CHAPTER TWO
The Anthropological Research Division occupied the east wing of Canyon State University's oldest building, a sprawling structure of red brick and tall windows that had witnessed seven decades of academic pursuit.
Kari followed her father through corridors that smelled faintly of old paper and floor wax, past bulletin boards advertising symposiums on indigenous material culture and guest lectures on archaeological methodology.
"Most of the building's empty on Saturdays," James said as they climbed a stairwell to the second floor. "Just a few graduate students camped out in the study rooms. We shouldn't be disturbed."
The archives were at the end of a long hallway, behind a door marked 'Restricted Access - Faculty Only.
' James used his key card, and the lock clicked open with a soft mechanical sound.
He flicked on the lights, revealing a windowless room lined floor to ceiling with filing cabinets and climate-controlled storage units.
The temperature was noticeably cooler, and Kari was grateful for the jacket she'd grabbed from her Jeep.
The space felt like a tomb—appropriate, given what it contained. Decades of human tragedy catalogued and preserved, reduced to paper and filed away in neat rows. How many unsolved murders were documented here? How many families still waited for answers that these files might contain?
James moved to a desktop computer stationed on a small workstation near the entrance.
He logged in, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.
"The FBI maintains a database of case files that have been transferred to academic institutions," he explained without looking up.
"Most of them are cold cases—unsolved homicides, missing persons, incidents where federal jurisdiction was involved but the cases eventually went inactive. "
"Why transfer them here?" Kari asked, moving closer to watch the screen.
"Academic research. Criminology students, behavioral analysts, anthropologists studying patterns of violence in specific communities.
The Bureau figures if they can't solve them, maybe fresh eyes will spot something they missed.
" James's tone suggested he didn't have a lot of faith in this idea.
"In practice, it's also a way to bury cases that are politically sensitive.
Transfer them to a university archive, call it 'furthering academic research,' and most people forget they exist."
The screen filled with search results—dozens of case files, each with a reference number, a brief description, and a date range. James entered new search parameters: 'Tribal lands, Arizona/New Mexico, 1970-2025, Status: Unsolved/Inactive.'
The list narrowed but was still extensive. Kari scanned the descriptions as they scrolled past:
Missing person, Hopi Reservation, 1982. Female, 34. Last seen near ceremonial site.
Suspicious death, Navajo Nation, 1995. Male, 56. Found near Canyon de Chelly. Ruled accidental.
Missing person, White Mountain Apache, 2003. Male, 19. Vehicle found abandoned near reservation boundary.
Unattended death, Zuni Pueblo, 2011. Female, 41. Circumstances undetermined.
So many. The sheer volume was staggering. Each entry represented a person, a family, a community that had lost someone and never gotten answers.
"How do we know which ones Mom looked at?" Kari asked.
James pulled up a different window, an access log showing user credentials, dates, and file numbers. He scrolled down, searching. "Here. Your mother's last access was January 10th, using my login." He frowned at the screen. "She pulled seventeen different files over a four-hour period."
"Seventeen?" Kari leaned over his shoulder, studying the list of file numbers. Her mother had been here, in this exact spot, reading these exact files just weeks before her death. The thought sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the climate-controlled air.
"Let me write these down," James said, reaching for a notepad. "We'll need to pull the physical files. Most of these cases are too old to be fully digitized."
He began jotting down reference numbers while Kari continued staring at the screen. Seventeen cases. What had her mother seen in them? What pattern had she recognized?
James stood and moved to the filing cabinets that lined the far wall, organized by year and case number.
Kari watched as he opened drawers and began extracting manila folders, stacking them carefully on a nearby reading table.
The folders were various sizes—some thin, containing just a few pages, others thick with reports and photographs.
When he'd gathered the first five, James returned to the table. "Okay. Let's see what your mother saw."
Kari pulled up a chair and reached for the top folder. It was a missing person case from 1989—a Navajo man who had disappeared while working security at a mining operation. She scanned the initial report, noting the location, the circumstances, and the investigating agent's notes.
Before she could dig deeper, however, her phone vibrated in her pocket. She almost ignored it—this was important—but years of police work had trained her to always check. It could be an emergency.
She pulled out her phone and saw Ben's name on the screen.
"I should take this," she said to her father. "It's my partner."
James nodded, already opening another folder.
Kari stood and moved toward the door. "Ben? What's up?"
"Hey, Kari." Ben's voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of something she couldn't quite identify. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern. "Sorry to bother you on your Saturday, but I got a call at the station you need to know about."
"What kind of call?"
"From the Hopi Police Chief. Raymond Lomayesva. He's requesting your assistance with a case."
Kari felt her eyebrows rise. The Hopi reservation wasn't their jurisdiction, and cross-tribal cooperation, while not unheard of, was unusual enough to be noteworthy. "What kind of case?"
"He didn't give me details. Just said it's culturally sensitive and that he specifically wants you. Something about your reputation after the peyote ceremony case." Ben paused. "He sounds pretty stressed, Kari. Said it's urgent."
She glanced back at her father, who was absorbed in reading one of the files, his expression troubled. They'd barely started. There were twelve more folders to go through, and she could already feel the weight of whatever pattern her mother had discovered waiting to be uncovered.
But a Hopi Police Chief didn't request outside help lightly. The historical tensions between the Navajo and Hopi people made such cooperation politically complicated. If Lomayesva was reaching across that divide, the situation must be serious.
"Did he leave a number?" Kari asked.
"Yeah. I've got it right here." Ben rattled off the digits, which Kari committed to memory. "You want me to call Captain Yazzie? Get the official authorization started?"
"Not yet. Let me find out what this is about first." Kari's mind was already shifting gears, moving from one investigation to another. "I'm in Flagstaff. I can be back at the station in about forty-five minutes."
"Alright. I'll stick around. Want me to do any preliminary research on the Hopi PD? See if anything's been reported in the news?"
"That'd be good. Thanks, Ben."
"No problem. Hey, Kari?" His tone shifted. "Be careful with this. Hopi territory, Hopi case... it's going to be complicated."
"I know."
She ended the call and returned to the table where her father was studying a case file, his reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up as she approached.
"Problem?" he asked.
"Work. I need to get back to the reservation." Kari looked at the stack of folders they hadn't even opened yet, feeling a sharp disappointment. They'd been so close to finding something. "Can we continue this later?"
James removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"Of course. But Kari, I think..." He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"I think we should be systematic about this.
Let me go through all seventeen files, make notes on what they have in common, and what Anna might have been looking for.
Then we can meet again, and I'll share what I've found.
It'll be more efficient than both of us trying to read everything at once. "
It made sense, even if it meant she'd have to wait. And honestly, a case requiring her immediate attention meant she wouldn't be able to focus properly on these files anyway. Her mind would be divided.
"Okay," she agreed, then paused. "I must say, I'm surprised."
He frowned, waiting for her to explain.
"You were awfully reluctant to come here, but now…" She made a vague gesture, indicating the folders.
James smiled sadly. "Maybe I just needed a reminder that some things are more important than weekend plans."
Kari felt closer to him than she had in a while.
As he turned his attention back to the files, she felt a strange and sudden urge to hug him, to acknowledge that yes, no matter their differences, they would always be father and daughter, united by blood as well as by the shared grief of Anna's death.
Then James turned back to her, arching an eyebrow. "Something else?"
She hesitated. "No. Just… thanks. That's all." She turned and left, not giving him time to reply.
She walked quickly through the campus corridors and out into the bright April morning. Students lounged on the quad, enjoying the weekend sunshine, oblivious to the weight of unsolved cases and hidden patterns that existed in the climate-controlled tomb beneath the building.
As she climbed into her Jeep and started the engine, she felt the pull of two investigations—one buried in the past, waiting in manila folders, and one apparently urgent enough for a Hopi Police Chief to reach across decades of tribal tension to request her help.
Her mother's voice echoed in her memory, something Anna had said years ago when Kari was still in high school: The present and the past aren't separate, Kari. They're threads in the same weaving. Pull on one, and you'll feel the other move.
Kari had dismissed it as anthropologist mysticism at the time. Now, driving south toward the reservation with Ben's call still echoing in her ear, she wondered if her mother had been more right than she'd known.
She pulled out her phone at the first red light and dialed the number Ben had given her.
"Hopi Tribal Police, Chief Lomayesva speaking."
"Chief, this is Detective Kari Blackhorse with the Navajo Nation Police. I understand you've been trying to reach me."
There was a pause on the other end, then a breath that sounded like relief. "Detective Blackhorse. Thank you for calling back so quickly. I need to speak with you in person about a sensitive matter. How soon can you get to our headquarters?"
The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Whatever this was, it couldn't wait.
"I'm in Flagstaff now. I can be there in about two and a half hours."
"That would be acceptable. Detective, I..." Another pause, as if he was choosing his words very carefully. "I've heard about your work on the ceremonial murders case. Your discretion and your understanding of cultural complexities. What I'm dealing with requires someone with those exact qualities."
"Can you tell me what this is about?"
"Not over the phone. But..." The chief's voice dropped lower, as if he was afraid of being overheard. "I need someone who can see what my own people might be too close to see."
"I'll be there as soon as I can," she said. "But I'll need approval from my captain. This is outside my jurisdiction."
"I've already contacted Captain Yazzie. He's expecting your call."
So it was official, then. Whatever was happening in Hopi territory was serious enough that the bureaucratic wheels had already been set in motion.
"I'll see you in a few hours, Chief."
Kari ended the call and immediately dialed Captain Yazzie. He answered on the second ring.
"Blackhorse. I was just about to call you."
"Chief Lomayesva contacted you?"
"About an hour ago. Spoke to me directly, which is unusual enough. Then he went through the official channels, requesting interdepartmental cooperation." Yazzie's voice was measured, careful. "He wants you specifically, Kari. Says your recent case experience makes you uniquely qualified."
"Did he tell you what's happening?"
"He was characteristically tight-lipped."
"Do I have your authorization to help?"
"You do. Ben can partner with you if needed, but I'm leaving that to your discretion.
The chief was clear that this needs to be handled delicately.
Too many investigators could make the community defensive.
" Yazzie paused. "Kari, this is an opportunity and a minefield.
You help solve this, you build bridges between our departments and our people.
You screw it up, you confirm every prejudice they have about Navajo law enforcement. "
"No pressure, then."
"You can handle it. Just remember—you're a guest in their territory. Show respect, follow their lead, and don't push where you're not wanted."
"Understood."
After ending the call, Kari sat in her Jeep for a moment, engine idling, trying to reconcile the morning's events.
She'd started the day pursuing her mother's investigation, following a vision that had led her to filing cabinets full of unsolved cases.
And now she was being pulled into an active investigation she knew nothing about.
The present and the past aren't separate. They're threads in the same weaving.
She could almost hear her mother's voice, patient and knowing, as if Anna had anticipated this exact moment.
Kari pulled out of the parking lot and headed south, toward the station first to brief Ben and gather what equipment she might need, then on to Hopi territory and whatever Chief Lomayesva was waiting to show her.
The seventeen case files would have to wait. Her father would go through them, looking for the pattern Anna had seen. And Kari would pursue this new case, whatever it turned out to be.