Page 39 of Twice Missing
The receptionist's eyes narrowed slightly, but she picked up her phone without comment. After a brief, hushed conversation, she nodded to them. "Detective Oates will be with you shortly."
Minutes later, a man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and deep-set eyes emerged from a side door. "I'm Detective David Oates," he said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. "Follow me."
He led them to a small conference room, gesturing for them to take a seat. "So, I was told you were here about Kayla Bravebird," Oates said, settling into his chair.
Noah nodded, pulling out the evidence bag containing the bracelet. "We're investigating a cold case from ten years ago. Emily Carter. She was found wearing this bracelet, which we've traced back to your missing person, Kayla Bravebird."
Oates leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Ten years ago? And you think her death is linked to Kayla Bravebird's disappearance that occurred eight months ago?”
"Possibly," Noah replied. "I was just hoping you might allow us to chat with the family, get a better idea of who Kayla was and if she was known to visit High Peaks. Maybe what kind of things Kayla was involved in and the current theories around her disappearance."
Oates passed the evidence bag back across the table. “Your victim could have just bought it from the reservation."
"That's what I said," McKenzie added, making sure to separate himself from any assumptions Noah might be making.
"And besides," Oates continued, "State has no jurisdiction here, neither does Franklin County unless we call upon you folks. And as far as I'm aware, Kayla Bravebird went missing from the reservation, not from outside of it."
Noah felt the familiar frustration rising. He knew the jurisdictional dance well, but it never got easier. "Where does her family live?"
"The Bravebird family would not take kindly to seeing you," Oates replied, his tone flat.
"But they're on the reservation?" Noah pressed.
Oates remained silent, his expression unreadable.
"So you're not going to help?" Noah asked, leaning forward.
"It's not us you should be speaking to, it's the feds," Oates replied.
Noah leaned in further, his voice low and intense. "Look, I get it, there's a lot of red tape crap that ties your hands. We know all about that. But we have a dead woman on our hands and very few leads."
Oates leaned back in his seat, his gaze locked on Noah. "Do you have any idea how many of our mothers, daughters, and sisters disappear? You've got one. We've got thousands. And you know how many agencies are actually trying to help besides us? None. The feds claim they're working on it, but they're not. Only in recent years have a few states started setting up MMIW task forces, alert systems, cold case units. But don't be fooled — just because there's an official logo on a letterhead doesn't mean that report isn't buried in a pile somewhere, gathering dust. I'm sorry, detectives, but it looks like you've driven all this way for nothing."
"Well, thanks for your time," McKenzie said, rising. Noah remained seated, staring at Oates across the table.
"Have I offended you?” Noah asked, his voice tight.
"If you have to ask that, you really have a long way to go to understand our people," Oates said, rising from his seat. "Good day, gentlemen."
Frustrated but undeterred,Noah and McKenzie found themselves back at the Akwesasne Cultural Center. The gift shop clerk, recognizing them from earlier, eyed them warily as they approached.
"We're looking for information on the Bravebird family," Noah said, his tone carefully neutral. "It's important we speak with them about Kayla."
The clerk hesitated, her eyes darting between them. Finally, she sighed. "Look, I shouldn't be doing this, but... they live on Mohawk Street. The house with the broken window and the car on blocks. You can't miss it."
After thanking her, they made their way to the address. The house looked like it had seen better days. A grimy dog chained up outside barked at their approach, its voice hoarse. Kids' toys were scattered across the yard, half-buried in snow. A wind chime on the porch jangled discordantly in the cold breeze. The car on blocks was missing two wheels, rust creeping up its sides. Music drifted from inside the house, barely audible over the dog's barking. An old "Missing" sign with Kayla's photo was stuck in the frozen ground near the sidewalk, the edges curling from exposure to the elements.
They knocked and waited on the porch, acutely aware of the eyes watching them from across the street.
"Getting some strange looks," McKenzie muttered, shifting uncomfortably.
After several more knocks, the door finally opened. An older man with long, braided hair peered out at them through the storm door. "Yeah?" he grunted.
"Mr. Bravebird?" Noah asked.
"Who's asking?"
"Noah Sutherland, State Police."
