Page 22 of Close By (Kari Blackhorse #1)

Daniels straightened, his voice suddenly sympathetic. “Look, Thomas—I can call you Thomas, right?—I understand defending your culture. It’s admirable, really. When someone disrespects sacred traditions, well…” He shrugged. “People make mistakes in the heat of the moment.”

“I was not there,” Thomas repeated, his calm voice a stark contrast to Daniels’s performative shifts.

Daniels’s face hardened instantly. “You publicly called Harrington a ‘grave robber in modern clothing’ during a Tribal Council meeting. Your exact words.” He leaned forward again. “Did it make you angry when they approved his research anyway?”

“I disagreed with—”

“Did it make you angry ?” Daniels’s voice echoed off the bare walls.

Through the one-way glass, Kari clenched her fists at the deliberate intimidation tactics. She felt utterly helpless, which only made this more infuriating.

“I felt the Council made a mistake,” Thomas answered evenly.

Daniels switched gears again, pacing slowly now. “Tell me about Rachel Delgado.”

“I never met her.”

“Really? Environmental activist fighting the same mining company you filed complaints against? Never reached out to her? Never coordinated efforts?”

“No.”

Daniels laughed, the sound utterly devoid of humor. “So it’s just coincidence that both victims were connected to causes you were personally invested in?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s coincidence that both were killed using ceremonial elements from your traditions?”

“I know nothing about how they died.”

Daniels abruptly pulled out the chair across from Thomas and sat, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Let me tell you what I think happened, Thomas. I think you followed Harrington that night. I think you confronted him for trespassing where he didn’t belong. I think he dismissed you—just like the Council did—and something in you snapped.”

Thomas remained silent, his eyes steady on Daniels.

“You’re a big man, Thomas. Strong.” Daniels nodded at Thomas’s hands. “Those hands could easily break a man’s neck, couldn’t they?”

“I did not kill Dr. Harrington.”

“And Delgado? What happened there? Did she stumble onto something that connected you to Harrington’s death? Was she getting too close to the mining operation you had personal interest in?”

Thomas’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I have never met Rachel Delgado. I did not kill her.”

Daniels slapped the table again. “Where were you this morning between 4 and 7 AM?”

“Running, as I do every morning.”

“Alone? How convenient. Again.”

“There were other runners.”

“Names?”

“I don’t know them.”

“Of course you don’t.” Daniels stood again, looming over Thomas. “Where did you learn the ceremonial arrangements? From your grandfather? The traditional healer?”

For the first time, Thomas seemed off-balance. “Leave my grandfather out of this.”

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Daniels smiled coldly. “The ceremonial arrangements at both scenes were distinctive. Very specific.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“I think you do. I think you arranged those bodies according to traditions you learned from your grandfather. Maybe twisted a bit—your own personal touch—but still recognizable.”

Thomas looked directly at Daniels. “Anyone who truly understands our ceremonies would know that a traditional practitioner would never make the mistakes present in those arrangements.”

Daniels blinked, momentarily thrown by the counter. Then his eyes narrowed. “So you do know about the crime scenes.”

“Detective Blackhorse mentioned ceremonial elements with errors,” Thomas replied evenly. “I simply observed that no one raised in our traditions would make such mistakes.”

“Unless they were deliberately changing things to throw off investigators,” Daniels countered. “Creating reasonable doubt by making ‘mistakes’ you could later point to as evidence of your innocence.”

Through the glass, Kari shook her head at the circular logic. No matter what Thomas said, Daniels had a way to twist it.

“You were angry when the Council granted Harrington permission despite your objections, weren’t you?” Daniels pressed. “Angry that once again, white academics were given access to sacred knowledge while ignoring traditional concerns.”

“I respected the Council’s decision,” Thomas replied, his composure remarkable despite the pressure.

“Respected it?” Daniels scoffed. “You called Harrington a grave robber. That’s not someone who respected the decision.”

“I disagreed with their choice. That is not the same as disrespecting their authority to make it.”

Daniels changed tactics. “You know what I don’t get? Rachel Delgado. What was her sin? Supporting the same environmental cause you claim to care about? Or did she discover something that implicated you in Harrington’s death?”

Thomas remained silent, his jaw tightening.

“Your silence speaks volumes,” Daniels said.

“My silence acknowledges that you have already decided what you believe,” Thomas replied finally. “Nothing I say will change that.”

Kari watched with increasing discomfort, recognizing the tactics from her training but finding them particularly disturbing when applied to someone she believed was innocent. Beside her, Agent Keller continued typing, occasionally nodding at particularly aggressive lines of questioning.

Captain Yazzie entered the observation room, his expression troubled as he watched the interrogation.

“Any results from the search warrant?” Kari asked quietly.

“Nothing significant so far. No blood evidence, no trophies, nothing connecting him to either scene.” Yazzie shook his head. “But Daniels won’t let this go easily. He’s invested now.”

“He’s wrong,” Kari said with quiet conviction.

“I tend to agree,” Yazzie surprised her by saying. “But he has jurisdiction and circumstantial connections that look convincing on paper. We need to find something concrete that points elsewhere.”

Kari watched Daniels continue his relentless questioning, frustration building with each passing minute.

Something about this entire scenario felt wrong—the convenient timing, the perfect match to Daniels’s profile, the ceremonial elements that any knowledgeable practitioner would recognize as incorrect.

“Captain,” she whispered to Yazzie, “this isn’t right. The killer intentionally left these ceremonial elements to point investigators toward someone like Thomas.”

Yazzie’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes showed he was listening.

“Someone with academic knowledge but not cultural understanding,” she continued. “We need to figure out how such a person would learn enough to imitate such rituals.”

Kari paused, thinking. Her mind drifted to the ceremonies she’d witnessed growing up—weekends with Ruth when she’d been allowed to observe from a respectful distance.

The memory of a Blessing Way ceremony surfaced: her grandmother’s careful preparation, the specific clothing worn, the meticulous arrangement of ceremonial items, everything placed with intention and purpose.

“The herbs and body positioning aren’t the only elements,” she murmured, almost to herself. “When healers conduct these ceremonies, they wear specific items—medicine pouches, particular jewelry, sometimes ceremonial masks for certain rituals.”

She straightened. “If our killer is committed enough to arrange the bodies and use herbs, they might be using ceremonial items as well—things they’d need to acquire somehow.”

“That’s thin,” Yazzie cautioned, his eyes still on the interrogation.

“It’s all we have,” Kari replied. “And those items would be hard to come by unless you’re part of the community.”

She pulled out her phone and dialed the Museum of Northern Arizona, putting it on speaker so Yazzie could hear.

“Museum of Northern Arizona, how may I direct your call?” a receptionist answered.

“This is Detective Kari Blackhorse with Navajo Nation Police,” she said, her tone professional. “I need to speak with David Livingston, the curator of the Navajo collection.”

“Oh, Detective.” The receptionist’s voice immediately changed, lowering confidentially. “Mr. Livingston has been expecting someone from law enforcement. I’ll transfer you right away.”

Kari frowned, catching Yazzie’s questioning look. Before she could ask for clarification, the line clicked.

“David Livingston speaking,” a cultured male voice answered.

“Mr. Livingston, this is Detective Kari Blackhorse with Navajo Nation Police. I’d like to ask you about the Navajo ceremonial collection.”

“Thank goodness,” he said, relief evident in his voice.

“I’ve been waiting for police follow-up since we reported the thefts.

The Flagstaff PD took our report but said they had limited resources for museum theft.

We didn’t want to publicize it widely—museum security concerns, you understand—but I’ve been increasingly worried given what’s been happening. ”

Kari’s pulse quickened. “What thefts are you referring to, Mr. Livingston?”

A pause. “You’re… not calling about the stolen ceremonial items?”

“I’m afraid not,” Kari said carefully. “Could you tell me what was taken and when?”

“Four days ago,” Livingston replied, his voice tightening.

“We discovered several items missing from our Navajo ceremonial collection during routine inventory. A medicine pouch, a ceremonial knife, several bundles of herbs that were part of a protection ritual display, a mask used in certain purification ceremonies, some bowls, feather fans, some baskets…” He trailed off, as if the list were too long to remember everything.

Kari caught Yazzie’s eye, seeing her own realization mirrored there. “And you said this was four days ago? That would be Monday?”

“Yes, during our weekly inventory check. We installed additional security measures immediately, of course, but the items haven’t been recovered.”

“Was there any security footage of the theft?” Kari asked.

“Unfortunately, no. Whoever took the items knew exactly where our cameras were positioned. They must have studied the museum layout carefully.”

Kari took a deep breath. “Mr. Livingston, I believe these thefts may be connected to the recent homicides near Canyon de Chelly. I need to come speak with you immediately.”

“Of course,” he said, sounding both troubled and intrigued. “I’ll be here until closing at seven.”

“I’m on my way,” Kari said, ending the call and turning to Yazzie. “The day before Harrington’s murder, someone stole ceremonial items from the museum—items that could have been used or studied by our killer.”

“That’s a concrete lead pointing away from Thomas,” Yazzie observed.

“Exactly.” Kari stood, gathering her notes. “Even if Daniels insists Thomas could have been the thief, museum security footage might help establish who was there in the days leading up to the theft.”

“Go,” Yazzie said with a nod. “Daniels will be occupied here for at least another hour. If he asks, I’ll tell him you were called to another matter.”

Kari glanced once more through the glass at Thomas Begay, who was still maintaining his composure despite Daniels’s relentless pressure. There was no justice in what was happening to him—he just fit a profile created by someone who didn’t understand the culture.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, already mentally plotting the quickest route to the museum.

As she left the station, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot.

The news vans had mostly dispersed, having captured their dramatic footage of Thomas being brought in.

Only one remained, a reporter speaking to a camera about the “breakthrough in the ritualistic murder case.”

They were playing right into the killer’s hands.