CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The drive back to the station felt interminable, though it couldn't have been more than ten minutes.
Kari gripped the steering wheel, her mind racing through possibilities.
DNA in the system meant someone with a record—military service, prior arrest, maybe a voluntary submission for exclusion purposes.
Someone whose genetic profile had been catalogued and stored.
Someone they could identify, locate, and arrest.
Polacca followed in her own vehicle, both of them going well above the speed limit on the empty morning roads. The sky was fully light now, the sun climbing above the eastern mesas, turning the landscape into sharp contrasts of light and shadow.
At the station, Chief Lomayesva was waiting in his office, a file folder open on his desk. His expression was controlled, but Kari could see the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. This was significant.
"Sit," he said as they entered.
Kari and Polacca took the chairs across from his desk. The chief didn't make them wait.
"The knife recovered from Emma Talayesva's residence was processed by our forensics team in conjunction with the state crime lab.
They found epithelial cells on the handle—skin cells, left when someone gripped it tightly.
The DNA profile was run through CODIS." He turned the file folder so they could see it. "We got a hit. Martin Kooyahoema."
Kari leaned forward to study the file. Martin Kooyahoema, age thirty-seven.
His booking photo showed a lean man with sharp features and wary eyes.
His record showed two arrests: one for assault six years ago (charges eventually dropped after the alleged victim recanted), and one for burglary four years ago (pleaded guilty to a reduced charge, served eighteen months).
"What do we know about him?" Kari asked, studying the photo. The face looked hard, closed off. The kind of face that belonged to someone who'd learned not to trust authority.
"Not much beyond the record," Chief Lomayesva said. "After his release, he seems to have kept his head down. No employment on file with any of the major tribal enterprises. Could be doing odd jobs, cash work, something off the books."
"Address?" Polacca asked.
"Last known address was a trailer park on the east side, but according to the manager I spoke with this morning, Kooyahoema moved out three months ago. No forwarding address."
Kari felt a flicker of frustration. "So we don't know where he is."
"Not yet. But we're working on it." The chief pulled out another sheet. "I've got officers checking with known associates from his time in custody, looking at family members, seeing if anyone knows where he's been staying."
"What about connections to the victims?" Kari asked. "Anything that links him to Patricia Lomahongva, Robert Nuvangyaoma, or Emma Talayesva?"
"Nothing obvious. Different social circles, different parts of the reservation.
But that's what you'll need to find out once we locate him.
" The chief closed the file. "In the meantime, start building a profile.
Talk to people who knew him, find out what he's been up to since his release, see if there's a pattern of behavior that fits our killer. "
"Where do we start?" Polacca asked.
"His parole officer is the first call. Woman named Janet Sekayumptewa—she supervised his release and kept tabs on him until his parole ended last year. If anyone knows Martin's state of mind, his habits, his associates, it'll be her."
* * *
Janet Sekayumptewa worked out of an office in the Department of Social Services. She was a stocky woman in her fifties with tired eyes and the weary expression of someone who'd seen too many people fail to turn their lives around.
"Martin Kooyahoema," she said when they asked, leaning back in her desk chair. "I remember him. Quiet guy, kept to himself. Checked in when he was supposed to, never caused problems."
"What was your impression of him?" Kari asked. "Was he trying to rehabilitate, or just going through the motions?"
Janet considered the question carefully.
"Hard to say. He was compliant, but there was always something closed off about him.
Never really engaged with the support services we offered.
Job training, counseling, community reintegration—he'd show up if required, but you could tell his heart wasn't in it. "
"Did he ever express anger? Resentment toward the system, toward the community?"
"Not openly. But there was something underneath.
A bitterness, maybe. Like he blamed everyone but himself for where he'd ended up.
" Janet pulled out a worn file folder. "He was eligible for tribal employment assistance, but he never applied.
Never used any of the programs designed to help ex-offenders get back on their feet.
Just did his time on parole and then disappeared. "
"Do you know where he went after parole ended?"
"No idea. He wasn't required to keep in touch once his supervision period was over." Janet's expression grew troubled. "What's this about? What has Martin done?"
"His DNA was found at a crime scene," Kari said carefully. "We need to talk to him."
Janet nodded slowly, unsurprised. "I always wondered if he'd end up back in the system. Some people carry their prison with them even after they're released. Martin had that look."
They asked for the names of associates, family members, and anyone who might know where Martin was living now.
Janet provided what she could—a sister who lived in Tuba City, a former cellmate who'd also been released and was supposedly working construction in Flagstaff, a few acquaintances from his old neighborhood.
The sister was their next stop. She lived in a small house with peeling paint and a yard full of children's toys. A woman in her early forties answered the door, looking harassed and exhausted.
"Sydney Kooyahoema?" Kari asked, holding up her badge.
The woman's face closed immediately. "What do you want?"
"We're looking for your brother, Martin. We need to talk to him about an ongoing investigation."
"I haven't seen Martin in over a year," Sydney said flatly. "And even if I had, I wouldn't tell you where he is. He's had enough trouble with police."
"This is serious, Ms. Kooyahoema. We need to speak with him."
"Then find him yourself. I don't keep tabs on my brother." She started to close the door.
"He could be in danger," Polacca said quickly. "Or he could be a danger to others. Either way, we need to locate him."
Sydney paused, the door half-closed. "Martin wouldn't hurt anyone. Whatever you think he's done, you're wrong."
"Then let him tell us that himself," Kari said. "Help us find him so he can clear this up."
For a moment, it looked like Sydney might relent. Then her expression hardened again. "I'm done talking to cops." The door closed firmly.
"She's protecting him," Polacca said as they walked back to the vehicles.
"Or she doesn't know where he is," Kari countered. "Family estrangement isn't uncommon with ex-offenders. They burn too many bridges."
The former cellmate was easier to locate but no more helpful.
They found him on a construction site in Flagstaff, a large man with prison tattoos and a guarded demeanor.
He claimed he hadn't spoken to Martin since they'd both gotten out, said Martin had wanted to cut ties with everyone from that part of his life.
"Guy was paranoid," the cellmate said, not pausing in his work tacking up drywall. "Thought everyone was watching him, waiting for him to mess up so they could send him back. Last time I saw him, he was talking about going off-grid, finding somewhere nobody would bother him."
"Where would that be?" Kari asked.
"Hell if I know. Martin didn't trust me enough to share his plans." The man paused in his hammering, looking at them directly for the first time. "You got his DNA, you said? From a crime scene?"
"That's right."
He shook his head slowly. "Then he must've really screwed up this time. Martin was always good at that—screwing things up just when it looked like he might get his life together."
By early afternoon, they were no closer to finding Martin Kooyahoema than they'd been that morning.
Every lead turned cold, every contact claimed ignorance.
It was as if Martin had simply vanished, cut ties with everyone who'd known him, gone to ground in a way that made tracking him nearly impossible.
"He doesn't want to be found," Polacca said as they grabbed lunch at a small diner. "That's not the behavior of an innocent man."
Kari said nothing, but she agreed it didn't look good for Martin. The pattern was suspicious—disappearing after parole ended, cutting ties with everyone, avoiding any situation where his name might appear in official records.
It felt good to have such a clear reason to believe they'd found their killer. But discovering their killer's identity wasn't worth a whole lot if they couldn't actually locate him.
They were finishing their meal when Polacca's phone rang. She listened, then her expression changed. "We'll be right there."
She hung up and looked at Kari. "That was dispatch. Anonymous tip just came in—someone saw a man matching Martin's description at a small mechanic shop on the south side. Place called Ramon's Auto Repair."
They paid quickly and drove to the address, a run-down garage with two bays and a battered hand-painted sign. The mechanic, an older man with grease-stained hands, looked wary when they approached.
"Ramon?" Kari asked, showing her badge.
"That's me. What's this about?"
"We're looking for Martin Kooyahoema. We got a tip he might be here."
Ramon's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe, or calculation. "Don't know anyone by that name."