CHAPTER EIGHT
The Copper Star hadn't changed in the two years since Kari had last been inside.
Same neon sign flickering over the entrance, same dark wood interior that smelled of beer and old leather, same collection of Phoenix PD shoulder patches framed on the walls like hunting trophies.
Even the jukebox in the corner was playing the same classic rock playlist that had been on rotation since the bar opened in the eighties.
Kari stood in the doorway for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, feeling strange returning to a place she'd thought she'd left behind for good.
The after-work crowd was already thick—detectives and patrol officers clustered at tables and along the bar, their voices competing with Springsteen coming from the speakers.
She recognized some faces, though they'd aged in the two years since she'd walked away from Phoenix PD.
More gray hair, deeper lines around the eyes, too many cases and too little sleep.
Maria waved from a booth near the back, and Kari navigated through the crowd, aware of heads turning as she passed.
A few nods of recognition, a couple of deliberately averted gazes.
She'd left Phoenix PD on good terms, but leaving was still leaving.
Some people took it personally when you chose somewhere else over them.
"You made it," Maria said, sliding over to make room. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"Almost didn't." Kari settled into the booth, grateful for the relative privacy. "This place brings back memories."
"Good ones?"
"Some." Kari watched a server navigate between tables. "Mostly just... complicated ones."
Maria signaled the server and ordered two beers without asking what Kari wanted.
It arrived moments later—the same IPA Kari used to drink after shifts, back when she was still trying to prove herself to the homicide division.
She took a sip and found it tasted exactly as she remembered, which somehow made her feel even more displaced in time.
"So," Maria said, "how's it feel being back?"
"Strange. Like I'm visiting someone else's life." Kari set down her beer. "The reservation feels more like home now than this place ever did."
"That's good, though. That you found where you belong." Maria's voice carried no judgment, just warmth. "I'm glad you're doing well up there, Kari. Even if it means I don't get to work with you anymore."
Before Kari could respond, a voice cut through the bar noise. "Well, well. Kari Blackhorse. Heard you were back in town."
Kari looked up to see Detective Ray Gagne approaching their booth, a beer in one hand and a smirk on his face that she remembered all too well.
He'd been one of the old guard when she'd joined homicide, the kind of cop who made it clear he thought women and minorities were only on the force because of quotas and political correctness.
"Gagne," Kari said neutrally.
"Heard they brought you in to help with the Hatathli case." Gagne pulled up a chair without being invited, turning it backward and straddling it. "Phoenix PD not good enough anymore? Need the reservation detective to tell us how to do our jobs?"
"Ray," Maria said in a warning tone.
"What? I'm just saying, we already got the guy. DNA evidence, motive, opportunity—it's a slam dunk. But apparently that's not good enough for some people." He looked pointedly at Maria, then back to Kari. "So they call in the cavalry. Or should I say the tribe?"
This was the part of Phoenix PD Kari hadn't missed—the casual racism disguised as jokes, the resentment toward anyone who didn't fit the mold.
She'd dealt with it for years, had developed a thick skin out of necessity.
But now, after two years away, after reconnecting with her heritage and her grandmother's teachings, it hit differently.
She could walk away. Should walk away. But Maria needed her help, and more importantly, Thomas Hatathli deserved better than to be railroaded by cops too lazy or too politically motivated to look past the obvious.
"The DNA evidence is questionable," Kari said evenly. "And you know it."
"Hair samples from both crime scenes. That's not questionable, that's forensics.
" Gagne took a long pull from his beer. "Look, I get it.
Hatathli's one of yours, indigenous activist fighting the good fight.
But he made public threats against both victims, he had clear motive, and his DNA puts him at the scenes.
Sometimes the obvious answer is the right answer. "
"Sometimes it's the planted answer," Kari said.
Gagne's smirk faded. "You calling this department corrupt?"
"So you assume I'm blaming the PD." Kari met his gaze evenly. "Why would that be?"
Gagne's face reddened, but before he could respond, another detective joined them—Steve Yang, whom Kari remembered as being fair but by-the-book.
"What's going on here?"
"Detective Blackhorse is suggesting the evidence was planted," Gagne said, his voice tight.
"I'm saying the evidence pattern is suspicious," Kari corrected. "Too convenient, too clean. Someone wanted Hatathli to take the fall."
"That's a hell of an accusation." Yang's tone was measured, but his eyes had sharpened. "You got proof to back that up?"
Kari met his gaze. "Do you have proof he's guilty beyond the planted evidence?"
"It's not planted—" Gagne started.
"A few hair samples at each scene. No fingerprints, no fibers from his clothing, no defensive wounds on the victims, no witnesses placing him anywhere near either location.
" Kari kept her voice steady, factual. "Just enough DNA to point to him, but not enough to suggest he actually committed the murders.
That's not a slam dunk. That's a setup."
"Shit on a stick," Gagne said. "Two days back in town and you're already causing problems. Some things never change."
"Ray, that's enough." Maria's voice had hardened. "Kari's here at my request, and she's raising legitimate questions about the evidence. Questions we should be asking ourselves instead of just accepting the easy narrative."
"The easy narrative?" Gagne stood, his chair scraping against the floor.
"I guess it is easy to believe that an environmental lawyer who made public threats against two victims is guilty when his DNA shows up at both murder scenes.
But that doesn't make it wrong. And pushing an overly-complicated narrative—one that requires us to believe in some vast conspiracy—doesn't make you right. "
More detectives had gathered now, drawn by the sound of an approaching argument.
Kari recognized a few faces—Jenkins, who'd been decent to her; Morales, who'd helped her on a tough case her first year in homicide; Patterson, who'd made her probationary period hell with constant skepticism and undermining comments.
They formed a loose semicircle around the booth.
This was beginning to feel a bit like an interrogation.
"Look," Jenkins said, his tone conciliatory, "we all want to get this right.
But there's a lot of pressure from upstairs to close this case.
The Sunset Ridge project is already on hold because of the petroglyph controversy.
Now with these murders, the developers are threatening to pull out completely.
The city's looking at millions in lost revenue, hundreds of jobs that won't materialize. "
"And that's our problem how?" Maria asked.
"It's our problem when the chief is getting calls from the mayor's office, when the mayor's getting calls from the development company, when everyone with influence is asking why we haven't charged someone when we have DNA evidence.
" Jenkins shrugged. "I'm just saying, there's context here beyond the investigation. "
"Context like political pressure to pin this on someone whether they're guilty or not," Kari said.
"Nobody's saying that," Morales interjected. "But we've got a case that points to Hatathli. Maybe it's not perfect, maybe there are questions, but when is evidence ever perfect? We work with what we have, and what we have points in one direction."
Kari looked around at the assembled detectives, seeing various degrees of certainty and doubt in their expressions.
Some seemed to genuinely believe Hatathli was guilty.
Others seemed less convinced but unwilling to push back against the pressure from above.
And a few—like Gagne—simply didn't care as long as the case closed and the department looked competent.
This was what she'd walked away from. Not just the job, but the compromises, the political calculations that crept into investigations until finding the truth became secondary to finding a convenient answer.
"Occam's Razor," Gagne said. "The simplest explanation is usually right."
"Occam's Razor doesn't account for framing," Maria said.
Yang crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. "Say you're right. Say someone did frame him. Who? And why?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out," Kari said. "But we can't do that if everyone's already decided Hatathli's guilty and stopped looking for other suspects."
"We haven't stopped looking," Jenkins said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "But we also can't ignore the evidence we do have."
The conversation was going in circles now, and Kari could feel the frustration building in her chest. These were cops she'd worked with, people she'd respected and learned from.
But they were trapped in a system that sometimes valued closure over truth, that responded to political pressure more than investigative integrity.
She'd been trapped in that system too, once. Had made her own compromises, justified her own shortcuts. It was only after leaving, after returning to the reservation and reconnecting with something larger than career advancement, that she'd realized how much she'd been willing to bend.
"I need some air," Kari said, sliding out of the booth.