Death Etched in Stone: A Manny Tanno Mystery

By C. M. Wendelboe

Lakota FBI Agent Manny Tanno is back in action with his faithful tribal offi cer sidekick Willie when a man is found drowned in a Pine Ridge Reservation Lake. The apparently accidental drowning turns out to be murder, and the investigation takes them on the road to the man's home reservation in Wyoming.

Out of their element and unwelcome, no one on the Wind River Reservation is going out of their way to help Manny and Willie. In
fact, some are purposely getting in the way. It gets even worse when they discover a decades-old unsolved murder with a connection
to the man found murdered on Pine Ridge. Meanwhile, back at Pine Ridge, a Rapid City criminal's car keeps showing up at murder scenes.

Dark forces afoot on both reservations thwart the investigation at every turn. Not to mention the darker visions assaulting Manny at the worst possible times. And it's not just the spirit world that's out to get him. The case of the Pine Ridge murder balloons into a rush to catch the Wind River murderer before he racks up more victims— before Manny himself is next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Encircle Publications
• Release date: Jul 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948338486

Book preview

Death Etched in Stone Copyright © 2019 C. M. Wendelboe

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-948338-47-9

E-book ISBN 13:978-1-948338-48-6

Kindle ISBN 13: 978-1-948338-49-3

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher, Encircle Publications, Farmington, ME.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual places or businesses, is entirely coincidental.

Editor: Cynthia Brackett-Vincent

Book design: Eddie Vincent

Cover design by Deirdre Wait, High Pines Creative, Inc.

Cover photographs: petroglyphs © Bolo-Photo;

background scenery © Getty Images

Author photograph by Heather M. Wendelboe

Published by: Encircle Publications, LLC

PO Box 187

Farmington, ME 04938

Visit: http://encirclepub.com

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Printed in U.S.A.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to Arapaho elders and historians

Virginia Sutter, PhD, and Jim Sutter, for sharing their wisdom—and their Sun Dance camp.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Lt. Ted Thayer, Bureau of Indian Affairs officer on Wind River Indian Reservation; Dave S. Joly, FBI Denver Division Media Coordinator; Julie Francis, PhD, rock art expert and former Wyoming State Archaeologist; Pete Quinnell, for his aviation expertise; Randy Sinclair, for his intimate knowledge of the areas surrounding the Wind River Reservation; Craig and Judy Johnson, for their refusal to let Manny fail even when I would have let myself fail Manny; and especially my wife, Heather, whose diligence in proofing my work never ceases, and whose encouragement always keeps me working toward the next book.

Forward

Along the stone face of what is called Legend Rock, twenty-eight miles north-west of Thermopolis, Wyoming, reside stone etchings and en toto peckings. That have been made—not by human hands it is believed—but by spirits depicting scenes from many Shoshone shaman’s minds. I say reside because the etchings come alive to some people, are given a life of their own in the minds of those with perception. On a typical day, visitors stand in front of those drawings made some eleven-thousand years ago. And when you stand there, stand reverent, for the figures often come alive beckoning the observer to cross over into their spirit world. If you come pure, crossing will be a rebirth.

If you stand impure, such crossing over could be the most frightening, last thing you will ever encounter.

Chapter 1

Willie With Horn’s face was floodlit by headlights against the background of Oglala Lake. His hand shaded his squinting eyes as he turned away from the approaching FBI car.

Agent Manny Tanno climbed out and stumbled in the dark toward Willie. He leaned cross-armed against his Oglala Sioux police Tahoe parked beside a rez rod, a Chevy Cavalier adorned with multiple colored fenders. Bags drooped under Willie’s eyes, and Manny started saying something crass—like maybe the young tribal officer was getting lucky too many nights lately—then bit his lip. Manny knew Willie had returned to his investigative job just this week after having been shot two months ago. But Willie knew Manny typically could not overlook an officer appearing as if he’d just crawled out of bed.

I did.

You did what? Manny asked as he moved upwind from the lake.

I just crawled out of bed, if that’s what you were about to say. This wasn’t the first time Willie had looked disheveled on the job in the four years he and Manny had worked together. Like most tribal police officers, he worked far too much overtime. And no, Doreen hasn’t been staying over lately.

Willie avoided looking at the water lapping over the bank of the lake. He pulled his coat around his shoulders and turned his back to the water.

Manny smeared Vaseline under his nose and handed the jar to Willie. So, Doreen doesn’t want to soil her man before the wedding?

Willie shook his head. It’s not that. She just got tired of cleaning my place.

Manny grabbed examination gloves from inside his jacket pocket. They snapped loudly in the cold night air. It takes time to recoup.

A grimace crossed Willie’s face as his hand massaged his chest where two months before a killer had pumped a pair of 9 mm rounds into him. Willie nodded to Manny’s government car. Was that polka music I just heard coming from that heap?

Manny turned his back to the putrid odor blowing in from the lake. It might have been the Six Fat Dutchmen. By accident.

Accident! Willie came away from his Tahoe and stepped toward Manny, towering over him. He handed the Vaseline back. I thought we had an agreement.

Manny couldn’t stand Willie’s pow wow music, and Willie detested Manny’s polka music. So, before their vacation this past summer, they had agreed to listen to classic rock as a compromise. Next time you hop in, Manny said, there’ll be some Three Dog Night or CCR playing. I promise.

Willie warmed his hands with his breath. With your driving, the next time I’ll hop in with you is if I run out of gas in a blizzard.

They stood thirty feet from the water as they traded fiancée stories: Willie’s Doreen and Manny’s Clara. They swapped tales of what they’d done on their last days off. Willie asked if Manny had wrecked any cars lately, and Manny asked how Willie’s flight lessons were coming along with Wilson Eagle Bull. Manny wasn’t sure if they were just passing the time in the way of the Lakota, first jawing about mundane things before getting to the point, or if they were putting off the inevitable. It seemed that most times he and Willie got together it was over a dead body.

Putting it off no longer, Manny chin-pointed to the body lying on its back. Dispatch said you had a floater.

Willie nodded. That’s why I had them call you.

Hardly a case for the FBI. Last I read, we didn’t handle accidental drownings.

"If it was accidental."

Manny stepped closer and looked up at Willie. Must be something else, then, for you to call me out at night from Reuben’s house.

I heard you were spending some quality time with your brother. You getting religion?

Manny looked away. Making up for lost time, is all. Now why wasn’t this an accident?

Willie stepped away from the Tahoe. Its headlights illuminated green water lap-lap-lapping over a body resting partially on the bank. A fisherman called dispatch. ’Bout midnight, when he snagged the body. He said he didn’t figure it was a fish. Said they don’t grow that big here.

Oh, that was an astute observation. Who’s the fisherman?

Willie pointed off fifty yards into the darkness, to a lone figure barely discernible in the periphery of the Tahoe’s lights. Manny strained to see the man draw his rod back and cast it out into the water. A faint splash. A mumbled curse. The fisherman snagged something else that presumably wasn’t a fish.

He doesn’t seem too disturbed over finding the victim, Manny said.

Philbilly says it interrupted his fishing, is all. You know hillbillies.

What’s Philbilly doing out here?

Besides reeling in dead bodies?

We’ll talk with him later. Manny walked upwind of the corpse, and squatted near the man’s balding head, thin white tendrils of matted hair stuck to the crown of a widow’s peak. Manny closed his eyes, half expecting one of his visions to overcome him. Visions he’d been suffering ever since he’d come back here. Visions that insisted Manny was still Lakota and Pine Ridge was still home. But not tonight. Thankfully.

I started doing a Sending Away Ceremony, Willie said, as if reading Manny’s mind about the victim’s spirit. Willie had been studying with a respected Lakota sacred woman for some years. I was so concerned with helping his spirit along the Spirit Road, that I almost missed some things that didn’t quite fit.

Manny noticed some things, too, but waited for Willie to explain.

Those slacks and cardigan are more in step with dancing and dining than fishing. Willie visibly shuddered against the frigid air. And on a cold night like this, only fruitcakes like Philbilly would be out here drowning worms.

Manny noticed a waterlogged pack of Marlboros pasted to the man’s pocket and instinctively patted his own shirt. He’d quit smoking a few years ago, yet he still craved one. In his old days, he might have grabbed the cigarettes, dried one out over his car’s heater vent, and lit up. But now the new and improved Manny had emerged.

He stood and arched his back. Loud pops seemed to bounce off the bumper of his government Malibu. Where are his socks?

Hillbillies don’t wear socks.

I meant the victim’s.

Willie shrugged his thick shoulders. Maybe he never wore any.

Manny’s eyebrows raised.

Some people don’t wear them, Willie quickly followed up. Mike Tyson never wore any when he stepped in the ring.

That, Manny said, walking around the body, checking it from different angles, was no Mike Tyson.

Cold dirt ground into Manny’s Dockers as he knelt to the man. He looked up at Willie. We have a guy of . . . he nodded to the victim, about seventy. Dressed like he was going to a fashion show. Fishing in the middle of a nasty cold night. Fell into Oglala Lake where our man Phil managed to hook him. Is that about right?

That’s about it.

Did this guy catch anything?

How should I know?

Well, check his line, Manny said.

Willie grabbed a can of Copenhagen from his back pocket and shoved a pinch into his lower lip. He slapped the excess off on his jeans. You thinking maybe we can have us a little fish fry for our midnight snack? What difference does it make if he caught anything?

Humor me.

Willie kicked the dirt as he stepped around the body. He snatched a Zebco rod and reel propped against the fork of a cottonwood branch stuck into the bank. He reeled it in and swung the rod toward Manny. A silver spinner glistened in the headlights, but no midnight snack dangled from the lure. "See: Nada."

" ‘Nada’ is right. Manny grabbed the end of the spinner. One of the treble hooks caught and ripped a shallow furrow along one finger, and he stuck it in his mouth. Most folks that fish this lake use night crawlers on their hooks. Even with spinners."

And your point? Willie asked.

Do you see any chunks of worm on these hooks?

Willie snatched the end of the rod and held it towards the headlights. Jesa. I think you’re right.

I know I’m right. The rod and reel is as new as the spinner. The only thing missing is the Walmart tag. So now we have this fancy dancer sticking a new fishing rig with no bait into the cold lake at midnight. He nodded to the Cavalier. Is that his car?

Willie spit. The wind took the trail of tobacco juice, and it landed on the trunk of the Chevy with a splat. He grabbed his notebook out of his back pocket and started reciting from memory, using the notebook as a prop. Much as Manny taught him. The license plates are missing. Dispatch ran the serial number, but nothing’s come back yet.

Willie’s cell phone rang, and he turned his back to the wind while he cupped his phone. We’re here on the Whiteclay Creek side of the lake, he said, and pocketed his phone. Boss is en route, and he doesn’t sound too happy.

Now why is your ‘Acting Chief’ coming out here to a report of an accidental drowning?

Dispatch has strict orders to call the lieutenant out for anything unusual. At least for now.

Lumpy’s been out busting his ass this last month since they announced testing for chief. Trying to look like he’s in charge. Is that it?

That’s part of it. Before Willie could explain, the Oglala Sioux Tribe police chief’s Suburban skidded on the gravel road and slid to a stop beside Manny’s car. Leon Lumpy Looks Twice grabbed the door for support and swung his stubby legs to the ground. He waddled toward Manny and Willie as he pulled his hoodie tight around his face. Manny thought he looked like a walking condom.

What the hell’s the FBI doing here? He craned his neck up at Willie. Did you call him?

Willie nodded.

To a damned accidental drowning? Like the tribe can’t handle something this routine? He turned to Manny. I heard you were spending some time at the felon’s house. Being in the ’hood makes it easier to butt in on tribal cases?

Can the tribe afford an autopsy? Manny asked.

For that? Lumpy jerked his thumb at the corpse. You know we get strapped for cash at the end of the year. Lumpy stepped close, his burrito breath frosting the straggly mustache he had tried growing. Besides, we de don’t do autopsies on accidental deaths.

"He will have to be autopsied, Manny said. It’d look good to the tribal council, you saving them money by passing this onto to the Feds. Especially with the chief testing coming up."

It’d look even better if they knew we had an accident here instead of a homicide.

Manny took a deep breath, but Willie beat him to the explanation of why the drowning was no accident. Willie explained how the man wasn’t dressed for fishing, and how there was no bait on his lure. And the victim has no ID on him, Willie explained. Stripped clean.

Not even a tribal fishing license?

Not even a fishing license.

Well, if it was a homicide, someone saved him from a fate worse than death. Those tribal game wardens would have slapped a fine higher than if he’d been the one who committed murder. Lumpy opened his outdated BlackBerry and started typing on the keyboard too puny for his pudgy fingers. I’m getting Pee Pee on the way.

Manny nodded to Lumpy’s phone. Wouldn’t it be easier just to call him?

It pisses him off if I text his bony little butt, Lumpy smiled. Makes up for the last Elvis trick he pulled on me.

Manny nodded. Evidence tech Precious Paul Pee Pee Pourier had run up a bid on an Elvis concert poster on eBay touted as an original. When the bidding reached high enough, Pee Pee dropped out, and Lumpy was stuck with a two-hundred-and-one-dollar poster. A nice copy, but a fake nonetheless, and Pee Pee made sure the moccasin telegraph got the word out about Lumpy’s folly.

When Lumpy finished texting Pee Pee, he slipped his BlackBerry into the belt holder lost somewhere under one of the mounds of lumps that made up his waist. He walked to the beater Cavalier, and grabbed a flashlight from the front pocket of his hoodie. What a piece of shit. He shined his light inside the car. Manny looked over Lumpy’s shoulder. Empty potato chip bags competed with soda cans that competed with cigarette butts to litter the floor and seat of the car.

Another reason it wasn’t an accident, Willie exclaimed.

Lumpy and Manny stepped back from the car and waited for Willie’s explanation. "Look at the floater. Dressed as neat as he is, do you think he’d drive something like this?"

Lumpy nodded. Good point.

Willie rubbed his hands together for warmth. Manny shoved his hands in his coat pocket. Lumpy drew his short arms inside the sleeves of his hoodie. They stood shivering like The Three Lakota Amigos waiting for Pee Pee and his evidence van.

Willie’s phone rang again, and he stepped away to take the call.

Manny motioned for Lumpy, and they walked upwind of the corpse. Have you ever seen that guy?

Lumpy shook his head. No. But then I might not know an old boy like that.

We can pay Chief Horn a visit in the Cohen Home tomorrow. If anyone would know the victim, he would.

Lumpy put up his hands. What’s this ‘we,’ White Man? You visit him yourself, Hot Shot. The last time I went there, he damned near got his big mitts on me.

I heard you outran him.

I did.

Meaning the old Chief’s getting pretty slow.

Now wait—

Willie interrupted Lumpy: The car was stolen from the D&D in Rapid last night.

Lumpy whistled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the car. You telling me this dude stole this piece of scrap metal from the Death & Destruction? Now what would an old dandy like him be doing at a seedy strip bar?

Manny nudged Lumpy. How do you know it’s a strip bar? And seedy.

Lumpy coughed, gaining precious time to get his lies together. Everyone knows the D&D’s a strip club. And this car’s a long ways from Rapid City.

Willie opened the door and leaned inside, but the dome light didn’t come on. He grabbed a Mini Maglite from his hip pocket and played the light around inside. Maybe he liked the strippers there.

And maybe one of them lured him here and offed him, Lumpy added.

Then what did the mythical stripper leave in? Manny said and stepped around the car. He cupped his hands and yelled for Philbilly. He set his pole into a rod holder in the dirt and shuffled over.

Manny, Philbilly smiled at Manny and Willie. The smile faded when he noticed Lumpy huddled inside his hoodie, and he nodded stiffly. Lieutenant Looks Twice.

Lumpy jerked his thumb at the corpse. What the hell do you know about this?

Whoa! Phil said, backing up, his hands raised in front as if fending off Lumpy’s accusing tone. Phil spoke fast, reverting to his thick Arkansas accent. All’s I know is that this guy took my bait. Phil laughed, but stopped when he noticed no one else did. All right. Here’s the skinny. I came here about an hour before I snagged . . . he stared at the corpse, . . . what do we call him, John Doe?

Close enough, Manny answered. Go on.

’kay. Okay. When I came here, this Chevy was sitting where it is. No one around. I didn’t take nothing. You know me, Manny.

Manny nodded. Phil Ostert was perhaps the laziest and dumbest man he’d ever met. His parents had abandoned him at Big Bat’s convenience store as a teenager. They were returning to their home in Arkansas from working the turnip fields in Oregon when they saw their chance at Big Bat’s gas pumps. When Phil came out of the restroom, their pickup was gone. He remained one of the few people who could say they actually fell off the turnip truck. But he was honest, and Manny knew Phil had taken nothing. So the Cavalier was here when you came, Manny prodded.

Phil looked at Lumpy when he answered, as if expecting the acting police chief to arrest him. Again. "I thought this thing crapped out here. You can understand how I figured that. Don’t hardly look like it can drive. Even I wouldn’t drive this thing."

Manny, Willie, and Lumpy all three nodded in agreement.

Anyways, I tossed my line out a few times and snagged him. He nodded to the corpse. I thought it was an old tire or a downed tree it was so heavy. Obviously, it wasn’t.

Obviously, Manny said. How’d you get here?

Philbilly looked suspiciously at Manny as if he’d go tell his brother where the van was. Reuben had commandeered Phil’s old bread truck a couple months ago and refused to give it back for weeks. Reuben had liked it so much as it fit his huge frame so well. And Phil, like everyone else on Pine Ridge, was afraid of Manny’s brother, so he’d let Reuben keep it. Until Manny convinced Reuben a sacred man shouldn’t keep other people’s property. Especially when it involved driving around Pine Ridge with no license.

It’s hid in the trees over yonder. Philbilly’s yonder was a stand of cottonwoods a quarter mile from where they all stood.

And no one was here? Lumpy asked.

Just John Doe and me. A shame, too, Philbilly said, his mouth drooping as he gazed blankly out into Oglala Lake. He was the only bite I got tonight.

Chapter 2

Manny watched the second-dumbest man he’d ever met run his police K-9 around the Cavalier. Donnie Rabbit patted the outside of the stolen car, encouraging his Malinois partner to alert if drugs were inside. Manny shook his head to get the image of Donnie out of his head. Last week when Manny was on the reservation for an extortion report, he’d checked in with Lumpy. They had been sitting around the coffee pot at shift change when Donnie opened a package he had been waiting for.

I wonder what this feels like? Donnie had asked, fingering the new dog shock collar. I wonder if it really hurts. I wouldn’t want it to hurt GoJo too badly. But if he barks too much . . . he’d trailed off, slipping the collar around his neck and clicking the latch.

I don’t think that’s a smart thing to do, Willie had said.

Donnie ignored him and sat upright in the chair. He started barking, each time failing to set the collar off.

Bark: Nothing.

Bark: Silence.

Except the last time.

Donnie barked loud enough that the probes pressing against his neck hit him with a full jolt of current. Donnie yelled and fell to the floor. Each time Donnie shouted, the collar would shock him again, making him convulse around the floor. Scream: Shock! Shriek: Shock!

The other supportive and compassionate officers in the room moved chairs out of Donnie’s way. They scrambled for their cell phone cameras, jockeying for position to capture the dumbest dog handler in the world.

Donnie finally had succumbed to sheer exhaustion: when he could scream no more, the shock collar had fallen silent. And Donnie had feigned to rebuff his fifteen minutes of fame when a dozen officers all posted him and his dog collar to YouTube.

There was something inside this rat trap, Donnie said, coaxing GoJo outside the car. Donnie grabbed a piece of hose and tossed it for him to fetch as his reward. No telling what dope was there, but he went ballistic inside. And you know GoJo.

Manny nodded. Donnie and GoJo had accounted for over half the drug seizures on Pine Ridge. If GoJo whispered to Donnie there had been dope inside, there had been some once.

Manny turned to check Willie’s progress. He crouched over the hood of the Tahoe taking a written statement from Philbilly. He couldn’t write well—Manny suspected he couldn’t write at all—so Willie wrote what Phil told him. They were just finishing when Pee Pee pulled up. He parked his evidence van alongside Manny’s car and stepped out. His eyes narrowed as he stopped and glowered at Philbilly before walking to the back of the van to retrieve his evidence kit. Manny caught the look and turned to Philbilly. Pee Pee’s not very cheerful to you tonight. Thought you two were buds?

Philbilly looked around Willie. Pee Pee squatted next to the victim and opened his kit. Philbilly lowered his voice. Pee Pee and the rest of the guys are mad ’cause I ain’t lined up any more gigs.

Philbilly, ever the get-rich-quick schemer, had talked Pee Pee and his band of four other musicians into making him their manager. He convinced them they needed a snappy name—which Philbilly had dreamt up somewhere in his vast, cavernous skull—and got them into playing modern pop, changing from the oldies they loved.

And the outfits. Patent leather shoes and used movie usher coats didn’t fit in around Pine Ridge. So far, they had played the Legion in Hot Springs. And nowhere else.

I just can’t understand it. Philbilly looked around Willie again, making sure