Page 26 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

THE SOUTH DAKOTA SUNshone indifferently on the bloodstain that remained after the body had been taken away. Special Agent Coldmoon stood at the base of the cliffs, Agent Bob Pologna next to him, along with Jason LaPointe, commander of Rosebud Sioux Tribe Law Enforcement Services, and RPD Homicide Detective Susannah Wilcox. The wind blew skeins of dust across the floor of the canyon, rattling the saltbush and clumps of parched ricegrass. It was late May, but the wind still had a raw bite to it that reminded him powerfully he was back in South Dakota. He inhaled deeply of the air smelling of dust and stone. God, he loved it.

“This is where we found him,” said LaPointe. “He was shot once in the back with a .223 round.”

Pologna, bored, scuffed the dirt with his foot. Coldmoon wanted to say something about not disturbing a live crime scene, but held his tongue.

LaPointe went on. “See that layer of red rock up there?” He pointed to the cliff above. “That’s a kind of rock called pipestone. He was up there collecting it when he was shot.”

“No ropes? Climbing gear?” Coldmoon asked, looking up at the steep rocks.

LaPointe shook his head. “Grayson Twoeagle was a strict traditionalist. Lakota have been collecting pipestone from that outcrop for centuries without ropes, and that was the way he wanted to do it.”

“What did he do with the stone?”

“He made pipes,” said LaPointe. “Sacred pipes. And other things. He was famous for his replicas of traditional artifacts—lances, parfleches, knapped arrowheads and spearpoints, tomahawks, beadwork.”

Coldmoon nodded. “So tell me what happened, who investigated—the full story.”

LaPointe turned. “Susannah responded to the call.”

Susannah Wilcox was young and serious, with long black hair and almond-shaped onyx eyes. She had a tablet in one hand and consulted it. “On May twenty-first, at 4:10PM, the RPD got a call from Margaret Twoeagle, Grayson’s wife, who said he’d left to gather pipestone several hours previously and hadn’t returned. She was worried he might have fallen. We dispatched an officer, who found him at the base of the cliff with a gunshot wound. I arrived at 6:16, at the same time as the paramedics. But he was deceased—killed instantly by a bullet through the heart, which entered from the back and came out the front. We sent an officer up the cliff and he found the round lodged in the stone. So we initiated an investigation.”

“Good,” said Coldmoon. “We’ll run ballistics on that round at the lab. Along with any other evidence that needs analyzing. Agent Pologna and I can go over that back at headquarters.”

“Thank you.”

This was two days ago, Coldmoon thought, rather a long time when a murder investigation was involved. Selfishly, he was glad they hadn’t moved more quickly—he hadn’t been able to sort out all the HR red tape and get his final clearance until Monday.

“Let me just add,” said LaPointe, “that Mr. Twoeagle was a prominent member of the community.” He hesitated. “We’re glad to have the FBI assisting, but we’d appreciate it if you kept a low profile.”

Coldmoon nodded. It was a shame the body had been removed before the coroner had a chance to examine it. “Tell me about your investigation so far.”

LaPointe continued his narrative. “To make a long story short, we’ve focused on Mr. Twoeagle’s business dealings and background. He didn’t seem to have any enemies, and we didn’t find any evidence of wrongdoing or business disputes—except one. It was substantial. He owed money to a dealer in silver, shells, and stones. Name of Clayton Running. It seems Twoeagle was having trouble paying what he owed and Running cut him off. They had a fight.”

“You mean an argument?”

“No, a real fight. Fists and all. Running started it, but Twoeagle got the better of him, pummeled him pretty good. He was a big strong man, didn’t drink or smoke, ran five miles a day.”

“You interviewed Running?”

“We did. He doesn’t have a good alibi for the hours in question—just his wife saying he was around the house all that time.”

“How much money did Twoeagle owe him?”

“About three thousand dollars.”

Coldmoon considered this pretty thin so far. A lot of people were owed money and got into fights, but they didn’t kill over it. “Did you get a warrant to search his house?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, let’s get the paperwork underway. And search for that .223 rifle. Did you find the shooter’s location?”

“No.”

Coldmoon wondered why not. He got an odd impression that, for some reason, they weren’t too keen on the idea of searching for it. Was this whole investigation being slow-walked?

“People knew he came here to gather pipestone, so it wouldn’t be hard to ambush him from a sniper-style perch.” Coldmoon looked around. “That canyon rim is a good place to look. An even better place would be that bench about halfway down, where the caves are. Has it rained?”

“No.”

---