CLOSE CALL, page 13
"And Sarah?"
A shadow crossed her father's features. "She returned to her community near the mine. I warned her against it—told her Crestwood would know she was the source eventually, even with our protections. But she refused to leave her family." He paused. "Three years later, she died of an unusually aggressive cancer. She was thirty-four."
The age struck Kari with particular force—her own age now. "You believe it was connected to the mine."
"I believe it was never proven to be connected," he replied carefully. "The official medical opinion was that her cancer could have had multiple potential causes. Without comprehensive environmental testing data—the very data Crestwood had been falsifying—direct causation couldn't be established."
"But you had your suspicions."
Her father met her gaze directly. "What I believed personally and what I could prove professionally remained separate questions. That's how it works in our field, Kari. You know that."
The professional detachment in his voice—the same tone he'd used throughout her childhood when explaining why he couldn't discuss certain cases or be present for certain events—sparked a familiar frustration.
"Did Mom know about Sarah Whiteriver?" she asked.
"Yes. Anna was involved in community support efforts for families affected by mine-related illnesses. She knew Sarah, though not about her role as my informant until much later." He hesitated. "After your mother and I separated, she began researching these connections more deeply. The impacts of uranium mining on reservation communities became her academic focus."
"And now someone has searched those research files," Kari said. "Right after Meridian announces plans to potentially reopen Sleeping Dog Mine."
Her father's expression shifted to alarm. "They're reopening the mine? When was this announced?"
"This morning. At a community meeting near Canyon de Chelly. They've filed paperwork claiming new extraction technologies would make it economically viable while addressing previous environmental concerns."
James Blackhorse stood abruptly, moving to the window. "That's not possible. The decision to seal that mine was made at levels far above Crestwood or even the Department of Interior. There were factors beyond uranium extraction involved."
"The petroglyphs," Kari said. "The boundaries between worlds."
He turned to face her, surprised. "You've found the inner chamber, then."
"Two of the bodies were arranged there, positioned to match the pattern in the rock art. The third was in the entrance tunnel." She watched him process this information. "Dad, what are those petroglyphs? They don't match any documented Southwestern cultural tradition I've ever seen."
"Because they're not Southwestern in origin. Not Navajo, not Hopi, not Ancestral Puebloan." He returned to his desk, sitting heavily. "The archaeological survey team that first documented them in 1957, before mining operations began, couldn't identify their cultural affiliation. Their report was classified almost immediately."
"By whom?"
"I never learned that definitively. My clearance level only gave me access to the fact that the classification existed, not who ordered it or why." He looked older suddenly, the lines in his face deeper. "All I know is that after Sarah died, I received a private warning from my superior to never pursue matters related to Sleeping Dog Mine again. For your mother's safety and yours."
"Yet Mom continued her research," Kari said.
"Anna never believed in boundaries she couldn't see for herself." A ghost of a smile touched his lips before fading. "She was determined to document the human cost of what happened there, to preserve the stories of those affected. But she was careful, Kari. She never approached the mine itself."
"Until the end," Kari said quietly. "She was found near Canyon de Chelly, not far from the mine site."
Her father looked away. "I tried to warn her, just before... I'd heard rumors that Meridian was conducting new geological surveys. I told her to be careful, to stay away from certain areas. She accused me of trying to control her research."
The admission hung in the air between them, bridging decades of professional distance and personal estrangement with shared grief.
"I need to know what's in that mine, Dad," Kari said finally. "What's really there is that three people had to die for it."
James Blackhorse met her gaze directly. "I don't know exactly. The classification went beyond my access. But whatever it is, it was significant enough that people much more powerful than Crestwood executives decided it should remain buried. And now Meridian wants to uncover it again."
"Or they already have," Kari said. "The new surveys they conducted last year might have reached areas the original mining operation never did."
Her father's expression grew grave. "If that's true, then these deaths may be just the beginning. Sarah Whiteriver was only the first whistleblower to die after asking too many questions about Sleeping Dog Mine. There were others over the years—heart attacks, accidents, suicides that never quite made sense."
"Including Mom?" Kari asked, the question she'd carried for months finally finding voice.
Her father was silent for a long moment. "I don't know," he said finally. "But I've never stopped wondering."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The tribal police records room smelled of dust and deteriorating paper—a physical reminder of the department's perpetual battle against time and limited resources. Ancient metal filing cabinets lined the walls, their drawers labeled with fading marker on yellowed tape. The fluorescent lighting flickered occasionally, casting uneven shadows across the cramped space where Kari hunched over a small desk in the corner.
Her father's reluctant revelations about Sarah Whiteriver had carved a new path through the tangled case, one that reached back decades before the current deaths. If Whiteriver had died after exposing Crestwood's falsified reports, and if her death was connected to contamination from the mine she'd tried to hold accountable, it established a pattern that might connect to the present murders.
The personnel records from the reservation clinic confirmed the basic outline of Kari's father's story. Sarah Whiteriver had indeed died in 1985 of an aggressive cancer that had moved from her lungs to her brain with devastating speed. She had been thirty-four years old—Kari's current age, a coincidence that sent an involuntary chill along her spine.
What her father hadn't mentioned was that Sarah's parents had also died of cancer within two years of her death. All three had lived in the same household in Yellow Valley, one of the communities closest to Sleeping Dog Mine. The medical notes included in their files referred vaguely to "environmental factors" without explicitly connecting their illnesses to the mine—typical of the cautious documentation of the era before clear evidence had established the link between uranium exposure and cancer clusters.
Kari pulled another file—the obituary records maintained by the tribal newspaper. Sarah Whiteriver's death announcement mentioned she was survived by a brother, Thomas, but included no additional details about him. A supplementary note, added in different handwriting at some later date, indicated he had left the reservation shortly after her funeral, destination unknown.
Another thread vanishing just when it might have led somewhere useful.
The door to the records room opened, Captain Yazzie's solid frame filling the doorway. "Thought I'd find you here. Looks like you've been at it for a while."
Kari straightened, rolling her shoulders to release the tension of prolonged hunching. "Since about nine. Found some connections, but nothing conclusive."
Yazzie nodded, his expression betraying nothing of what he might think about her pursuing historical threads while three recent murders remained unsolved. "Agent Daniels has been looking for you. Apparently, you're not answering your phone."
She retrieved her cell from her pocket, finding it in battery-saving mode. Three missed calls, two from Daniels and one from Ben.
"I'll check in with him," she said, powering the device back up. "Any developments on the break-in at my house?"
"Forensics found partial prints that don't match anyone in the system. Professional work." He gestured toward the files spread across the desk. "Finding anything useful about Sarah Whiteriver?"
Kari wasn't surprised; he knew exactly what she was researching. Yazzie had a reputation for keeping comprehensive awareness of his detectives' activities, a habit developed over decades in a department where resources were too scarce for wasted effort.
"She died of cancer after exposing Crestwood's environmental violations to my father. Her parents died of similar cancers shortly after. Her brother Thomas left the reservation following her death." She tapped the folder containing the clinic records. "The timing's suspicious, but there's no direct evidence connecting her whistleblowing to her illness."
"There rarely is in these cases," Yazzie said, his tone suggesting personal knowledge rather than just professional assessment. "During the mining years, proving causation was nearly impossible. Companies maintained enough scientific doubt to avoid legal liability, even when entire families fell ill in the same patterns."
Kari's phone buzzed with a text from Ben: Need to talk when you're available. Alibi check complete.
"I should call Ben back," she said, rising from the desk and gathering the files to return them to their proper places.
Yazzie nodded. "Use my office if you want privacy. And Kari—" He paused, choosing his words with characteristic care. "These historical connections matter. But remember, our primary focus remains the three victims in that mine."
"The past and present are connected here," she replied. "I'm certain of it."
"As am I," Yazzie said. "But connections alone won't secure justice for Vaughn, Garcia, and Benally. We need evidence that will hold up in court."
She smiled tightly. "Duly noted, sir."
In Yazzie's empty office, with its view of the parking lot and the mountains beyond, Kari called Ben. He answered immediately.
"Bluehorse's alibi checks out," he said without preamble. "I've confirmed with multiple witnesses that she was at the Indigenous Environmental Alliance headquarters in Flagstaff during the entire window when the murders occurred. Security footage from the building entrance shows her arriving at 6:45 PM and not leaving until 1:23 AM the following morning."
Kari absorbed this, feeling both relief and frustration. Relief because she had genuinely liked Bluehorse's direct approach and commitment to community welfare, frustration because the environmental scientist had presented such a logical suspect given her knowledge of and history with the victims.
"That rules her out for direct involvement," she said. "Though she could still have knowledge relevant to the case, especially given her research into contamination patterns."
"Agreed," Ben said. "But I've got something else—Daniel Benally's phone records. There's a number he called repeatedly in the weeks before his death, including three calls on the day he died."
"Whose number?"
"Gabriel Bitsuie. He's a traditional healer specializing in treatments for those affected by radiation exposure. Lives near Chinle, not far from the mine site." Ben paused. "According to the timestamps, Benally's final call to him was at 7:42 PM on the night he died—approximately ninety minutes before our estimated time of death."
Kari jotted the name in her notebook. "Any connection to our other victims?"
"Nothing in their call records. But Bitsuie is known for combining traditional healing practices with advocacy for mine-affected communities. He's been a vocal critic of Meridian's remediation efforts."
"Another potential lead with both motive and knowledge of the ceremonial elements used at the scene," Kari observed. "What's his status?"
"Still active in the community. Runs a small clinic from his home where he provides traditional treatments. I've spoken with my cousin who works at the IHS facility in Chinle—she says Bitsuie is respected but somewhat controversial. Some view his methods as too political, using healing ceremonies as platforms for activism."
Kari considered this. "Benally called him three times on the day he died. Something urgent was happening."
"That's my thinking," Ben agreed. "I suggest we drive out to speak with him directly. Given his knowledge of traditional practices and connection to Benally, he might provide insight into the ceremonial arrangements at the scene."
"Let me talk to Daniels first," Kari said. "We need to maintain coordination with the FBI, especially given jurisdiction issues."
After ending the call with Ben, Kari dialed Agent Daniels. He answered on the second ring.
"Detective Blackhorse. Captain Yazzie mentioned you've been exploring historical connections today."
"Sarah Whiteriver's whistleblower case from 1982," she said. "She exposed falsified environmental reports at Crestwood Mining—Meridian's predecessor—then died of cancer after my father's investigation was derailed."
A brief silence suggested Daniels was assessing this information against whatever intelligence he already possessed. "Interesting historical context, but I'm not immediately seeing the connection to our current victims."
"Patterns repeating," Kari said. "Corporate representatives involved with the mine dying or becoming ill after raising concerns. Also, I just learned that Daniel Benally made three calls to a traditional healer specialized in radiation exposure treatments on the day he died. The final call was ninety minutes before our estimated time of death."
"The healer's name?" Daniels asked, his tone sharpening with interest.
"Gabriel Bitsuie. Ben and I are planning to interview him."
"I'd like to join you," Daniels said. "Or send Agent Reynolds if I can't make it personally. This could be significant."
Kari had expected resistance, not cooperation. "We can wait for FBI involvement if you consider it necessary."
"Not wait—coordinate," Daniels clarified. "Your cultural knowledge and Detective Tsosie's community connections remain valuable assets in this investigation. The Bureau's resources should complement those strengths, not replace them."
The shift from their previous jurisdiction tensions was notable. Whatever had happened within FBI channels since their last interaction had apparently altered Daniels' approach.
"We'll leave in an hour," Kari said. "Meet at the tribal police station if you're coming personally."
After ending the call, she sat for a moment in Yazzie's quiet office, considering the developments. Bluehorse eliminated as a direct suspect despite clear motive and opportunity. Historical whistleblower Sarah Whiteriver connecting her father to events dating back four decades. Now a traditional healer who had spoken with Benally hours before his death—another thread in an increasingly complex ball of yarn surrounding Sleeping Dog Mine.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Ben: Additional info on Bitsuie. He was part of a group that conducted healing ceremonies near the mine in the 1990s, until Meridian secured court order preventing access to certain areas.
Kari texted back: Daniels wants to join us. Meeting at station in one hour. She checked the time, then added, You think Bitsuie will talk, given the hour? It was almost nine o'clock.
I think we can be persuasive, Ben wrote back.
Kari smiled.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kari braced herself as the vehicle bounced along the final stretch of unpaved road leading to Gabriel Bitsuie's homestead. Night had fully settled across the reservation, and the vehicle's headlights carved a narrow path through darkness so complete it seemed to swallow everything beyond their immediate surroundings. Stars punctured the black sky overhead, their brilliance undimmed by the artificial light that softened nighttime elsewhere.
Ben navigated the difficult terrain with practiced ease, the SUV's suspension absorbing the worst of the ruts and dips. From the passenger seat, Kari watched the landscape transform from recognizable features to mysterious silhouettes as they moved deeper into one of the more remote areas east of Chinle.
"Are we still on tribal land?" Daniels asked from the back seat, his voice carrying a hint of unease. He was used to urban environments, not this isolation.
"Yes," Ben replied. "Though this area borders the disputed territory near Sleeping Dog Mine. About three miles from here, the jurisdictional lines get complicated."
A light appeared in the distance—a single glowing point that gradually resolved into the illuminated windows of a structure that seemed to emerge organically from the landscape. As they drew closer, Kari could make out the traditional rounded shape of a hogan with a more modern rectangular addition extending from its western side.
"That's Bitsuie's place," Ben said, slowing the vehicle as they approached. "The circular building is his living quarters. The addition houses his healing clinic."
Despite the late hour, light shone from both structures. A thin spiral of smoke rose from the hogan's center opening, carrying the distinctive scent of cedar and sage that Kari recognized from her grandmother's healing practices.
Ben parked beside an aging pickup truck, its faded paint almost indistinguishable in the darkness. As they exited the vehicle, the profound silence of the desert night enveloped them—a quiet so complete that their footsteps seemed unnaturally loud against the hard-packed earth.
Before they could reach the door, it opened, spilling warm light onto the packed dirt courtyard between the buildings. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, his slender frame wrapped in a blanket despite the lingering warmth of the desert evening.
"I've been expecting you," he said, his voice surprisingly strong for someone who appeared so physically diminished. Seeing their puzzled looks, he added, "What with everything going on, I expected you'd come sometime soon. How can I help you?"
Kari stepped forward. "Mr. Bitsuie, I'm Detective Kari Blackhorse with the Navajo Nation Police. This is my partner, Detective Ben Tsosie, and Special Agent Paul Daniels with the FBI. We need to ask you about your conversations with Daniel Benally."
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