CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
"Basic handyman stuff. We had some heavy pottery pieces that needed to be moved from storage to the museum, and Martin was hired to help with the labor.
" David's expression grew troubled. "He had access to our workspace, saw some of the artifacts we were cataloging.
But he wasn't there long—maybe two days total. "
"Would that be enough time to learn about ceremonial staging?"
"Not unless someone taught him directly. The knowledge required for what's in these photos comes from years of cultural immersion, not a couple of days moving boxes." David set his phone down. "But if Martin had help, if someone with knowledge guided him..."
"That's what we're trying to determine," Kari said. "Is it possible Martin is working with someone who has the expertise he lacks?"
David was quiet for a long moment, thinking. "It's possible. But who? And why would someone with cultural knowledge partner with a criminal to desecrate sacred sites?"
It was the question Kari couldn't answer. The logic didn't quite work—unless the person with knowledge was using Martin as a tool, keeping their own hands clean while directing the violence.
Kari was beginning to wonder if coming here had been a waste of time when Polacca's phone rang.
"It's the station," Polacca said, stepping into the hallway to take the call.
Kari and David sat in awkward silence for a moment.
"This must be frustrating for you," David said. "Having a suspect in custody, but not enough to charge him."
"It's part of the process," Kari said. "Building a case takes time." She paused, remembering something. "How is your aunt, by the way? The one in Flagstaff. You mentioned you needed to visit her—a family emergency."
"She's doing better, thank you for asking." David's expression softened. "It was a scare—she fell and we thought she might have broken her hip. Turns out it was just badly bruised, but at her age, you can't be too careful."
"I'm glad it wasn't more serious."
"Me too. She practically raised me after my parents died when I was young. I don't know what I'd do without her." David pulled out his phone, scrolling through photos. "I took this when I was there the other day."
He turned the phone to show Kari a photo of himself with an elderly woman, both smiling.
They were in what looked like a hospital room or care facility, the woman sitting in a wheelchair with David kneeling beside her, his arm around her shoulders.
The metadata at the bottom showed it had been taken yesterday, when David had said he needed to cancel their appointment.
"She looks like a wonderful woman," Kari said, studying the photo. The image showed David as a devoted nephew, exactly the kind of man who would drop everything for family. The timing aligned perfectly with his explanation.
"She is. Tough as nails, even now." David pocketed his phone. "But I appreciate you asking. It's been a stressful few days, between worrying about her and everything that's been happening with these murders."
Kari felt a small pang of guilt for the suspicions she'd harbored earlier. David had a legitimate reason for canceling their appointment, documented proof of where he'd been.
Polacca returned, her expression urgent. "That was the chief. Martin's lawyer just arrived. They're ready to start the interview."
Kari stood immediately. "We should go."
"Of course," David said, standing as well. "I hope the interview gives you what you need."
Kari gathered her things, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. The conversation with David had been informative, but hadn't led anywhere concrete. She'd spent the better part of an hour here when she could have been at the station, preparing for Martin's interview.
"Something just occurred to me," David said as they moved toward the door. "Have you had a chance to check Patricia's research for Martin's name? His family history?"
Kari paused, turning back. "What do you mean?"
"If there's something in Martin's family's genetic data that connects him to the victims or gives him a motive..." David's expression was thoughtful. "Can you search for his name in Patricia's research? Do you have access?"
Kari felt a flush of embarrassment. It was such an obvious step, and she hadn't thought of it. "I... no. I haven't. The files were just returned to me today, and I've been focused on the victims' data."
David studied her. "So you do have access to them?"
"Yes."
David was silent a moment, thinking. "If you'd like to check the data together, I'd be more than happy to help. It'll only take a few minutes to search, and I should think you would be much better prepared to speak with Martin once you know if his name or family is in there."
Polacca looked at Kari. "I can get started on the initial interview. Martin's lawyer will probably want time to confer anyway before he says anything substantive."
Kari hesitated, weighing her options. She was exhausted—they all were—and exhaustion led to oversights. This was a basic investigative step she should have taken already. Five minutes to search Martin's name in the genealogical database could save hours of wheel-spinning later.
"Alright," she said to Polacca. "Go ahead. I'll search the database for Martin's family, see if there's any connection to Patricia's research. I'll meet you at the station as soon as I find something—or confirm there's nothing to find."
Polacca nodded and left, the front door closing behind her with a quiet click.
David gestured back toward the dining table. "Let me grab my laptop. I can help cross-reference if you find Martin's family in the database."
They settled down at the table, and Kari pulled up the genealogical files on her laptop. She typed "Kooyahoema" into the search function.
The system churned for a moment, then returned results. Martin Kooyahoema's family was listed—his parents, his sister Sydney, his grandparents. Patricia had collected DNA samples from several members of the extended Kooyahoema family as part of her broader study.
"Here," Kari said, pulling up the data. "Martin's family participated in the study."
David leaned over to look at the screen. "What do the results show?"
Kari scanned through the genetic data, the family tree diagrams, Patricia's notes. The Kooyahoema family showed typical Hopi ancestry with some admixture from Navajo and Zuni populations—nothing unusual, nothing that would mark them as controversial.
"Nothing stands out," Kari said, scrolling through page after page. "Their ancestry is pretty standard for Hopi families in this region. No surprises, no contested lineages."
"What about connections to the other victims' families?" David asked. "Any shared ancestors, any intermarriage?"
Kari cross-referenced the Kooyahoema data with what she'd reviewed earlier about Patricia's, Robert's, and Emma's families.
No obvious connections appeared. The family trees diverged generations ago, with no recent shared ancestry that would create a personal connection between Martin and the victims.
"Nothing," Kari said tiredly. "If Martin has a motive related to the genealogical research, it's not in his own family's data."
David sat back, looking equally disappointed. "Well, it was worth checking. At least now you know that that angle doesn't explain his involvement."
They were both silent for several moments. Kari found herself wishing she'd gone with Polacca—or, better yet, not come here at all. She felt like this whole visit had accomplished nothing but killing some time, and if Martin was ready to talk, time was now of the essence.
She needed to go. But first, she had to take care of something.
"I think I'm going to go join Officer Polacca," she said, rising. "But I appreciate your time."
"Absolutely," David said with an apologetic smile. "I wish it had been more… productive."
"We'll get him, one way or the other." Kari glanced toward the hall. "Mind if I use your bathroom before I go?"
"Of course. It's down the hallway, second door on the left."
"Thanks."
Kari walked to the archway leading to the kitchen, looking at the tidy space—clean counters, dishes drying in the rack, everything in its place.
David lived alone, that much was clear. The house had the organized feel of a single person's domain, everything arranged according to one person's preferences.
There were four doors in the hallway. On the right, what appeared to be a closet. At the end, the garage. And on the left, a bedroom and a bathroom.
As she approached the bathroom door, her eye caught on the family photographs on the walls. David at various tribal ceremonies. David receiving awards. David with the elderly woman from the photo on his phone—his aunt, presumably, in happier, healthier times.
She reached the door and entered. The bathroom was as neat as the rest of the house.
Clean tiles, organized counter, everything in its place.
She took care of her business, washed her hands, dried them on a hand towel, and was about to leave when her gaze fell on the inhaler sitting next to the soap dispenser.
Standard asthma inhaler. Albuterol, the label said. She'd seen dozens of them over the years—her partner in Phoenix had carried one, half the school kids she'd known growing up had them.
Common. Unremarkable.
But something troubled her. Something she couldn't put her finger on.
She stepped out of the bathroom and turned right. She heard a murmuring sound coming from the bedroom. David was on the phone, by the sound of it.
She thought of just leaving, but instead she found herself looking in the opposite direction, at the garage door. There was a window in it, and through that window she could see the shape of a vehicle beneath a tarp.
Kari's hand was on the door before she'd made a conscious decision. She eased it open, wincing at the creak of the hinges.
The space was dim, lit only by a small window high on the far wall. She could make out workbenches along one side, tools hanging from pegboard, boxes stacked in corners. And the vehicle she'd noticed before.
All perfectly normal. People kept vehicles in garages. People covered them with tarps to protect them from dust.
And yet…
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She flinched, her hand instinctively going to the device. She pulled it out, saw Polacca's name on the screen.
A text message: Martin gave explanation for DNA on knife. Says he loans hunting knives to tribe members for ceremonies. This one went to someone 3 months ago, never returned. His DNA from handling it. Story checks out - has records.
Kari stared at the message, not particularly surprised at the news. She wasn't particularly disappointed, either.
She moved toward the covered vehicle, her footsteps quiet on the concrete floor. She grabbed the edge of the tarp and, before she could second-guess the decision, she pulled it back.
The paint underneath was dark blue, almost black in the dim light. She pulled more of the tarp away, revealing the front end of a Ford Explorer. Dark blue. Newer model. Clean, well-maintained.
She moved around to the back of the vehicle, pulling the rest of the tarp away. No damage visible. No distinctive marks. Just a dark blue Explorer that could be one of hundreds on the reservation.
Except that this one had a jug of acetone on the passenger seat.
She heard it then—a soft sound behind her. The quiet creak of a door. The subtle shift of weight on the concrete floor.
Kari spun around, her hand going instinctively toward her weapon.
David stood in the garage entrance, silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He flipped the lights on, nearly blinding Kari. "You get lost, detective?"
"No," she said quietly, "I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be."