CLOSE TO HIM, page 4
"One by one. Spread out over four years, different circumstances. But they all vanished before they could testify." Agnes looked older suddenly, crushed by the weight of knowledge. "I should have said something then. But I had my own family, my own fears. Howard Brennan still had influence, still had connections."
"Where is Brennan now?" Ben asked.
"He has a place up near Tsaile. Lives alone since his wife died ten years ago. Still comes to town sometimes, shops at the same stores, acts like any other old man." Her voice hardened. "But he's not just any old man. He's a killer who's been walking free for fifty years."
"And Samuel Whitehorse?"
"Works at the tribal museum. Maintenance supervisor. Another one who kept quiet and was rewarded for it." Agnes shook her head. "We all knew. Every adult at that school knew something terrible had happened. But we were part of the system. Speaking out meant losing our jobs, maybe worse. So we stayed silent and let it eat at us."
"You're speaking out now," Kari said gently.
"Too late for Owen. Too late for Tommy." Tears slid down Agnes's weathered cheeks. "When does silence become complicity? When do we cross from victim to enabler?"
They were hard questions without easy answers. Kari had seen it before—systems that protected themselves by making everyone complicit, spreading the guilt so thin that no one felt responsible enough to act.
"We're going to need a formal statement," Ben said. "Everything you remember about that night and the cover-up after."
"And we're going to place an officer here," Kari added. "Round the clock protection until we bring Brennan in."
Agnes nodded, looking relieved but also exhausted, as if telling the truth had drained something vital from her. "There's one more thing," she said as they prepared to leave. "Tommy asked me about records. Student files from 1974. I told him they were destroyed in a fire in '78. But that wasn't entirely true."
She stood, moving to an old cabinet in the corner. From behind it, she pulled a manila envelope, yellowed with age.
"I kept copies. Just a few. The students who died or disappeared during my time there. I don't know why—guilt, maybe. Or thinking someday someone would care enough to ask." She handed the envelope to Kari. "Owen's file is in there. And photos. Including one taken the day before he died."
Kari opened the envelope carefully. The photo showed a serious-faced teenager with the short hair mandatory at boarding schools. But it was his eyes that caught her—intelligent, defiant, very much alive. This was who they were seeking justice for. Not just Tommy, but Owen Peshlakai, dead fifty years but still demanding truth.
"Thank you," Kari said. "This helps more than you know."
As they left, with Officer Tsosie taking up protective position, Agnes called out one last time.
"Be careful. Howard Brennan survived fifty years by being smarter than anyone gave him credit for. He didn't just kill Owen—he built a system to protect himself. And systems don't die easy."
Driving away, Ben was quiet for several minutes. Then: "She's right. Brennan couldn't have covered this up alone. He had help. Maybe still does."
"Samuel Whitehorse," Kari said. "Security chief who conveniently found the body. He'd be in his early seventies now."
"Or others we don't know about yet." Ben's jaw was tight. "How many people does it take to cover up a murder at a boarding school? How many looked the other way?"
"Too many," Kari said. She thought about Tommy in that punishment room, positioned like the children who'd suffered there. "But Brennan's the one who killed Owen. And I think he killed Tommy to keep that secret."
"Then let's go find him," Ben said. "Before Agnes becomes his next victim."
As they drove back toward Window Rock, Ben was already on his phone. "I'll have dispatch send a unit to the tribal museum. We need Whitehorse brought in for questioning immediately."
Kari nodded, her mind racing through the connections. Whitehorse had been there that night, had helped move Owen's body, had stayed in contact with the other conspirators. He was a key witness—possibly more.
Ben's expression darkened as he listened to the response. "What do you mean he hasn't shown up?" A pause. "Since when?" Another pause. "No, no message? Did anyone check his—yes, I understand. Send a unit to his residence. If he's not there, I want a BOLO issued immediately."
He ended the call, his jaw tight. "Whitehorse hasn't been to work since Tuesday. That's two days ago. Museum director said it's completely out of character—the man hasn't missed a day in ten years."
"Tuesday," Kari said, her blood chilling. "The day after Tommy was murdered."
"He's running," Ben said. "Or—"
"Or he's already dead," Kari finished. The pattern was becoming clear. The killer wasn't just targeting the direct perpetrators. They were eliminating everyone who knew the truth. "We need to find him. Now."
"Units are already rolling to his house," Ben said. "But if he's been missing for two days..."
They both knew what that likely meant. In this case, missing people didn't turn up alive
CHAPTER FIVE
The Navajo Nation Police Station was a hive of activity as Kari and Ben returned from interviewing Agnes Littlefeather. Captain Yazzie had called in additional personnel, transforming the usually quiet station into a command center. The Tommy Begay murder had evolved from a single homicide into something much larger—a fifty-year conspiracy of silence that was still claiming lives.
"Conference room," Yazzie said as soon as he saw them. "We need to coordinate before this gets away from us."
The conference room was standing room only. Lisa Becenti from forensics, several patrol officers, and two faces Kari didn't recognize—a man and woman in the kind of practical suits that screamed federal agency.
"Agents Holcomb and Garza, FBI," Yazzie said by way of introduction. "Given the boarding school connection and potential civil rights violations, they're observing. For now."
Kari felt the familiar tension that came with federal involvement. The FBI had a complicated history with tribal law enforcement—sometimes helpful, often overbearing, always political.
"For now," Agent Holcomb repeated, his tone neutral. "We're here to assist, not take over. Unless evidence emerges of federal crimes beyond the historical statute of limitations."
"Understood," Yazzie said. He turned to the room at large. "Here's what we know. Tommy Begay was investigating the 1974 death of Owen Peshlakai at Riverside Indian Boarding School. His research suggested Owen was murdered and that three potential witnesses—all former students—disappeared in the 1990s when congressional hearings might have exposed the truth."
Lisa Becenti pulled up a digital display showing the timeline. "Owen Peshlakai died November 17, 1974. Marcus Todacheene disappeared October 1993, just weeks before he was supposed to meet with congressional investigators. Janet Yazzie vanished in August 1995, and Robert Nez in June 1997."
"All three were scheduled to testify?" Agent Garza asked.
"Unknown," Ben admitted. "The records from those investigations are sealed or lost. But Tommy found correspondence suggesting all three had been in contact with victim advocacy groups."
"What about physical evidence from the Begay scene?" Holcomb asked.
Lisa clicked to the next slide—crime scene photos that made several people look away. "The killer used materials consistent with 1970s boarding school discipline. The rope fibers contain plant material—sage and juniper, but also something else. Devil's claw, a plant used in some traditional medicines but also known for causing skin irritation."
"Punishment and purification," Kari said. "The killer isn't just recreating boarding school discipline. They're adding their own interpretation."
"There's more," Lisa continued. "We recovered partial prints from the chalk used to write on the walls. And we have a boot print—men's size nine, worn on the left heel in a distinctive pattern."
"Any matches in the system?" Yazzie asked.
"Not yet. But it's something."
The discussion continued, covering ground Kari had already mentally mapped. They had a prime suspect in Howard Brennan, former Dean of Students. They had a witness in Agnes Littlefeather who could place him with Owen Peshlakai the night he died. They had motive—covering up a fifty-year-old murder.
But…
"It's too neat," Kari said suddenly.
The room turned to her.
"Explain," Yazzie said.
"Brennan is in his late seventies. The physical control needed to subdue and position Tommy, the strength to carry out that staging—it's a lot for a man that age."
"Adrenaline," Agent Holcomb suggested. "Fear of exposure can drive remarkable physical feats."
"Maybe," Kari conceded. "But there's something else. Agnes said Brennan had help covering up Owen's death. Samuel Whitehorse, the security chief. What if he still has help?"
"You think there are two perpetrators?" Garza asked.
"I think we should consider it. Brennan as the planner, someone younger as the muscle."
"Whitehorse would be in his seventies, too," Ben pointed out.
"Then someone else. Someone with a connection to the school, an investment in keeping the secret." Kari moved to the board, drawing connections. "Who benefits from silence over boarding school crimes?"
"The institutions," someone said.
"Which are defunct," Holcomb noted. "Riverside closed in 1982."
"But liability remains," Garza added thoughtfully. "Lawsuits, reparations, public shame for those involved."
"Or their families," Kari said. "Children of teachers, administrators. People who grew up believing their parents were educators, not abusers."
The room fell silent, considering the implications. How many people had a stake in keeping these boarding school atrocities buried?
"For now, we focus on Brennan," Yazzie decided. "Kari, Ben—I want you to bring him in for questioning. Holcomb, Garza, you're welcome to observe through the glass. Lisa, keep working on physical evidence. Everyone else, I want deep background on anyone connected to Riverside in 1974 who's still alive."
As the meeting broke up, Agent Holcomb approached Kari. "Detective, a word?"
They stepped into the hallway. Holcomb was younger than Kari had first thought, maybe early thirties, with the kind of intense focus that suggested personal investment beyond professional duty.
"My grandmother attended a boarding school in Oklahoma," he said quietly. "Sherman Institute. She never talked about it, but I saw the scars. Physical and otherwise." He met Kari's eyes. "I'm not here to take over. I'm here to make sure justice isn't buried again under bureaucracy."
"Good to know," Kari said, reassessing him. "Because Tommy Begay doesn’t deserve to become a cold case."
"So does Owen Peshlakai," Holcomb added. "Fifty years is too long to wait for justice."
Back at her desk, Kari pulled up everything they had on Howard Brennan. Born 1946 in Ohio. Education degree from a small college in Pennsylvania. Came to Riverside in 1971 as a history teacher, promoted to Dean of Students in 1973. Left when the school closed in 1982, but stayed in the area. Married a local woman, had two children. Widowed in 2013.
On paper, he looked like any other retired educator. But between the lines, Kari read a different story. Rapid promotion in a brutal system. Stayed in the area where his alleged crime had occurred. Maintained connections to other boarding school personnel.
"Ready?" Ben asked, checking his service weapon.
"Question is whether Brennan's ready for us," Kari replied.
The drive to Tsaile took them through some of the most beautiful country on the reservation—red rock formations giving way to pinyon forests as they climbed in elevation. But Kari couldn't appreciate the scenery. Her mind was on Tommy Begay, dead for asking questions. On Owen Peshlakai, dead for refusing to surrender his identity. On three former students who’d vanished so they couldn't testify.
Howard Brennan's house sat on five acres of partially wooded land. It was a modest ranch-style home with an attached garage and a well-maintained yard. The dark blue pickup Agnes had described was parked in the driveway.
"Looks normal," Ben observed as they parked.
"They usually do," Kari replied.
They approached the front door, hands near weapons but not drawn. They weren't here to arrest him. Yet.
Kari knocked. "Mr. Brennan? Navajo Nation Police. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
Silence. Then footsteps, slow but steady. The door opened to reveal a man who looked every one of his seventy-seven years. Tall but stooped, with thinning white hair and pale blue eyes that missed nothing. He wore slacks and a cardigan, looking like anyone's grandfather.
Except for the intelligence in those eyes. The calculation.
"Officers," he said, voice still carrying a hint of Midwestern accent. "How can I help you?"
"I'm Detective Blackhorse. This is Detective Tsosie. We're investigating the death of Tommy Begay. We understand you knew him?"
"Begay?" Brennan frowned thoughtfully. "The name's familiar. So many students over the years."
"He wasn't a student," Ben said. "He was a researcher. He'd been asking questions about Riverside Indian Boarding School."
"Ah." Brennan's expression cleared. "Yes, the young man with the YouTube channel. He came by last month, wanting to interview me about my time in education. I declined. Some memories are better left undisturbed."
"May we come in?" Kari asked. "This won't take long."
Brennan hesitated just long enough to be noticeable. Then: "Of course. Forgive me, I don't get many visitors."
The interior was exactly what Kari expected—neat, organized, frozen in a home décor style from decades past. Photos on the mantle showed a younger Brennan with wife and children. One photo, older, showed him in front of Riverside with a group of students. All the children looked miserable.
"Can I offer you coffee? Water?" Brennan asked, playing the polite host.
"No thank you," Kari said. "Mr. Brennan, where were you three nights ago between 8 PM and midnight?"
"Three nights ago?" He moved to an easy chair, settling with the careful movements of age. "Here, I suppose. I'm usually here in the evenings. My mobility isn't what it used to be."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
"I live alone." A sad smile. "One of the curses of outliving your spouse. Why? Am I suspected of something?"
"We're talking to everyone who had contact with Tommy Begay," Ben said. "You said he came by last month. What did he want to know?"
"The usual questions these investigators ask. About discipline, about culture suppression, about things that happened before they were born." Brennan's tone carried a hint of irritation. "As if they could understand the context of those times from their modern perspective."
"And you didn't want to discuss it?" Kari pressed.
"What's to discuss? We were educators doing a difficult job with limited resources. Were mistakes made? Of course. But we believed we were helping those children prepare for the modern world."
"Is that what you were doing to Owen Peshlakai?" Kari asked, watching his reaction. "Helping him?"
Brennan went very still. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Owen Peshlakai. Now there's a name I haven't heard in years."
"Really? Because Tommy Begay was specifically investigating his death."
Brennan shook his head slowly. "Poor Owen. A tragedy. He ran away one night, got lost in the desert. We searched for hours, but by the time we found him..." He trailed off, the picture of elderly sorrow.
"That's not what Agnes Littlefeather says," Ben said.
Another stillness. Then: "Agnes. Is she still alive? She must be, what, late sixties now? Not that I'm any younger." A dry chuckle.
"She says Owen was in the punishment room," Kari said. "That you were with him the night he died."
Brennan's pale eyes fixed on Kari. The grandfather mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something colder beneath.
"Agnes was young and impressionable. She often misunderstood what she saw. Institutional discipline can seem harsh to those not trained in its necessity."
"So you were with Owen that night?" Kari pressed.
"I may have checked on him. It was my responsibility to ensure punished students were safe." Brennan spread his hands. "If Agnes thought she saw something inappropriate, why didn't she report it at the time?"
"Maybe because you had power and she didn't," Ben suggested. "Maybe because she was scared."
"Scared?" Brennan laughed, the sound like dry leaves. "I was an educator, not a monster. Though I suppose that's how we're painted now—evil white men destroying noble savages. Never mind that we gave those children literacy, numeracy, job skills. Never mind that many went on to successful lives thanks to our efforts."
"Owen Peshlakai didn't go on to anything," Kari said. "He died at fifteen."
"Yes," Brennan agreed. "A tragedy, as I said. But not a murder, despite what your YouTube researcher wanted to believe. Owen ran away and died of exposure. The medical examiner confirmed it at the time."
"A medical examiner who worked for the same system that employed you," Ben said.
Brennan's eyes narrowed. "Are you suggesting a conspiracy, Detective? That's quite an accusation against numerous professionals who dedicated their lives to education."
"I'm suggesting that the institutional protection of abusers is well-documented," Ben replied evenly.
"Abusers." Brennan tested the word. "Everything is abuse now. Discipline is abuse. Structure is abuse. Having standards is abuse. Your generation wants to paint everything in blacks and whites, heroes and villains. Reality is more complex."
"Murder is pretty black and white," Kari said.
"Yes," Brennan agreed, meeting her gaze. "It is. Which is why it's fortunate no murders occurred at Riverside during my tenure. Despite what conspiracy theorists and attention-seekers might claim."
He was good, Kari had to admit. Calm, controlled, with an answer for everything. But she'd interrogated enough people to recognize the tells—the micro-expressions, the careful word choices, the subtle shifts in body language.
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