Текст книги "Dry Bones"

Автор книги: Craig Johnson

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“Yes, you did, and as of now it would appear that you’re not.”

As we rounded the back of the courthouse, I could see a very large Indian reclined on the steps of the old Carnegie Library that served as my office; he was eyeing the two bureau people who were eating what looked to be lettuce wraps and drinking bottled water. “Uh oh . . . Looks like a standoff.”

Vic chimed in. “Wounded Knee III.”

By the time that we got there, Brandon White Buffalo, possibly the largest Indian on both the Cheyenne and Crow Reservations, had crushed his cigarette out and, standing his full seven feet two inches, pushed off from the steps to greet us. “Ha-ho, Lawman.”

I gestured toward the giant. “The real FBI.”

Vic added, “Fuckin-Big-Indian.”

I watched as Brandon pocketed the butt.

“Don’t you know those things stunt your growth?”

The operator of the White Buffalo Sinclair Station held out a hand with fingers that looked like a collection of Polish sausages, and enveloped my own. “It’s a nasty habit, but it is easy to quit; I have done it many times.”

I tried not to grimace as he applied his legendary grip. “How are you, Brandon?”

“My heart is heavy, Lawman. The Cheyenne have lost a great leader, and it’s not a time when we can spare such men.” He sparked an eye at my undersheriff. “Miss Moretti.”

She put her hand on her sidearm. “Do not try and pick me up.”

Brandon made a habit of lifting people from the ground as a greeting, but a well-placed kick had preempted the tradition with Vic a few months back.

He nodded and glanced at McGroder, who extended his hands and spoke up quickly. “I’d rather not be picked up either.”

Throwing a thumb over his shoulder, Brandon smiled and turned back to me. “The ones who don’t smoke are inside—including both the chiefs.”

As far as I knew, the Cheyenne were an autarchy, so I was interested to see who the other chief might be. “Henry with you?”

“No, the Bear isn’t a part of the party—he prefers to work outside official channels, but you know that.” The Buffalo studied me. “You are disappointed?”

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen Henry in a couple of weeks, and my granddaughter is going to be in town . . .”

“The little brother is back to seeing the divorcée up at Rocky Boy.”

I glanced around and dropped my voice. “Are we ever going to get to meet her?”

“Who knows.” The three-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound Crow/Cheyenne hybrid turned and shook hands with the special agent as he introduced himself and then shot a look at the herbivores on the bench. “Those are yours?”

McGroder nodded and studied the giant, probably making the connection between him and his uncle, the man who had saved me on the mountain. “Yeah, I made ’em leave their trench coats at home.”

“We did not call you.”

I had to smile as McGroder flexed his fingers, attempting to get the circulation back in them. “No.”

“Then why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Mike adjusted his sunglasses and looked up at the big man. “At the behest of the American people.”

Brandon gestured toward himself. “Are we not the American people?”

“Certainly you are.” He looked at me for help, but I was going to let him tread water on his own. The agent licked his lip, smiled, and breathed deep. “We’re just here to make sure that everybody plays fair.”

Brandon White Buffalo’s head tilted to one side as he considered the AIC before laughing. He turned and mounted the steps to my office, his gigantic legs carrying him up like the dinosaurs that had held my imagination recently. “You are about two hundred years too late, Agent in Charge.”

McGroder turned to look at me as the glass door swung closed, the gold and black letters of my department shuddering with the soft impact. “I have a feeling that the next week is going to be interesting around here.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

He smiled, waved good-bye to Vic, and then collected his people from the bench. “Hey, where is the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, anyway?”

I pointed. “South end of town, across from the high school. It used to be the Moose Lodge and before that a carpet outlet.”

He thought about it. “The tin building that I saw on the way in?”

I shrugged as Vic and I started up the steps to our defunct library offices. “We take our institutions where we find them.”

He pulled out his phone as the trio started toward the black Tahoe with government plates parked at the curb. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask for your cell number?”

“You can ask.”

He shook his head, and they loaded up and started off, catching the light on Main and disappearing around the corner.

Vic finally turned. “I’ve got a question.”

I gave her my full attention, the way I always did.

“Skip?” She pulled the door open and entered. “A deputy U.S. attorney by the name of Skip?”

 • • •

“I told Brandon that he couldn’t smoke in here.” My dispatcher answered a phone and asked the caller to please wait, then hit the hold button.

I looked around. “Where is everybody?”

Ruby nodded her head toward the hallway behind her desk. “Your office.”

I walked past Saizarbitoria’s door and could see that Double Tough, my other deputy, who had just come back from medical leave, was standing next to Sancho’s desk. The skin on the side of his face was mottled from having been burned, and I was still getting used to the eye patch. “How you doin’, troop?”

He did his best Blackbeard imitation as Vic and I crowded in the doorway. “Argh . . .”

The Basquo urged me in. “Boss, we need an opinion here.”

“I’ve got people in my office.”

“It’ll just take a second.”

I entered Saizarbitoria’s immaculate but tiny room and stood there with the other two men, Vic holding at the doorway. “What’s up?”

Sancho gestured toward Double Tough. “DT’s got a new eye.”

What with Danny Lone Elk, like we didn’t have enough ocular problems as of late?

I turned and looked at him. “Well, let’s see it.”

He glanced around the room, his one-eyed gaze on Vic, and then peeled the patch back, leaving it on his forehead. “It’s a fourteen millimeter . . .”

We all leaned in and looked at the artificial orb, Double Tough staring straight ahead and as nonchalant as you can be with three people peering into your fake eye.

“It looks great.”

He seemed doubtful. “Really?”

“Yep; if I didn’t know any better I’d say it was real.” I glanced at Sancho for a little backup. “Right?”

“Yeah, it looks great.”

“It’s the wrong color.”

We all looked at Vic. “What are you talking about?”

She stepped in closer and stared at Double Tough. “What color did you order?”

“I didn’t order it, they did . . . It’s hazel-blue.”

She studied him some more. “Your real eye is more green.” She straightened and looked at Saizarbitoria, me, and finally back to DT. “Take it back and have them order up another one.”

Double Tough cleared his throat. “Oh, I think it’s close enough—”

“Go back and have them order up one that matches.” She glanced at us again. “I can’t believe you assholes were going to let him wander around here looking like a fucked-up husky because you two were afraid of hurting his delicate feelings—shame on the both of you.”

As she stalked out, we all stood there in the uncomfortable silence, and then I leaned in and studied the eye again. “Maybe a little greener, but it looks good, troop.”

Sancho nodded. “Really good. A little greener, maybe . . . I mean, you might as well get it right—the insurance is paying for it.”

 • • •

The tribal delegation was waiting for me in my office, sitting in my guest chairs and reading from the plaques and studying the photos on my walls. Brandon thumped a finger on one. “What are all these sheriffs doing in front of this train?”

I turned the corner and sat at my desk across from Cheyenne chief Lonnie Little Bird and Tribal Police chief Lolo Long as Vic lingered near the doorway. “The old sheriff, Lucian—that was the last run of the Western Star back in ’72.”

Lolo was the first to ask, “The Western Star?”

“The Wyoming Sheriff’s Association had this yearly junket that they used to do, a train by the name of the Western Star that ran from Cheyenne to Evanston and back—twenty-four drunk sheriffs shooting sporting clays off a flatbed.”

Chief Long pulled a handful of blue-black hair back from her face, revealing the sickle-shaped scar at her temple and the dark, dark eyes. Out of uniform, she was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a weathered leather jacket—all of which seemed to fit in remarkable ways. “Sounds like fun.”

She wanted to continue the interrogation, but I cut her off and gestured around the room. “The few plaques are his, but he didn’t want them, and I never got around to taking them down.”

“What do you have time for these days?”

I smiled at my reservation comrade in arms. “The job, Chief Long, the job.” I took my hat off and set it on my desk, crown down, and introduced Vic to the group.

“We’ve met.”

Lolo’s head lifted, and she spoke. “Undersheriff.”

Vic’s voice carried just a little edge to it. “Chief.”

I addressed the rest of the war party. “Chief Little Bird.”

Lonnie laughed. “Too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Mm, hmm. Yes, it is so.”

I glanced at Brandon, who was still standing, and then back at Lonnie. “Is this a formal call?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Danny Lone Elk?”

He nodded and leaned back in his wheelchair. “Just so you are aware, we did not do this.”

“Do what?”

“Call the FBI.”

“Since Wounded Knee II, when the Department of Justice shows up I rarely think that it’s the tribe that has called them.”

Lolo played with the woven horsehair zipper slide on her jacket. “Danny had made commitments with the tribe that upon his death his ranch was to be signed over to the Cheyenne Conservancy, and that is our only concern at this time. I am not sure if the fossil in question is part of that land or an antiquity that is dealt with differently. Danny mentioned that a home for the dinosaur might be made on the reservation in Lame Deer at the Chief Dull Knife College or that there might be a sale of a limited number of replicas of the skeleton or the donation of some of the bones to the tribal headquarters, but that above all, the proceeds from such a sale should go exclusively to his children and grandson.”

“What’s your involvement?”

She leaned forward and smiled a dazzling smile that made my toes tingle. “I’m the director of the Cheyenne Conservancy.”

“So you were in a sort of partnership with Danny.”

“Yes.”

“Has anybody talked to Dave Baumann about this?”

“I don’t know.”

I glanced up at Vic, who rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s going to start getting complicated now that the feds are involved.”

Lolo studied me. “Did you call them?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Vic smiled. “Skip.”

3

“What do you mean you can’t pick us up in Billings?”

Glancing around the reception area at my assembled staff as we took on our greatest challenge at the end-of-the-day coffee klatch, I sighed through the telephone line in an attempt to get out of trouble with the Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time. “There’s a big mess going on among the Cheyenne, the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, and the federal government, and I’m betting I won’t be able to get free tomorrow. The acting deputy U.S. attorney is going to be here, and then I’ll know more.”

“Acting deputy U.S. attorney—what the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know; I guess it means he acts like a deputy attorney or something.” I hugged the phone in for a little privacy. “Can’t you fly into Sheridan?”

“I’m traveling with a five-month-old, and they don’t have a leather helmet and goggles to fit her.” There was a pause. “Have you ever traveled with a five-month-old?”

The second time I’d been asked that today—I tried to remember if I ever had. “I think your mother did; I was just ground support.”

“Did you get the Pack ’n Play and the car seat?”

I lied. “Yep.”

“You’re lying.”

Uncanny. “As fast as Dog can trot.”

“If you can’t borrow them, then get them over in Sheridan when you come to pick us up.”

“So, you are flying into Sheridan. Why don’t you rent a car?” The phone went dead in my hand as I handed it back to my dispatcher and my guideline for all things domestic. “What’s a Pack ’n Play?”

Ruby looked at Saizarbitoria, who seemed to have an innate ability to describe child-rearing accoutrements in terms I could understand. “Portable solitary confinement.”

“Ahh . . .” I smiled, pressing the joke. “And the car seat?”

“It’s a seat. That goes in your car,” the Basquo grunted. “I’ve got all that stuff.”

Ruby hung up the phone. “Walt, you can borrow them, but I’m thinking you should buy; this is not the only time they’re going to be here—that is, if you don’t keep royally messing things up.”

I glanced at Lucian, who sometimes showed up at these unofficial end-of-the-day meets, and then the rest of my staff. “Everybody seems to think that, huh?”

They all nodded, but Lucian was the first to speak. “You’re not off to a good start, troop.”

Vic laughed. “Like you’re a knowledgeable source.”

I cupped my chin in my palm and postulated as I looked at the previous sheriff of Absaroka County. “I’m trying to remember what five-month-olds are like; what they can do.”

Lucian mumbled. “They shit a lot.”

Vic bumped him with her shoulder. “When was the last time you even held a baby—the Eisenhower administration?”

Ruby agreed. “You’re going to need diapers.”

“Is there a service in town?”

“They don’t do that anymore; they’re disposable.” She glanced at Saizarbitoria again. “But I’m betting Sancho is our go-to guy on all of this.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Like I said, we’ve got all that stuff and you’re welcome to it, but you might be better off to buy all new. Anthony’s over a year old and escapes from everything like a miniature Houdini, but we still use some of it.” He smiled. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Grandpa.” He thought about it. “At five months they can sit up, scoot, roll, and maybe crawl a little.”

“Can they talk?”

“Babble, mostly—kind of like a bad drunk.”

Ruby smiled. “As I recall, Cady talked early.”

“Yep, and she’s never stopped.”

Double Tough ventured an opinion. “You’re going to need a high chair.”

We all turned to look at him.

He adjusted his eye patch, having put it back on. “What? I got nephews and nieces.”

I pushed off Ruby’s counter and stretched, glancing up at the Seth Thomas on the wall and wondering why all these people were still here, other than to antagonize me. “This grandfather stuff is complicated.”

Ruby laughed. “You haven’t seen the half of it.”

I turned back to Saizarbitoria. “So, I don’t suppose I could impose on you to help me buy all these things?”

He nodded. “And put it together?”

“What?”

“You have to assemble the stuff, and I’m thinking it would be best if you had everything done.”

I nodded some more, getting used to taking orders again. “At my place?”

Vic stared at me. “Where were you thinking they were going to stay?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but wouldn’t it be easier if they were in town?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“You’ve got a brand-new house.”

“Nice try.”

“And if they need anything, they wouldn’t have to drive twenty miles . . .”

“Absolutely not.”

I turned back to Saizarbitoria. “If you and Maria will help me out with this, I’ll give you the rest of the day off.”

He made a face. “The day is over—how ’bout tomorrow?”

He had me over a barrel, and he knew it. I pulled out all the cash I had in my wallet and handed it to him. “Will that cover it?”

He nodded, stuffing the bills in his shirt pocket. “If not, I’ll get the rest from petty cash.”

“Deal. Leave the receipts, so I can reimburse.” I turned to Lucian, suddenly remembering the flask in my coat pocket, the one that I’d taken from the recently deceased. “Hey, old man, I need your opinion on something.” I pulled it out and handed it to him.

His eyes brightened at the prospect. “Now you’re talkin’ about my kind of baby.” He unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents. “Bottled-in-bond.”

He started to take a sip, but I caught his arm. “Hold up. I took that off of Danny Lone Elk, and it hasn’t been tested.” Before I could react further, he changed hands and took a strong, two bubble pull. “Lucian . . .”

“Damn, that’s good.” He licked his lips. “Straight rye whiskey, a four-year-old, if I’m not mistaken—a little metallic, but that could just be from being in the flask too long.”

“You’re not concerned that it might be poisoned?”

“Troop, I’ve been poisoning myself with this stuff for nigh on seventy years and I’m sure in the end it will get me, but it’s been an elongated and cheerful terminus.”

“Brand?”

“E. H. Taylor.” He took another nip, just to be sure. “Hundred proof, I should think.”

“Nothing wrong with it?”

“Not that I can tell, but I better have another just to be on the safe side.”

“Let’s save some for the Department of Criminal Investigation, shall we?” I turned to talk to Double Tough and noticed a group of men standing at the top of the stairs: two highway patrolmen named Bob Delude and Robert Hall, aka the Bobs, and a suited man who looked like a bad smell. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Sheriff Walter Longmire?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m Deputy United States Attorney Skip Trost.”

I noticed he left off the “acting” portion of his title. “Good to meet you.”

“Are we interrupting anything?”

“Oh, no. Just the circling of the wagons here at the end of the day.”

He stepped forward. “I was wondering if I could have a private word with you, Sheriff?” He didn’t wait for an answer but turned and dismissed the two patrolmen. “Thank you, gentlemen; I believe I’m Sheriff Longmire’s responsibility now.”

Robert rolled his eyes and Bob shook his head as they turned, noticeably glad to be rid of him, and trooped down the stairs and out the door. I knew the Bobs pretty well from dealing with them over the years and would have to talk to them later to get the dope on the ADA.

I gestured toward the hall and my office, the day obviously not over.

 • • •

“You know why I’m here.”

Easing myself back in my chair, I took off my hat and set it on my desk, thinking the thing spent more time there than on my head. “I believe so.”

“This is a serious crime against the American people.”

I tapped the brim of my hat and watched it spin on the overturned crown. “The American people, huh?”

He folded his overcoat in his lap and regarded me with a set of very pale blue eyes, the kind that sled dogs have—the kinds of dogs that if not fed enough eat each other. “We have an opportunity here to make a statement to these private collectors that the relics and fossils on public lands are not for private sale.”

“I wasn’t aware that the High Plains Dinosaur Museum was going to sell Jen.”

He watched me, probably trying to get a read on my position in all of this, and that gave me the opportunity to study him in turn. He was fit, and I was guessing he was no stranger to the gymnasiums in Cheyenne. “The point is, Mr. Trost, that we don’t know if the fossil is on public land, and besides, if they maintain ownership, then they can do whatever they like with Jen. It’s a free market, as near as I can tell.”

The shoe stopped bobbing, and he grinned. “They told me you were sharp.”

“Who did?”

He dismissed my question with a wave of his hand. “Everybody at Twenty-Fourth and Capitol.”

“So, I guess you’re looking to establish a partnership with the Northern Cheyenne, the Cheyenne Conservancy, and the Lone Elk family.”

“His family is active?”

I gave him my warning voice. “Very.”

For the first time, he broke eye contact with me and stared at his coat. “Hmm . . .”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why is it that the federal government suddenly has a deep-seated yearning to go after the High Plains Dinosaur Museum?”

“They are stealing government property.”

I expulsed a breath of air that substituted for a laugh. “Private collectors and paleontologists have been doing it all over the American West for more than a century.”

“All the more reason it should be stopped.”

“What’s the hurry? I mean the thing isn’t even out of the ground.”

“The head is.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He grinned some more. “You didn’t know that.”

“No. I’m not really privy to everything the museum does, nor should I be.”

“I just received a text . . .” He pulled out his cell phone and showed it to me—maybe he thought I’d never seen one. “. . . that the head is on the premises of the HPDM and has been crated for shipping.”

“To where?”

“At this time, parts unknown.” He studied me. “So your buddy Dave Baumann doesn’t tell you everything.”

I wondered what Dave was up to, thought about it, and then leaned back in my chair. “I wouldn’t call him my buddy, but he’s from my county and that does make him mine to defend.”

“Defend.”

“A long time ago, the previous sheriff handed his star over to me.” I thumbed my badge for him to take notice—maybe he’d never seen one before. “And along with this three-inch piece of metal came the responsibility of looking out for my people, all 2,483 of them.”

He cocked his head and barked a short laugh. “So, it’s going to be the United States of America versus Absaroka County?”

I sighed deeply and brushed the cuff of my shirt over my badge, wiping off my fingerprints. “Not necessarily. You treat the people of this county with the respect they deserve and I’m yours to command, Acting Deputy Attorney.”

He let that one settle in for a bit and then stood. “I’m afraid you are mine to command no matter what or how I do it, Sheriff.” He looked down at me, enjoying the advantage. “I think we should be going to the High Plains Dinosaur Museum, but first off I’m going to need personal protection.”

This time I went ahead and laughed. “From what?”

He made the next statement as if it were manifest obvious. “Whoever of the 2,483 citizens of the county must’ve murdered Danny Lone Elk.”

I leaned back in my chair and tried not to display the expression I reserved for people who attempted to tell me how to do my job. “At this time, I have no credible information leading me to believe that Danny’s death is anything more than accidental.”

He carefully unfolded his trench coat. “You’re living in a dream world; that collection of bones that was found on his land is worth way more than the eight million dollars paid for similar finds, and that kind of money tends to get people thinking bad thoughts—even your people.” He continued to study me and then changed tack. “You have a very high profile here in the state.”

“I wasn’t aware I had a profile, high or low.”

“Well, I’m pleased to tell you that you do and that kind of thing can be instrumental in getting things like this done.” He waited a moment and then leaned on my desk. “And since I’ve dismissed my cadre of highway patrolmen, I still need a detachment for use as bodyguards.”

I picked up my hat, carefully straightened it on my head, and got up. Looking down at him, I enjoyed the advantage and smiled. “I’ve got just the person.”

 • • •

“And what if I don’t want to follow fucking Skip around?”

“I thought about having Double Tough keep an eye on him.”

“That’s not funny.” She leaned against the counter of the gift shop inside the High Plains Dinosaur Museum. “How ’bout if I just act like I’m guarding the acting deputy attorney?”

“Fine by me.” I watched McGroder and his staff examine and document all the parts of Jen’s massive head, roughly the size of a sofa, on an assortment of clipboards and forms under the close observation of Trost. Her namesake stood by with her ever-present video camera, recording the FBI men and the acting deputy attorney. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“Excuse me?”

I gestured toward Jen and the camera. “‘Who watches the watchmen?’ From the Roman poet Juvenal, usually associated with the philosophies of Plato and political corruption.” I gestured toward Trost. “He seems to think there might be an attempt of violence upon his person.”

Vic folded her arms, the portrait of disgruntled. “Well, he’s right about that.”

“I figured you’d be the best at letting me know what his intentions are.”

She watched the ministrations of the Department of Justice. “You don’t think they’re going to try and pick that thing up, do you?” She looked at the shelves of plastic T. rexes and then back to me. “So, as I remember, according to Mrs. Tony, my sixth grade science teacher, these things had a brain the size of a walnut.”

Jennifer’s voice carried over to us, confirming she could hear what we were saying. “Actually, they were the smartest of all the dinosaurs, with the mature animals having a brain about the size of a coffee can—maybe as smart as modern-day alligators.” She pointed at the VistaVision-like murals on the walls that pictured embattled dinosaurs and exploding volcanoes. “But they had surprisingly powerful sensory apparatus with a binocular range of fifty-five degrees, better than hawks, and a visual acuity ten times greater than an eagle’s.”

Vic thought about it. “So, she’d see you a long time before you’d see her?”

“She’d see you almost four miles away, but she’d smell you long before you saw her or she saw you. Tyrannosaurs had huge olfactory membranes and probably the greatest sense of smell of all the dinosaurs.” She reached over and picked up one of the toy T. rexes and held it out to my undersheriff. “There’s a lot of argument over whether Jen was a scavenger or a hunter, but there’s evidence that they might’ve even been cannibalistic.”

Vic took the plastic dinosaur and flicked a fingernail along the serrated teeth within the gaping jaw. “What do you think?”

“Jen herself has multiple tooth marks on her remains, evidence that some other tyrannosaurs were feeding on her alive or dead—for all we know, they may have even been family members.” The young woman’s face was remarkably expressionless. “I think they ate whatever they wanted, alive or dead.”

She went back to filming the FBI as Vic turned to glance at me.

“What?”

“I’m just thinking of that turtle that pissed on you yesterday morning.” Her eyes followed after Jennifer. “She didn’t seem very forgiving.”

“I don’t think it was a very forgiving world sixty-seven million years ago.”

Vic tossed the toy back into the bin. “Judging by what’s been going on around here lately, it hasn’t gotten that much better.” She studied me for a few moments, and I knew what she was going to ask. “So, what kind of visions were you having yesterday morning?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ve seen you freeze up like that before, so what did you see?”

I shushed her as Baumann approached—he looked a little worse for wear having jousted with the state, the FBI, and the Northern Cheyenne within forty-eight hours. He adjusted his glasses and sighed. “I can’t believe they’re doing this.”

“I can’t believe you already had the head excavated and didn’t tell me about it.”

He emitted a glottal stop and then forced the words from his mouth. “I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Where were you shipping it, Dave?”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m implying that Jen’s head is in a shipping crate with your return address on it but no outgoing address, and I’m interested in where she was headed, no pun intended.”

He crossed his arms, evidently trying to discern if I was on his side or theirs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“NASA.”

Wanting to make sure I wasn’t missing a high plains acronym, I asked, “The National Aeronautics and Space Administration?”

Vic looked at him. “What the hell—you were going to put Jen in orbit or something?”

“We wanted to do a CAT scan of the skull, and NASA is the only place with a machine big enough for the job; they use it to look for flaws in space shuttle engines and the like.”

I gestured toward the FBI men. “Would I be correct in the assumption that you were trying to get it out of here before these guys showed up?”

Baumann looked a little uncomfortable. “Of course not.”

“In hopes that dealing with a more scientifically oriented branch of the federal government might be better than dealing with the FBI or the U.S. Attorney’s office?”

His eyes widened as I spoke, but his response was definitive. “No.”

I put my arm over his shoulder and steered him further into the gift shop, where images of a toothsome generic T. rex adorned shirts, lunch boxes, posters, miniature pith helmets, and other assorted tchotchkes. “Dave, I just got through having an abbreviated pissing contest with Mr. Trost, where I made it clear to him that I was on the side of the people of my county.” I released my hold on him, and he turned toward me, primed to interrupt; I held a finger up to his face. “And that is going to prove difficult if the people I’m attempting to protect, and that includes you, are not forthcoming with all the information they have.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“Maybe not, but it looks illegal and you better start thinking about that, because this situation is going to end up in federal court, and appearances, though deceiving, can lose you a case and a dinosaur.” I held out a hand. “You mind if I have a look at the warrant?”

He pulled it from the back pocket of his khakis and handed it to me.

I read: “As a violation of the Antiquities Act of 1906, all the fossil remains of one Tyrannosaurus rex dinosaur skeleton (hereafter referred to as ‘Jen’) and other fossil specimens taken from the excavation site on the property of one Danny Lone Elk, including all papers, diaries, notes, photographs, and supporting materials relating to the excavation of said ‘Jen,’ are to be confiscated from the premises.” I looked up at him. “Basically it says that you’ve stolen U.S. Government property, and somehow, at the same time, Northern Cheyenne tribal property.” I handed it back to him. “Dave, as much as I ever hate to say this, I think you’re going to need a lawyer.”

I glanced back at the crate and could see Vic and Jennifer engaged in a heated conversation.

“Because I fucking said turn it off, that’s why.”

I stepped next to my undersheriff, and Jennifer turned the camera to film us. “Miss, do you mind turning that thing off for a minute?”

She ignored me and continued filming. “According to the law in thirty-eight states, including Wyoming, I am allowed to film law enforcement personnel as long as I am not interfering with your duties.”