Sacred Clowns by Tony Hillerman Page A

“He acted like he’d been drinking. He said, ‘How’d that get under there?’”
    “Was he drunk?”
    “About two-thirds. Maybe four-fifths.”
    “Any idea at all who the call was from? Did Ahkeah have any idea?”
    “The dispatcher took it,” Toddy said. “A man. He wouldn’t give a name. She said he sounded like an Anglo. And Ahkeah, he acted like he didn’t have any idea.”
    “I’ll handle the blood sample,” Streib said. “Get it to the lab for you. Did you get a statement from Ahkeah?”
    “He said he didn’t know anything about it.” Toddy extracted a clipboard from his desk and handed it to Streib. “He said Dorsey was a friend of his. That he didn’t kill him.”
    Streib read, lips pursed. He handed the clipboard to Leaphorn. The statement was brief and Toddy had summarized it well. He’d only left out that Ahkeah wasn’t going to talk to anyone anymore until he got a lawyer. Everybody was watching television these days. Doing it like they did it on TV.
    “Did he call a lawyer?” Leaphorn asked.
    “He said he didn’t have any money so we called DNA for him. He said they were going to send somebody out from Window Rock.”
    Leaphorn felt one of those uneasy premonitions. The supply of legal aid people at Window Rock was small, of those competent to defend criminal cases even smaller.
    “Did they say who they’re sending?”
    “That woman,” Toddy said. “Janet Pete.”
    “Oh, shit,” Leaphorn said.
    Streib noticed the tone. “She’s trouble?”
    “She’s the lady friend of my new assistant,” Leaphorn said. “At least I think he wants her to be. That’s what I hear.”
    “That could be trouble,” Streib said.
    “Yes, indeed.”
    Back in the lockup section, they found Ahkeah dozing on his bunk under the window. He was slightly overweight and slightly gone-to-seed. Leaphorn guessed his age in the late forties. He sat up clumsily into the sunlight, facing them first with the apologetic confusion of one emerging from alcoholic sleep, and then with the defiant, tense look of a worried man. Seeing him now in the bright sunlight, Leaphorn reconsidered his judgment of Ahkeah’s age. Maybe early thirties, with fifteen years subtracted from his prime by whiskey.
    “I don’t want to talk to you,” Ahkeah said.
    “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Streib told him. “We just wondered how that silver, and jewelry, and all that other stuff got under your place. If you could help us with that maybe we could get you out of here.”
    “I got a lawyer coming,” Ahkeah said. “Talk to the lawyer.”
    “You don’t have to talk to us if you don’t want. It just saves everybody some time. Maybe it would fix it so you could go on home.”
    “Or maybe not,” Ahkeah said. “I just tell you one thing, though.” He wiped his hand across his face and then stared directly into Streib’s eyes. “There’s no way I’d ever hurt Eric. He was a friend to me. There’s no goddam way I’d ever hurt him,” he said, and his voice was shaking as he said it. Then Eugene Ahkeah slumped back on his bunk, turned to the wall, and put his pillow over his head.

    * * *

    The twenty-seven twisting miles up and over Borrego Pass to Thoreau gave them time to talk about Ahkeah.
    “He’d be pretty dumb to do it that way, or pretty drunk,” Streib said.
    “You know,” Leaphorn said. “If I had just one single wish, what I think it would be, it would be to get rid of booze. No more beer. No more wine. No more bourbon, or Scotch, or any other damn thing that causes a man to hit his friend on the head with a hammer.”
    “You think he did it?” Streib’s sideways glance showed surprise. “That anonymous telephone tip. I’ll bet that makes you uneasy.”
    “It makes me uneasy some. But that little speech he made there at the end was sort of like a confession.”
    Streib looked surprised again. “You mean, where he was telling us he’d never hurt Dorsey?”
    Leaphorn sighed.