“Did you identify the dead guy?”
Johnson moved toward the door as though she hadn’t heard the question. “Bring your coffee, and let’s get started.”
Bernie followed the agent down an empty hallway to her cubicle. She put her coffee mug on the desktop, using a coaster with the FBI seal that matched the one on her cup. FBI—Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity. Johnson sat and motioned her to a chair across the desk. The agent pulled out a notepad and pen.
“Thank you again for being here today. I’d like you to start at the beginning. You mentioned that you’d come to the trail for a run. Begin there, and tell me as much as you remember.”
Bernie took her notes from her backpack.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, I jotted down some things I thought might be relevant to the investigation. I want to be as thorough as possible.”
Johnson listened as Bernie started with her arrival at the trail, mentioning the cars she saw in the dirt lot, describing them as best she could. She recalled a sweaty middle-aged Navajo man, close to six feet tall, in jeans and a sleeveless shirt who stood slightly hunched with his hands on his knees at the trailhead. A woman with a blond ponytail had been unlocking a car, a small unleashed dog sniffing the dirt around the front tire. She noticed Johnson open her notebook and write something.
“Did you get the names?”
“No. That was before I knew about the body.”
“Please continue.”
Bernie mentioned that she had seen no other people until after she passed the dog, about ten minutes into the run. She detailed the initial dog encounter and continued chronologically.
Johnson made the occasional notation but did not interrupt.
Bernie described how the dog eventually led her to the red shoe and the black pant leg. “From the position of the body, I thought someone had fallen, maybe tripped and ended up in the bushes, knocked out by the fall. I called to the person, and when there was no response, I moved closer. That’s when I saw the plastic ties and the blood on his hand, and I assumed whoever it was was dead.”
Bernie sipped her coffee. The memory made it bitter.
“Did you check for a pulse?”
“Yes. No pulse.”
Johnson nodded once. “Go on.”
Bernie straightened in her chair. She chronicled the people she saw while she waited with the body. She referred to her notes a few times to make sure she had the details correct.
“I noticed that there weren’t any drag marks. I didn’t find sign of a struggle along the path. I examined the plants at the edge of the trail and took pictures. They weren’t trampled, and the dead person’s shoes and pants didn’t seem dusty. I didn’t spot anything that could have been a weapon and, except for the smear on his right palm, no obvious blood.” She mentioned that she had done a quick survey, looking for additional evidence as she walked back to the body after calling it in.
Johnson put her pen down. “Would you like a break? We can start again when you’re ready.”
Bernie shook her head and gave the woman credit. The agent had learned a few things—or perhaps recalled what she’d learned at the academy—compared to the last time Bernie had worked with her.
“All right then, tell me what you did next.”
“I went back to the edge of the trail to wait for my backup, Officer Bigman. Before he arrived, three people I’d already seen on the trail came by, returning to the parking area.” She mentioned that she had their names and contact information. “The dog continued walking up to me and then back to the body. Again and again. When Officer Bigman showed up, I told him the deceased’s location. He stayed there, and I went to the trailhead to wait for you and your crew and to bar anyone else from access.” She mentioned her encounters with a couple of ladies in their fifties and a teenage boy.
“Then a man argued with me. Hold on. I want to make sure I get his name right.” Bernie glanced at her notebook. “Ed Summersly.” She gave the agent his description. “He told me he ran the trail every day and had already run it once before I saw him. He hesitated when I asked if he’d seen anything unusual and then mentioned the dog. He was the only person who asked to see my ID. After he left, I turned back a few more people. Then you and your crew drove up. That’s it.”
“Do you have Summersly’s contact information?”
“Yes. I made a list for you of everyone I talked to.”
“Thanks.” Johnson turned back to her notebook and jotted something down.
Bernie waited until she was done. “I have some questions for you.”
“Before that, I want you to go through the chain of events for me again. Add any new details that come to mind about the first people you saw, the ones you encountered before you found the body. Take as long as you need.” Johnson paused. “You did very well with your report.”
Bernie repeated the story. This time, it took a bit longer. She remembered a few more details: a fancy watch Summersly wore and a missing finger on the sweaty Navajo’s left hand. When she finished, her throat was dry and her coffee had grown cool.
Johnson looked up. “Would you like more coffee?”
“No, but water would be good.”
The agent left the room and quickly returned with a cold bottle.
Bernie unscrewed the cap and took a sip. “What do you know about the man I found out there?”
“The deceased was a male, possibly in his forties, about six feet tall, a hundred and eighty pounds, slim build. He had no identification. The cause of death looked like a stab wound to the chest. We don’t know yet how long he had been dead or how long the body lay there by the trail before you found it.”
“Officer Bigman mentioned that you seemed to know the victim. Did you?”
Johnson didn’t react to the statement. “Anything else?”
“What happened to the dog?”
“Bigman took custody of it. More questions?”
“Just the obvious. Who did it? And why?”
“Those are our questions, too.” But from the way she said it, Bernie suspected Agent Johnson already had an idea of the answers.
It was late morning when they finished. The agent thanked her for her time and said she might have some additional questions. Bernie called the station, and Sandra told her she was on duty until five p.m. and conveyed Largo’s assignments for the rest of the day. “He said you’re working for the rookie.”
“No, I’m working for the Navajo people.”
“You’re feisty today.”
“I guess I miss having today off.”
As Bernie drove back toward Shiprock, she ate her sandwich in the car and finished the bottle of the FBI’s cold water.
She called Chee, hoping he’d have phone service. He picked up her call on the second ring.
“Hey, beautiful.” He said something else, but his voice drifted into a dead zone and then she heard “. . . interview?”
“I’m finished with the FBI, at least for now, but I’m on duty until five. So far things are slow. Where are you?”
“Ute Mountain Rodeo. Cowboy’s nephew is in the team roping . . .”
She could barely understand him. She knew the event arena sat about an hour north of Shiprock near Cortez, Colorado. “We’ve got a weak signal. You’re fading in and out.”