"Mr. Hatathli," Kari began, keeping her voice neutral. "I'm Detective Kari Blackhorse with the Navajo Nation Police Department. Phoenix PD asked me to consult on your case because of the cultural dimensions involved in the resort development dispute."
"Cultural dimensions." Hatathli's voice was hoarse, and he made an effort to clear it. "Is that what we're calling the destruction of eight-hundred-year-old petroglyphs now?"
"Thomas," Sharon warned quietly.
"No, it's fine. Let me say it." Hatathli leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "Detective Blackhorse, I opposed that resort project. I made statements I now regret about the people who approved it. I called Richard Garrison a criminal, I said Margaret Hoffman had blood on her hands. Those were my words, and I meant them—but I meant them metaphorically. I meant they were morally responsible for cultural destruction, not that I was going to literally kill them."
"The prosecution will argue your words show intent."
"I know. I'm a lawyer, I understand how this works." His voice cracked. "But I didn't kill anyone. I've never even fired a gun. I don't own a gun, and I don't believe in violence as a solution to anything. My entire career has been about working within the legal system, using the courts, public opinion, and political pressure to protect sacred sites. Why would I throw all that away to become a murderer?"
Sharon put a hand on his arm. "Thomas, you should let me—"
"No." He pulled his arm away. "I need to say this. I need her to understand." He looked at Kari with an intensity that was almost painful. "Someone is framing me. They found my DNA at both crime scenes, which means someone collected it—probably from my office, maybe from my home—and planted it to make me look guilty. I don't know who would do that or why, but it's the only explanation that makes sense."
"Have you received any threats recently?" Kari asked. "Anyone who might have a grudge against you?"
"I've received threats for years. That's what happens when you sue development companies and oppose powerful people's projects." Hatathli's laugh was bitter. "But nothing specific, nothing that suggested someone was planning to frame me for murder. Just the usual angry emails and voicemails from people who think environmentalists are destroying the economy."
"What about people with access to your office? Someone who could have collected your DNA?"
Sharon's pen stopped tapping. "Thomas, don't answer that."
Hatathli lowered his face into his hands for a moment, then dropped his hands, looking tired. "I have nothing to hide," he said to Sharon. Then he turned back to Kari. "I've been sitting in a cell all day thinking about this, trying to figure out who had access to my space. The answer is—lots of people. I havea paralegal, two part-time associates, and volunteers who help with research and filing. My office isn't locked. Anyone could walk in, take a coffee cup I'd used, grab a pen I'd chewed on, pull hair off my jacket. It wouldn't be difficult."
Kari made notes, watching his face. Everything about his body language suggested confusion and fear rather than calculation. She'd interviewed enough guilty people to recognize the difference—the way they constructed careful narratives, left strategic gaps, played for sympathy while maintaining emotional distance from their crimes. Hatathli wasn't doing any of that. He struck her as being scared and desperate and trying to convince her he was telling the truth.
"Walk me through your whereabouts on April 18th and April 25th," Kari said. "The evenings when the murders occurred."
"I've already told the police—"
"Tell me."
Hatathli glanced at Sharon, who gave a reluctant nod.
"April 18th, I was at a community meeting in Scottsdale until about eight PM. Indigenous families discussing strategies for future development disputes. Then I drove home, got there around nine. I live alone, so no one can verify that, but my neighbors might have seen my car or caught it on a doorbell camera." He paused. "April 25th, I was at my office until late—maybe ten-thirty or eleven. Working on a brief for a different case. Again, no witnesses. I didn't know I'd need an alibi."
"The community meeting on the 18th—who else was there?"
"Maybe twenty people. I can give you a list of names, but most of them won't remember exactly what time I left. It was an informal gathering; people came and went." His expression was bleak. "I know how this looks. I have motive, opportunity, no solid alibis, and my DNA is at the crime scenes. If I were investigating this case, I'd probably arrest me too."
Sharon wrote something on her legal pad and underlined it twice. "That's enough, Thomas. Don't make the prosecution's case for them."
But Hatathli ignored her, his eyes fixed on Kari. "Detective Blackhorse, I'm asking you—begging you—to actually investigate this. Don't just accept the obvious answer because it's convenient. Someone killed Richard Garrison and Margaret Hoffman. Someone who wanted them dead and wanted me to take the blame. Please help me prove that."
The raw desperation in his voice made Kari's chest tighten. She'd heard innocent people plead before, and guilty people fake innocence. The difference was subtle but real, and everything about Hatathli's plea felt genuine.
"I can't make you any promises," Kari said carefully. "But I can promise to be thorough. To look at all the evidence, consider all the possibilities, and not accept easy answers just because they're easy."
"That's all I'm asking."
Kari gathered her notes and stood. "Thank you for speaking with me, Mr. Hatathli. Ms. Wolfe, I'll make sure you get copies of my consultation report."
Outside the interview room, Maria was waiting in the observation area. She'd watched the entire conversation through the one-way glass.
"Well?" Maria asked.
"That's not the behavior of a guilty person." Kari set down her notebook. "Everything about him—his body language, his emotional responses, the way he's processing this—it reads as confusion and fear. He thinks he's being framed, and I believe him."
