Sacred Clowns by Tony Hillerman

seemed to be common in the department. Nobody locked doors at the Tuba City station either. Nor, come to think of it, at Crownpoint when he’d worked out of there.
    Chee said, “Lieutenant?” in a loud voice, and looked around. Neat, tidy, the desk top clear. No sign of dust. Dust wouldn’t dare.
    In his own office, Chee reread his newly revised report.
    Blizzard had been waiting in the parking lot outside the Crownpoint station—sprawled across the front seat of his car, long legs dangling out the open door, head resting on his jacket folded against the passenger door, reading a book. The book, Chee noticed, had a dust jacket that looked science fictionish and bore the name Roger Zelazny.
    He had put it on the dashboard, pushed himself erect, looked at Chee and then at his watch. “I see you’re operating on Navajo time,” he said.
    Chee had let it pass and let Blizzard tell him what had happened. That hadn’t taken long. Blizzard had told the boy to wait at his car while he made his telephone call to Albuquerque. When he finished talking to his agent-in-charge and came back to the car, the boy was gone.
    “The school buses were loading up and leaving when I went in to use the phone. So I found out which one he’d take to get home, and chased it down, but he wasn’t on it. Then I found out where he lived and went out to his daddy’s place. His stepmother was there but she said she hadn’t seen him since, he took off the first time.”
    “So he didn’t go home,” Chee said. “That’s funny.”
    “Maybe not,” Blizzard said. “When I picked him up there at Grants he was walking out toward the interstate. I didn’t ask him where he was going. I just let him in the car, and he was in before he knew I was a cop, and then I told him I’d give him a ride back to his school.”
    “So maybe he was actually headed somewhere else.”
    “I should have found out,” Blizzard said, sounding repentant. “He told me he’d gone in the bus station to buy a ticket but he didn’t have enough money. I figured the ticket was just to Thoreau.”
    “Probably right,” Chee said.
    “Maybe,” Blizzard agreed. “He acted nervous. I think I told you that.”
    “His stepmother. Did she give you any guesses about where he might be staying? Kinfolks? Friends?”
    “She said she had no idea. Didn’t have a clue. She wasn’t very talkative.”
    That hadn’t surprised Chee. He had stopped thinking of Blizzard as a Cheyenne and was thinking of him as a city man. Chee had concluded years ago that not many city people knew how to talk to country people. Delmar Kanitewa’s Navajo stepmother would definitely be country people. Blizzard had probably offended her.
    “Let’s go find the school bus driver,” Chee said.
    That had proved easy. His name was Platero, he lived less than a mile from the school, and, yes indeed, he could tell them who was Delmar’s best friend. It was a boy named Felix Bluehorse. “Sometimes Felix gets off at his place, and sometimes vice versa,” Platero said. “Bluehorse used to go to school here, before he switched over to Thoreau, and we still give him a ride sometimes. They’re good buddies.”
    Even better, Felix Bluehorse’s mother worked for the Navajo Communications Company and lived in Crownpoint. Better yet, Felix was home when they got there and was anxious to talk to somebody. But first, he wanted to see their police identification. Felix was small and about sixteen, with enough white blood mixed with his Navajo genes to make him vulnerable to acne. He stood in the doorway of his mother’s mobile home looking down on them. Obviously, he was enjoying this.
    “I’ve got to be careful who I talk to,” Felix said. “Somebody’s after Delmar.” He looked at Blizzard, then at Chee, savoring their reaction.
    Chee waited. They were in Navajo country, but it was Blizzard’s case.
    “Who?” Blizzard asked. “Why?”
    “The man who killed Mr. Dorsey,” Felix said.
    Abruptly, it