The windmill had a metal water tank at its base. Tumbleweeds gray with time clustered against the broken fence of an empty stock pen. A propane canister and a supply of neatly stacked wood sat next to Mrs. Nez’s little house. On the other side, someone had parked an old red-and-white Ford pickup. The brilliant November sunlight might lull a person from elsewhere, like Cordova when he first got to Navajoland, into assuming that the day was warm when in fact the temperature might only reach freezing before the sun started to sink again.
They saw the woman standing in the doorway even before Bernie turned off the engine. The lady seemed big-bosomed in a denim jacket that fit snuggly over a collection of sweaters. She wore a skirt that reached the ground and a paisley scarf over her thick gray hair. She motioned them to come in.
Bernie zipped her khaki Navajo Police Department jacket. Cordova took off the seat belt and buttoned his long black coat. “Let’s get this over with. If she starts to ramble, bring her back on topic.”
“Sometimes these elderlies are lonely. They want to talk, get a sense of us strangers, before they say anything that relates to the case.” Was white society all that different? she wondered.
“Whatever. Just don’t let her go on all day.”
Inside the house was only slightly warmer than outside. They kept their coats on, and the lady stayed bundled in her layers.
Bernie introduced herself again, this time formally in Navajo. Mrs. Nez reciprocated. Bernie switched to English and introduced Agent Cordova in the mainstream American way, with his job title. She noticed that he did not offer to shake hands with the old lady. Good, Bernie thought, he’s learned a few things out here. Mrs. Nez had not invited them to sit, so they stood.
Bernie said in Navajo, “We have something to tell you about your grandson.”
Mrs. Nez stared at the floor.
“I am terribly sorry, but a man was killed by an explosion last night in Shiprock. The FBI checked his fingerprints, and based on that we know he is your grandson, the one who shared this house with you.”
She stopped talking to give Mrs. Nez time to digest the news but Cordova rushed to fill the silence. “The FBI identified the man killed as a person named Richard Horseman.”
Mrs. Nez shuddered.
Bernie scowled at Cordova. He might have been FBI, but he wasn’t an expert on how to get information from Navajo grandmothers. The names of the dead should remain unspoken; whatever evil remained from the dead one would come when it heard itself called.
Mrs. Nez raised her head and stared toward the window. Her voice shook as she spoke in English. “How do you know it was him?”
Cordova cleared his throat. “The FBI keeps a file of prints of people who have been arrested for certain crimes.”
“Prints?” Mrs. Nez looked at Bernie.
Bernie spoke in Navajo. “Your grandson’s fingerprints were in that file because he had been arrested before for a felony, a big crime. We came to tell you what happened because he listed your house as his most recent address.”
Mrs. Nez did not respond.
Cordova said, “Because of the circumstances during which your grandson sustained his fatal injuries, I need to ask you some questions about him.”
Mrs. Nez remained still and silent. She looked deadly pale.
“Please sit down, Grandmother.” Bernie spoke softly in Navajo. “I will help with this interview to make sure the FBI man knows what you are saying and that you understand what he asks.”
Mrs. Nez waved her hand toward a couch covered with a frayed brown bedspread. Bernie sat, and Cordova did the same. Mrs. Nez took the chair across from them.
Cordova started with an open-ended question, asking the grandmother to tell him about the young man.
Mrs. Nez leaned back. The old woman took so long to answer that Bernie wondered if she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Finally, she started to speak in Navajo, stopping periodically so Bernie could translate.
She began the story when her grandson was a small boy and came to live with her because his mother drank too much. He liked sports and art, she told them, and she detailed his school achievements. He wasn’t good at reading but he went to classes for a while at Shiprock High School. He moved away after that to get a job in Albuquerque with a relative who ran an auto repair shop. But his plan didn’t work out so he came back to Shiprock to help her.
Mrs. Nez stopped talking.
Cordova said, “Is that it?”
“I’m thinking.” The impatience in her voice reminded Bernie of Captain Largo on a terrible day. The old woman paused a bit longer and then resumed the story.
Since he’d been back, her grandson had lived with her on and off, mostly coming to her house to sleep and eat. He sometimes spent a few days with a girlfriend. Her grandson was handsome. He had two jobs, and besides that, he helped her with wood for the stove and bought groceries for them when he could. He used to buy beer, but he stopped drinking. He took her to the clinic for her appointments and picked up her medicine.
“He’s a good boy. That’s what I have to say.”
Cordova jotted a few notes. “Tell me what he did last night.”
Mrs. Nez began to speak before Bernie could translate.
“He came home, we ate dinner and talked. He told me he was going to the big basketball game and that he would stay somewhere else that night with the friend who picked him up.
“Do you know the friend’s name?”
“I didn’t see who drove up, but it could have been the girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?” Bernie heard the irritation in Cordova’s voice.
“He calls her Sonnie.”
“Do you know Sonnie’s last name?”
Mrs. Nez shook her head.
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Over there in Farmington or maybe Bloomfield.”
Bernie said, “Do you know who her family is?”
Mrs. Nez switched back to Navajo. “She’s a bilagaana. From Boston or Vermont or someplace like that. She told me but I forget. She talks funny. She works as a secretary for one of those drilling companies.”
Bernie translated. Cordova frowned. “The explosion last night destroyed a car that belonged to a man named Aza Palmer. Did your grandson ever mention a man by that name?”
Mrs. Nez hesitated, and Bernie translated. The woman shook her head.
“Did he ever go to any meetings about environmental issues? Stopping development, things like that?”
Mrs. Nez waited for Bernie to translate, then responded. “I don’t think so. He goes to those meetings to help people keep beer away.”
Cordova glanced at his notes. “Did he have a computer?”
The old lady gave Cordova a wry look. “Too expensive.”
“Did he ever make anything that blew up?”
She sat quietly for a few moments, then rose, went to a shelf by the window, and came back with a small carving. She switched to Navajo. “This is what he makes. He carved this for me.” She extended it toward them, a palm-sized wooden image of an eagle. Bernie noticed the fine workmanship; Cordova barely gave it a glance.
“Can I see Horseman’s bedroom?”
Mrs. Nez looked puzzled. Bernie clarified in Navajo, “He would like to see where your grandson sleeps and where he keeps his belongings.”
Mrs. Nez indicated the couch where they sat with a twist of her chin. “He sleeps there. He has clothes and things in that closet by the window.”