“Who’s here besides us?”
“Two San Juan County deputies.” She gave him the names. “I saw the state police pull up out there just before you arrived. And Officer Sam has been helping with crowd control at the gym.”
“Sam who?”
“Wilson Sam. He’s our new guy.”
“I haven’t met him.”
“I’ll introduce you when we get a chance.”
Cordova bent down and picked up a piece of metal, stood up and showed it to her. It seemed similar to the debris the man had tried to leave with, but it was smaller. “See how this looks rusted? That’s from the bomb.” He replaced the metal. “ATF has a bomb squad on the way from Albuquerque with a sniffer dog. Our bomb techs should be here tonight, too.
“You keep an eye on the scene here while I discover what’s happening in the gym and get some interviews organized. I’ll radio the state police team out there, tell them to hold everyone in the lot in and keep everyone outside the fence out. Some bombers like to hang around, enjoy the chaos.” He picked up his radio. “Don’t let anybody near these cars, even if they own them.” Cordova headed for the gym. She shoved her frozen hands into her pockets. Cordova was in charge now, telling her to do what she’d been doing as though the idea wouldn’t have occurred to her.
A man with a buzz cut, wearing warm-up pants and a Shiprock Chieftain sweatshirt, walked directly toward the burning car. She took a breath and prepared to repeat what she’d said dozens of times that night: she didn’t know what happened, and he should wait in the gym. He turned toward her and spoke first.
His voice trembled. “I can’t believe this. It’s a nightmare.” He kicked at the ground with his Nike. “Did you see what happened?”
“I heard the explosion and saw the fire. I’m a Navajo police officer. I got here right after the explosion. You need to go back into the gym.”
“I loved this car. Look at it now.” He started to walk to the smoldering metal, avoiding the fire hoses and stepping around the puddles of liquid from the hoses and the car.
Bernie moved in front of him. “Stop. So this is your car?”
“Was my car. My Beamer. My sweet baby.” He looked at her. “I know you. You played with the Lady Chieftains, right?”
“Right.” She realized the man was the leader of tonight’s alumni squad, the star center on the Chieftain team that had won the state championship two years in a row when she was in high school. “And I remember watching you guys win state. Bernadette Manuelito.”
The man gave her a worried smile. “I’m Aza Palmer. You guessed that. What happened out here?”
The fumes made her cough. “You know anyone who’d blow up your car?”
“No. People liked that car. You don’t see many of them, even in Phoenix.”
She rephrased the obvious. “Do you know someone who wants to harm you?”
He glanced at the wreckage again and then turned back to her. “Judging from this, I guess so. In my line of work, you make enemies and I’ve had some threats.” Palmer laughed nervously, then stopped, embarrassed. “Was anybody hurt in the explosion?”
“Yes. Was someone waiting for you out here at the car?”
“No. Not that I know of.” Palmer began to move toward the vehicle again. Bernie put her hand on his arm.
He pushed against her grip. “I just want to check out what happened.”
“Sorry. It’s a crime scene.” She gave him a stern look. “There’s an FBI agent here who will need to talk to you. He’s in the gym.” She described Cordova. “Go inside where it’s warmer. You can’t do anything helpful here.”
“But it’s my car. And I have to know . . .” His voice trailed off.
She swallowed, and her throat felt scratchy. “Don’t argue. Go on in.”
The November night was clear. Ní?ch’its’ósí, the month of small winds. She looked up at the stars, icy pinpoints in the dark velvet sky. Her eyes teared from the smoke. The calendar said it was autumn for another few weeks, but thirty degrees qualified as winter in her book. She realized her ears ached with cold and wished she had a hat.
The flow of people from the gym stopped. Evidently Cordova had taken charge. She wondered if he’d given the rookie a lecture.
Who among the people of Shiprock would want to harm Aza Palmer? Half the girls she knew in the high school had a crush on him, not just because he was one of the starters on the boys’ team but because he was a nice guy. She’d read the article the Navajo Times had put together about the game, mentioning that ticket sale proceeds would benefit a program to end domestic violence. The article had a picture of the championship team from the old days and a “where are they now” paragraph. Palmer seemed to still be the star, a partner with a law firm in Phoenix, one of those with eight names on the letterhead.
Bernie remembered something else about him. In his senior year, back when she was a sophomore, someone Palmer dated, a quiet girl named Lona, got pregnant and everyone knew about it. After Palmer graduated, they got married and moved away.
Cordova came out of the gym a few minutes later. “I’d like you in there with me so we can speed things up and let these folks get home. You’re good with people. I told your rookie to guard the car.”
“Sure. Did Palmer find you?”
“Palmer?”
“The guy who owned the car.”
Cordova blinked. “Where was he?”
“Out here, assessing the damage. I sent him to look for you.”
Cordova looked at the smoking ruin again. “I haven’t seen him yet, but he’s not going anywhere.”
Cordova and the San Juan deputy, with Councilor Franklin’s help, had done a good job of organizing the crowd. Teachers in the audience had come forward to stay with anxious children and teenagers waiting for parents who had been detained outside the fence. Bernie got their names and then arranged for the kids to meet their grown-ups near the administration building. Next, she took the names of parents waiting with children, then the elderly and their companions and asked them each a few questions. Lastly, she focused on able-bodied adults—some impatient and grumpy, some philosophical, most wondering what all the fuss was about. She assessed who might be helpful for follow-up interviews if needed. Although no one she spoke to said they’d seen anything unusual, some hesitated. They might recall something later.
Not a single man or woman she interviewed mentioned someone missing, or asked about the person who had been taken away by ambulance. Did he have no friends? Was he the bomber? Was he associated with the teens who ran, or with some of the fans who left the scene before Bernie could talk to them?
She noticed Cordova and Palmer deep in conversation and then Palmer sitting alone on the bleachers, head in his hands. Then Cordova was standing beside her in his FBI vest, waiting until she’d finished getting information from a distraught woman in a fringed jacket.
“Take a break, Manuelito. You don’t want to make a mistake.”