LITMIR.BIZ

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to New Mexico. In 1625 friars acting as agents on behalf of the Holy Office of the Inquisition set up shop at Santo Domingo Pueblo south of Santa Fe. Some of the earliest Inquisition documents surviving at Santo Domingo concerned the “crime” of peyote use among the Pueblo Indians.

      Shaking his head, he took the peyote button, protected by a plastic bag, and deposited it safely in his desk.

      Already he saw some progress in the investigation. Padilla now acknowledged that Soto had died last night during the peyote ceremony. No big surprise there. By Padilla’s count eight people had attended the meeting—Sammy Tso and Dora Alvarez from San Ildefonso Pueblo, the five officers who conducted the ceremony, and Soto. While Padilla admitted to serving as Fire Chief, he denied knowing the identities of the other officers, only that the four of them—three men and one woman—lived somewhere near Gallup.

      Just where in Gallup, Padilla refused to say. He claimed Soto had organized the meeting and that the other officers were friends of Soto’s.

      So much bullshit, that last part. But he had to give Padilla credit. He proved to be a tough nut to crack. Not even Trujillo’s crude attempts at intimidation had broken him.

      Once again he read Padilla’s statement:

      “The meeting ended about midnight, just before Midnight Water Call. Peyote Woman and I stepped outside the teepee to get a pail of water. She came along to bless the water, but it was my responsibility as Fire Chief to bring it inside. When I turned to go back in the teepee, I heard footsteps coming up behind me. That’s when I saw him, the wolfman. He was wearing a wolf mask, with big white fangs and red tongue. I screamed at him to go away and leave us alone.

      “‘Get out of my way!’ he shouted, then shoved me through the door of the teepee. The water spilled, and I fell on top of the pail. When I looked up, Michael Soto and the wolfman ran out of the teepee. Everyone was scared. We waited inside the teepee for about ten minutes, until we heard a gunshot. Then Road Chief went out to see what had happened. When he came back, he told us Michael Soto had been shot dead.

      “Dora Alvarez started screaming and wouldn’t stop, so Sammy Tso took her home, back to San Ildefonso. Road Chief said a prayer to call off the meeting, and then we took down the teepee and the poles and loaded them on top of Road Chief’s van. The four of them left before sunrise, about an hour before I called you. That’s it, that’s everything that happened.”

      Great. A werewolf was all he needed to make the day complete.

      He tossed the paper back on his cluttered desk. He didn’t know what to make of the wolfman. Maybe Padilla had eaten too much peyote, so much that he’d experienced visions of ghosts and spirits and men turning into wolves under the light of a full moon. Or maybe, more likely, it was someone wearing a wolf mask. Someone who wanted Soto dead.

      He checked the time. Nearly two p.m. Padilla had been waiting in the back room with Sergeant Antonio Blake for two hours now. They would have to release him soon enough, but Padilla didn’t know that. He hoped the wait with Antonio, a former Marine with notoriously gruff manners, would help refresh Padilla’s memory. Spending time with Antonio was like getting a dose of truth serum.

      Finally he picked up the telephone. “Antonio, bring Padilla to my office.” He wanted to ask Padilla a few more questions before releasing him.

      Antonio escorted Padilla into the office, then folded his arms and waited for instructions. An angry glare was fixed on the stocky ex-Marine’s face.

      He noticed the change immediately. Padilla looked unsure of himself, nervous.

      “Sit down.” He motioned to the gray metal chairs where Naranjo and Suino had sat a few hours earlier.

      Padilla did as he was told.

      He waved to Antonio, who disappeared down the corridor.

      “First, I want to know more about Road Chief and the other officers. Who are these people? Do they usually travel together to the peyote meetings?”

      “All I know is that Road Chief and his wife were friends of Soto’s.” Padilla sighed, tired of answering the same questions.

      He raised his eyebrows. “Road Chief’s wife? Peyote Woman?”

      “Right. They live out near Gallup. So do the others, I think. Like I told you before, Soto arranged the peyote meeting himself. He wanted to hold it near San Ildefonso, so I let him use my land. Soto did the rest.”

      “But you served as Fire Chief.”

      Padilla shrugged. “It’s common for the host to act as Fire Chief. Fire Chief watches the door of the teepee, brings in wood and tends the fire, things like that.”

      “Was Road Chief a Zuni? Were any of the officers Zuni?”

      “Zuni?” Padilla looked puzzled. “Road Chief’s an Anglo. So’s Drummer Chief and Cedar Chief. Peyote Woman might be Zuni. Some kind of Indian.”

      He gave Padilla a legal pad. “Write down descriptions of them. Everything you can remember.”

      He walked to the window and looked out through the Venetian blinds at the municipal parking lot that separated the police station from the new Santa Fe Public Library. He could still remember when the library was across the street, before some silly developer with the backing of City Council came up with the bright idea to build a pueblo-style mall called the First Interstate where the old library stood.

      “Okay.” He walked back to his desk. “Now tell me this. Why did Soto want to hold the peyote meeting near San Ildefonso?”

      Padilla blushed. “Well...he was looking for business.”

      “Business? What kind of business?”

      “For his gallery. It was like I told you before. He was going to buy my Hopi kachina. And I’d sold him other things, a couple of santos and a buffalo dancer kachina. So had Dora Alvarez, I think. That’s how Soto got a lot of the merchandise for his gallery. He bought it from people like Dora and me.”

      He frowned, not liking what he was hearing. “You mean Soto staged the peyote meetings? He used the Native American Church in order to locate tribal objects and family heirlooms to buy?”

      Padilla shrugged.

      “Is that how he stole the ahayu:da?”

      Padilla stared blankly at him. “The what?”

      “The ahayu:da. Did Soto steal that, too? Or did he buy it from someone who did?”

      Padilla shook his head, either confused or pretending to be confused. He couldn’t decide which.

      “Some poor slob who had to sell his own tribal heritage for a few dollars?”

      “So what?” Padilla shot back, raising his voice for the first time. “At least he paid for what he took.”

      He glared at Padilla, surprised at the little man’s outburst.

      Padilla no longer bothered containing his hostility. “Tell me, what else are we supposed to do? Sell fucking trinkets on the Plaza? We’re just trying to stay alive, like everybody else. Look at you. You’ve sold out to the system, you and all the other cops. Who do you think pays your wages? You set yourself against the People.”

      “Yeah—fuck you, Padilla!” he snapped, having heard this bullshit before. “What people are you talking about? People like you? Thieves like you? Is that your definition of the People?” He fought hard to control his emotions.

      “I’m leaving. If you want me, you know where to find me.”

      He watched Padilla walk swiftly out of the office. He was sick and tired of punks like Padilla telling him that he’d sold out to the system. Being accused of selling out was a sore spot with him. He’d heard it repeatedly over the years and was fucking tired of hearing it.

      Feeling claustrophobic, he pulled up the Venetian blinds and opened the window to let in some fresh air.

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