the station ready to call it a day when her call came. She and Bigman, a clan brother, worked well together. He was a steady hand, a good guy in a tough situation who’d had her back more than once.
But the patrol unit cruised directly toward the entrance to the gym and the burning car. She trotted toward it, waving the driver away from the crime scene. It must be the new guy, Wilson Sam. Bigman would know better.
She’d worked with the rookie a few times before and decided he was impressed with himself for no good reason. He didn’t seem to like her either.
In the glare of his headlights she noticed more cars and trucks with dents and shattered windows farther away from the site of the explosion. Wilson Sam stopped, turned off the siren, and lowered the window when she reached him. She felt the car’s interior warmth escaping as he spoke. “I was getting ready to go home. What’s going on?”
“A car blew up. Park by the fence and get right back. Block the entrance until we figure out what’s up. Leave the light bar flashing.”
“Cripes. What a mess. It stinks out here.” She felt his eyes on her casual jacket and jeans. “Are you in charge? I didn’t know you were even working tonight.”
“I am until the feds get here or someone tells me otherwise.” She didn’t like his tone. “Park fast and come back to help with crowd control.”
“Can’t the security guys . . . ?”
“Don’t argue. Go.”
Sam drove backward to the rear of the lot, left the lights pulsing against the dark Four Corners night. She watched his silhouette against the blue-and-red strobe as he strolled to her, taking his sweet time.
She snapped more pictures of the car at the epicenter and the debris around it, trying to include everything since she didn’t know what might be important to give the investigators an idea of the uncontaminated scene.
Sam arrived and watched her take photographs. The way he stood, resting his hands on his hips, reminded her of a disagreeable clan brother. “What if this was just some kind of engine malfunction that made a big mess?”
“Until we know otherwise, we treat it as a bomb. Go to the gym. Tell the folks who want to go home to chill. Keep things calm in there. We have to hold people inside in case there’s another bomb out here or a sniper. There are kids in there, and the ground is full of sharp metal, broken glass, who knows what else. We have to minimize the damage and the disruption to the crime scene until we get some backup.”
Sam took a step toward her. “You’re wrong. If this was a bomb we should start evacuating. There could be another bomb in the locker room, wired to the game clock, anywhere. The whole gym could blow. Do you want people to die because you screwed up?”
She glared at him. “It’s my call. I’m in charge. Listen up and don’t argue.”
Sam stared back. “You go inside that death trap. Not me. I’ll take pictures and take my chance out here.”
Bernie swallowed her anger to focus on the job. “Don’t let anyone near that car or any of the cars around it.” She ran toward the gym.
The stifling heat and game-day smell of sweat and food slapped her as she opened the door. The security guards—Henry, the paunchy man she’d spoken with earlier, and Larry in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap—looked relieved to see her. She heard the shrill whistle of an official calling a penalty.
Bernie studied the crowd in the lobby, looking for someone she knew. She saw a man with his hair in gray braids talking to a pair of girls with glow rings around their necks. She noticed a middle-aged woman with a baby, both of whom looked tired. She spotted a Hispanic man who resembled her teacher from the sixth grade, a receptionist she recognized from the medical center, a bilagaana in a button-down shirt who seemed out of place, a library aide she’d met in Farmington, and a boy she’d arrested for drunken driving. A few team mothers who had been selling popcorn, fry bread, and Frito pies stood by their food. People looked curious and anxious, but no one had panicked. At least not yet.
She noticed a table littered with promotional material soliciting students to enroll in the military, advertising for a revival meeting, holiday bake sales, and the protest in Tuba City. She swept the papers to the floor and climbed up so she towered over the crowd.
She yelled, “Attention, please. I’m Officer Bernadette Manuelito.” She shouted several times, and then one of the food vendors banged on a metal tray with a spoon. People looked up. “There’s been an explosion in the parking lot. Until we figure out what happened, no one can leave for a while. Go back and enjoy the game. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. Sorry, but I can’t answer any questions. Just relax, folks.”
She surveyed the lobby crowd again and spotted Mr. Franklin, a man she knew from the Shiprock Chapter House and the area’s delegate to the Navajo Tribal Council. She called his name and, when he looked up at her, motioned him to the front of the table. “You’ve got a strong voice. You’re a leader. Take charge here, sir. Please. Try to keep people calm and in the building.”
He was an elder, and that gave him extra clout. “What happened?”
“A car blew up. I don’t know why. I’ve got to get back outside.”
Franklin turned to the crowd. His deep voice resonated with calm authority. “Do what the lady policeman says. I know her. Go watch the game.”
Bernie climbed down from the table and bumped into the man with the braids she’d seen earlier. He smiled at her and said, “Excuse me,” first in English and then in Navajo. His voice, rough and musical, reminded her for a split second that the world held beauty as well as the current chaos.
She went back to the parking lot. After the oppressive heat of the gym, the combination of frigid air and acrid smoke called her senses to attention.
She looked for the rookie but didn’t see him. “Sam? Where are you?”
“Over here. Somebody’s hurt bad.”
She followed his voice. A new smelled added itself to the stench, the unforgettable odor of burned human flesh. Then she saw the body, a crumpled form in the shadows. How could she have missed it?
“Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you call—?”
Sam interrupted. “Sandra said the ambulance is on the way.”
Bernie squatted next to the victim, keeping her boots out of the blood. The one eye she could identify was closed. Glass fragments sparkling in the skin of the eyelid, on his cheeks, neck, and his brown jacket. She leaned closer, pushing down her own nausea, and heard a gurgling breath. “Take it easy, sir. We’re here to help you.”