"Good thinking," Ben said."I've found references to two additional victims with the same signature—one on Hopi land, another whose family refused standard investigation procedures.But the details are minimal."
"Text me what you have," Kari said."I'm about an hour from Adakai's place now."
"Will do.And Kari?"Ben's voice took on an unusual note of caution."Be careful how you approach this.The old ones have reasons for their warnings, even when they don't explain them fully."
The comment surprised her."You sound like Ruth now," she said.
"Maybe Ruth has a point," he replied."I've been reading through the fragmentary notes on these old cases all afternoon.There's something...off about how they're documented.Deliberate omissions, references to separate records kept privately.Your grandfather was hiding something from official scrutiny."
The observation aligned with Kari's own growing suspicion."I'll call you after I speak with Adakai," she said."Don't stay too late at the archives—that basement lighting gives me a headache after a couple of hours."
"Already feeling it," Ben admitted before ending the call.
The landscape grew increasingly remote as Kari continued westward, scattered hogans—traditional octagonal Navajo dwellings made of logs and earth—and modern homes giving way to untouched desert views.Adakai had chosen to live at the reservation's edge, maintaining physical distance from the politics he had navigated for decades—a choice Kari understood better since her own return to her mother's house at the periphery of the community.
By the time she reached Adakai's driveway, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the juniper and piñon forest surrounding his home.The house itself was deceptively simple from the outside—a traditional octagonal structure with a contemporary addition extending from the western side.A wind chime crafted from hollowed juniper and small pieces of turquoise clicked softly in the breeze.
Kari parked beside an aging pickup truck and approached the door, noting the careful maintenance of the property, not ostentatious but meticulously tended, much like Adakai's reputation for attention to detail during his decades of public service.
Before she could knock, the door opened to reveal Thomas Adakai leaning on a carved walking stick, his weathered face creased in an expression of mild curiosity.
"Detective Blackhorse," he said, his voice carrying the distinctive cadence of someone for whom Navajo was a first language."This is unexpected."
"Mr.Adakai," Kari replied, extending her hand in greeting."I apologize for arriving without calling ahead.I'm investigating a case that might connect to events from 1973, when you were with the tribal police."
Interest flickered in Adakai's dark eyes."The professor found at Cold Water Canyon," he said.It wasn't a question.
"News travels fast."
"Old habits," Adakai said with a shrug."When you've spent forty years in tribal leadership, you maintain your networks even in retirement."He stepped back, gesturing for her to enter."Please, come in.Some conversations are better held inside."
The interior of Adakai's home reflected his dual nature as both a traditional elder and a modern political figure.Navajo weavings and ceremonial items shared space with law books and framed photographs of Adakai with various tribal and federal officials throughout his long career.A laptop sat open on a desk near the window, suggesting he maintained connections to current events despite his retirement.
"Please, sit," he said, gesturing toward a small sitting area."Would you like tea?Water?"
"Water would be fine, thank you," Kari said, settling into a chair that offered a view of both the room and the door—an ingrained habit from her detective training.
Adakai returned with two glasses of water, easing himself carefully into a chair opposite her.At eighty-two, his movements had the deliberate quality of someone navigating around chronic pain, though his mind remained evidently sharp.
"Now," he said, skipping preliminary small talk, "what exactly is it you wanted to ask me?"
Kari cleared her throat."I've found files on three victims from 1973—William Travers, Edward Carson, and Harold Miller.All professors or researchers, all killed the same way, all found with identical herb bundles placed in their mouths."
Adakai nodded, his expression grave."Those are the ones documented in official police files.There were two others."
Kari felt a cold surge of alertness."Two others?We didn't find records of additional victims with the same signature."
"You wouldn't have," Adakai said."They weren't documented the same way.One victim was found on Hopi land, outside our jurisdiction.The other..."He hesitated."The other was never officially connected to the series because the family refused to allow standard investigation procedures.They insisted on immediate burial according to traditional practices, without autopsy or evidence collection."
"Five victims," Kari said quietly."Not three."
"Five that we know of," Adakai corrected."There may have been others in remote areas that were never discovered, or cases where the connection wasn't recognized."
Kari's mind raced through implications."Why weren't these connections more clearly documented?Even if jurisdictional issues prevented full investigation of all five, the pattern should have been noted in the files we found."
Adakai took a sip of water, his gaze distant with memory."You have to understand the context, Detective.Nineteen-seventy-three was a different time.The relationship between tribal police and traditional communities was...strained.Many traditional Navajos refused to discuss the murders openly, believing the killer possessed dangerous spiritual powers."
"Spiritual powers?"Kari repeated.
