Death and Desire (5 page)

“Be hard to have an accident like that.” He shook his head. “The fence is six feet tall and there's a roll of concertina wire on top of that. On the days they truck in crushed ore or spray, a supervisor is called to unlock the gate and relock it as soon as the truck dumps its load or the sprayers are finished.”

Torres parked the Jeep on the side of a graded roadbed. Louis shot a close up and then widened to cover the scene. Diesel smoke mixed with the stink of the acid pit. Men shouted over the rumble of engines and constant blare of the Mexican music. Most of them had a neckerchief pulled up over their nose and mouth. Ahead, a yellow Cat gouged a scar on the earth. Louis held the camera steady on the heavy machinery.

“What is the music the men are listening to?” I asked.

“
Corridos
.” Torres smiled. “The Mexican people have always sung ballads about their heroes.” He motioned me ahead on a sandy trail. Phrases of the song and the sad melody stuck in my head.

“You turn up any artifacts when you dig out here?”

Torres stared at me bright-eyed. “Nah, not much of that stuff around here.”

“If you do turn something up, what would you do?”

He shrugged. “Call the super, I guess. Above my pay grade.”

Over Torres's shoulder, I could see Louis using a long lens to photograph the depths of the finger canyon.

We stood watching an earthmover add to the mound of dirt on the side of the road. “Where will this new road go?”

“Back side of the mine. We need a road that can handle heavy truck traffic. Back in Tsosie's day, trucks and dozers weren't as heavy.”

Louis caught my eye. I had stalled Torres long enough. “I think we've got plenty to work with Mr. Torres.” I extended my hand. “If you'll just give us a lift back to our car.”

“Sure thing.”

When he parked by my vehicle, I asked, “What are the other buildings for?”

He pointed to one of the Quonset huts. “That's the workers' dorm, and the metal buildings are a machine shop and storage for food and supplies for the miners.”

“What's the other Quonset hut for?”

He gave me his easy smile. “Mechanics' shop. We take the big graders and Cats in there to work on them out of the blowing sand.”

L
ouis and I sat in a cramped video-edit bay and dumped the footage on the timeline. “Girl, why did you have such a hard-on for Chavez? Which story are you after? Is it going to be pot hunting or pollution or uranium mining?”

“Why can't it be all three?”

He shrugged his shoulder. “Can be what you want. You're the reporter. How'd you know all that environmental stuff you sprang on Chavez?”

I touched my cell. “Homework. There's an expert in the environmental engineering department over at the university.”

“Gal, my head is swimming—grave robbing, dirty mining, Niyol killed . . .”

“Look, here's what we have,” I said recapping my thoughts. “Three dead Navajos who were all associated with the mine, Niyol, his friend Sani Begay, and Naalish Tsosie, the former operator. Chavez benefited from each of their deaths, and now none of them can talk about looting Anasazi graves or being replaced with illegal workers.”

“What makes you think those Hispanics are illegals?”

“They have to know about the grave robbing and they wouldn't all stay quiet if they weren't illegals. All Chavez has to do is toss them out of the Quonset hut and they'll get picked up by the border patrol. Those men get fed and housed and can send a little of their paycheck home to their families in Mexico. Sweet deal for them and they aren't going to screw it up.”

“Are you ratting Chavez out to the Border Patrol?”

“Eventually, but not before I know about Niyol's story of pot hunting and the financial documents.”

“Right,” Louis said drily. “I forgot about the funky accounting probs. Thanks for giving me something else to think about.”

“Chavez needs the workers to do his dirty work so he's not sending them back to Mexico. We have time to follow a couple of angles so let's start the video and see what we have.”

We scrolled through the first segments of the interview and the walk around the pit. We were back where Dinetah was grading the roadbed adjacent to the little canyon. “Oh,” I gasped watching the tape. “Stop the video. Now back it up slowly. There. Enlarge that frame. See that?” I tapped the screen. “Back in that finger canyon is a hogan. Go to the next frame. Zoom in more. There's a woman.”

“She's all hunched over, looks pretty old to be living out there by herself.” Louis squinted at the monitor.

He advanced the frame and zoomed again. “There's a stream in that canyon. See the willows? There's a pen back behind her hogan.” He held the zoom until the picture was getting fuzzy. “She's got a horse back there.”

“Back the footage up, please. Let's look for tracks and signs of digging.”

Louis slowly spooled the video backward frame by frame.

“Zoom there, on those tire tracks.”

Louis slowly rolled the video over and back a couple of frames, finally zooming in again on the tracks. “Big machinery was way off the road site back in the canyon.”

“Good call. Look at how deep those tracks are,” I said.

“Did you get pictures of the canyon walls?”

“Yep. See those pockmarks up high on the walls? Right below that natural shallow cave?” He pulled the cursor over to a small, carved-out space on the wall. “Now look below it. That's a machine-made opening into the wall. Someone dug into a burial site. You have any idea where this canyon is on the topo map?” Louis asked.

“I do. I punched the coordinates into my GPS when we were out there.” I spread the topo map out on my desk. “Here.” I tapped the spot. “Look, that canyon is open on both ends. The stream flows all the way through, probably cut the canyon thousands of years ago.” I traced the blue line of water. I can get in that canyon back here off this county road without going past the mine property.”

“How are you going to get the old woman to talk to you?”

“Where's the closest trading post? She's not riding that horse into town to Walmart.” I spread a road map over the topo. “Right here.” I circled the name. “Diablo Canyon Trading Post. They'll know who she is.”

I handed him my USB drive. “Please put those last frames on my drive.” I grabbed my bag, checking for my camera.

“You sure you don't want some company?”

“Nah, I got this.” My cell phone was ringing. Officer Nez. He would be waiting for me after I visited the trading post. Louis thrust the flash drive in my hand as I left.

 

Diablo Trading Post was a frame building no bigger than a gas station. The boards had weathered to a dull gray. I opened the squeaking screen door into a dimly lit room full of shelves of flour, canned goods, horse bridles, and pellet fuel. In the back, an old man sorted weaver's thread into stacks by color. “Good afternoon,” I called out.

“Hello. Need something?” He winced as he shuffled around the counter and stuck out his hand.

“I'm Taylor McWhorter with KNAZ.”

“Seen you on the TV.” He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “I'm Frank Aguirre.”

We shook hands. “I'm doing a story on the reopening of the old Tsoodzil Mine by Dinetah Mining.”

“Good. Someone needs to talk about that mine.”

“You lived here long?”

“All seventy-eight of my years.”

“Were you running the trading post when Naalish Tsosie worked the mine?”

A dry chuckle filled the air between us. “I'm old, but I'd most likely be dead if I was running the Diablo when Naalish operated the mine.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Aguirre, I didn't mean any offense.”

“No offense taken. My Dad was mining here back in the twenties. Used to tell us boys he bought a pickax and a burro and made a career out of it. He wanted better for us.” He started bobbing his head up and down. “Yes siree, he wanted something better for us boys than going down in that mine.”

“Did your dad own this place, too?”

“No, I bought it in the late fifties. I can tell you stories from the old days around here about that mine. Pour you some coffee?”

“Sure.” No customers in sight. I wondered how long those cans of lard had been on his shelves. “Most of your customers Navajos?” I sipped my coffee.

“Yeah, the old ones shop here for the basics. They got kinfolk who drive them into Flag once in a while. But I see my regulars pretty much weekly.”

“There's a hogan back in that canyon the mine opens into. Under some willows near the stream. Do you know who lives there?”

“That's Yanaha. She's a regular. In here most Thursdays.”

“Does she come on horseback?”

“Yep. I don't know who's older, Yanaha or that old swayback nag of hers.”

“Here's my card. Would you give it to her when she comes in?” I flipped it over and scribbled my cell number.

“Sure.” He tucked my card in his torn shirt pocket. “She don't have cell service out there, but they say it's coming. I got me a landline here. She uses it. Freshen your coffee? I got all the time in the world.” He grinned, showing me thousands in dental work that was never going to happen.

“Thanks.” I held out my cup and he topped it off. “Do you remember the miners getting sick when your dad worked in the mine?”

His hands shook and his coffee dribbled onto the scarred countertop. He wiped the excess off his chin. “Sure did. Lot of 'em died from workin' that old mine. Got the yellow monster, Leetso.”

“Yellow monster?”

“Yeah, that's what them miners called it. Got uranium dust in their lungs. Made them cough up thick yellow mucus. Then the blood started comin'. They wuz bent over gasping for breath right before they bled to death on the inside. Terrible way to die.” He spat in the corner, then slurped his coffee. “Awful place to work, that old mine. Can't believe they're opening it again.”

The gob of mucus gleaming on the floor made my coffee less appealing. “What about their families? Any of them have the yellow monster?”

“Plenty of them died. Warn't only their lungs that took them though. The cancer got them. Even them little kids died.”

“What happened?”

“Back then, the Navajo collected the rock tailings and used it to build their hogans. Them rocks were radioactive, leaking them isotopes, the scientist fellas called it. Killed those people. That mine killed 'em.” Tears cleaned trails on his dirty face. “I lost me some good friends.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I don't spec that's what you come here for. Hear an old man just talking old times.

“I appreciate your story. Thanks, Frank.”

He scrunched his face and wheezed out a long breath. “I seen something. Maybe last week some time.” He scratched his head, his face scrunched in thought.

“What?”

“I seen a stalled truck down on my road when I was going to town.”

“You own the road out here?” I was puzzled.

“Nah, I don't really own it, but I been using it longer than them fellas up at the mine.” He sat up a little straighter and jutted his chin out.

“I didn't come past the Diablo when I went to the mine.”

“You could have. Only two things on this road are the Diablo and the mine.”

“Hmmm, okay . . . Frank, what did you see?”

“I seen one of them open trucks like the military uses, stalled out cuz the driver was flooding the thing with gas. You could smell it something awful. He didn't wave me down, but I stopped anyway. The canvas sides were rolled up and a bunch of Mexican men were sittin' in the back of truck on benches. They all ducked their heads when I looked over at 'em.”

“Did the driver talk to you?”

“Yeah, he told me he didn't need no help from me. One of them men sittin' in the cab jumped out, and he dropped them canvas sides.”

“What happened then?”

“I backed off and acted stupid, but they were hauling a load of illegals up to that mine.”

“Wow, Frank. That's a good story. Thanks, I can use that.”

He nodded and smiled at me. “I'll be watching for them and call you if I see anything else.”

I got up to leave, but hesitated. Not one customer had come in while I had listened. I picked up three cans of corn. Then I added five pounds of flour for good measure. “I'll be needing these.” I dumped them all on the counter for Frank to ring up. It was dangerous for me to cook, but Eric could make something out of it.

Frank hobbled over to the counter and rang up the groceries. He handed me the change. “I'll talk to Yanaha when she comes in and I'll tell her about you. You come around any time. I got some more stories to tell.”

 

I was tired and thirsty when I pulled into the tribal police station. The alert desk officer was still at her position. “Taylor McWhorter for Officer Nez,” I said. Trace's door was shut.

“Sure. How ya been?” Her perky cheerleader smile lit her face. “He's back here in his office.” She opened the swinging gate that kept the civilians out and led the way. “Officer Nez, Ms. McWhorter to see you.”

She slipped out of his office, but left Nez's door open on the way out.

“Glad we could finally meet Ms. McWhorter. I pulled the police report from Niyol Notah's visit with me.”

“Thank you.” I thumbed through the short police report while Dave Nez waited quietly. Satisfied the information in the file matched what Bidziil had told me, I asked Nez, “Niyol was killed shortly after he talked with you. Do you remember what his state of mind was when you saw him?”

Officer Nez sighed, his face intent on the question. “You know, I don't remember much. He was an old man. I was surprised he was still running heavy equipment. He was small and wiry, but he was way too old for hard work like that.” Dave shrugged his shoulders in apology. “I'm sorry. He didn't seem terrified or anything.”

“Did you follow up on his report of pot hunting in the canyons?”

“Ma'am, there just wasn't enough evidence. A cell-phone picture and his story didn't give me much to go on. We still got a lot of people who think pot hunting is a leisure activity for a lazy afternoon. It's illegal, but I didn't think there was enough evidence to start investigating Dinetah Mining.”

“Did you think it was unusual he was killed shortly after he talked to you?”

“I did think about that,” he said defensively. His young face sagged. “I messed up not taking his story more seriously, and I feel guilty about the old man's death. I should have told my captain, but instead I just put it in a file.” He looked down at his hands. “Captain Yazzie called me in and told me a man who has poor judgment won't ever make captain.”

I looked at his impossibly young face. “I don't know that you could have saved Niyol's life if you had taken the report to Captain Yazzie. Thank you.” I shook his hand. When I left, I nearly stumbled over Officer Etisitty, who was hovering outside Nez's door.

She stepped aside for me to pass saying, “You have a nice afternoon.” She turned quickly and made a show of stacking papers on her desk. I felt her curious eyes on my back.

“Ms. McWhorter?” His sexy voice rumbled over me.

I turned to find Trace Yazzie standing in his doorway.

Etisitty swiveled her head from him to me.

He held out his hand and smiled, oblivious to Susan's insatiable curiosity. “Nice to see you, again. I mentioned we would.”

He looked gorgeous in his uniform. What was it that made me limp in the knees over a guy in trim khaki pants and a matching shirt with a cowboy hat tossed on his desk? He tantalized me with another gentle smile. I grasped his hand and felt that Trace-tingle of excitement shoot up my arm.
Whoa, Taylor. You are standing on the precipice of stupidity
. I squeezed his hand, then dropped mine. “Nice to see you also.”