They walked to a small, secluded courtyard behind the building, empty in the late afternoon. Marcus wouldn’t sit. He paced back and forth on the paving stones, wringing his hands.

  “Dr. Alarcon’s work is important,” he began, his voice shaky. “It’s going to change everything. How we treat depression, PTSD… She’s a genius.”

  “We have no doubt about that,” Kari said. “We’re interested in her fieldwork. The ceremonies. We know she’s been studying adverse reactions.”

  Marcus stopped pacing. “She’s just thorough. She documents everything. Every variable. It’s what you have to do to get clean data.”

  “Has her research ever involved… enhancing the medicine?” Ben asked.

  The question hit him like a sucker punch. He paled. “No,” he said, too quickly. “Of course not. That would be… a violation. Our work is purely observational.”

  “Marcus,” Kari said. “We’ve seen the rejected grant proposals. We know she’s been trying to get approval for research into increasing the potency of the alkaloids. We know the ethics committee has stood in her way. It must be frustrating for a brilliant scientist to be held back by bureaucrats.”

  She was giving him an out, a justification. She was siding with him, with Alarcon, against the system.

  It worked. His facade of loyalty crumbled, replaced by a torrent of frustrated words.

  "They don't understand!" he said, his voice rising with passion. "Bennett and his committee they're holding back progress! Dr. Alarcon could have a Nobel Prize if they would just let her do her work. She has theories, models… she knows how to isolate the compounds that could produce a targeted healing experience with none of the negative side effects. But they won't let her test them. They talk about 'spirituality,' but they're really just afraid of true, revolutionary science."

  “So she’s been conducting her own experiments?” Kari asked, her voice neutral.

  Marcus froze, realizing what he had just admitted. “No,” he stammered. “I didn’t say that. She would never… It’s just theoretical. It’s all just on paper.”

  He looked terrified, like a child who had betrayed a parent’s secret. He wouldn’t say more, wouldn’t be drawn out again. He mumbled an excuse about a deadline and practically ran back toward the building, leaving them standing alone in the courtyard.

  They walked back to the SUV.

  “So she’s involved,” Ben said. “But how exactly? What is she actually doing?"

  Kari stopped by the passenger door, turning to face him. “Think it through, Ben. Step by step. What does she want?”

  “To prove her theories,” he answered. “To get the data the university won’t let her collect officially. To win her Nobel Prize, like Marcus said.”

  “Exactly,” Kari said. “So she creates these enhanced doses. She needs human subjects to test them. The ceremonies are the perfect cover. She gives a dose to a participant—someone like Robert Benally, whom she knows has had a previous reaction and makes a good baseline.”

  “Okay, I’m with you,” Ben said.

  “But the experiment goes wrong,” Kari continued, her voice low and intense. “The subject doesn’t have a transcendent healing experience. They have a bad reaction. They get sick, they get terrified. Like Robert Benally did three months ago when he got those terrible cramps and headaches. That’s a failed experiment. That’s bad data.”

  “And a potential witness,” Ben added, catching on. “If Robert Benally starts telling everyone that the medicine at a ceremony involving the university researcher made him violently ill, it draws unwanted attention. It could expose her secret project.”

  “Precisely,” Kari said. “The failed experiments aren't just flawed data points anymore. They’re loose ends. They are people who can talk, people who can ruin everything she’s worked for. Maria Sandoval, who had that ‘fascinating conversation’ with her. Jerome Natanii, who saw her as an ally. Robert Benally, who she knew was a sensitive subject. What if she gave them all an experimental dose, and all three of them had a bad reaction?”

  She leaned against the side of the SUV, the theory solidifying into a horrifyingly plausible narrative.

  “She’s not just studying the victims,” Kari said. “She’s creating them. And then, when her experiments fail, when the subjects become a threat to her life’s work… she’s cleaning up her mess. She’s eliminating the evidence. It’s not about hate, it’s not random. It’s damage control.”

  The image was stark and terrifying: a brilliant scientist, methodically poisoning and murdering her own human test subjects to protect her secret, illegal research. It was a motive born of pure, cold-blooded ambition.

  They finally had it. A motive. A method. A primary suspect whose story was beginning to unravel.

  “We need a warrant,” Ben said, his voice hard. “Now. We need to get into that lab and see her notes before she has a chance to destroy them.”

  "I know," Kari said. "But if we go to a state judge with this, if we ask for a warrant to raid the lab of a major university's star researcher based on a case involving protected religious ceremonies… It's going to explode."

  “It’s the only way, Kari.”

  “No, it’s not,” she said, thinking it through. “The moment I do that, the state police will alert the FBI. A case this sensitive, with a serial killer targeting a protected minority during religious rites… the Bureau will take over in a heartbeat. They’ll see it as a federal hate crime, or a violation of religious freedoms.”

  Her fear wasn't just about losing control of the case. It was personal. It was about her mother. The investigation into Anna’s death, the secret one she was carrying, was tangled up in the history of the reservation, in its secrets and its pain. The Feds would look for a simple motive, a simple killer, and they would miss the deeper story.

  She couldn’t let them take this. Not when she felt so close to finding out what had happened to her mother.

  “We need more before we go official,” she insisted. “Something undeniable. Something that doesn’t just come from the word of a scared graduate student.”

  Before Ben could argue, her phone rang. It was Captain Yazzie. She answered, a sense of foreboding washing over her.

  “Kari, get back here,” he said. There was no preamble. His voice was raw, furious, an emotion she had rarely heard from her stoic captain before. “Get back to the station. Now.”

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Just get here,” he snapped, and the line went dead

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “—so her assistant, Marcus Stone, all but admitted she’s running unsanctioned experiments. He was terrified,” Kari finished as she stood before Captain Yazzie’s desk.

  She and Ben had been back for less than five minutes, the dust of the road still on their boots. She'd expected the captain to immediately tell them why they'd been summoned—it only took one glance at his face to see how worked up he was—but he'd insisted on debriefing them before sharing his reason for calling them in.

  “She has the means, the knowledge, the motive, and a direct, documented link to all three victims," Kari continued. "We were debating getting a warrant when you called.”

  Captain Yazzie listened, his face an unreadable mask of stone, his steepled fingers hiding his mouth. He didn’t seem surprised or excited by the breakthrough. He just sat there, absorbing the information with a heavy stillness that was more unnerving than any outburst. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

  "Let's hope you're on the right track," he said. "Because we need to close this case before any further damage is done."

  "Damage?" Ben asked, glancing uncertainly at Kari.

  In answer, Captain Yazzie simply stabbed a key on his laptop, then turned the device toward them. A video began to play. It was a news report from a Phoenix television station, one known for its aggressive, sensationalist journalism. The anchor, a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a serious expression, introduced a special investigation by their star reporter, a man named Gavin Thorne.

  The scene cut to Thorne, a man with a sharp suit and a sharper smile, standing on a dusty road with the iconic silhouette of Shiprock behind him. “A series of tragedies has rocked the normally quiet Navajo Nation,” he began, his voice dripping with synthetic gravitas. “Three deaths, all initially ruled accidents, now being investigated as a possible serial killing. But sources inside the community are pointing not to a random predator, but to a corruption deep within their most sacred traditions.”

  Kari felt a cold dread wash over her. A leak. And not just a leak, but a twisted, inflammatory one.

  The video cut to a new shot, this one shaky and obviously filmed from a hidden vantage point inside a coffee shop. A man’s face was blurred, his voice electronically distorted into a low, robotic rumble.

  “It ain’t right,” the distorted voice said. “Used to be, you went to a ceremony for healing. For the spirit. Now… now it feels like a business. Strangers walking around, watching.”

  The scene shifted again, this time to a woman, also blurred, sitting on a park bench. “You hear things,” she said, her altered voice tight with anxiety. “Money changing hands. People getting access who shouldn’t be there. It makes you wonder if the protection is still strong. It makes you afraid.”

  The quick cuts, the blurred faces, the ominous music swelling underneath—it was a masterclass in manipulation, designed to create an atmosphere of fear and suspicion.

  “And at the center of these changes,” Thorne’s voiceover continued, smooth as silk, “is one man. A respected Native American Church roadman named Daniel Crowfeather.”

  Crowfeather’s picture appeared on the screen—a stocky, serious-looking man in his fifties. The photo looked like it had been pulled from a social media page.

  “For years, Daniel Crowfeather has been a pillar of his community,” Thorne said. “But multiple sources tell this station that in recent months, his practices have taken a controversial turn. An anonymous source claims that Crowfeather has been granting unprecedented access to his protected religious ceremonies to non-Native researchers, including a team from the University of Arizona led by ethnobotanist Dr. Elena Alarcon.”

  Kari and Ben exchanged a stunned look. Alarcon’s name, spoken on the evening news, tied to a man they had never even heard of.

  “And why would a traditional healer open his sacred circle to outsiders?” Thorne asked rhetorically, a sly look on his face. “According to our sources, the answer is simple: money. Witnesses claim that in exchange for this access, Crowfeather has received thousands of dollars in under-the-table payments, funds that have dramatically improved his living situation, including the purchase of a brand-new pickup truck and significant upgrades to his home.”

  The report showed a picture of a modest but well-kept house, then a shiny, new-looking Ford F-150 parked in the driveway. The implication was clear and ugly.

  The video then cut back to Thorne, now looking directly into the camera with an expression of journalistic integrity. “I sat down with Mr. Crowfeather myself,” he said. “When I pressed him on the allegations of accepting money from outside researchers, he became defensive and evasive, refusing to answer my questions directly. His refusal to be transparent only deepens the concerns of a community desperate for answers.”

  I wouldn't want to talk with a snake like you, either, Kari thought.

  “While police have not named any official suspects,” Thorne concluded, his face grave, “the community is now asking a frightening question: Has a spiritual leader’s greed opened the door to a killer?”

  The video ended, leaving a toxic silence in the room. Kari felt sick. The report was a Molotov cocktail of half-truths, innuendo, and outright speculation, all wrapped in the righteous cloak of investigative journalism. It had taken their complex, sensitive case and turned it into a cheap, racist trope: the greedy Indian selling out his people.

  “The Tribal Council is on fire,” Yazzie said, his voice barely controlled. “The Native American Church elders are furious. They see this as a desecration, a media-driven witch hunt. And Daniel Crowfeather’s phone has been ringing off the hook with threats.”

  He looked at them, his eyes blazing. “This reporter, Thorne—he’s been sniffing around for weeks, pretending to be a sympathetic academic interested in traditional ways. He lied his way into people’s confidence. Now he’s put a target on the back of a respected man and thrown our entire investigation into chaos.”

  “We’ve never heard the name Daniel Crowfeather,” Ben said, his voice tight. “He wasn’t a roadman at any of the three fatal ceremonies.”

  “I know that,” Yazzie snapped. “But Thorne doesn’t care about the facts. He cares about his story. And now, this is the story. I’ve got the council demanding we either arrest Crowfeather or publicly clear him. I’ve got the FBI calling, saying this now has the appearance of a hate crime and they’re considering stepping in.”

  There it was. Kari’s worst fear. The media storm was giving the Bureau the perfect excuse to take over.

  “We need to get ahead of this,” Yazzie continued. “Now. Your theory about Alarcon is compelling. Maybe Daniel Crowfeather has really been giving her access, maybe he hasn't. Either way, he's your priority now. I want you to find him, talk to him, and find out what the hell is going on. Is he taking money? Is he connected to Alarcon? Is there any truth to any of this? We need to control the narrative, and we need to do it tonight. If he’s innocent, we need to be able to say it with certainty. And if he’s guilty of something…" He clenched his jaw. "I need to know exactly what.”

  “Where do we find him?” Kari asked, her mind already shifting, compartmentalizing her fury at the reporter and her suspicions about Alarcon.

  Yazzie pushed a piece of paper across the desk. It was an address. “He lives about forty minutes from here. Go. Now. And Kari… be smart. This is a minefield. One wrong step, and we might all be relegated to watching the news.”

  ***

  Daniel Crowfeather’s house was exactly as it had appeared in the news report: a modest but well-maintained home, freshly painted, with a new-looking wooden porch. And parked in the driveway, gleaming under the porch light, was a dark blue Ford F-150, so new it still had the temporary tags in the back window.

  The sight of it gave Kari a sinking feeling.

  A man who matched the photo from the news report opened the door before they knocked. Daniel Crowfeather’s face was a mask of anger and exhaustion.

  “If you’re another reporter, you can get off my land before I call the police,” he said, his voice a low growl.

  “We are the police,” Kari said, holding up her badge. “Navajo Nation. I’m Detective Blackhorse. This is Detective Tsosie. We need to talk to you, Mr. Crowfeather.”

  His anger deflated, replaced by a deep, weary resignation. “It’s about the news report?”

  “It is,” she said. “May we come in?”

  He hesitated, then stepped aside. The inside of the house was clean and tidy, but sparsely furnished. The air smelled of sage and fear. He led them to a small dining table and sat down heavily in one of the chairs. He looked like a cornered animal.

  “It’s all lies,” he said, not looking at them. “That reporter… he came to me saying he was writing a book, that he wanted to honor the old ways. I trusted him. Now he’s trying to destroy me.”

  “That’s what we’re here to sort out,” Ben said. “We need you to be honest with us, Mr. Crowfeather. The story he told… is any of it true?”

  Crowfeather stared at the table, his knuckles white where he gripped its edge. He was silent for a long, heavy minute. Kari didn’t push. She let the silence work, let him wrestle with his pride and his fear.

  “Some of it,” he said finally. The admission seemed to come at a great cost.

  “Have you been allowing researchers access to your ceremonies?” Kari asked.

  He nodded, a jerky, reluctant movement. “Yes. Dr. Alarcon’s team. She is a good woman. She believes in the medicine. Her research… she said it could help our people, help the world understand. I believed her. I still do.”

  “And did you accept payments from her research grant?” Ben asked gently.

  Crowfeather looked up, and his eyes were filled with a mixture of shame and defiance. “Yes,” he said, his voice stronger now. “I did. The grant had funds allocated for community engagement and participant compensation. It’s all documented. It’s not a secret. It wasn’t ‘under the table.’ The money… it helped. The new truck? My old one was dying. I need it to get to ceremonies, to visit my family. The house needed repairs. I didn’t use the money for… for luxuries. I used it to live.”

  He was telling the truth, Kari thought. Or at least, his version of it. He wasn’t a greedy conspirator. He was a man who had accepted money that was offered to him, a common and accepted practice in many research studies. But seen through the cynical lens of a TV news report, it had been twisted into something sinister.

  “We’re investigating three murders, Mr. Crowfeather,” Kari said. “Three people who died after ceremonies. We need to know if you were involved in any of them.”

  "No!" he said, his head snapping up, his eyes wide with horror. "Of course not! The ceremonies those people attended… they weren't mine. I knew those roadmen. They are good men. What happened to those people… It's a terrible, terrible tragedy. It has nothing to do with me—or Dr. Alarcon's research."

  He seemed to believe it. He was a man caught in a storm he didn’t understand, his reputation being torn apart by forces he couldn’t see. Still, Kari had to be sure.

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Alarcon?" she asked.

  “About a week ago,” he replied. “She came by to give me a copy of a paper she had published. She seemed… distracted. Stressed. She said the university was putting a lot of pressure on her about her research protocols.”

  It was another small piece, but it fit the narrative they were building. Alarcon was feeling pressure from the ethics committee. But it did nothing to implicate Crowfeather.

 

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