The Executioner's Song

By D.B. Dakota

What an awful thing it is to happen upon the body—your friend—ID'd only by a scrap of clothing. The law alleges he jumped off the bridge—600 feet? Fell? Thrown? Racing home to the victim's Taos adobe, you find him there and on TV being interviewed: He must sell his art, over a hundred paintings. Yet he's famous, so why the backlog? And on the screen is your own portrait right there in the home of the NY TV host. What is going on? You need a private investigator. No need for the sheriff, he hates Indians. And sheriff is the brother of the artist's agent. Does the PI see a connection here? You bet, strong enough to launch a sequence of psyche stratagems to break the brothers, because the TV pitchman is really the agent, impersonating his own client. You happen to know music—you have a little band—and so does the PI, so here it comes: The brothers in the nightclub being entertained by the ballad reenact to what happened at the bridge. They scramble to the crime scene to cover up something overlooked when they murdered. The PI's hi-tech gadgetry at the scene cuffs them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090749

Book preview

One

Hopping down off the highway pavement and into the weeds, Deputy Bluehorn made his way past the bridge’s underpinning and girders to start his descent to the riverbank. Looking for a dead man, he would drop down, almost straight down, the length of two football fields; this was the 1200-ft. long Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, northeast of Taos. Scanning his surroundings, he loosened up and holstered his piece—can’t be too careful on a job like this. By watching his footing, the steep-sided chasm wall afforded a path of sorts. In patches of dirt, wildflowers of exotic colors sparkled wherever he looked, so unusual he’d never seen them anywhere else, even in pictures; the precipice was too treacherous for photographers. As the river became more distinct, he saw rapids to the south, trout pools to the north. Sometime he’d bring his son to take in the wonderment, the contrasts: lush foliage protected by jagged silhouettes; void unending amid the presence of a vital force. A cloudless turquoise sky was a blanket covering the spectacle. Bluehorn kept easing on down.

Then he looked up to the incredible arch stretched overhead. Tiny cars up there whizzed along, but he couldn’t hear them. Nearing the river bottom, he methodically surveyed the banks for signs of activity and saw none. Between the edge of the wall and the swift waters, the bank was littered with tree trunks, boulders and the debris of floods.

There! What’s that? An out-of-place color caught his eye, a large splotch of mustard, looked like, on the ground beside a large log. Perhaps a shaggy, tawny goat antelope had been shot. Sliding, trotting downhill, he saw a man, alive. Almost hidden, sitting on another log with his back to the straw-colored object, the man was bent over, hugging his knees, with his head buried in his arms. Hey! Bluehorn yelled, waving.

The man turned, jumped up, blew his nose, dashed to meet the lawman and introduced himself. My name’s Markeen. It’s right over here. He led the way to the yellow object. Bluehorn gagged and turned his head. The body, a male in brown pants and lemon-colored coat, was crumpled, bleeding, smashed and unrecognizable.

Who is it? Bluehorn’s gaze passed from Markeen’s eyes, flush and moist, to the victim’s leather boot on the ground nearby.

Unable to look at the casualty, Markeen squinted into the distance. Anjeelo Raven.

The artist? Bluehorn knelt and checked for a pulse.

Of all people, why him? He was my friend, everybody’s, I mean... Markeen kicked up a cloud of dust. After finding the body, I rode my bike up the highway and phoned the sheriff’s office. Then I came back down here.

Bluehorn stood up, studied the terrain, then stared at Markeen. What makes you think it’s Raven?

Markeen bowed his head, covered his face with his hands and moaned. He was of medium build, tall, in jeans and a brown Taos Jazz T-shirt, around twenty-three and photogenic, with shoulder-length black wavy hair. Gentle of movement and soft spoken; in time Markeen answered: That coat, the right sleeve. I remember it. Every time I’ve seen him, he was always in that fancy leather coat.

How’d you happen upon the body?

Hiking down the river, just wandering along. Markeen eyed the deputy with suspicion.

Way down here in the gorge by yourself?

Hey, man, I didn’t kill him! Markeen scowled.

I’m not accusing you, son, and I’m not going to run you in for fishing without a license. Is that what you were doing?

Nope, no sir, I was looking for driftwood for the gallery.

You live on the reservation? Referring to Taos Pueblo.

Used to. I moved out. Me and another guy, we’ve got our own place now, Markeen said. Little house south of town. We’ve got a little band.

I thought I’d seen you around. Bluehorn pointed to the end of the bridge. I see some orange jumpsuits up there. That’s got to be body baggers. Wonder who sent them? I sure didn’t. Markeen wondered too; if Bluehorn hadn’t radioed the coroner’s office en route, who did? Leery, he squinted at the deputy. Well, make yourself useful, the deputy prompted. Maybe you ought to crawl up there and show them the path.

STARING AT THE BODY-baggers, Bluehorn began to think about recent incidents, the previous whirlwind minutes leading up to this point. Why, he wondered, wasn’t a detective sent along? Why the switch in runs? Car twelve, cancel, dispatch radioed; double back. Then we argued: Just five more miles and I’m right there. False alarm? I asked her. Negative. Nineteen will take it. Raul, location, please.

On Highway 64; I just crossed the bridge to Taos, Raul relayed.

Nineteen—Raul—to the ski lodge break-in. Twelve—that’s me—go to the bridge. Body down.

Uh, switch places? I snorted. OK. Roger. But we’re on target almost—why the change?

Code one on that. Meaning, the sheriff himself ordered the switch.

Ten-four, we said, Raul and I; what else? Crazy. Something funny here.

On that final approach to the east end of that long, high bridge, Bluehorn had doused his flashers and pulled off the two-lane highway onto the shoulder. His druthers would have been to just keep right on going, because working fatals was hard on the stomach. Noxious jobs had been falling his way ever since the sheriff announced for reelection. Just short of the bridge, Bluehorn had eased his cruiser onto the gravel berm, parked, slid out and right off noticed a small motorcycle nearby, chained to a traffic sign. Where was the driver, picnicking? Not likely; the surrounding forest was harsh, no place for an outing.

Was the cop walking into an ambush? In that part of the world, lawmen weren’t exactly holy. He drew his weapon. His destination was all the way down to the river, a descent path not many knew about; a burro would balk at such a drop. Taos, noted for its art, was close, southeast of the bridge. The engineering phenomenon, twelve hundred feet long, straddled the river and the two, bridge and gorge, were breathtaking, not to mention the mountainous landscape. A body down: thrown off the bridge? Shot? Fell? Which? Who notified dispatch, a birder out scanning for seagulls? ... He wondered.

Hoping the report was a hoax, the officer was going to slip and slide down the steep cañon wall to see if there really was a fatality. Though the days were long July 2002 days, omen of an approaching El Nino—and wanderlust seagulls—he had to get back up out of there before dark; even with the moon and his flashlight he’d never find his way out. Folding his arms to hide the gun, he stood around, listened and scanned the area, especially under the bridge, a likely hiding place for a shooter. Nothing moved except passing cars; a couple of drivers waved, he ignored them. He kept his eye on the void between the steel superstructure and the trash-strewn ground.

Slowly he turned his back, paused, then quickly pivoted to face the darkened area. He inhaled, stuffed his gun hand into his shirt to appear nonchalant, and sauntered off to get on with the investigation—or a double cross? Since he’d never been down to the river, Bluehorn first wanted to see what he was getting into, so he hiked out along the bridge’s fenced walkway to look over. The ragged thread of the muddy Rio Grande sprawled, churned, or sidled through a ravine deep and wide enough to be promoted as a point of interest for tourists.

After several yards, he began to feel the sway of the expansion span caused by wind and passing vehicles. He stopped, held on to a cable and surveyed the Land of Enchantment, arresting and humbling. To the east, marking the county’s border, the alp-studded Sangre de Cristo Mountains were snow-capped even in summer. The mountain region of majestic Taos County was best visited with the eye than on foot; getting around was more suited to the Rocky Mountain goat. Glaring at the legendary river, he was jolted about how high up he was.

Arrrgg, he gasped at the thought of an individual falling. Suicide flashed through his mind. No way. Yet, a man bent on staging a theatrical suicide: could he get through the fence or over it, claw his way up and pitch head-first into the wind? Might that be his bike back there? Looking long and hard at the river bottom below, he spotted nothing, neither human or animal; he was too far away to pick up detail without field glasses, which were in his car. But his order was to go down there and search and he never bucked orders. Ill at ease, he hurried back to the end of the bridge, wishing he had rough clothes, something besides his crisp, gray uniform. A Taos Indian in his forties, he was stocky and short with a serious, reserved manner.

SQUINTING AT THE VACILLATING body-baggers way up at roadside and at Markeen standing alongside, Deputy Bluehorn prompted, Well, make yourself useful. They’re trying to figure out how to get down here.

Yessir, acceded Markeen as he turned to leave. I’ll climb back up and show them the path.

Before you go. You said every time you’d seen Raven. He was a recluse, I’ve heard. How come you’ve seen him so much when nobody else has?

In the pueblo is where I see him, when he shows up to paint, I mean, you know, on his canvas, Markeen replied. You county guys never go back in there. Where do you think he got all those red faces he painted?

Made him rich, said the deputy, studying the scene.

Us, too. Well, not rich, but he always shared his profits with his models. My sister used hers to pay for college. Mother helped out too; she posed for him several times. One painting of hers sold for sixty thousand, Raven said.

Did he ever paint you?

A few months ago, yeah; that was the last one he did of me, Markeen answered, wiping his face with his shirt. But I don’t know whether it sold or not. Taos is gonna miss him, Mr. Bluehorn.

He’d read the name tag. Call me Keewa.

He was collared and pitched off the bridge, you suppose? Who did it, what kind of monster?

Impossible, if you ask me. Maybe he fell. Jumped? Could be, though, that some brute did grab and hoist him somehow and shoved him over. Shading his eyes, Bluehorn stared up at the fence, all that wire, the barrier installed to prevent such an act. But I don’t know how. What an awful thing to happen. The deputy checked his watch: 5:10 PM. I’ve got to make sure who this really is.

Sure? It’s Raven. I know it is. I’m gonna go see. Markeen took off, heading for the highway.

The officer went through the victim’s pockets and shouted to Markeen, working his way up the embankment: No IDs on him! The three-man coroner team had found the path to the river and was descending. They met Markeen, clawing his way up, exchanged a few words with him and continued down the slope, carrying a litter, ropes and a bag.

Reaching the roadway, Markeen eased onto his bike and roared off on US64 east to report the tragedy he had just discovered by the water’s edge. On to state route 3, he crossed it and headed north on route 150, the road to Taos Ski Valley, then sped through the hamlet of Arroyo Seco, seven miles north of Taos. Passing through the village, he swung left onto a dusty private road for one-third of a mile, leading through the desert to the home of the distinguished artist Raven. At that house, a television crew was setting up. Counting down to air-time, they were about to do a live satellite feed of an interview to a cable network studio in New York where it was after seven o’clock, prime time. The remote was part of a two-way interview, with the host in New York and an interviewee in Taos.

Ten minutes to live! barked the producer in the mobile control room. His cue came from the director who commanded a switcher, cameras and shaders and an audio man, all engineers, and an effects guy. Women on the tech crew, none, except for a helper; the production facilitator was female, on special assignment for this shoot. The TV truck was stationed on the circle driveway of an isolated, one-story adobe, a sprawling thick-walled pink structure built by an early 20th century rancher. The next owner—not Raven—was an aficionado of the arts in the 1930s. Requiring lodging space, he added more rooms for his guests, painters and writers who gave Taos its fame. From the truck: Three minutes!

Skidding off the private road onto the driveway of the apparent victim’s home, the biker was stopped by a suit on guard duty. You got business here? Kill that noisy engine.

What’s going on here? called Markeen, dismounting, ignoring the challenge.

I said, you got business here?

Somebody’s been killed, my friend. Markeen stepped off toward the house. I need to make sure. The lookout blocked his path with a shoulder. Markeen shoved the man to the ground, loped to the van and joined three people standing around, watching a video monitor propped up on a cardboard box on the ground right outside the van’s door.

The guard dusted himself off and trotted up to the group. Hey! he shouted at Markeen, keeping his distance. You got no business...

Stuff yer pie hole out there! a yell from inside the van by producer Shatzig, a short pudgy, long-hair in grunge shorts and white dirty sneakers. Two minutes—stand by.

Markeen shook hands with a bystander who grinned, convincing the watchman he was no stranger. The protector returned to his post near the parked motorcycle. Markeen didn’t know the other two onlookers, but one, a woman with a large format still camera strapped around her neck, stepped up. With a hard, fixed smile, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones, she had a green-eyed off-shore appearance, and resembled Markeen, even to the long black hair. She traced her ancestors back to the Ute nation and their massacre of the Germans. But for her Broncos cap, she looked cowboy in rough denims and wordaday boots. Did you want to get into the house? she whispered, folding empty pizza boxes, stuffing them into a trash bag. He flicked his head, motioning her aside.

I don’t want to interfere with whatever this is, but somebody’s been killed and I’m sure it’s... The monitor blasted forth with the sound track of a commercial, then dropped out.

From the console, the mixer hollered: Got audio out there?

Negatory! the pizza hostess shouted back. Sound up! Inside the house in the vast living room, two cameras had set up; one, a hand-held to roam the house and shoot a valuable collection of art. Every wall had paintings, hanging side by side, inches apart. The other camera, stationary, would hold a steady shot for a split screen effect, with the Taos guest framed on the right. Screen-left was reserved for Gloria Wellstone, host of the weekly American Anchor. You say somebody’s been what? the crew woman asked as she crouched and rearranged drinks in coolers.

Killed! Markeen shouted back. The man who lives here!

Quiet, dammit! the producer snapped. Thirty seconds.

Gloria was faded in, full screen, surrounded by abstracts of stars and stripes, farms and tall buildings, and other pop images of Americana. In anchor makeup and with a stiff, blond hairdo, she was ageless, anywhere from twenty to fifty. They’re out there, folks, she began with a broad smile, hard to find, though, people of note who never forget those who helped them succeed. But we found another one; that’s what American Anchor is all about: people who make the country work. This is a rare story indeed and to get it we went to New Mexico. That’s where we are this evening for a glimpse at a man who did not claw his way to the top on the backs of others. Our guest is a modern master in the field of Southwest fine arts. He paints the people of the Pueblo de Taos Indian Reservation. Tonight we are pleased to offer a retrospective. His art is in major museums and in noteworthy private collections around the world. You must see his works. But you won’t find them in galleries; they’re sold out. Prices? Where would you sock your money? In a brace of big Beemers? Or... Cut to a slide of a framed painting. ...Or in this portrait? This is an investment. This hangs over my very own fireplace and I am so proud of it. Study those eyes, the character. I get chills each time I look at it. I always just stop, stand there and return that lad’s smile.

Hey, hey, hey, Markeen blurted, dropping to his knees, frowning at the screen.

Shhh, whispered the woman, sidling up to him and kneeling, or we’ll get thrown off the set.

That’s me, Markeen screeched under his breath.

Where? she whispered, glancing at his harsh frown.

There. Aflutter, Markeen pointed to the monitor.

The aide studied Markeen’s face and gasped at the resemblance. How did Gloria get your picture?

She bought it, sounds like. This is crazy. The man with whom Markeen had shaken hands turned, flashed a broad grin, nodded and upped a thumb.

Now meet the artist who painted it, said Gloria on the monitor. Video cut to a vertical split two-shot of the host and the guest, a bust shot, with a caption: Anjeelo Raven, Taos Artist. Seeing only a portion of the man, his size couldn’t be determined. Clean shaven, he appeared to be well-fed, giving him a youthful look, even with pronounced wrinkles and laugh-lines. Droopy-eyed, his visage was grim. Detectable above a mauve headband was a receding hairline with a crisp edge as if created by a razor. Coarse black hair, gray-streaked, was in braids, falling over his ears and down to mid-chest. The braids were woven through miniature, gold sprocket chains. He looked uncomfortable in his fringe-laden yellowish coat.

That can’t be him, Markeen whispered, clamping his mouth, then pointing to the screen with the other hand and glancing around at the production assistant.

Yes, it is, she whispered. I just fed him a pizza.

Gloria: Anjeelo, I now and then wonder who the model was for my canvas.

That’s not Raven, Markeen rasped, jumping up and stamping around. He’s dead!

Mister, please, the crew woman pleaded in a mumble, rising to her feet, shaking her head at Markeen, grabbing his shoulders with both hands. With her face up against his, she whispered, This is live TV; they need us to be quiet so they can direct the cameras. The truck door couldn’t be closed to shut out noise due to the cables running out. That has to be Raven, she frowned, pointing at the house. He’s right in there in his living room.

Looking straight at the camera, Gloria gushed, I marvel at your technique to capture such character. The model is so lifelike and yet so ethereal. Can you tell us who he is?

Raven: If you found out, the face would have less mystery. You wouldn’t enjoy the picture the same ever again. If you attached a name to the face, knew where and how the model lived, you would make up a set of false assumptions about his circumstances. You would see poverty and gloom. Markeen sat down on the ground, bent forward and stared at the TV.

Said Gloria with a shrug, I’m sure you’re right; my imagination would change those eyes to pity; what I see now is inspiration.

A painting is a daydream, said Raven, nodding with his eyes half-closed. The roving camera began its tour, panning the hung art, filling most of the TV frame. The two-shot was scaled back to a lower corner as the two continued talking.

We won’t reveal where this cache is located, Gloria confessed, shaking her head. But, Mr. Raven, you are not known for sharing much of anything with the public.

I’ve lived alone since my wife died. We had no children, so people call me a hermit.

A philanthropist, I’ve heard, a humanitarian.

You’re referring to posing fees. Raven shrugged, sounding bored. The galleries take their forty percent, my agent takes fifteen of my sixty. What’s left, I split eighty-twenty with my models.

I should say I worked this out in advance, but my own ninety thousand dollar painting would produce a talent fee of over nine thousand dollars.

Anything wrong with that, pray tell? The artist was diffident. After all, the model deserves something for having a good face and much patience, don’t you think?

Anjeelo, that is charity, if not indulgence.

No, tithing, worship of the Taos; I am one of them; they have been good to me, Barbara.

Gloria, she corrected with a grin. As a hermit, why this sudden opening up, consenting to appear on national television?

I wish to confess what a mess I’ve made of things. I’m a hoarder, in debt to my models, losing my mind and forgetting how to paint. Raven seemed to doze. So I’m selling all my works, retiring and just going away.

Are you saying that all these pieces on camera are now on the market? Gloria frowned.

Offered to the highest bidder, yes, direct, not through my agent.

But why sell off, why now? the interviewer snapped, glancing off-camera.

I must. Raven stared off to one side. Before my mind goes, Lesley. I am ill.

Quite firmly she corrected: Gloria.

I am a prisoner of these faces staring me down and forget who they belong to. They are my wardens, one hundred and six at last count, glowering from these walls.

They have fascinating personalities.

Those eyes look at me and see a swindler. Hanging here, they keep me cornered and won’t let me out of this house. Because they are my best paintings, I keep them hidden from the world.

So they will increase in value? Gloria taunted, leaning back. Is that why you hide them?

I love the people I paint, these sienna faces, and they love me. I owe them money, for they gave me their faces to sell. Still, I couldn’t muster the courage to price and tag them. I couldn’t summon an agent to come with his boxes and pack the paintings off to galleries and, sad to say, make them disappear.

That means, the wide-eyed interviewer said, we’re looking at a good ten million dollars worth of paintings here.

Ten million, three million, three hundred—is there a difference? They must go before I go crazy.

American Anchor is not your sales force, Mr. Raven. Why did you pick this moment?

For what, Connie?

To become a peddler; and, please, my name is Gloria. Her rejoinder was stern.

Raven wagged his finger. See here. You saw rating points in me, an old eccentric with a paintbrush. We are using each other, are we not?

This program is a way to reach the outside world without your having to venture out into it and risk defeat, Gloria allowed, squinting. Isn’t that it?

I detest exhibitions. Come meet the artist with the fixed grin, muttering inanities. But this camera in front of me is just a piece of glass. You are my father confessor on the other side of this screen.

Have it your way, Anjeelo. Gloria glanced at her notes.

Markeen quit looking at the TV, studied the ground, stood up, turned, took a few steps toward the house and stopped with his head bowed. The helper woman eased up and stood between him and the house. Out or earshot of the crew, she asked, You want to go inside?

I’d like to get a close look at that man, Markeen answered, staring at the front door.

What makes you think he’s not Raven?

The coat he’s wearing, for one thing.

What’s wrong with it? she asked, glancing back at the monitor.

It’s brand new. The fringe on his right sleeve, I noticed it. It isn’t ragged; a dog had chewed off some of the fringe.

So he bought a new one; when did you notice that?

When I sat for him, Markeen mumbled, staring off to the side.

Nine thousand bucks, wow!

But I never got paid.

Maybe yours sold only recently and he hasn’t collected, the aide said, tuning out the TV sound, deciding she’d better pay attention to Markeen. Or like he said, he’s getting forgetful. Is it Raven’s face?

It looks like his hair, those braids, but I don’t recall ever seeing him in a headband. Too stylish.

What about his voice? she asked, studying the model’s troubled face.

Well, Markeen hesitated, kinda like him. He never talked much.

He sure is gabby with Gloria. I can take you in there shortly so you can talk to him.

He squinted toward the house. I’m afraid to. He might not recognize me.

Because he said he was losing his mind?

I don’t believe it. He’s sharp.

You say he’s dead; how do you know? the crew hand frowned, scratching an eyebrow.

I saw his body in the gorge. Just stumbled on it minutes ago. Markeen explained where. I had to come and see if it was him.

And you find him here instead, very much alive and on television.

Markeen nodded. Something’s funny.

"If that’s not Raven in there in