CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kari's stomach was tight with the kind of nervous energy that came before testifying in court—that same awareness that words would matter, that she'd have one chance to make her case, that failure wasn't just disappointment but something more personal.
She stood in the small antechamber outside the tribal council chambers, reviewing her notes for the third time, though at this point she'd memorized every word.
Two people were dead. That should be enough.
That should trump privacy concerns, political sensitivities, and all the complicated reasons people have for wanting to keep secrets.
But Kari had been a cop long enough to know that "should be" rarely aligned with reality, especially when institutions were involved, especially when those institutions had centuries of reasons to distrust outside authority.
She thought about her mother, about Anna standing in rooms like this one, making arguments about the importance of truth and transparency, facing resistance from people who saw her academic curiosity as a threat to cultural cohesion.
How many times had Anna been told no? How many times had she been shut out of information she needed, turned away by elders and councils who viewed her questions as intrusive?
And look where that had gotten her. Dead in the desert, her investigation unfinished, her questions unanswered.
Kari shook off the dark thoughts. This wasn't about her mother. This was about Patricia and Robert, about stopping whoever had killed them before they killed again. She couldn't afford to let her own history cloud her judgment or weaken her resolve.
Polacca stood beside her, also in uniform, her expression unreadable but her posture suggesting tension.
They'd barely spoken during the past three hours of preparation, both absorbed in their own thoughts about how this meeting might unfold.
Kari still wasn't entirely sure where Polacca stood—whether she would support Kari's request to the council or quietly distance herself from it, protecting her own standing in the community.
The door to the council chambers opened, and Chief Lomayesva emerged, his face grave.
"They're ready for you. Remember—be respectful, acknowledge their concerns, but make your case clearly.
Some of them are skeptical about outside involvement in this investigation.
Don't give them reasons to shut you down. "
"Understood," Kari said, her throat tight.
"One more thing." The Chief's voice dropped lower. "The chairman, Albert Namingha, is particularly concerned about the genealogical data. His family has been involved in enrollment disputes before. He's going to be your toughest audience."
Kari nodded, filing that information away. Personal stakes often explained political positions. If Chairman Namingha had family reasons to want the genealogical data kept private, convincing him would be an uphill battle.
They entered the chambers together—Kari, Polacca, and Chief Lomayesva.
The council table was arranged in a circular formation, with seats for twelve council members and a raised section for the tribal chairman.
Behind the table hung a large mural depicting the emergence story, the sacred journey of the Hopi people from the underworld into this Fourth World.
The twelve council members were already seated, their expressions ranging from curious to wary.
Kari felt the weight of their collective gaze as she walked to the chairs that had been placed facing the council table.
Twelve pairs of eyes, most of them viewing her as an outsider who shouldn't be here, an interloper in their community's business.
She'd felt this kind of scrutiny before—in Phoenix, when she'd been the youngest detective in her precinct, when every case she closed was attributed to luck or her father's connections rather than her own skill.
She'd learned to push through it, to let the evidence speak louder than the doubt.
Chairman Namingha sat in the center, a man in his late sixties with silver hair and eyes that missed nothing.
He gestured to the chairs. "Detective Blackhorse, Officer Polacca, Chief Lomayesva—please, sit.
" His voice was formal, controlled. "We understand you have a request regarding the investigation into the deaths of Patricia Lomahongva and Robert Nuvangyaoma. "
Kari sat, forcing herself to meet the chairman's eyes with steady confidence she didn't entirely feel. She took a breath and began.
"Chairman Namingha, council members—thank you for meeting with me. I know my involvement in this investigation is unusual, and I appreciate Chief Lomayesva's trust in bringing me in. I'll be as brief and direct as possible."
She outlined the case systematically—the two murders, the elaborate staging at sacred sites, the connection both victims had to the genealogical research project.
She explained that Patricia's computer files were encrypted and that Emma Talayesva had been instructed not to share the genealogical data without council authorization.
"The evidence suggests that both victims were killed because of their work on this project," Kari said.
"Whatever Patricia discovered in her research, whatever findings she and Robert were preparing to present to the community, someone viewed that information as dangerous enough to kill for.
To solve these murders, I need to understand what that information was. "
She paused, making eye contact with several council members.
"I'm requesting authorization for Emma Talayesva to share the genealogical research data with me, under strict confidentiality protections.
I'm not asking to make it public. I'm asking to see it so I can understand the motive for these crimes. "
Chairman Namingha leaned forward. "Detective Blackhorse, we appreciate your thoroughness.
But you're asking us to compromise the privacy of potentially dozens of families who participated in this project in good faith, believing their genetic information would be kept confidential. That's not a small request."
"I understand that, Mr. Chairman. But two people are dead. And whoever killed them is still out there, possibly planning to kill again if there are other people who know what Patricia discovered."
A council member to the chairman's right—a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair—spoke up. "Has Emma Talayesva been threatened? Are there other project participants in danger?"
"We don't know," Kari admitted. "That's part of why I need to see the data—to understand who else might be at risk."
Another council member, younger, maybe forty, said, "But if the killer's motive is to suppress this information, wouldn't giving you access potentially make the problem worse?
You're an outsider. There's no guarantee you'll keep it confidential.
What if it leaks? What if families who never consented to having their genealogical information shared with law enforcement suddenly find themselves exposed? "
"I would be willing to sign any confidentiality agreement you require," Kari said. "I have no interest in publicizing this information. I only need to see it to understand the pattern of who might be threatened."
Chairman Namingha's expression remained neutral.
"Let me be frank, Detective. This genealogical project has been controversial from the beginning.
Some of us supported it as a way to help families heal and connect with their heritage.
Others opposed it, believing DNA testing reduces our identity to genetics and threatens our enrollment system.
Patricia's work was revealing information that challenges long-held family narratives and, in some cases, official enrollment records. "
He paused, his gaze sweeping across his fellow council members before returning to Kari.
"If that information becomes public—even inadvertently—it could tear this community apart.
Families could be split by disputes over heritage and enrollment status.
People could lose their tribal membership.
The political and social fallout would be devastating. "
"With respect, Mr. Chairman, keeping the information locked away hasn't prevented two murders," Kari said.
"I believe the killer already knows what's in that data, and they're willing to kill to keep it secret.
The question is whether you're going to help me identify them before they kill again, or whether you're going to prioritize privacy over justice. "
She knew immediately she'd pushed too hard. Several council members stiffened, and Chairman Namingha's eyes flashed with anger.
"Detective, we are not choosing between privacy and justice.
We are trying to balance multiple competing concerns—the privacy rights of dozens of families, the integrity of our enrollment system, the stability of our community, and yes, the need to solve these terrible crimes.
" His voice was sharp now. "Don't presume to lecture us about our priorities.
We've been protecting this community for generations.
We know what's at stake here better than you do. "
Kari bit back her frustration. "I apologize if I overstepped. But I'm asking you to help me do my job. I can't solve these murders blind."
The council members conferred among themselves in low voices, some in English, some in Hopi. Kari couldn't follow the conversations, but she could read the body language—skepticism, concern, a few who seemed sympathetic but were clearly in the minority.
Finally, Chairman Namingha spoke. "We need to discuss this privately. If you'll wait outside, we'll call you back in when we've reached a decision."
Kari, Polacca, and Chief Lomayesva filed back into the antechamber. The door closed behind them with a solid thunk that felt final.
Chief Lomayesva rubbed his face, suddenly looking older. "That didn't go well."