CHAPTER THREE
The tribal police archives smelled of dust and forgotten things.
Housed in the basement of the department's modest headquarters building, the room contained decades of case files stored in metal cabinets that had long since surrendered their original color to a uniform institutional beige.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, giving the windowless space an artificial pallor that made even Kari's complexion appear sallow.
"When was the last time anyone organized this place?" Kari asked, surveying rows of filing cabinets labeled with faded markers and yellowing tape.
"Of course it did," Kari muttered. Budget constraints were a perpetual reality for the Navajo Nation Police Department, where essential equipment often took priority over administrative conveniences like digital archives.
They had each grabbed coffee from the breakroom before heading downstairs, the department's ancient percolator producing a brew that tasted vaguely of metal and excessive heat. Now Kari set her mug on a dusty table and joined Ben at the filing cabinet.
"Just to make sure we're on the same page," she said, reaching for another drawer, "we're looking for homicides between 1970 and 1975. Specifically ones with ceremonial elements or herb placement."
"We'll find the connection, if there is one," Ben said.
They established a system—Ben taking files from the early 1970s while Kari handled the mid-decade cases. They worked in companionable silence broken only by the rustling of paper and occasional comments about particularly unusual cases unrelated to their current investigation.
"Three moonshine-related deaths in 1972," Ben said. "Contaminated batch from someone's experimental still."
"Jurisdictional nightmare in '74," Kari replied. "Body found straddling reservation boundaries. FBI and tribal police argued for weeks over who had authority."
She stretched, feeling the familiar ache of concentrated desk work settling between her shoulder blades.
After a morning spent helping Ruth gather herbs followed by examining a murder scene, the archives room felt claustrophobic despite its size.
Kari had always preferred active investigation to paperwork, a trait that had occasionally frustrated her supervisors in Phoenix.
"How's your shoulder doing?" she asked Ben, noting how he rotated it carefully between files.
He glanced up, surprised by the personal inquiry. "Better. Physical therapy's helping. Doctor says another month before I can get back to regular climbing."
Two weeks ago, Ben had injured his shoulder while apprehending a suspect who'd decided to flee rather than face charges for breaking into the tribal administrative offices.
The incident had left him on modified duty—"desk work," he called it with thinly veiled contempt—until medical clearance.
For someone who spent his free time scaling the red rock formations that bordered the reservation, the restriction clearly chafed.
"Ruth might have something for that," Kari said. "She's got a poultice she makes for muscle injuries."
Ben's expression shifted to interest. "Your grandmother sharing her medicine knowledge with you now? That's new."
Kari smiled. "Progress, I guess. Three months ago she wouldn't have trusted me to identify basic sage correctly. Now she's letting me help prepare for healing ceremonies." She pulled another file from the drawer she was searching. "She still keeps certain things to herself, though."
"That checks out," Ben said with understanding. "The old ones believe some knowledge isn't meant for everyone."
"Even family?"
"Especially family sometimes. Higher expectations." Ben suddenly straightened, his attention caught by a file in his hands. "Kari. Look at this."
She moved to his side, coffee forgotten as he spread the file open on the table.
Black and white crime scene photographs showed a male victim in his fifties, lying on his back at what was unmistakably the Cold Water Canyon overlook.
Even in the grainy images taken with 1970s camera equipment, the similarities to their current case were striking.
"William Travers," Ben read from the report. "Professor of Anthropology at Northern Arizona University. Found dead at Cold Water Canyon overlook on July 18, 1973." He looked up, meeting Kari's gaze. "Almost exactly fifty years ago."
"Cause of death?" Kari asked, already scanning the autopsy report attached to the file.
"Single stab wound to the chest. Clean entry, suggesting a narrow blade." Ben turned the page. "And here—the medical examiner's note: 'Victim's mouth contained plant material identified as ceremonial herbs including sage, cedar, juniper, and white prairie aster, placed post-mortem.'"
Kari felt a chill despite the basement's stuffy warmth. "White prairie aster. That could be our unidentified white flower."
The parallels were too precise to be coincidental—same location, similar victim profile, identical murder method and post-mortem ritual. Even the timing aligned almost perfectly, fifty years apart.
"Was the case solved?" she asked, though she suspected the answer before Ben shook his head.
"Investigated for six months, then went cold. Primary detective was Joseph Chee." Ben glanced at her. "Any relation?"
"My grandfather," Kari said quietly. "My mother's father. He died before I was born." Another connection, another thread tying present to past. "What about suspects?"
Ben flipped through the investigative notes.
"Several initially. A graduate student who claimed Travers stole his research.
A fellow faculty member involved in a dispute over department funding.
The victim's brother-in-law, who publicly accused him of unethical behavior during fieldwork with native communities.
" He turned another page. "All had alibis that checked out. "
"Any mention of similar cases? Captain Yazzie said there were several killings with the same signature."
Ben thumbed through the file. "Here—investigative summary mentions 'possible connection to Carson and Miller homicides from previous months.' Suggests retrieving those files for comparison."
Kari was already moving to the cabinet and searching for the referenced cases.
She located them quickly—Edward Carson, found in April 1973 near Whipple Creek, and Harold Miller, discovered in June 1973 at Cottonwood Wash.
Both had been professors or researchers, both killed by single stab wounds, both found with ceremonial herbs placed in their mouths post-mortem.
"Three victims in 1973," she said, spreading the files beside Travers'. "All academic types working in fields connected to Native American studies or cultural research. All killed the same way, with identical ritual elements."
"And now Martin Reynolds in 2023," Ben added, "exactly fifty years after William Travers, at the identical location."
They stood in silence for a moment, absorbing the implications. Finally, Kari voiced the question they were both considering.
"Copycat killer?"
Ben frowned. "If it's a copycat, they'd need detailed knowledge of the original cases—not just general information, but specific details about the herb combinations. That information wasn't made public."
"The department digitized ten percent of old files," Kari reminded him. "Maybe someone with internal access?"
"Possible. Or someone connected to the original investigation who knew the details firsthand." Ben glanced at the detective's signature on the case reports. "Your grandfather was the lead investigator on all three 1973 murders."
Kari wasn't sure what to make of this information.
Joseph Chee had died long before she was born, existing for her only in family photographs and occasional stories from her mother.
Ruth rarely spoke of him, maintaining a respectful silence about her late husband that Kari had never thought to question.
Until now.
"Did your mother or grandmother ever talk about your grandfather's cases?" Ben asked.
Kari shook her head. "Very little. I hardly remember anything about him. I think he was the strong, silent type—a real stoic. Even more so than my grandmother."
Ben sighed thoughtfully, but said nothing.
Kari returned to the Travers file, scanning through investigative notes written in her grandfather's neat, precise handwriting.
His observations were methodical, professional, revealing a detective who approached his work with careful attention to detail.
Nothing in his notes suggested he had connected the ceremonial elements to any specific tradition or meaning.
Or if he had, he hadn't documented it officially.
"Nothing here," she said. "But if anyone would know what these specific combinations might signify, it's Ruth. She and my grandfather were already married when these murders happened. She might remember details from his investigation."
"If she's willing to discuss it," Ben said. "Which would surprise me, given what I know of her. Then again, you're her granddaughter."
Kari gathered the three files from 1973, along with copies of the preliminary report on Martin Reynolds.
"I need to try. This killer is deliberately recreating murders from fifty years ago, right down to the specific location and ritual elements.
We need to understand what happened then to prevent more deaths now. "
"You think there will be more?" Ben asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Three victims in 1973," Kari said grimly. "If our killer is truly recreating the pattern, we should expect two more murders following the original sequence."
Ben checked his watch. "It's nearly one o'clock. You want to head to Ruth's now?"
Kari considered this. Ruth would be preparing for tomorrow's healing ceremony, and interruptions during such preparations were generally unwelcome. But the urgency of preventing another murder outweighed concerns about proper protocol.
"I'll go alone," she said. "Ruth responds better to one-on-one conversations about sensitive topics. Can you stay here and keep searching? There might be more connected cases we haven't found yet."
"I'll check missing persons reports from the same period too," Ben suggested. "Sometimes victims were never found but still fit the pattern."
As they gathered the relevant files and prepared to leave the archives, Kari found herself thinking about the multiple layers of this investigation—not just the crimes themselves, but the family connections that suddenly seemed relevant.
Her grandfather had led the original investigation.
Her grandmother likely possessed knowledge about the ceremonial elements that could prove crucial to understanding the killer's motives.
And Kari herself now stood at the center of it all, fifty years later, tasked with completing what Joseph Chee had been unable to resolve