Hidden Canyon: A Charles Bloom Murder Mystery (3rd Book in Series)

By Mark Sublette

In the third book in the Charles Bloom Murder Mystery series...
For a thousand years, a hidden canyon on Rachael Yellowhorse’s ancestral lands and the adjacent property owned by the Manygoats family has protected a masterpiece of petroglyphs deep inside the Navajo nation. These ancient works of art hold a secret with a power so strong their Anasazi makers kept them out of the reach of mere mortal human beings.
At his Santa Fe Indian Market show, gallery owner Charles Bloom unwittingly promotes the sacred rock-art images and sets in motion a cascading series of events that leads to the worst kind of human being searching out these hidden petroglyphs. Little could Bloom know that his discerning eye for art would connect him to a chain of murders stretching back 40 years earlier and to an individual who is not a collector of Native art but a psychopathic killer, the likes of which the Diné have no word to describe. Bloom will need all his observational skills to spot the killer before it’s too late. It’s a race against ancient history and for Bloom, time may finally run out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Sublette
• Release date: Dec 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985544850

Mark Sublette

Mark Sublette is the founder of Medicine Man Gallery and a former Naval Physician. He is the author of numerous catalogs on Native American subjects and is an authority on the artwork of Maynard Dixon. Sublette is a regular contributor for "Western Art Collector" and "Canyon Road Arts.""Paint by Numbers" is the first book release in a series of Charles Bloom Murder Mysteries. The photographs featured in "Paint by Numbers" are his other love, which he shares on his website at www.marksublette.com.Sublette lives in Tucson, AZ and Santa Fe, NM.

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TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2013 by Mark Sublette

Author’s Note by Mark Sublette Copyright © 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Just Me Publishing, LLC., Tucson, AZ,

1-800-422-9382

www.marksublette.com

Published by Just Me Publishing, LLC.

Hidden Canyon / Mark Sublette

ISBN 978-0-9855448-5-0

1. Fiction

Cover painting: Billy Schenck, Fire in the Sky

Jacket and book design: Jaime Gould

Author photo: Dan Budnik

This book is available in print at www.medicinemangallery.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

AUTHOR’S NOTE

SUMMARY

REVIEWS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

STONE MEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PHOTOGRAPHY CREDITS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The books in the Bloom murder mystery series are all works of fiction. All characters are fictional as are all the art galleries, artists, and art dealers. The Native American characters in my book are fictional and any resemblance by name, clan, or description to real life is pure coincidence.

The best fiction has its roots in reality and I would like to thank two experts in their respective fields who helped bring this book to life.

Larry Cansler, whose decades of experience working in Hollywood composing and writing songs, including one of my favorites, Wildfire (with Michael Martin Murphey), gave me a deeper understanding of a working composer’s life from 1960 to 1980. Dr. Jon French, PhD, shared his insights of the working mind of a psychopath over a dinner at the Plaza Café in Santa Fe. The conversation was compelling as were the blue corn enchiladas.

The Toadlena Trading Post, a central component of all the Bloom books, is a real-life working trading post that exists as described on Navajoland. The historic post specializes in Toadlena/Two Grey Hills weavings and is well worth the effort to visit. I would like to thank its proprietors, author Mark Winter and wife Linda, for their wonderful hospitality and helpful editing comments.

No book is complete without a great cover and I’m most appreciative to Billy Schenck for so graciously allowing me to use his painting Fire in the Sky to capture the essence of Hidden Canyon and to Jaime Gould for her graphic design and editing skills.

All the photographs are taken by me and serve as points of reference that correlate to those chapters. Hopefully they help to give the reader the sense of place and moment in time I experienced when I took them.

SUMMARY

In the third book in the Charles Bloom Murder Mystery series…

For a thousand years, a hidden canyon on Rachael Yellowhorse’s ancestral lands and the adjacent property owned by the Manygoats family has protected a masterpiece of petroglyphs deep inside the Navajo nation. These ancient works of art hold a secret with a power so strong their Anasazi makers kept them out of the reach of mere mortal human beings.

At his Santa Fe Indian Market show, gallery owner Charles Bloom unwittingly promotes the sacred rock-art images and sets in motion a cascading series of events that leads to the worst kind of human being searching out these hidden petroglyphs. Little could Bloom know that his discerning eye for art would connect him to a chain of murders stretching back 40 years earlier and to an individual who is not a collector of Native art but a psychopathic killer, the likes of which the Diné have no word to describe. Bloom will need all his observational skills to spot the killer before it’s too late. It’s a race against ancient history and for Bloom, time may finally run out.

REVIEWS

From California in the sixties to cryptic petroglyphs in snowy Navajoland today, this art mystery finds Santa Fe gallery owner Bloom drawn into a deadly web involving a Bay Area police detective, Southern California jingle composer, conniving murderer, and Indian artists. — Wolf Schneider, contributing editor, abqARTS

Medical doctor, art dealer, and now author, Mark Sublette delivers his best Charles Bloom murder mystery yet. Rare petroglyphs, music, and art all collide on the Navajo reservation creating a page turner you’re not likely to forget. — Mark Winter, author of The Master Weavers and owner of the Historic Toadlena Trading Post

Mark Sublette has managed to capture the spirit of not just the Southwest but also the fascinating art market that he knows so well. Only someone with his depth of experience is capable of blending these two worlds in such an accurate yet absorbing way! — Joshua Rose, editor of Western Art Collector

CHAPTER 1

#2 PENCIL PLEASE

Prison forensic psychologists recognize the fastest way to spot a true psychopath: ask the other cons. They all know. These broken individuals are loners, people to fear, with no gang or personal affiliation of any kind. They think their emotions, unable to experience feelings.

All languages across the world have a word to describe a psychopath, except for the Navajo. Psychopaths are exceedingly rare. Their ability to blend in and seem normal while being anything but, makes detection difficult and destruction of unsuspecting lives a given. Specialists in this psychiatric field believe these individuals are outliers in man’s genetic code: unique humans born mentally deranged.

Fallon Scriber was such an individual. His physical and social environment only helped accentuate an inherent tendency toward destructive behavior.

His mother had exceptional intelligence and if not for her alcohol addiction, could have been a good mother to Fallon, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered. Her only child was damaged goods from the start. Fallon’s father was a non-issue. He came and went, an odd man with a bad temper whose only interaction was always some puzzle to be unraveled. He was never a stable component in either of their lives and by 1970 had disappeared for good.

Growing up in a rough neighborhood in Oakland, California, didn’t help. It undoubtedly fostered Fallon’s perverted outlook on life at a young age. Fallon was a short white kid in a sea of athletic color. He might have skated by on his personality, which was chameleon-like, if not for an unrelenting medical condition. His untreatable disease caused him to stick out, resulting in extreme taunting and pain.

Fallon’s porcelain-colored flesh was cursed with one of the most severe cases of dermatographia ever recorded. Usually this condition is just a benign problem, more an oddity than an affliction. With dermatographia, the slightest touch of the skin causes red welts to emerge. These eruptions generally remain for only a couple of minutes and are associated with some transient mild pain in the affected area, but not for Fallon Scriber. His skin was so reactive the slightest scratch would cause deep welts lasting 30 minutes or even longer. The deeper the scratch, the more painful and long lasting the welt. He was a human Etch A Sketch, and everyone on Oakland’s poor side of town in the rebellious sixties and seventies wanted to play.

Children can be downright vicious, especially ones with little parental supervision. A victim is singled out and taunting goes on until something breaks the cycle. Fallon was such a victim, which is ironic as he was already a full-blown psychopath who could have easily been the tormenter, making notes on whom to punish severely later in life.

The game he was subjected to was called Red Man Writes and the object was to see which contestant could write the most words on Fallon’s skin that were readable. Each participant was allowed one minute to accumulate points. The game started when Willy Bellows would scream: Red Man Writes! Points were awarded for the amount legibly written and multiplied by the minutes for which they remained visible. It was like blowing soap bubbles and watching them pop. Great transient fun for all, except Fallon, who was never a willing participant.

In the game, curse words scored double as these were guaranteed to get Fallon in serious trouble with the teachers as well as give him severe discomfort. Fallon always wore long-sleeved shirts no matter how hot the weather. The cloth dampened his skin’s reactivity and served as a weak attempt to ward off bullies who loved to see the painful lines appear instantaneously on his albino-like skin. Contestants of Red Man Writes would overpower the small kid, pull up his sleeves, and lift Fallon’s shirt over his head, using his stomach as a human chalkboard. Let the game begin. Part of the fun was watching Fallon struggle to defend himself. That added a physicality certain boys loved.

The first semester of eighth grade was the worst. Fallon’s saving grace was growing seven inches over summer break, pushing his new height to six feet. Bullies were now less likely to pick on a tough, tall white kid, even one they had tormented for years. The game took a new turn. Fallon decided he would no longer be the object of terror. He would stop being tormented no matter what the cost to his own freedom. Fallon’s life force which had grown with his height would now embrace the dark side, something he had kept suppressed for far too long.

The aim of his anger was pointed at Willy Bellows, a mean child who was the official game starter of Red Man Writes. He viciously attacked Fallon under the school bleachers during the Halloween school party. Willy decided to give Fallon a red man’s costume by making Fallon’s skin into a single welt, one that would last all of the school day, which it did. Willy’s sharp pencil tore into Fallon’s fragile skin and left not only the usual reactive welts, but permanent scars, binding Willy the tormentor with Fallon the psychopath for eternity.

Fallon took time to work out his revenge plan. He would ambush Willy, who hadn’t had the same luck of growth-hormone production. He waited until Valentine’s Day. He would leave Willy his own heartfelt card, one for all to read. Fallon’s calm demeanor was a great disguise. He seemed normal in every way, with no indication of his murderous side. This was unfortunate for his victim, whose only concern that morning was if he would receive any Valentine’s cards. He would. One he didn’t expect.

Fallon showed up early to shadow Willy as he left his home in the projects. He ambushed his prey at his usual short cut, an isolated alleyway behind the ramshackle abandoned homes in the poverty-stricken neighborhood. At first Willy challenged him, Get out of my way, fool, or I’m going write my name on your face!

Fallon’s unflinching black eyes told the story to a boy who had seen plenty of violence in his life, even at 14. Two yellow pencils, razor sharp, suddenly appeared, each gripped tightly in Fallon’s gloved hands. He was as quick as a rattlesnake, fangs ready for action. Pencils would be Fallon’s calling cards to the police if they could figure out the crime. Death by #2 lead, carried out by a young psychopath named Scriber, derived from the German word for writer. He was fulfilling his fate. The first in a long line of deaths by the boy whose skin was a painful piece of paper.

Realizing he was in serious trouble too late, Willy tried to run but tripped over his feet, the only part of his body that had grown during puberty. He fell hard. Fallon aggressively jumped on top of Willy, stabbing the boy in the neck and upper torso, the sharp lead breaking off as it hit cartilage and bone in Willy’s still-developing cervical spine. Fallon’s rage continued, using the dull pencil ends, plunging them violently into Willy’s neck, deep into the blood vessels. Fallon was a pro at killing even his first time. He had worn gloves, knowing he would be murdering today, and had watched enough television to learn about fingerprints. He left none. However, Fallon purposefully left the two pencils sticking out of Willy’s neck to see how well the police detectives would do their jobs.

At school, Fallon changed into a fresh set of clothes he had brought, cleaned his face with a wet towel, and then proceeded to have the best day of school ever. He could hardly wait for someone else to upset his natural order of life again. Fallon found himself exhilarated. He decided his lot in life was cast. No more the fool with the red, painful skin. He was in charge of his destiny and if anyone got in his way he would take care of them in his own fashion. Pencils, writing, and death were his new calling cards if anyone ever cared to look.

In the case of Willy Bellows, the police did not do their jobs well at all. They classified the killing as gang-related, like his deceased brother before him. Case closed. Another black child’s murder unsolved, the Bellows name dying out with little Willy.

For the rest of eighth grade, Fallon took Willy’s old short cut to school. He loved walking by the place he had become a man.

Unfortunately for his victims, Fallon Scriber would never go to prison. No easy diagnosis of psychopath would ever be rendered by his fellow inmates. The unlucky few who would encounter Fallon’s dark side would not know they had experienced a rare breed of human, a true psychopath and the most dangerous type: a serial killer. The only question was could he ever be stopped?

CHAPTER 2

SUMMER OF LOVE

A native Arizonan, Samuel Houston Hubbard moved to the Golden State during the Summer of Love, 1967. Unlike most of his peers who came to Haight Ashbury for free love, drugs, and rock and roll, he arrived for school at Stanford University. Although his campus was south of San Francisco, he came up to the city frequently. It was where the action was. He drank, but no drugs other than an occasional drag of dope when a girl would push. His tendencies were more conservative than those of most of his peers, but he agreed with his free love brethren when it came to Vietnam. The war was raging in Southeast Asia and Sammy—as he was still going by at that time—had no intention of getting caught up in a fight that didn’t seem right. It wasn’t as if he was afraid to stand up for his principles. He was more willing than most to do that. But this war smacked of politics, something he despised.

Sammy had a remarkable brain. He could easily put together complex thoughts in many fields. He was particularly gifted in science but found the technical lab work a grind, just busy work. Field investigation was more to his liking. Research had been his parents’ path. Both of them were research scientists, and Sammy was expected to follow in the Hubbard footsteps. A long line of doctors and scientists had come before, and it was assumed his journey would be no different. He was a Hubbard, after all.

His aptitude in science had allowed him to get into the highly competitive Stanford University. He had been very successful at his public high school, winning the national science fairs in both his junior and senior years, something unheard of.

His project, which he worked tirelessly on for two consecutive years, was titled, "The Life Cycle of the Javelina (Pecari tajacu) of the Southern Sonoran Desert." Sammy followed a family of approximately 20 javelinas around the desert daily for two years. He was careful not to affect the natural setting and behavior by bringing in food or by his own presence, which might change their normal routine. Sammy had the luxury of his father owning a huge tract of virgin Sonoran Desert just outside Tucson’s city limits. Tucson during the mid-sixties was still a small town with less than 100,000 people. Land was cheap and the desert untouched.

Sammy set numerous stations along the javelinas’ well-worn tracks and patiently waited for them to come by and feed, to play and just be javelinas. He had three stations along a four-mile route, which was the range of the wild peccaries that most Arizonans incorrectly refer to as pigs. He made detailed records of dominance behavior, sexual interaction, and eating habits. He worked on his project daily for two years, never once missing a day of data on his prized javelinas. The data was so well compiled it set a new standard for biologists in the field, which is uncommon coming from a 17-year-old. This dedication to getting it right had won him the golden ticket to Stanford.

The Summer of Love became the summer of study for Sammy. He was not the typical Stanford student; grades didn’t come easily. He threw himself into what he cared about, but he did not care about everything. Sammy’s first year and a half in the Bay Area was spent learning and experiencing life, and looking for a field of study that could captivate him for life. Any person who for two years could maintain a fascination with observing pigs cavorting in the hot Arizona desert would not settle for a run-of-the-mill job.

The answer to what he would do for the rest of his life came just before the start of his junior year. He was leaning toward becoming a marine biologist, envisioning himself following whales cavorting around in the ocean for the rest of his life.

He was planning to declare this field his major when fate stepped in the week before, in the form of a newspaper headline dated August 1, 1969. It would change everything. It was a missive from a serial murderer who would soon be referring to himself as Zodiac, and it was published in the San Francisco Examiner on page three. The killer sent his proclamation to the press in the form of a 408-symbol cryptogram, declaring his presence as a force to be reckoned with. Seven days later the first of many ensuing letters arrived from the murderer, the Zodiac Killer.

Sammy’s interest faded completely from humpback whales, switching to bound-and-gagged victims right here in the Bay Area. He watched as the rest of the country did in morbid fascination the actions of this unknown Zodiac Killer, a person who was systematically murdering for pleasure. The killer bragged of possessing supernatural power and invisibility, demanding others to bow to his will or face his wrath. The Zodiac’s cryptogram was believed to be the declaration of a deranged person who wanted to hunt humans as the ultimate prey that would become his slaves in the afterworld, and the seven victims so far (two survived) were all between 16 and 29, Sammy’s age group.

When the last confirmed person was killed in San Francisco’s Presidio on October 11, 1969, Sammy was having dinner not far from the murder scene. For months he had pictured his path crossing with that of the deranged killer, and had wondered how he would have fared. Did he have what was required to recognize such a killer? Humans are not like whales or javelinas. They are complex organisms with a superior intellect.

The thought was haunting Sammy. He was afraid he didn’t have what was needed to recognize evil in the human form. Then, like the proverbial light bulb going on, he had an epiphany. He would become like the Zodiac Killer. He would study (hunt) humans, not to kill but to help rid society of these evil people. The mentally sick of our society, those individuals who are the far outliers in the social bell curve of humanity, would become his study population. Sammy realized his fascination with the Zodiac case was more about his successfully identifying the person who had such severely aberrant behavior than it was about the details of murders. What made Zodiac tick, and how did he become so totally deranged? The year 1969 was the summer of fear for Northern California, but for Sammy it was when he found his voice. He would become a forensic psychologist and pursue the Zodiacs of the world.

CHAPTER 3

SHOTGUN WEDDING?

Charles Bloom’s life was gearing up for fatherhood. It was 2012, his first son was due any moment, and he still had not addressed his own hesitancy to marry Rachael Yellowhorse. She was getting pressure from all sides of her clans on the marriage issue, especially since she was about to bring a child into the world. Charles on the other hand was quite happy with their relationship. He was in his 40s and he was involved with a great woman whom he loved, who was soon to be the mother of his child. It wasn’t that he had a problem with marriage. It was great for other people, like his parents, just not for him.

The couple decided to wait a little longer to get married, which was Bloom’s idea. A formal proposal had yet to be offered by the reluctant art dealer. He had however purchased a small silver band from Sal Lito, the old trader at Toadlena. The ring was Navajo-made and was over a hundred years old. The wear on the ring had made it feel as smooth as wet marble. It was apparent this ring had lived. Bloom liked the thought