earlier. This had to be stopped. "Hoover, I think you've mis—"
"I'll handle this," the FBI agent snapped. He glared at Moon. "Any marks on the body?"
"Yeah," the Ute replied, "from what Gorman told me this morning, you could say there were marks."
The special agent found a small leather-bound notebook in his coat pocket. "Well? What kind of marks?" Hoover didn't attempt to hide his impression that he was dealing with an oaf.
"Well, let me see," Moon said. "Oh yeah. His ears."
"Ears? What about his ears?"
"Gone, both of 'em. Like politicians right after election day."
Hoover paled. "You mean… purposely removed?"
"Snipped off." Moon took a long drink of coffee. He leaned forward dramatically and lowered his voice to a hoarse stage whisper that could be heard across the restaurant. The truck drivers had forgotten their beer, the teenagers had lost interest in the jukebox. Taxi was scribbling furiously on the margins of a coffee-stained manuscript page. "That's not the worst part."
Unconsciously, Hoover flattened his back against the plywood booth. "What…"
"Big Ouray's balls. Sliced off slick as a whistle." Moon made two quick knifelike motions with his hand. "Both of 'em. At least that's what Gorman says."
The notebook slipped from Hoover's fingers. "You haven't viewed the body yet?"
"Only heard about it this morning. I'd planned to get out there this afternoon, but Gorman says Doc Schaid will take care of everything. I guess there's no hurry now."
Hoover closed his eyes and bowed his head. "This is simply astounding. A Ute has been murdered and mutilated, and you're sitting here, calmly having lunch…"
"Well…" Moon paused thoughtfully, then replied, "I never exactly said he was a Ute. You can't always tell by looks. Fact is, Big Ouray's got a whiter face than yours." He took a quick drink from his coffee cup. "I'd say he was from Anglo stock."
Hoover was slightly embarrassed at his presumption. "With a name like Ouray, I naturally assumed…"
Moon appeared sympathetic with Hoover's confusion. "These days, you can't tell by a name. Now there's a little Filipino woman who lives just north of town. Calls herself Blue Bird Feathers, but she's no Indian, Ute or otherwise. Reads the stars, predicts the future, sells magic potions and garlic candy. Stuff like that."
Angel stopped by to ask if Hoover was ready to order. The special agent waved the man away. "We can't sit here until the corpse rots. Get a camera, all the analytical equipment you have available. And understand," he pointed at Moon, "I am officially taking charge of this investigation."
"Look," Parris said, "I don't think you understand. Before you go off half-cocked—"
"Perhaps
you
don't understand," Hoover snapped, "murder on an Indian reservation is a matter of federal jurisdiction."
"Well, we don't know for sure it was murder." Moon wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin and raised his massive form slowly. "But as far as I'm concerned, whatever you say goes."
Hoover started to reply, then his hands trembled. He clenched his hands into fists, then turned quickly and headed for the door.
Moon cupped his hand to his ear. He frowned at Scott Parris. "Is it just me, or did you hear that thumpity-thump sound?"
Parris listened intently. "Hear what?"
"Opportunity," the big Ute said with a merry twinkle in his eye, "opportunity knocking."
Charlie Moon watched Hoover's Ford sedan in his rear-view mirror. "Road's going to get kinda rough for that little street car. Not near enough clearance."
Parris reminded himself that he was acting chief of Southern Ute Police. Among other duties, he was responsible for maintaining good relations with the Bureau. "You'd better tell Hoover the truth about that bull."
The Ute assumed a pious expression. "Nothing I told him wasn't the truth."
Hoover followed the tribal police Blazer into the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu;
he felt the muffler dragging as the little Ford struggled through deep ruts. When Moon
"I'll handle this," the FBI agent snapped. He glared at Moon. "Any marks on the body?"
"Yeah," the Ute replied, "from what Gorman told me this morning, you could say there were marks."
The special agent found a small leather-bound notebook in his coat pocket. "Well? What kind of marks?" Hoover didn't attempt to hide his impression that he was dealing with an oaf.
"Well, let me see," Moon said. "Oh yeah. His ears."
"Ears? What about his ears?"
"Gone, both of 'em. Like politicians right after election day."
Hoover paled. "You mean… purposely removed?"
"Snipped off." Moon took a long drink of coffee. He leaned forward dramatically and lowered his voice to a hoarse stage whisper that could be heard across the restaurant. The truck drivers had forgotten their beer, the teenagers had lost interest in the jukebox. Taxi was scribbling furiously on the margins of a coffee-stained manuscript page. "That's not the worst part."
Unconsciously, Hoover flattened his back against the plywood booth. "What…"
"Big Ouray's balls. Sliced off slick as a whistle." Moon made two quick knifelike motions with his hand. "Both of 'em. At least that's what Gorman says."
The notebook slipped from Hoover's fingers. "You haven't viewed the body yet?"
"Only heard about it this morning. I'd planned to get out there this afternoon, but Gorman says Doc Schaid will take care of everything. I guess there's no hurry now."
Hoover closed his eyes and bowed his head. "This is simply astounding. A Ute has been murdered and mutilated, and you're sitting here, calmly having lunch…"
"Well…" Moon paused thoughtfully, then replied, "I never exactly said he was a Ute. You can't always tell by looks. Fact is, Big Ouray's got a whiter face than yours." He took a quick drink from his coffee cup. "I'd say he was from Anglo stock."
Hoover was slightly embarrassed at his presumption. "With a name like Ouray, I naturally assumed…"
Moon appeared sympathetic with Hoover's confusion. "These days, you can't tell by a name. Now there's a little Filipino woman who lives just north of town. Calls herself Blue Bird Feathers, but she's no Indian, Ute or otherwise. Reads the stars, predicts the future, sells magic potions and garlic candy. Stuff like that."
Angel stopped by to ask if Hoover was ready to order. The special agent waved the man away. "We can't sit here until the corpse rots. Get a camera, all the analytical equipment you have available. And understand," he pointed at Moon, "I am officially taking charge of this investigation."
"Look," Parris said, "I don't think you understand. Before you go off half-cocked—"
"Perhaps
you
don't understand," Hoover snapped, "murder on an Indian reservation is a matter of federal jurisdiction."
"Well, we don't know for sure it was murder." Moon wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin and raised his massive form slowly. "But as far as I'm concerned, whatever you say goes."
Hoover started to reply, then his hands trembled. He clenched his hands into fists, then turned quickly and headed for the door.
Moon cupped his hand to his ear. He frowned at Scott Parris. "Is it just me, or did you hear that thumpity-thump sound?"
Parris listened intently. "Hear what?"
"Opportunity," the big Ute said with a merry twinkle in his eye, "opportunity knocking."
Charlie Moon watched Hoover's Ford sedan in his rear-view mirror. "Road's going to get kinda rough for that little street car. Not near enough clearance."
Parris reminded himself that he was acting chief of Southern Ute Police. Among other duties, he was responsible for maintaining good relations with the Bureau. "You'd better tell Hoover the truth about that bull."
The Ute assumed a pious expression. "Nothing I told him wasn't the truth."
Hoover followed the tribal police Blazer into the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu;
he felt the muffler dragging as the little Ford struggled through deep ruts. When Moon
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