Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) Read online

  Elliot placed the photocopy on the seat and retrieved the earring he’d found near the remains of the old house.

  The interior of the truck turned cold as the earring dangled from Elliot’s fingers, the tiny dream catcher attached to it twirling.

  Elliot remembered a myth he’d heard about dream catchers—they would catch the evil dreams and spirits, letting only the good ones through—and as he closed his hand around the jewelry it grew warm against the flesh of his palm.

  He stowed the earring in the glove compartment of the truck, waved to the neighbor, and pulled away from the curb, hoping his jumbled senses would guide him in the right direction. He had a few suspects, but none of them seemed right. Logic landed on the side of Gerald’s wife, Cheryl, and her boyfriend, Darrel Bogner. However, there was no getting around Laura Bradford being somehow in with the mix. The list also included Shane Conley, Terri Benson, Angela Gardner, and, not to be forgotten, Professor David Stephens.

  Elliot kept driving, making the turns necessary to get to Highway 64, working mostly on intuition, which was telling him to check out the artifact.

  Elliot headed west to Gilcrease Road, exited and drove north until he reached the museum the road was named after.

  Inside, he approached the information desk where an elderly gentleman looked up and smiled. “Welcome to Gilcrease. Could I direct you to a certain area, or answer any questions?”

  “I need to speak to someone,” Elliot said, “who could help me identify a Native American artifact.”

  “Artifacts you say? I suspect that’d be Doctor Cramer. Have an appointment, do you?”

  “No appointment. I just dropped by.”

  The museum worker rubbed his chin. “Doctor Cramer doesn’t usually have folks just dropping by. Who should I say is calling?”

  “The name is Elliot.”

  “Elliot, is it? Well, let me see what I can do.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Not long after speaking with the guy at reception, Elliot sat in the office of Doctor Cramer, who seemed interested though quite nervous about the nature of the visit. Finally he folded his hands and leaned forward. “Are you a collector, Mr. Elliot?”

  “No, sir, I just need some information.”

  Doctor Cramer studied the photocopy Elliot had given him. “I see. However, if you do have some items like this, I’d be most interested in taking a look at them.”

  The movement of someone in the hallway outside the office caught Elliot’s attention. He turned to see a couple of security guards standing beside the doorway, and it occurred to him where this was going.

  “I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression,” he said. “I’m a detective with the Tulsa Police Department, though I’m working independently on this case. I was attempting to get the information off record for a number of reasons. I apologize if I misled you.”

  Doctor Cramer frowned. “What exactly do Native American artifacts and museum curators have to do with your case, Detective Elliot?”

  Elliot indicated the image displayed on the photocopy. “This artifact might be connected to someone’s disappearance. In order to determine the validity of such an assumption, I need to know exactly what it is and what it represents.”

  Doctor Cramer nodded and the security guards disappeared. “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said, “but a bit of prior interest in this item had us on alert. A gentleman called just yesterday asking about the artifact you have depicted there on the page. He wanted to know if we had anything like it, or if someone had approached the museum attempting to sell such things.”

  “How did you know the caller was inquiring about this specific artifact?”

  “The gentleman described it rather well, Detective. And the item in question belongs to a class of artifacts in which I have a good deal of knowledge.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “My expertise is in Mesoamerican culture. You might know it better as Incan, Mayan, or Aztec. What you have there is a depiction of a tecpatl, an Aztec ceremonial knife.”

  Elliot remembered the printouts of the mounds he’d seen in Gerald’s office. “Could something like this have come from the Spiro Mounds area?”

  Doctor Cramer shook his head. “The settlement near Spiro was an important trading center during its time, with materials coming in from places as far away as the Gulf Coast, which would put it in the range of the Aztec Empire. But it’s unlikely contact took place. In addition, such a knife would have sacred religious meaning to its people and, therefore, not something they would trade.”

  Elliot leaned back in his chair. A curious look had come over Doctor Cramer’s face when he’d asked about the mounds. “Tell me something, Doctor Cramer. How can you be so sure the knife is Aztec?”

  “It’s the handle. It’s carved into a figurine of Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec God.”

  Elliot examined the carving. “You said the knife was ceremonial. What type of ceremony are we talking about?”

  “It would have been used in religious activities, Detective, at times involving ritual human sacrifice.”

  A sensation of heat crawled through Elliot’s stomach as he recalled the words of the homeless man he’d apprehended at the old house. He cuts their hearts out. That’s what they say. “And how exactly was this carried out?”

  “In different ways, depending upon the god the sacrifice was being offered to, but typically the knife was used to make a large enough incision in the abdomen to allow the priest to reach up beneath the ribcage and remove the victim’s heart.”

  A vision of Gerald lying atop the altar invaded Elliot’s senses. “You mentioned someone calling yesterday, inquiring about the knife. Did you happen to get the name?”

  Doctor Cramer opened his desk and pulled a leather-bound organizer from the drawer. “He gave the name Bradford, L. Bradford.”

  Elliot swallowed a lump in his throat. “Are you sure it was a man who called?”

  “Yes, quite. I talked with him myself.”

  Elliot leaned back in his chair. It must have been Gerald who’d called, and he used Laura’s name because he knew Elliot would follow up on it if something went wrong. “Did Mr. Bradford leave any contact information?”

  Doctor Cramer shook his head. “He declined. However, I retrieved the number from our phone records.”

  Doctor Cramer scribbled the number onto a piece of paper then pushed the note across the desk. “The call came in yesterday at 9:45 AM. Is it possible the person you’re looking for is a dealer or a collector of Mesoamerican artifacts?”

  “He definitely had an interest in such things,” Elliot said, “especially items from the Spiro Mounds area.”

  “And yet, he called inquiring specifically about an Aztec sacrificial knife.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Doctor Cramer smiled. “The ethnic identity of the people who inhabited the Spiro area is a debatable subject. The popular theories of ancestry include the Caddo, Kitsai, Wichita, and Tunica. But there was another group of people known as the Tula and some anthropologists believe they are the true ancestors of the Spiro inhabitants. There is debatable evidence supporting the theory of the Tula originally coming from Central America, ancestors of the Aztec.”

  “Earlier you said it was unlikely such an artifact came from the mound area. Are you now telling me it’s not out of the question?”

  “Rumors of the existence of such an artifact, one that would indicate ties between North American and Mesoamerican cultures, have been circulating around the anthropological and archaeological communities for years. What I’m saying is should such an artifact actually exist…well, I think you can understand the significance of it. If by some twist of fate this particular ceremonial knife should come into your possession, I would be extremely grateful, as curator of the museum, of course, if you would notify me immediately.”

  Elliot retrieved one of his business cards and gave it to the museum curator. “Of cou
rse,” he said. “I trust you will do the same if you again hear from Mr. Bradford, or anyone else inquiring about the knife.”

  Doctor Cramer’s face went blank. “You have my word. However, I must caution you. Most people in the business consider this to be somewhat akin to Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. I have my reputation to consider. I ask for your discretion in the matter, to whatever degree possible.”

  “Not a problem,” Elliot said. “It’s a delicate issue on my end as well. Let me ask you something else. The suspect seems to be focused on this particular knife. What’s the significance of the figurine you pointed out, the carved handle?”

  Doctor Cramer rubbed his chin. “Mesoamerican religions were intricate, vastly more complex than most modern-day scholars realize. However, to compact it for time’s sake, Tezcatlipoca was originally the sun god, but during a battle, for some sort of supremacy I guess, he was defeated by his brother, Quetzalcoatl. After that, Tezcatlipoca became a shadow god, a god of the night and other things dark and mystical. During another showdown, the brother gods both assumed human form. Tezcatlipoca possessed one of his own priests, mutated him into a beast, half jaguar and half human, and started a wave of human sacrifice. Quetzalcoatl again defeated his brother. However, Tezcatlipoca vowed to return one day and destroy the world.”

  Elliot shook his head. “That god sounds like a nasty piece of work.”

  Elliot left the museum. As he drove out of the area, he called Dombrowski to set up a meeting.

  Later, through the windshield of the truck, Elliot watched the pavement of the downtown library parking lot turn wet as rain began to fall. Dombrowski sat beside him in the passenger seat of the truck. With a few exceptions, that being the ghostly visitors, Elliot had told him everything, ending with his visit to the museum.

  Dombrowski’s complexion now matched the dreariness of the cloud cover. “Having you around sure makes life interesting,” he said. “Whether or not that’s a good thing, I can’t say.”

  “I take comfort in the fact you’re still undecided.”

  “Funny. Anyway I appreciate you’re being worried about your friend. I hope he turns up safe and sound.”

  “It’ll end up being homicide,” Elliot said.

  “You’re that certain?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to find a way to make it official, but either way I intend to see it through.”

  Domrowski shook his head. “Why are you even telling me this? You know I go by the book, can’t do anything until I get enough evidence.”

  “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “You’re a hard person to understand, Elliot.”

  “I know.”

  “Come back to work and let me give you come cases to keep you busy. If it’s like you say it is, something will turn up.”

  “I can’t just put this aside and wait. It’s something I have to do.”

  “You know I can’t give you my blessing to go poking around on your own. Let me ask you something. If I pulled some strings and got the basement of the old house dug up, would we find anything?”

  “I don’t know. The fire was intentionally set. If anything’s left, it’ll be mixed with dirt and rubble. It could go either way.”

  Dombrowski climbed out of the truck. “I got to think this over. I’ll get back to you.”

  Dombrowski turned and walked away, but it wasn’t the captain’s departure that had Elliot’s attention, but a presence, as if someone else had climbed into the cab of the truck. The name Angelina formed in Elliot’s thoughts. Angela Gardner’s friends had called her that. Angela had been Gerald’s last client before the group broke up. She’d also been a student of Professor David Stephens.

  Elliot gripped the steering wheel, something physical, for reassurance. He started the truck and dropped it into gear.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The brick house on Wheeling Avenue belonged to George and Emma Gardner, Angela Gardner’s parents. Elliot had found the address with minimal research. Most of the students who attended the State’s universities were from Oklahoma, and the bulk of the State’s population clustered around two cities, Oklahoma City and Tulsa. Elliot stood at the door as the same dark Infinity that had pulled into the neighborhood behind him crept slowly past, as if the driver was in the market for real estate and was interested in the property. When the car finally disappeared around the corner, Elliot turned back and rang the doorbell.

  An elderly gentleman wearing brown slacks and a button up sweater answered, a questioning look forming in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Elliot said. “The name’s Elliot. Angela and I were friends in college, and since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

  The man’s face wasn’t hard to read. Elliot’s mentioning his daughter did not please him. “You’re wasting your time, son. Angela doesn’t live here anymore.”

  A voice from inside the house, asked, “Who is it, George?”

  “Some guy who says he knows Angelina.”

  A lady rushed to the door. “Well for heaven’s sake, George, don’t just leave him standing there. Ask him in.”

  “We don’t know who he is. Maybe he’s one of them.”

  “Nonsense. Maybe he can help.”

  Even though the lady had verbally disagreed with her husband, she seemed to share his distrust. Standing together, she and George looked as if they might be actors, chosen to portray the perfect grandparents in a movie script.

  “You don’t know that, Emma. We don’t know if anyone can help.”

  “Well, we won’t know until we ask, will we?”

  Emma Gardner took her attention from her husband and placed it on Elliot. Some of the friendliness had left her face. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Elliot, ma’am. Kenny Elliot.”

  “Well, you seem like a nice young man. Tell me, how exactly did you come to know Angela?”

  “Our paths crossed a few years ago at school in Stillwater.”

  George cocked his head at a slight angle. “Paths crossed, now what exactly does that mean?”

  “We knew each other, but not well, ran in different circles, so to speak.”

  “Well I guess that explains it. If you really knew Angela, you wouldn’t have come here looking for her.”

  Emma stepped forward, her face a mixture of hope and sorrow. “Do you know where our daughter is, Mr. Elliot? If you have any information, any at all, please tell us.”

  Elliot lowered his gaze to the floor, wondering what kind of damage he’d caused. Some sort of problem had obviously torn the family apart, and his being there created hope for George and Emma Gardner, however misplaced it might be. “No,” he said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The old couple glanced at each other before turning their attention to Elliot. It was Emma who spoke. “You’re with the police, aren’t you, Mr. Elliot?”

  Unsure of how to answer, Elliot remained silent.

  A sad grin formed on Emma’s face. “I used to teach sixth grade,” she said. “And it was always the good little boys who couldn’t lie very well. I guess big ones can’t either.”

  Elliot smiled. Emma was right. When called to task, he had to tell the truth. “I am a detective with the Tulsa Police Department,” he said, “but I’m here in an unofficial capacity.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” George said, “but your being here must certainly mean something. You see, Angela got herself mixed up with some crazy religion there in Stillwater, some kind of voodoo or something.”

  “Now, George, we don’t know that’s what it was.”

  “Well we know it wasn’t good, don’t we?”

  George Gardner paused, then said, “Emma and I didn’t like what she was up to, so we talked to her about it.”

  “What happened?”

  “It didn’t go well. Some teacher she’d met at school was the reason, filling her head with nonsense. She said she was in love with him
.” George shook his head. “We haven’t seen her since. She hasn’t called or anything. We don’t know where she is, or even if she’s...”

  George glanced at his wife.

  Emma took her husband’s hand and said, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it, Mr. Elliot? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “A friend is missing,” Elliot said, “a mutual acquaintance of mine and Angela’s. I had hoped she might be able to help.”

  George Gardner’s face grew stern. “You said you knew Angela, and you had some of the same friends. So I have to ask you something, Mr. Elliot. Did you have anything to do with Angela getting mixed up in that hoodoo crap?”

  Elliot thought about the word hoodoo. Both Dombrowski and Captain Lundsford had used it when questioning him. “No, sir, I did not.”

  “You know more than you’re saying, though, don’t you?”

  It was Emma, the school teacher, who asked the question.

  “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to find us. Whoever you’re looking for, or whatever it is you’re up to, it has something to do with Angela. We want to know what it is, and we want to know now.”

  Elliot looked past the couple and into the house. George and Emma Gardner had been through a lot of pain, and they were right about Angela being influenced by people who wanted to coerce her into their way of thinking. Gerald had tried to help, but it had turned out badly. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew more. You mentioned Angela had been romantically involved. Do you know who she was seeing?”

  “She never really told us,” Emma said, “but she let it slip once that someone named David was trying to protect her.”

  Elliot wondered if David could have been Professor David Stephens. “What, exactly, was he trying to protect her from?”

  Again, the elderly couple exchanged glances. “She said it was a spirit, Mr. Elliot, the ghost of an Indian girl. I’m well aware of how that sounds, but we want Angela to come home. Nothing else matters now.”

  Emma wiped her eyes. “She had a name for… well, whoever was bothering her. She called her Laura.”

  An image of Laura Bradford silently running past him in the park formed in Elliot’s mind. Angela had been involved with some form of alternative religion. If she was in town, or even if she had been, Elliot might be able to get some information from some of the local occult shops.