Housed in the basement of the department's modest headquarters building, the room contained decades of case files stored in metal cabinets that had long since surrendered their original color to a uniform institutional beige.Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, giving the windowless space an artificial pallor that made even Kari's complexion appear sallow.
"When was the last time anyone organized this place?"Kari asked, surveying rows of filing cabinets labeled with faded markers and yellowing tape.
Ben shrugged, already pulling open the drawer marked "1970-1974" with a metallic groan that suggested infrequent use."Captain Yazzie mentioned a digitization initiative last year.Made it through about ten percent of the files before funding dried up."
"Of course it did," Kari muttered.Budget constraints were a perpetual reality for the Navajo Nation Police Department, where essential equipment often took priority over administrative conveniences like digital archives.
They had each grabbed coffee from the breakroom before heading downstairs, the department's ancient percolator producing a brew that tasted vaguely of metal and excessive heat.Now Kari set her mug on a dusty table and joined Ben at the filing cabinet.
"Just to make sure we're on the same page," she said, reaching for another drawer, "we're looking for homicides between 1970 and 1975.Specifically ones with ceremonial elements or herb placement."
"We'll find the connection, if there is one," Ben said.
They established a system—Ben taking files from the early 1970s while Kari handled the mid-decade cases.They worked in companionable silence broken only by the rustling of paper and occasional comments about particularly unusual cases unrelated to their current investigation.
"Three moonshine-related deaths in 1972," Ben said."Contaminated batch from someone's experimental still."
"Jurisdictional nightmare in '74," Kari replied."Body found straddling reservation boundaries.FBI and tribal police argued for weeks over who had authority."
She stretched, feeling the familiar ache of concentrated desk work settling between her shoulder blades.After a morning spent helping Ruth gather herbs followed by examining a murder scene, the archives room felt claustrophobic despite its size.Kari had always preferred active investigation to paperwork, a trait that had occasionally frustrated her supervisors in Phoenix.
"How's your shoulder doing?"she asked Ben, noting how he rotated it carefully between files.
He glanced up, surprised by the personal inquiry."Better.Physical therapy's helping.Doctor says another month before I can get back to regular climbing."
Two weeks ago, Ben had injured his shoulder while apprehending a suspect who'd decided to flee rather than face charges for breaking into the tribal administrative offices.The incident had left him on modified duty—"desk work," he called it with thinly veiled contempt—until medical clearance.For someone who spent his free time scaling the red rock formations that bordered the reservation, the restriction clearly chafed.
"Ruth might have something for that," Kari said."She's got a poultice she makes for muscle injuries."
Ben's expression shifted to interest."Your grandmother sharing her medicine knowledge with you now?That's new."
Kari smiled."Progress, I guess.Three months ago she wouldn't have trusted me to identify basic sage correctly.Now she's letting me help prepare for healing ceremonies."She pulled another file from the drawer she was searching."She still keeps certain things to herself, though."
"That checks out," Ben said with understanding."The old ones believe some knowledge isn't meant for everyone."
"Even family?"
"Especially family sometimes.Higher expectations."Ben suddenly straightened, his attention caught by a file in his hands."Kari.Look at this."
She moved to his side, coffee forgotten as he spread the file open on the table.Black and white crime scene photographs showed a male victim in his fifties, lying on his back at what was unmistakably the Cold Water Canyon overlook.Even in the grainy images taken with 1970s camera equipment, the similarities to their current case were striking.
"William Travers," Ben read from the report."Professor of Anthropology at Northern Arizona University.Found dead at Cold Water Canyon overlook on July 18, 1973."He looked up, meeting Kari's gaze."Almost exactly fifty years ago."
"Cause of death?"Kari asked, already scanning the autopsy report attached to the file.
"Single stab wound to the chest.Clean entry, suggesting a narrow blade."Ben turned the page."And here—the medical examiner's note: 'Victim's mouth contained plant material identified as ceremonial herbs including sage, cedar, juniper, and white prairie aster, placed post-mortem.'"
Kari felt a chill despite the basement's stuffy warmth."White prairie aster.That could be our unidentified white flower."
The parallels were too precise to be coincidental—same location, similar victim profile, identical murder method and post-mortem ritual.Even the timing aligned almost perfectly, fifty years apart.
"Was the case solved?"she asked, though she suspected the answer before Ben shook his head.
"Investigated for six months, then went cold.Primary detective was Joseph Chee."Ben glanced at her."Any relation?"
"My grandfather," Kari said quietly."My mother's father.He died before I was born."Another connection, another thread tying present to past."What about suspects?"
Ben flipped through the investigative notes."Several initially.A graduate student who claimed Travers stole his research.A fellow faculty member involved in a dispute over department funding.The victim's brother-in-law, who publicly accused him of unethical behavior during fieldwork with native communities."He turned another page."All had alibis that checked out."
