Enjoy a Preview of the first 13 Chapters of Book 3

Murder @ the Black Mesa Dance

Coming October 15, 2024

 

Who Murdered the Nerd?

Suicidal Student Snuffed on Stage Fly

 

When a suicidal student dies backstage at a NICU fundraiser dance,

small-town detectives quickly uncover a murder victim.

In the meantime, the college stonewalls the partner's crime investigation.

 

Cyber-forensic expert Minerva and Deputy Marshal Michael Doyle

discover a tangled nest of lies and a bureaucratic coverup.

Then officials stubbornly refuse to open up paper files to the duo.

 

Can Michael and Minerva ferret out the motive behind

the student's death before a scandal blows up?

Or will vengeful Black Hat hackers hold the town of Black Mesa for ransom?

Why did they murder the Nerd?

 

Chapter One

January – Difficulties 

“Difficulties are things that show a person what they are.”

Epictetus 50–130 AD

“I could fling this computer against the wall,” I said to my husband, Michael, as I prepared for my spring semester. During the COVID-19 lockdown, he changed my former sewing room into a suitable place for Zoom meetings and online teaching.

“What’s the problem?” Michael asked, taking a swig of his coffee.

“Please. Please. Let my stuff come back. Otherwise, I will have to revise the syllabi for my online classes.”

“Don’t you have a way to reverse it?”

“Yes, but the program cancels out everything instead of going back one step. Still, this software repulses me. It’s a hunk of junk.”

“What’s the purpose of it?”

“It’s mandatory. All teachers stick to the same template college-wide–no deviation. The IT person constructed it for engineers, but not ordinary students or average people. Dang application keeps freezing and blocking me out. Now, I have to report the glitches to IT, log out, and start over.”

“Take a breather. You’ve been peering at the screen for hours,” Michael suggested.

“Yeah, time flies when I dig deep into a crappy beta version of computer software.” Before classes started, I needed to find the bugs before my students became baffled by an untested experimental application. “No idea why the college decided on this peculiar program.”

“Besides, I promised Loretta we’d be there for her. So I honored my oath,” he said, reminding me of our pact to aid our friend with her charity event. Michael’s word was unbreakable.

Loretta and Deborah Steven, both nurses, asked for our help with a fundraiser for the NICU. The specialized unit in Holbrook was desperate for equipment and supplies. Unfortunately, the coronavirus inundated the hospital. So the administrators transferred NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) resources and moved personnel to COVID 19 wards.

Finally, our college auditorium opened to the public. Tickets to the Variety Show sold out. Students, educators, and citizens were ready for a relief from the lockdown. Neither Michael nor I desired to disappoint them.

***

Michael structured his life with Marine timing. His maxim: ‘If you’re not an hour early, you’re late.’

My husband and I, garbed in our western costumes, piled into his vehicle. Michael switched the radio on his classic Chevy truck to country music as we journeyed on Old Highway 66 to I–40. An unexpected winter storm brought an abundance of moisture to the high desert plateau of Northern Arizona. Because of the dry summer, this winter’s snow pack helped alleviate the drought. Snow blanketed the Mogollon Rim, 7500 feet above sea level.

Soon we reached the Navapache Community College Theater.

***

Loretta signaled to us. “Minerva, Michael, I’m overjoyed you came early. The mayor’s son was a no show. Caution caused isolating every other seat. First row, odd numbers, second row even, and so on.” She supplied bright yellow tape to cross off the separated seats. Before our dance routine began, I was glad to have a distraction from my nerves.

“Not a problem. We’ll have it done in no time,” Michael assured her. The charity drive kicked off at 6 o’clock p.m. We had less than an hour before the seats began filling up.

Michael and I planned to twirl around the stage doing a country Western line dance to a Roy Orbison classic, ‘Pretty Woman’. Although Michael and I were excellent partners, my dilemma with dancing involved my tendency to be left/right dyslexic. I could read and write with no effort, but I had trouble with physical directions. For example, the only way I could tell my right hand from the left was to make an L shape with my forefinger and thumb. I didn’t want to disturb everyone’s precise timing.

While practicing the routine at home during the lockdown, Michael recommended I wear my heavy diver’s watch on my right hand. He also labeled my boots L and R. Still, I led with my left foot instead of my right. Michael tapped my right toe to remind me of the correct steps. He guided me with his hands and prevented me from making mistakes.

We were one of six couples on the dance floor. If I led out with the wrong foot, everybody would be uncoordinated because of me. Our dance number was last, which gave me time to quell my stage jitters.

The master of ceremonies signaled we were up. Nervous, I almost started with my left foot, but Michael pressed my toe. I put my right foot out and relied on my muscle memory. What a relief, no mistakes.

At the finale, we women snagged the last line of the song, and we simulated going away from the men. Then we twirled around and strolled towards our companions. Our partners danced a dosie-doe around us and then lifted us in the air for the denouement.

The dancing ended at 8 o’clock. Michael embraced me, gave a thumbs up, and ruffled my hair. My hands continued to tremble, so I collapsed onto a chair in the wings to relax after the curtain descended. Grabbing my thermos, I gulped icy sweet tea and dried off my sweaty hands.

***

“Minerva, Michael, help me,” Loretta shouted from backstage.

Michael jumped up, and I shadowed him.

“Keep him upright, Michael,” Loretta said, “while I loosen the rope.”

Michael grabbed his Swiss Army knife from his back pocket and sawed at the rope dangling from the fly. A slender teen hung from the suffocating rope. He collapsed to the floor while Loretta loosened the rope around his neck and began CPR.

“Get the defibrillator from the lobby,” she said.

First, I called 911 for an ambulance. I leaped down the stage stairs and raced to the lobby. Then I wrenched the AED (automated external defibrillator) from the wall, dashed up the aisle, and back to the stage. Next, Michael resumed CPR while Loretta charged the AED. Then people cleared aside on her command. A waft of ozone filled the air.

EMT’s heavy shoes reverberated on the stage steps. They took over from Loretta and Michael. The EMTs worked on the young man for an hour. While they tried to revive him, the Master of Ceremonies announced everyone must stay seated.

I noticed Dr. Reidhead in the audience and beckoned him to come up on the stage. Despite the efforts of the EMTs, Michael, and Loretta, they could not save the victim. Dr. Reidhead shook his head and motioned the crew to stop. He pronounced the youth dead at 9:45 p.m.

During all the commotion, I hadn’t looked at the young man.

“Dr. Reidhead, his name is Daemon; he’s one of my computer science undergraduates,” I said as I recognized the victim.

“Do you know his parents?” Dr. Reidhead said.

“No, but his emergency contacts are in his student records. Administrators shut the college down for winter break. I’ll reach the IT guy to get the vital information and I’ll inform the college’s president too,” I said.

“I’ll secure the scene and contact NCSO; they have jurisdiction here. No one leaves. We need names and addresses,” Michael said. Although Michael was the temporary Black Mesa town marshal, the community college was outside the municipality limits and lay under Navajo County Sheriff’s Office jurisdiction.

We had over 400 witnesses, plus the stage crew, dancers, and volunteers, a logistic nightmare. As the audience single filed out, I stood by the exit door. Each person wrote his or her name, phone, and address. Two NCSO  officers in the audience helped me take notes. Dr. Reidhead stayed until the Navajo County Medical Examiner arrived.

At last, by 1 a.m., NCSO sealed off the auditorium. After I woke the college president, I received his permission to notify the student’s family. However, of course, the relatives did not expect young people to die. In all my teaching career, I’d never had to give such a disheartening message, the dreaded middle of the night call, which is every parent’s nightmare.

One of my duties as a cyber-forensic consultant for the town of Black Mesa, Arizona, was to help Marshal Dubois and Deputy Marshal Michael Doyle identify victims of crime. This time it hit close to home since I knew the student. Could we have prevented it? Was he depressed? Hopeless? Who were his friends? What drove him to this bleak choice?

Next on my list, I had to contact the school psychologist. Had she noticed any warning signs? Evil cyber-trolls conned young people who scrolled the internet and preyed on their insecurities and loneliness. Doomsday prophets fed students crackpot theories. Most juveniles don’t have experience or fortitude at surviving dreadful times.

Covid19 wouldn’t  be the last pandemic. Humans withstood worse plagues and disasters than this one, so this crisis didn’t mean the end of the world. We inherited those tough immune genes throughout history. Thus, even though millions of microscopic killers tried to wipe out the human species over millennia. We recovered and survived because of our collective wisdom, even if it meant starting over.

Chapter Two

January -The Loss

“We never understood how little we need until we know the loss of it.”

Sir James Matthew Barrie 1862 -1937.

Everything changed. Nothing was as it used to be. My husband Michael, deputy Marshal, was now a one-person police force, in charge of the Marshal’s office in Black Mesa and on duty 24/7. Marshal Charles Dubois was still in Canada, testifying at a murder trial. My friend, his wife Sonny, had gone with him.

Michael’s boys, Thomas, and Max, lived with us. Michael’s ex-wife was in the United Kingdom. My ex-husband Bill, my children’s father, was one of the first victims of covid 19.

When Covid 19 (Dikos Ntsaaígíí-19) struck, the Navajo and Hopi leaders shut down travel through the vast nations in Northern Arizona and the four corners area in order to protect their elders. The storehouse of tribal knowledge laid in their minds; they kept vast memories of the tribe’s culture and history. They had an excellent video of the procedures in Navajo with English subtitles “Keep Your Family Home” from the canyonlandschc.org website.

All my spring semester classes on the Navajo, and Hopi Reservations were virtual instead of in-person. Besides my regular computer science classes, I added a one-credit class on how to use Zoom for senior citizens. I received requests for a simple, hands-on quickie class. The classes filled up, so I offered three sections on Saturdays.

My friend Rose, who owned the Black Mesa Café, had to readjust the restaurant to fit the recommended safety rules. Although in Arizona, the culture was as Wild West and independent as it ever was in the past. The Black Mesa Café was the beating heart of our town. Rose converted her parking lot into outdoor dining, added a takeout service window, and still served the best Arizona Mexican food on Old Route 66.

My daughters, Aphrodite, and Diana, were coping with virtual classes. They finished their junior year at college and both girls were doubling down on their classes, taking a full load in order to be done early. They had not come home for the holidays. Seeing them through Zoom, and not being able to touch them, made me depressed and lonely. My youngest son, Mathew (Mackie) and his wife had a baby boy. I planned to take a sabbatical in the fall to see them if hurricane season didn’t get in the way.

 

Pearl, our neighbor, was a touchstone of sensible advice. Horses needed to be trained, fed, and watered. Her routines stayed anchored to the land, the animals, and the ancient desert of Northern Arizona. Visiting Pearl was my one time of day when life seemed back to normal. I checked the mail and conferred with Pearl who knew all the latest town gossip.

 

“Thomas, I’m going next door to Pearl’s, can you help Max get started?” I asked my stepson.

“Sure, Minerva Mater, no problem.” Thomas leaned over Max’s bright orange Ipad to warm-up the computer.

“Minnie Mommie, can I finish my breakfast?” Max asked. He stuffed cinnamon raisin toast into his chipmunk cheeks while he grabbed his books. Thomas helped his younger brother log on.

Michael converted my spare quilting room into a classroom. So the boys knew when they went from the kitchen into the sewing room, playtime was over. The younger boy was in third grade and had finally started devouring books like his older bookworm brother. Max wore his favorite Batman sweats and slippers. He finished munching on a piece of toast, grabbed his books, and raced to the classroom.

Thomas trailed behind the rambunctious Max with slow, dignified steps. I swear Thomas added another foot to his already 6 foot height. His dreadlocks made him look even taller. One thing about virtual college, he didn’t have to dress up. He wore his favorite Phoenix Suns sweats and padded around in sock feet.

Thomas majored in Planetary Geology at the University of Arizona. During his sophomore semester, he wanted to get his general education requirements done, and hoped things would be back to normal in the fall of his junior year so he could concentrate on his major. I encouraged him to take as many classes that would transfer to the university from Navapache Community College. Besides being less expensive than university credits, NCC had won a long fought agreement with NAU (Northern Arizona University), ASU (Arizona State University), and U of A (University of Arizona) to accept community college credits. Because I knew it would help him in the future, I encouraged Thomas to get a minor in computer science

The kitchen door banged. Michael was home. He dropped his heavy cop shoes on a pad near the kitchen door. Michael’s homecoming ritual consisted of disinfecting his clothes and equipment in the spare bathroom. Michael wanted to make sure nothing from the outside world entered the house. The ritual made more work for him, but he felt he was protecting us. He bought a separate washer for his clothes. He would strip and shower, dress in his spare sweats and enter the kitchen clean and shining, desperate for hot coffee.

“Are you hungry? How about a Denver omelet and some fried potatoes with onions.” I asked him as I poured him a cup of coffee.

“Rose dropped me off some supper after she closed last night. But I could use some grub.” He kissed my neck, hugged my waist, and tussled my hair.

“How things go last night?” I said, as I fixed breakfast for him.

“Quiet. The new interns and recruits are an excellent bunch. They’ll make responsive law enforcement officers.”

“I’m glad you got some help. I’ll be happy when Charles comes back from Canada.”

“Me too. Everybody turned out well, except the Mayor’s son. I’ve given him more than enough second chances. He will not work out. I’m not recommending him under any circumstances.”

“Her honor, his Mom, won’t be happy.”

“I’ll have to deal with her.” Then my husband bolted down the eggs and potatoes. He was starving.

“Be back soon. Check on the boys while I get the mail.”

He poured himself another cup of coffee and put his dishes in the sink. “I’ll see how the boys are doing.”

***

I covered the rose bushes before dark last night. The Weather Channel issued a freeze warning. Twenty degrees Fahrenheit with a promise of snow above the 4000 foot level. One thing about virtual classes, I didn’t make a long fourteen hour day up to the Navajo and Hopi Reservations. Before Covid 19, I used to leave the house at 6 am, teach three computer classes and a short one credit class, then head home after ten, then drive for two hours and finally make it to bed by midnight. Wednesday I had one three credit small business evening class in Black Mesa and Saturday three one credit virtual Zoom classes. Theoretically, I taught nine credits thanks to the adjunct faculty system colleges used to keep costs down. By not hiring full-time professors, they got away with no health insurance or benefits. The extra classes I taught were thanks to grant money that came from a different source. Michael’s job covered me health wise. Someday I hoped to be full time, but I joked I’d have to wait for someone to get hit by a bus before that happened. Since Marshal Charles Dubois’ budget couldn’t handle a full time IT expert, I also worked as a cyber-forensic consultant for the Marshal’s office.

I saddled our rescue horse, Chico, which had one speed- lazy. Michael’s horse was an easygoing, bottomless pit for food. He snuck over the fence line into our neighbor’s field at every opportunity. The animal didn’t like the cold weather and stayed as much as he could in the barn. Michael working extra shifts forced me to take Chico for exercise. He adored Michael, but he thought I was a pain, taking him out of his warm hay filled barn. I rode him to the county line mailboxes. The sharp wind tugged into my heavy wool coat, and I pulled on my favorite knit cap tight to protect my ears. Because the cold bit through me, I wore gloves inside my mittens, Thick sox in my red Justin Ropers cowboy boots warmed my toasty toes on the ride to the row of country mailboxes near the county line dirt road. Michael made a miniature red, white, and blue barn to hold our mail and packages. Crows waited in the cedar trees for road kill, which were slim pickings in the winter.

Then I walked Chico over to the next ranch. Pearl Steven raised prize winning rodeo horses. Occasionally, I rode the barrel racers, which differed in their exuberance from the stubborn Chico who hated cold weather.

“Hi Pearl. How’s it going? Got time for coffee?”

She nodded and led Chico to her barn. The stubborn beast ambled into a stall reserved for him.

“Sure. Come on in. I made some coffee cake for the boys.” Pearl’s three boys were also virtual schooled. Nevertheless, she kept them busy with ranch chores.

“What’s the latest?”

Pearl sliced a generous piece of cake and poured coffee into a thick white mug.

“You like a little coffee with your cream, don’t you?” she teased, as she pushed fresh cream and a sugar bowl towards my plate.

“Yep.” I waited for the neighborhood news.

“Got a new fellow in the hoarder house,” she informed me.

The hoarder house, infamous in the neighborhood, had been Pearl’s mother-in-law’s home. The old woman stacked furniture, clothes, quilts, food, and tons of junk in the house. It had rotten luck for anyone who bought the house after she died. Locals avoided it like the plague. They were convinced the old lady haunted it with a vengeful spirit.

“What’s he like?”

“About fortyish, good looking. Back east type, obviously. Looks like ex-military. He’s got a very pronounced limp in his left leg. War wound? People think maybe he served in Afghanistan and just got out. The house has stood empty for two years. Nobody wanted to buy it after they heard what happened in it. Creepy. Is Charles still up in Canada?”

“Yeah. The trial ran longer than he thought because of the Covid 19 lockdown judicial delays. Plus, he can’t enter the US until the border opens back up.”

“Sonny’s horses are doing good. I bet she misses riding them. Needs to get her barrel racing timing back. She almost got first place last time. She’ll have to work hard to make the practice sessions up.” Pearl observed.

“The college bought the Tara house and has converted it to dorms for the live in students,” I updated her.

“Guess Mrs. Fitzroy worked out a deal between the bank foreclosure and the college. She came up smelling like a rose.” Pearl had never liked her overbearing sister-in-law. Pearl was an ordinary homebody, a rancher’s wife, who didn’t mince words. My neighbor dressed for comfort: jeans, western shirts, a long intricate French braid, no makeup, and blunt fingernails. Mrs. Fitzroy wore designer clothes and wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near an animal. Because of a heavy gambling addiction, she came close to losing her house and job as the English department chair at NCC. She clung to her job, and now hunkered down in Holbrook at a cement tepee motel. In addition, Gloria visited her husband at the prison in Winslow. Quite a comedown.

“I wonder if I’ll have some of my students stay at Gloria’s old mansion.”

“You better hope not. They’ll find out where you live and come knocking on your door for help with their classes.”

“How’s your new data base coming along?”

Pearl was in my small business computing class and had designed a database to transfer the paper records of Navajo County livestock. As the county livestock inspector, she tracked brands, stock, vaccinations, theft, mistreatment, and any issue concerning cattle, equine, sheep, goats, and swine.

“We have a web page. Forms available for download. Made life easier for everyone.”

“Why don’t we bring the new neighbor some cake? Men love homemade baked goods. I didn’t want to nose in by myself since I figured you’d join me for a snoop.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m curious. Who would buy that house with its horrible reputation? The realtor had to disclose it’s unsavory past.”

Pearl and I continued to you to commiserate about the tragic loss of my student. As parents, neither of us could understand what brought on such a waste of a young life.

 

Chapter Three

January - A Fool

“Never be offended by a fool.” Irish proverb.

Pearl and I had to wait to see the new neighbor because when we stopped by the hoarder house, no one was home. We agreed to try another day.

On Tuesdays, I went into the Marshal’s office to check the cyber-crime reports and alerts. Recently, I received complaints from customers and merchants regarding false debit card charges. Customers demanded banks look into the problem and refund their money. Then the banks forced the merchants to fix the charges. While scammers ended up with the goods, and then attempted to resell the items on the Internet.

In addition, I had to get a search warrant from Judge Flake for my deceased student’s laptop and cell phone. I got permission from his parents to take his tech items to investigate the reason behind his suicide. Next, I contacted and interviewed all friends and relatives intertwined in his life. Also, I further needed to do a thorough search of the young man’s bedroom. The NCSO shipped the student’s body to the Pima County Medical Examiner’s office, which handled suspicious deaths in our county. Therefore, I prepared to wait for their report to come back.

Michael and I sat across from each other in the office with our computers connected to the internet. The Marshal’s office had a barometer, cowboy art, and antler hat racks. In addition, his desk displayed a black Bakelite rotary landline phone and an equally archaic manual typewriter. Marshal Charles Dubois didn’t trust electronics.

Peg, the Marshal’s secretary, checked visitors at the door now. Michael built a plastic screen onto her desktop to wall her off from public germs. We indiscriminately scattered intern desks in empty spaces, and they collaborated at shared workstations. Michael, Peg, and I were the only ones with administrative privileges. Each of us had our own login and passwords for security.

The front glass door banged open when Loretta Steven stormed into the Marshal’s office. She must have come straight from the hospital ER because she wore her signature navy blue scrubs.

“Where’s that no-show? I’ve got a bone to pick with him,” she demanded.

“Home,” Michael said. “He called in sick today, again. If he wasn’t the Mayor’s kid, I’d fire him.”

“When he shows up, tell him I’m looking for him,” she rumbled. Then she slammed the door behind her as the blinds rattled.

“He’s got to learn that when a man gives his word, he’s got to stick by it. People were counting on him,” Michael observed.

“I’m glad he’s not one of my students. Other teachers told me he expects straight A’s when he doesn’t turn in assignments on time. Then his mother gets involved. It goes downhill from then on. The mayor calls the president of the college, the president calls the Dean, the Dean drops the hammer on the teacher, and his grade is the entire teacher’s fault. No one blames the Mayor’s son,” I explained.

“I think he wants the glamor of a shiny new badge with no duty or responsibility. Hayden Robinson is not going to make it through the Police Academy,” Michael vowed, “especially if I have anything to do with it.”

The mayor was passing in front of our plate-glass window. I glanced over at Michael and signaled him with my eyebrows. The Marshal’s office, remodeled from an old grocery store, still smelled of oranges. Michael was acting as Marshal while Charles Dubois was stuck in Canada over a serial murder trial. The mayor knew Michael was short one officer. She wanted her son hired full-time. When the mayor marched through the door, I buried my nose in my computer.

“Morning Deputy Marshal Doyle,” Mayor Ethel Robinson said, putting Michael in his place. Sturdy described the Mayor. Beige pumps with stack heels, support hose, a beige mannish double-breasted suit, with a white button-down shirt. Her feminine touches were matching pearl earrings. Instead of a tie, she wrapped a colorful 1970s Vera scarf around her neck. Her hair lacquered into a Margaret Thatcher bulletproof helmet, not one iota out of place.

“Acting Marshal Doyle, ma’am,” Michael corrected her. His deep ‘Black Irish’ blue eyes blazed in reproof. The mayor set off his controlled fighting spirit just as his ancient Celtic ancestors stood up to the Roman Legion’s authority.

“Yes, I keep forgetting,” she countered. “I noticed when I went through your budget you have an open position. That position must be filled as soon as possible before we lose the COPS grant money. My son is more than qualified and is almost ready to graduate from the Police Academy. He’s received straight A’s in all his classes, and would be a wonderful asset to your team.”

“I’ve contacted people in local law enforcement. I’m looking for someone with experience. They have to be vetted. Takes a while to find a responsible man, or woman,” Michael said.

“You certainly should know my son is reliable, and he has experience working for Marshal Dubois every summer when the tourist season started. Of course, last year because of the Covid 19 scare, he didn’t get many hours in, but he had many summers previous to last term. I’m counting on you to look into this.”

“I’ll think it over and let you know. Got to look at other candidates, too.” Michael said.

“Just so you know. I’m rooting for him,” she smiled and touched Michael’s arm.

“See you later,” she waltzed out of the office.

“I think I’m going to need a clean shirt,” Michael brushed off his sleeve. “Naked nepotism. I wouldn’t hire that kid on a bet. Enough, I have to go through the motions of his internship. No way is he ever going to be a cop on my watch.”

I shrugged my shoulders. He wasted time while he played games on his phone when he was supposed to be working. Not my idea of a candidate either. Hayden wasn’t in any of my classes thank goodness.

 

Chapter Four

January–Love Reckons

“Love reckons hour for month, and days for years, every little absence is an age.” John Dryden.

 

Michael slept at the office while he took over the Marshal’s duties. The only thing he asked for was a large recliner where he catnapped. Police Academy students filled in at as interns, but they still had to be under strict supervision.

I rarely saw Michael in person and raced to my phone when I heard the ‘Bad Boys’ chime so we could face time during his long hours. Often when he made it home for supper, he’d change clothes, shower, ate, and returned to work. The Black Mesa town council planned to hire another deputy since they paid for Charles Dubois’s absence as a witness in a Canadian crime.

Therefore, I wrote another grant requesting money for an extra deputy from COPS, a government program for small-town police forces. They approved funds when government budgets allocated for the new year. As soon as I got the funds for Michael to hire another deputy, I wasted no time, and I wrote a grant for next year. The sooner the massive amount of paperwork was done, the better. Grants had to be written by a strict formula. One missing paragraph and the whole request meant rejection for minor details. I left nothing to chance. My eyes were blurry because I proofread and edited it twice. The document sat for a week. Then I re-read it again to make sure the details were correct before I mailed it off.

My kitchen door slammed. Michael was home from work. While Michael went through his daily sanitizing ritual, the boys wrapped up their schoolwork. I was getting supper ready because he and the boys were ravenous by four o’clock. Michael’s phone sounded an alarm, the ring tone he used for the Ex.

His ex-wife traveled to England just before Covid hit international flights. She stayed in England for over two years during the lockdown. As International flights opened up, I expected a call from her any day informing us she was back in the States.

Tom and Max had been communicating with her via Zoom, but that didn’t substitute a mother’s loving arms. Max missed his Mum.

Tom and his mother were still arguing about his choice of college. She preferred a prestigious university for him, despite the University of Arizona’s reputation in planetary geology. Tom argued with her, trying to get her to see his point of view with data, but to no avail. So his conversations with her remained brief and to the point.

Max told her about his marvelous adventures in Arizona. They could go horseback riding, camping, see an old West cowboy shootout, and pet burros. His mother wanted him to visit famous places in England, so she sent him pictures of the Tower of London and Stonehenge.

I listened through my office door as Max and Thomas talked to their mother. Tom couldn’t convince his mother that school in Arizona was equivalent to those back east, despite being at the forefront of space research. Max missed his mother, and I heard tears in his voice. Although Michael and I treasured him, twenty-four months was a lifetime for a child.

Max normally visited with Michael and I over the fall, spring, and summer school breaks. Michael’s son spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with us one year and the next year with his mother. The Ex had gone to England to visit her family and could not return because of lockdowns. Max joined us for the years during Covid, but travel restrictions made visits challenging.

After she spoke with the boys today, she requested to speak to Michael one-on-one. I knew something was up, so I vacated the schoolroom. This gave Michael and the boys privacy when they talked to their Mum.

“So, what’s up this time? Why did she want to speak to you alone?” I said.

“She tried to get Thomas to transfer schools, this time to a University in England. Big bucks. The Ex is getting married this fall. The new husband, a diplomat, and she bought a house outside of London. She wants Max to move to England. Our divorce decree said we both had to stay in the states. This is even worse than I thought. Before she wanted Max to go to military school in Virginia; now she wants him to go to an English boarding school. He will only be able to come during the summer, and maybe Christmas, due to travel times. I’ll have to get a lawyer. Don’t tell Max. I’ll have to think about the situation,” Michael said.

The news was a shock. The green beans and bacon I cooked boiled over on the stove, smoldering on the ceramic top. I snatched the dial and turned it off. Taking deep breaths, I tried to calm my nerves.

“Max lived here for two years. What? Does her new hubby not want children? We’ll only see him now and then. Kids grow up so fast. He won’t even live with her. A boarding school, for Christ’s sake?” I was furious at the injustice.

“Not our lifestyle. When they were old enough, her parents shunted them off to the most prestigious boarding schools. She had nannies growing up. Summer sent to camp. Winter spent at ski resorts. She made snide remarks about me growing up in Miami and attending a public school with ordinary kids. Her parents fought to get her into an Ivy League college. They pressured her to be not only thin, and beautiful, but also to succeed at all costs with perfect grades.”

“I love you, you are a ’good hand’ as Charles is so fond of saying, but her parents must’ve thrown a fit when she met you,” I commented wryly.

“Yes, her father threatened to cut her out of his will. I earned a law degree and started a suitable career in the ATF. My political status impressed her. We met at a fancy dinner given by the President. Little did she know I hung out with gangbangers, gunrunners, drug smugglers, terrorists, thieves, and other miscreants daily. She disapproved of my court appearances and testimony, as if it tainted my reputation.”

“What is your plan? Fight for Max and Tom? Maybe we could switch visitation, school year in Arizona and summer in England. How solid is the parental agreement? Would the boys go for it?”

“We got married, and we adopted Thomas. After a raid, the ATF caught his mother with drugs and a gun in the diaper bag, and CPS intervened. She swore her boyfriend hid them in there without her knowledge. The grandmother was taking care of Tom when his Mom went to prison. It was a hopeless situation. The Mom agreed he would have a better life, and she gave him up.“ Michael said.

“He was an adorable little chubby toddler, with a mop of curly black hair and huge brown eyes. He grabbed my heartstrings the minute I saw him in court. My Ex fell in love with him at first sight.“ Michael continued.

“We’ve kept in contact with Tom’s Mom: letters, pictures, and cards. The woman is in for a thirty-year sentence. Someday I hope Tom gets to meet her. The incarceration saved her life because she swears she would have been dead by now. She’s not a troublemaker and will get out sooner than her full sentence. She’s immersed in her Master’s degree studies. Plus, she teaches women to read and write, and inspires them to complete high school.” Michael said.

“I thought you said the Ex couldn’t have children.”

“Like a lot of times, once the pressure of wanting a child was relieved, my ex-wife got pregnant with Max. The obstetrician said it’s a quite common occurrence. Max came out with a mop of curly black hair like Tom, but deep blue eyes. He was a squirmy bundle of cuteness. Tom adores Max, his kid brother. The boys are best buddies. England is a long way off. I worry about Max going to boarding school without family close to protect him.”

 

Chapter 5

January-Advocate

"I am the advocate of the adorable, protector of the preemie, bundler of the baby, healer of the helpless. I am a NICU Nurse." NICU Nurse.

Max gobbled supper down, dumped his dishes in the sink with a clang, and dashed upstairs to play with his Legos. Tom savored his meal, enjoying every bite of meatloaf, green beans with bacon, and a baked potato smothered in butter. He asked for seconds. I swore he grew another six inches this year. His pants from last year were above his ankles. At least they didn’t show in virtual classes.

Tom, Michael, and I discussed the day’s events. Voyager 2 fascinated him. I reminded him; his fancy apple watch out powered the computer in the decades old machine. Both Michael and I were Star Trek fans from way back, and one of our favorites in the series was when Voyager did first contact. The discussion grew lively: Space Force v NASA, India, Russia, and China planning a moon shot. Captain Kirk’s (William Shatner) first ride to space brought tears to my eyes. All the wild sci-fi books I read as a kid, movies, and TV shows I watched came to fruition. Tom stacked his dishes in the sink and went back to the classroom for his evening class.

Michael scraped his plate, then loaded the dishwasher. He chunked a heavy moneybag on the counter.

“Daemon’s autopsy hasn’t come back. NCSO released the auditorium. They gave me the receipts from the NICU fundraiser- $15,078.23. Someone gave a strange thing called a bitcoin on an usb thumb drive. It had instructions folded around it. What is that worth? I don’t even think it’s money. Some kind of gaming junk?” He said,

“Digital currency. Could be worthless or a lot of money, anywhere between a couple dollars and twenty to thirty thousand dollars,” I said as I held the small portable device in my hand.

“You’ve got to be joking. I’ve received FBI bulletins about them. They’re mostly about money laundering, scams, and ransomware.”

“No, Bitcoin is genuine enough. For example, a dollar, which is fiat currency, is fungible: portable, durable, acceptable, divisible, uniform, and scarce. US currency backed by the full faith of the United States Government is fungible. Most countries accept it, it’s divisible by 100 (cents), portable, although the government stopped making large denominator bills to make it harder for drug dealers to carry, Uniform, not easily counterfeited, a dollar bill looks exactly like another except for the serial number. No infinite amount of bills printed. The Federal Reserve keeps close track daily of the supply in circulation, called M1 and M2,”

“What about gold? The gold standard? Silver standard?”

“Gold is a good example of fungible currency. The United States forbade citizens to own gold until recently. The US went off the gold standard in 1930, and silver in 1971. For example, gold is relatively portable, durable even though you might clean it after you dig it up. If you find a Roman coin, it still is acceptable, scarce, uniform, although you wouldn’t want to break it in pieces. Recently an Alexander the Great decadrachm coin, divisible by ten, from the 4th Century BC, sold for 100,000 Euros ($127,000). There are only nineteen known worldwide.”

“So, how does a Bitcoin fit into currency?”

“It’s not fiat, backed by any government, although a few countries have adopted it. It is divisible; 256,000 bits equal 1 Bitcoin. A bit is an electronic 0 or 1, OFF or ON. Usually, counted in powers of 2. Such as 2,4,8,16,32,64, 128. thus 256K magic number. They accepted it in many places and with many vendors. The first Bitcoin purchase was for a pizza. Even ATMs accept Bitcoin. There’s one in Flagstaff by NAU.”

“I know money is printed and gold is mined, but how is Bitcoin created?”

“People called Miners earned Bitcoin, crypto currency, by solving complex random number mathematical cryptograms. These people supported the network by creating a unit called a block in about thirty days. It’s a difficult time-consuming task, because it required large computer memory, and electricity to guess the number. Miners found the enormous hexadecimal number (16 digit-0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,A,B,C,D,E,F) which connected to a node, and formed a blockchain of miners. The miners kept a public ledger and tracked all Bitcoin in existence. They also verified the authenticity of someone’s Bitcoin in 60 seconds to 90 minutes. Everyone knows how many Bitcoin were on the network. Which, in theory, law enforcement might use to track down Bitcoin lawbreakers. They haven’t reached the finite upper limit amount of Bitcoin - 21 million, so yes, the laws of supply and demand apply.”

“How do we get Loretta her money out of this device?”

“In real life, we’ve been using digital money every day. We don’t realize that only 10% of physical currency exists worldwide. The rest is digital. Banks, institutions, stock markets, and other financial entities accept digital money. You get your retirement check direct deposit. You do not get actual physical paper money; no one gets a paper social security check. We use ATMs, debit cards, credit cards, Apple pay, and PayPal, but everyone has gotten used to it. The amount of digital currency outweighs physical currency, which saved governments monumental costs of printing money. “

“It seems risky,” Michael warned.

“There’s a thousand versions of digital currency similar to pounds, euros, yen, or lira. Bitcoin was the first and the original. I’ll research how much Loretta’s digital currency is worth, hoping it’s a Bitcoin donation. Then, I must verify the process if the flash drive includes a 20-word authentication password. Last, I’ll sell the Bitcoin for real dollars. ‘I’ll drop this off to Loretta today. ” I said.

“Why would anyone bother to use Bitcoin?” Michael asked.

“Why use Bitcoin? If you lived in a politically unstable country, or an unstable banking system, your money needs to be as portable as possible. A person can connect a tiny thumb drive to any electronic device. Most third world countries use cell phones for financial transactions, Pandemics, fire, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, civil unrest, and dictators can’t take it.”

“Okay, stop by the office. Keep me posted. I love you and your super brain. Also your other charms,” He laughed, as he tousled my hair, and teased me by sitting me on his lap. One smoldering kiss, then he was off to arm himself for a Friday night shift.

“Thomas, please monitor Max. I have to go to town,” I shouted into the classroom as Thomas was taking a break. Thomas nodded.

***

The temperature dropped when the sun went down, so I warmed up my Ford SUV. Before the bank closed, I wanted to get this money dropped off to Loretta. I-40 traffic jammed the highway to Holbrook. Many cars filled the hospital lot. Next, I squeezed into a parking space and raced into the ER.

The ER waiting room filled with people. Loretta waved to me as I checked in at the front desk. She took a break, and we made our way to the cafeteria.

Loretta motioned to an empty table in a corner, and I saved her a seat. She plumped down with a sigh after getting her supper.

“I’ve got your receipts for the fundraiser. NCSO released them. Fifteen grand. Will you be okay depositing them?”

“Yeah, there’s a safe in the ER. I’ll keep the money there until I get off. The bank has a late night secure deposit. One of the security guards can escort me out to my car. We have a buddy system,” Loretta said.

“There’s one weird monkey wrench in the works. Someone donated a flash drive with instructions how to use it. I think there’s digital currency on it, Bitcoin.”

“Is this some kind of scam? I don’t know anything about digital currency. How do I get the money out of it?”

“There’s an ATM in Flagstaff. Thought it was a big scam, too. But I read the original Whitepaper. The idea is mathematically legit, so I‘ll figure it out,” I explained the concept to Loretta.

“Glad you’re my friend. You explain this computer crap so a normal person can understand. The fundraiser was successful, other than the poor college kid dying. What a strange thing to do.”

“We’re waiting on the autopsy. The ME is overwhelmed with bodies. “

“We’ve been so crowded this winter. RSV babies inundated NICU. People are still catching Covid 19 variants. Flu struck. Then there are the Friday night drunks. Nurses worked twelve hours shifts with no days off since September. Grab supper, go home, shower, flop on my bed, and start over the next day.”

“How do you keep up?”

“Fourth floor Covid 19 only. They garbed us in full gowns and masks from the ER on up. No one allowed above the fourth floor only NICU. They isolated the NICU from the rest of the building. Only one parent can visit at a time. The babies have delicate immune systems and even basic tasks like moving limbs, breathing, sleeping, eating, and pooping require significant effort.”

“My sister’s youngest was a preemie. She fit in my hand when she was born early, but she’s a healthy fifteen years old now, amazing.”

“So much of the injuries in the ER are preventable: caps on medicine, seatbelts, safety glasses, drug ODs, speed limits, red lights, on and on. I’ve stopped arguing with people about vaccines. Molds, bacteria, fungi, and viruses all are trying to kill off humanity. Since Louis Pasteur, germ science has been around for hundreds of years. We’re so lucky we have the means to combat them. Let the deniers take the consequences: pneumonia, polio, TB, measles, mumps. Rubella, diphtheria, whooping cough, valley fever, tetanus, rabies, black plague, flu, covid, yellow fever, rocky mountain spotted fever, HPV, AIDS, and more are still alive and killing millions.” Loretta declared.

“My kids are stuck at home. Haven’t seen family in 18 months. I’m worried about my sister and mom. At least Flynn is close to you,” I said.

“Deb and I see each other daily. Pearl, my older brother Victor, and the boys invite me over for Sunday dinner. My sister Gloria and I don’t see each other anymore. Jennifer and my niece Lizbeth are okay. Jen teaches virtual school, likewise my brother Flynn does too.”

“Yes, the college went to virtual classes, especially on the Reservation. Tom is taking Flynn’s ‘Intro to Geology’, and Max is in Jennifer’s third grade class. He loves her.”

“So, what do I do about this Bitcoin thing?”

“Back to Bitcoin. I checked the price; $26,000 for one Bitcoin today“

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“It might not be a whole coin on the device. You may only have a tiny piece of one. Bitcoin can be divided into 256K parts, so it's possible that you only have a small fraction of a coin on the device.

“None of this digital currency makes sense to me. When you compared it to getting my paycheck direct deposit, it made sense. But, I want to know how much did the NICU fund gets in real dollars and cents. Then I’ll believe in magic internet money.”

“You’ll receive every dime that’s coming to the babies. My solemn word. Like you, Michael’s working 24/7 until he can hire a deputy. Hardly see him anymore I told Michael I’d stop by the office.”

“Thanks for your help. Stay safe.” Loretta bear hugged me and dashed back to the ER.

***

It started snowing when I left the Hospital. Before the state troopers closed down the highway, I wanted to make it to Black Mesa. My vehicle had four-wheel drive, snow chains, and as an SUV body on top of a Ford F150 truck engine. I plowed through the blinding storm. Black Mesa beckoned at the next exit.

Rose, the owner, greeted me with a cup of coffee, as I stomped my boots at the door of the Black Mesa Café. She memorized me. Sitting at the coffee drinker counter, the aroma of hot-out-of-the-oven pies wafted over me, fighting with the smell of wet wool, rubber boots, and mothballs.

“A Cowboy burger and fries for Michael. How about a dozen beef tacos and two servings of chips and salsa? Oh, and a large queso blanco. That ought to hold the interns,” I ordered.

“How’s the highway?” Rose asked me as she refilled my coffee cup and plunked down a gigantic bowl of creamers. Rose’s hair tied up in a messy bun, freckles spattered across her nose. A pencil for a barrette, western shirt, jeans, boots, and a smidge of mocha eye shadow showed her cowgirl roots. Take-outs had been keeping her business going during the lockdown. She survived by rethinking her café. .

“Have you heard anything from the coroner’s office?” My student’s death at the NICU fundraiser saddened Rose. Her sister disappeared after graduation. Twenty years later, we found the body submerged in a car by Carriage Lake.

 “The ME is backed up. Too many deaths out in the desert. They die of heat stroke in the summer, and freeze to death in the winter. The desert is not forgiving.” I said.

“Heard through the grapevine Loretta got a freaky computer thing as a donation. Who gave something creepy like that?” Rose knew everything and everybody. Tonight, I scarcely learned about the device. Someone in the Sherriff’s department must have spilled the beans to her when they came in for lunch.

“Yes, I promised to find out about it. It could be a windfall or nothing. Depends on the digital currency market.”

“I’m almost tempted to return to cash only. Customers complained someone has stolen their accounts after they’ve eaten here. Please God, don’t let my night shift college kids who work for me be involved. The day servers have been here for years. You remember how I had to get cameras because of the waitress and cook who stole from me? You helped me then. I need a computer weenie like you again.”

“I’d be glad to stop by and check your cashier system. I see you went to a computer entry system.”

“Yeah, makes inventory so much easier. Every order breaks down into separate commodities. Coffee. Bread. Taco shells. Every order itemized plus each part that goes into it. For example, it sorts out the amount of cheese, tomatoes, beef, shell, and spices that go into a taco. I type in the ingredients and it keeps exact record- all sorted. Great for cost containment.”

“Wow. I’d like to see how that works.”

“Went to a mom and pop Mexican restaurant in Guadalupe down in the valley. They had an ATM by the register, and they only accept cash. It charged a small fee for the use. They said the ATM has helped calm tourists down who weren’t expecting a cash only bill. Seriously thinking about it. I’d rather have the burden on the bank than make good on customer’s stolen credit or debit cards.” She dropped off two enormous shopping bags of food on the counter.

“Thanks. This smells scrumptious.” Nothing in the machine seemed out of order. It spat out my receipt. Rose speared a duplicate on a spike by the register.

“You’re welcome. I appreciate your business. You regulars kept me going. Stay safe.”

 

Chapter Six

January-Everyman

 

" Everyman is surrounded by a neighborhood of spies." Jane Austen

 

My butt was numb from sitting in front of my computer. Coding projects graded, emails sent, I logged out, and snapped by laptop shut. My curiosity about the new neighbor was killing me. Snow frosted the cedar trees into delicate ice sculptures. A pale, cold sun was peeking above the horizon when I saddled up Chico. The slothful horse groaned and protested. He didn’t want to leave his cozy stall, even though his hair was thick as a bear’s fur. We both needed exercise after being stuck in the house after the snowstorm. I hadn’t checked the mail since Monday. As soon as the frosty air hit him, he shivered in anticipation. As he trotted, his shoes rang on the frozen ground. I persuaded him a jaunt would be fun after all.

We followed the dirt path the high school teen’s footprints marked when they caught the activity bus. Basketball season did not stop for a little snow. A crucial Friday night game was coming up against the Snowflake Lobos: blue and white. Black Mesa’s mascot, of course, was a Black Cat, snarling on a pumpkin orange backdrop. My advance placement-coding students had just finished an HTML web page for the virtual class. Some pages were stunning.

We turned right onto the county line row of mailboxes. An inch of snow covered my miniature barn mailbox; then I reached over and brushed it off. Crows in the cedar trees protested and flapped their wings, furious that someone had invaded their slim pickings.

I tucked the mail inside my jacket and guided Chico toward Pearl’s house. She was an early riser and already had fed her horses. Chico whinnied good morning.

Once I settled Chico into the barn, I sat down at Pearl’s farm table. A solid slab of live edge pine stretched out to seat a dozen people.

Pearl’s fifty plus cousins lived close. Everyone knew the Flake family of Snowflake. William Jordan Flake founded the town after the Civil War. Pearl (nee Flake) married Loretta’s brother Vincent. Thus, Loretta, Deborah, Flynn, and Gloria Steven came with the package. The Hoarder house belonged to Pearl’s mother-in-law Elizabeth Steven, a former B movie cowgirl. She died under mysterious circumstances.

 Next, the hoarder house had a gruesome discovery in its freezer. Black Mesa’s old timers said the vindictive spirit of the old lady cursed the house. I couldn’t wait to see what the new owner brought to our neighborhood.

“What do you think?” Pearl asked.

“Melt in your mouth good.” I said as I snacked on a banana nut muffin with deep purple sugar crystals imbedded in the top.

“Tried something new, piñón nuts. Last fall I put up candied prickly pear, and I used it for the topping because it’s so sweet.”

“Anything else?”

“Frozen casseroles: green corn tamales and enchiladas with red sauce. He can heat them a little at a time. Seven layer bean dip to eat now. Also, I packed my favorite assorted hot sauces.”

“I brought a five pound bag of Black Mesa coffee, and a quart jar of Rose’s salsa. Everybody loves it.”

Pearl’s house was catty-corner from our objective. We ambled across the road. Pearl’s hands were full of the food box, so I unlatched the gate for her. Cattle fencing surrounded the property. The ranch started out as a tiny one-bedroom cabin and added to as each Steven’s kid arrived. A peaked roof signaled the origins of the house, also the wing additions flanked each side. An Arizona room ran across the front of the house, a deck ran around the other three sides. Plus, a separate small barn, toolshed, and garage finished the back layout.

A bright red metal roof was new. Likewise, the current owner painted adobe exterior walls a subtle golden tan. He replaced the windows, added solar panels, installed an HVAC, and a large emergency generator. I noticed a loaded black Jeep stood out in the gravel driveway.

“It looks like he’s home,” I said.

“He’s got a thoroughbred racehorse in the back. Definitely checking the papers and shots on it,” Pearl said.

We scraped off our boots on the sturdy straw doormat, and I rang the school bell attached to the front door. The bell clanged, breaking the snow packed silence.

“Let me get that for you.” The owner of the hoarder house offered as he propped open the door with his leg. Pearl handed him the box, and he sniffed it.

 “Whatever is in there smells mighty good. I’m starving,” he said.

“We live across the way. Your neighbors. I’m Minerva Doyle. I live in the two story saltbox. This is my friend Pearl Steven. She owns the cattle ranch, horse stables, and big log cabin next to mine,” I introduced us.

“Welcome to the neighborhood. Thought you’d like a home cooked meal. Hope you like Mexican. Moving to a new place is chaotic, so this grub ought to hold you till you settle in,” Pearl offered.

“Clay Woodall, from Virginia, I love trying new food,” he set Pearl’s box on the coffee table. He also grabbed my bagged coffee and salsa. Then Clay shook my hand, limped over to Pearl, and did likewise.

His hand was dry, work hard with calluses. Despite winter, Clay sported a skier’s tan and a gray crewcut hairstyle. He wore a red and black plaid flannel shirt, corduroys, and white gym socks on his feet. I noticed his boots stood on a mat by the coat rack near the front door. Should I take mine off, I wondered?

“Sit. Take a load off. Relax.” He beckoned to the large lodgepole pine, denim slip-covered couch.

Pearl took the equally vast identical style chair that provided ample space for two people. The furniture was American primitive, nothing delicate. No Southwest theme. He painted the walls a pale blue grey with stark white trim. The new owner erased any evidence of the previous owner's existence.

“The house needed touching up. Evidently, the previous owner sold everything, lock, stock, and barrel. No appliances either. It has stood empty for two years-not good for a house. A house needs to be loved.” Clay observed.

“Yes, we wondered who bought the house. My husband’s family used to own it. It’s the oldest home in Black Mesa.” Pearl said.

“Want some coffee? Hope you don’t mind paper plates and cups.” Clay said.

“No, I don’t mind. Both of us have boys. So it’s a grand rumpus at home.” Pearl said.

Clay went into the kitchen. “How do you like your coffee?”

“Black, extra sugar.”

“Lots of cream, with a little coffee.”

“There’s a nice antique store on Main Street, next to the Cafe. Good bargains, fair prices, and quality goods. The furniture would match this house.” I recommended.

“I’ll have to check out the antique store.-I like things with a history,” Clay said.

Pearl and I checked out the open-plan kitchen. An old barrier between the dining room and living room was gone. Thick beams arced across the ceiling, defining a wide space. Before the house was a tiny prissy rabbit warren. Sunlight burst through the bay window. Antique horse racing pictures were meticulously arranged on the wall. Above the fireplace stood a full size, magnificent painting of a thoroughbred horse, so real I swore I saw its tail twitch.

“Here you go. A sweet black coffee and a cup of cream with a dash of coffee. Plain strong black for me,” he joked. I saw his brown eyes twinkle.

“That’s an amazing painting,” Pearl said. “I raise rodeo horses. The painter knew his horses.”

“It’s one of the few things I brought from Virginia. Came from a 200-year-old plantation they were demolishing to make way for a development. Everyone was scrambling to buy pieces of it: mantles, doors, ceilings, windows, chandeliers, flooring, and hardware. They even took down the murals. That’s how I bought this painting. The artist was an African American itinerant freeman who made his living painting people, animals, and horses. His style was the equivalent of a Caravaggio in quality. Luckily, he painted murals on canvas, then pasted them to the wall and trimmed them out. Smoke damage discolored them until they looked like dark smears of paint, so no one could tell how good they were. I did research on him, and I knew it was a once in a lifetime chance. I bought several, cleaned this one up, and reframed it. The story of the artist is right next to it. I’m working on finding and restoring more.”

“So why did you move from lush green forests of Virginia to Northern Arizona?” I asked.

“Cowboys, Zane Grey, Tony Hillerman, Louis L’Amour. I wanted to be a cowboy since I was a kid. I read every book I could get my hands on,” Clay said.

“Well, cowboy, my duty is to check horses and livestock. I’m the Inspector for Navajo County. I need to look at your horse and your ownership paperwork, also shot records. We’re careful about bringing any diseases into Arizona from other countries or states.” Pearl stated.

I snooped around the house while Clay and Pearl went outside. One guest bedroom filled with paintings, saddles, collectable guns mounted on racks, a gun safe, and a lodgepole pine bed. A throw covered the bed with a Native American Indian geometric motif. It seemed Clay liked a red and black theme. Another bedroom held trophies, pictures, athletic awards, and diplomas from High School, college,

 

Chapter Seven

February- Tiny Office

 

“He and I had an office so tiny that an inch smaller and it would have been adultery.” Dorothy Parker.

 

Michael had his first day off since Charles Dubois, the Marshal, left to testify at a serial killer’s trial. The arrest began in March 2020. the beginning of the pandemic. Covid 19 threw sand in the gears of justice. Trials delayed. Witnesses forbidden to travel. Finding a place to hold a trial was impossible, since even government offices locked down. Jails and prisons inundated with illness. Law enforcement personnel died from the epidemic. Even after vaccines, people isolated.
Two years later, life was back to normal. Flights resumed. Courts scheduled trials. Six victims spanning over two decades complicated the matter. Five states and two countries were involved. The US Postal Inspector’s Office and Royal Canadian Mounted Police were interested in the matter. Time crept by while they decided on the trial location, law enforcement entity, and jurisdiction.. Canada and the United States came to an agreement. Someone murdered a Mountie so Canada held the trial in their country.

***

“Mmmm. looks good. I’m starving,” Michael lifted the pan lid. “Fried potatoes and onions, and veggie omelet.”

He stood beside me in pajama bottoms and barefoot. His unruly black hair was messy from sleep. He hadn’t shaved and teased me with a whisker rub on my cheek. I put my arm around his waist. He laid his chin on my head and hugged me back. He lost fifteen pounds in the last two years. I worried he wasn’t getting enough healthy food to eat by working odd shifts and forgetting meals.

“Mmm. You smell so good.”

“Soap and water.” I giggled as his beard tickled me. Michael hated perfume and gunky makeup. I always kept a light touch with makeup and scents. Even my hairstyle was a short pixie cut, so easy with my busy schedule between mothering the boys, teaching, and consulting.

“How’d you manage a day off?”

By this time of morning, he shaved, dressed in his uniform, with shined boots, and a beige Stetson placed jaunty on his head. Horse fed. Truck warmed up.

“Peg is supervising two reliable interns.”

 “I met the owner of the hoarder house,” I said as I filled his plate and poured him a cup of coffee.

“What’s he like?”

“40s, average, history buff, especially art, horseman, moved here from Virginia, bookworm, computer nerd, and there was a false leg in his bedroom.”

“You learned all that in one visit?”

“I’ll admit. I snooped while Pearl did her Stock Inspector thing.”

“I’m glad you’re on the side of the righteous guys.” He held me in a bear hug and messed my hair. Then he kissed my neck. “I’ve missed you. We hardly have any time together.”

“I invited Clay for lunch at the Café. I thought it would be a chance for you to meet him at your Tuesday round table.”

Michael held an open discussion session at the Black Mesa Café. At a huge table in the back room, Michael kept up Charles’ tradition. Since Michael was shorthanded, townspeople drifted in and out all morning with problems that bothered them. People opened up in a comfortable, non-threatening place, rather than have the law show up on their doorstep with a warrant. Petty theft, water disputes, stray animals, boundary feuds, truancy, drug rumors, drunks, and other local problems often settled with a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Michael determined the ebb and flow of life in the town.

***

 

Monday I taught classes all day, Wednesday night, and Saturday morning. Tuesday and Thursday, I consulted at the Marshal’s office. My IT consulting assured it protected the network from hackers, kept records confidential, backed up files, and secured case records. Peg and I worked together digitizing the town’s paper records from 1850 until 2015.

Marshal Doyle was a complete Luddite. He was allergic to electricity, and his touch wiped out electronic devices. Peg, our dispatcher, and secretary, was a one-woman data entry person until I came on board in 2018. A scanner streamlined the data entry process, and I switched to direct dictation into the computer. So far, the records we entered went back to 1990, when the internet first came into use in colleges and universities. The Marshal’s office connected to NCSO. Fingerprints, local crime stats, and criminal arrests updated weekly into the National Crime Information Center.

Tuesday I inputted the weekend crime information when most incidents took place. Winter was slower than summer because we had fewer Route 66 tourists and traffic from I-40 to deal with than during the school vacation season.. Black Mesa kept the Old Route 66 historic district reconditioned. Road signs, shops, neon signs, and especially the Route 66 Car Show and Drive-In were popular with tourists. The city council supported local businesses that restored buildings and signs with grant money.

“Morning Peg. How was the weekend?” I asked her as I warmed up my computer. I plunked a dollar in the coffee fund and helped myself to one of her homemade scones, and my usual creamer and coffee fix.

“I-40 shut down from Flagstaff to Tucumcari, so it was slow,” Peg said.

For thirty years, Peg was everyone’s favorite auntie who brought homemade treats for the interns, kept the coffee going, and knew where all the ‘bodies were buried’ at city hall. She flaunted her new badge, wore a regulation tan skirt, pale blue denim shirt with Black Mesa Marshal’s Office, and her name embroidered on the right pocket. Tight permed curls peeked out underneath an immaculate tan Stetson. Mirror polished black nurse’s shoes squeaked on the floor as she put a few folders on my in-basket. Keys to the file cabinets, computers, evidence room, and tiny one-room jail tinkled from her belt.

“Ok, I’m meeting Michael at the Café. Do you want anything?” I treated her to lunch for her promotion. Michael had dropped off a luxurious plant.

“Crazy Burro-chips and salsa. The two new interns, both gals, successful, ex-military. One was a helicopter pilot, and the other an MP. I’m looking forward to bringing them up to speed. They caught on quick. They didn’t sit around. Kept busy without me telling them what to do.”

“We lucked out. Michael needed a day off.”

“Yeah, but as soon as NCSO finds out, they’ll snatch them right up. If the state cops or feds don’t get them first.”

“Why couldn’t they steal the Mayor’s kid? Get him out of our hair?”

“No chance. They already know what a goofball he is, it spite of his Mom’s bragging. Words got out around town.”

Spinning around in my chair, I next entered my username and password. I dictated the fresh cases and updated them to NCIC and NSCO. Michael waved to Peg and motioned with his hand for me to wrap it up. Finished, I logged off, locked my laptop. Then met him at the door.

***

 

Michael opened the door to the Black Mesa Café for me. Customers packed the front booths. Clay, our new neighbor, sat on a bar stool lined up along the counter with the other coffee drinkers. I tapped his shoulder. He twitched and twisted around. Then he followed Michael and me to the dining room at the back of the Café.

“Hi, Minerva, plenty of cream and coffee, Michael black, and Mr. New Bee. I see they’ve already set you up.” Rose showed up with a carafe of coffee before we even sat down.

“Clay Woodall, “he swept off his black Stetson, and bowed. Rose blushed.

“Crazy Burro special today. Dutch Apple pie too, “she plunked down three menus, and dashed off to take another order,

“That’s Rose Wilde, she’s the owner. Usually fills in during rush hour. She hardly ever sits down. Hard working gal,” Michael said. Clay couldn’t take his eyes off Rose.

“She’s a red-headed whirlwind,” Clay commented.

“The food’s all made fresh. My favorite is the Cowboy burger,” Michael recommended.

“If their food is anything like the coffee, I’m hooked,” Clay said,

“Taco salad for me,” I said.

“A Crazy Burro special for Peg to go. Two Cowboy burgers, with the works, and a taco salad for Minnie,” Michael ordered when Rose came back. She stuck a pen in her messy bun, dropped off chips and salsa, then whirled off.

“Minnie told me you moved here from Virginia. When I was in the ATF, I lived there,” Michael said. “Minnie works as our IT consultant and teaches computer science at the community college.”

“I’m retired from the Secret Service, brought my horse to Arizona, loved the Wild West, and I’m living in the most infamous house in town from what Minerva told me.” Clay shrugged.

“Well, Deputy Marshal, shouldn’t you be hunting down a new deputy?” the rude voice of Mayor Robinson boomed over our table. She leaned between Michael and I.

“That’s Marshal Doyle, ma’am. The job offer is pending. Haven’t decided yet.” Michael’s neck turned red. “I have company. I’d be glad to discuss this privately at City Hall.”

“Don’t forget. Hayden put his application in first. He’s at the top of the Police Academy class. Let me know. I’m looking forward to us being a team,” she wheedled, then pushed her way out of the room and almost knocked the tray of food from Rose’s hand. Clay jumped up and steadied the tray as Rose took a step back.

“Let me help you,” Clay assisted Rose.

“Thanks. That woman drives me crazy. She’s pushy, loudmouthed, and a bully. How the hell she ever got elected, I don’t know?” Rose burst out, and wiped her forehead.

“I’m starving. Toast and jelly for breakfast. I saved room for lunch,” Clay said.

“When you leave here, you’ll be stuffed for sure,” Rose said with a grin.” She filled Clay’s empty cup and handed it to him. Clay’s hand wrapped around hers.

“Let’s dig in.” Michael said.

“So, is it true you have an opening? “Clay asked.

“Yes, stop by the office. We’ll talk. Looks like you are an answer to my prayer.” Michael said. “Tell me about yourself. “

Michael and Clay had an instant rapport. Also, I kept ‘myself to myself’ as my grandma used to say. Clay served in Iraq. He specialized in computer crimes, money laundering, ransomware, frauds, and foreign financial threats.

Michael paid for lunch. Clay impressed me. As our guest, he did not do the embarrassing macho behavior of a fight for a check. When I glanced back at the table, I noticed he had left a note for Rose wrapped around a twenty-dollar bill folded into a origami flower.

Clay followed Michael, who pointed into the Marshal’s personal office and closed the door. Peg raised her eyebrows. I put my finger to my lips. Since I didn’t want the interns to overhear us. We went into the ladies’ room, and then I related Clay put in an application. She put her two hands together in supplication. We both went back to our desks. The switchboard lit up.

“Minerva, there’s an accident on Old Route 66, “Peg said.

I knocked on Michael’s door.

“Vacation’s over. Accident on Old Route 66.” I said.

Michael raced out the door with Clay on his heels. They jumped into Michael’s Black Ford F-150. Sirens screamed down the road, as I followed in my SUV. A produce semi-truck had overturned. It crashed into a cattle truck. Cows bawled in pain and raced around in erratic circles. A load of onions dumped everywhere. The stench was overpowering: smashed onions, blood, cow manure, and urine. The truck leaked gasoline. I called the volunteer fire department. One spark would blow up the trucks, so I raced to put out orange traffic cones and blocked the highway from town with my SUV. Clay helped Michael cordon off the other end of the highway. Local ranchers pitched in to round up the hysterical cattle. Normally, the beasts were placid and spent their lives munching on vegetation. They scrambled under a cedar tree for protection. Michael had to put a few out of their misery. The cattle truck driver held a broken arm, his dirt smeared face in agony. Like a manic circus ride, the semi’s wheels spun. Small white bags spilled out from under the bags of onions. Dangerous small blue pills leaked out the shredded sacks.

“It’s fentanyl.” I screamed to Michael. “Get back! Put your oxygen masks on before you get in there.” I motioned to the firefighters.

 Michael held his weapon on the onion truck driver, daring him to move, and spoke the Miranda warning, in English and perfect Spanish. Michael tossed his cuffs to Clay. Clay grabbed Michael’s handcuffs and restrained the dazed man.

“Welcome to Black Mesa.” Michael said.” Never a dull minute. “

The onion truck driver struggled in Clay’s grasp. Michael swept the man’s legs out from under him. Then Michael doubled zip tied the man’s arms and legs.

“Minnie call NSCO for backup. We’ll book him at the courthouse and lock him up at the main jail. This is a big drug bust,” Michael said.

 

Chapter Eight

February-Bad News

 

“Nothing travels faster than the speed of light, except for bad news, which has its own laws.” Douglas Adams.

Michael received the FBI background check about Clay, and decided, our new neighbor `made a perfect fit for the Black Mesa’s Marshal’s office. Clay wore a crisp pale blue denim shirt, embroidered with his name. Michael pinned a new shiny badge on the right pocket, and shook hands. Clay topped off his uniform with a black Stetson and mirrored sunglasses, which didn’t bother Michael.

During his interview, Clay revealed how he lost his leg in a warehouse raid. A reliable tip disclosed a drug cartel stash. The source said millions of dollars, gold, and drugs hid in an obscure location. Disguised booby-traps injured Secret Service people, their dogs, and destroyed a robot.

Clay took early retirement last year after working a desk job while his left leg healed. With Zoom, he managed through the pandemic with his experience as a cyber-forensic investigator for a private security firm. He became an expert investigating money laundering, black hat hackers, scams, bank fraud, and other cybercrimes. Clay and I had an instant rapport as we geeked out for hours over the latest cyber-white hat hacks to defend against currency crimes. 

One difficulty Clay needed to overcome involved the physical test all Arizona Law Officers had to pass: POPAT. In addition, he must pass the firearms proficiency and tactical driving test. Clay acknowledged he had to come up to speed on the physical test, but he felt he had no problem with the firearms or the driving test.

Michael decided both he and Clay worked the rowdy Payday Friday weekend shifts, and then they alternated the rest of the slower days.  Peg worked Monday through Friday days, and the NCSO took over 911 calls at nights and weekends. The interns worked in the office Monday through Friday on their choice of 8-hour shifts. Some preferred the quieter night owl shift so they could study. NCC held Police Academy classes on weekends, thus interns took 18 credits per semester. The Marshal’s Office coordinated with the College’s schedule. Hours interns spent in the Marshal’s Office counted as on-the-job training and hands-on lab credits.

The new Deputy Marshal’s first night on the job proved uneventful. Michael, Clay, and I met Thursday for a late lunch at 2 p.m. Curious townspeople came up to our table, and Michael introduced them to Clay.

“Are you going to have the Crazy Burro special or your usual?” Rose asked.

“Cowboy Burger, works, Black coffee.” Michael stated his boring choice.

“Special, chicken, red. Iced coffee. I feel like spring is coming,” I said.

“What is it?” Clay said.

“The dish starts with a flour tortilla, refried beans, shredded chicken, shredded beef, or ground beef. It’s stuffed with guacamole, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, sour cream, and pico de gallo.. Next, you have a choice of red or green sauce. Oh yeah, grated Mexican cheese. Includes a side of Spanish rice, too,” Rose rattled off the concoction.

“Pico what? Red? Green?” Clay said.

“Pico de gallo is chicken feed:” Rose giggled at his back east accent. “Finely diced tomatoes, tomatillos, onions. Red is red enchilada sauce, and green is green enchilada sauce, like a Mexican version of gravy. Red is usually spicy. Live dangerously. Try it,” she teased.

“Ok, ground beef, red, and whatever else goes on it. I better have a Diet Coke too,” Clay shrugged.

Michael and Clay discussed the patrol duties, which I didn’t have to worry about. 

“The bank president stopped by my desk this morning and told me about a rash of charges he’s had to write off. A lot of them came right after people ate here, within an hour of someone charging a meal at the Café,” I informed Michael and Clay. I used this relaxed time to give my partners a heads up.

“I think I need to look at Rose’s cash register and card reader before I leave today,” Clay said.

“Don’t we need a search warrant?” I countered.

“Not if she gives us permission. Do you think she’s behind it?” Clay suggested.

“Never,” Michael and I said simultaneously, both shocked at the idea of Rose being involved in a scam.

“Sorry, she probably doesn’t even know someone might have compromised her equipment. It’s happened to big box stores, gas stations, and national retail chains. She’s only a little one-owner place. It’s hard to defend yourself if you don’t have the resources international companies do and they get scammed for millions.”

“If you know what to look for, let’s ask her,” Michael challenged Clay.

Rose served our lunches, and scooted over to sit by Clay. Then Clay gathered enough courage to confront her.

“Rose, the bank thinks someone has scammed some of your customers after they eat here. I’d like to look at your cash register and card machine before we leave, with your permission,” he announced quietly.

“You’re right. The bank called me. I’m worried, plus I don’t know what to do. I’ve read articles stating that even big companies like Target fell victim to scams. Cost them millions and I don’t have the money. If I had to pay back my customers, it could bankrupt me, because I’m still recovering from the lockdown,” she said, breaking into tears as she hid her head in her arms. 

“I’ll take care of you.” Clay stood up and patted her shoulder. “I’ll solve this right now. It’ll take me a minute.” 

Clay strode over to the debit card machine. He picked it up and scrutinized it, turning it over in his hands. Suddenly, he slammed it upside down on the counter. It broke apart. Clay brought the rubble over to our table. The shattered machine had scattered into tiny pieces. He picked up a faceplate with wormlike wires hanging from it.

“Here’s your problem. It’s a skimmer. Someone put a fake digital faceplate on top of your card machine’s real faceplate. The Bluetooth wires signal a hacker who receives card numbers and the digital information they need to use someone’s card. There’s a thief close to the cafe using a computer to capture the data. Then either they sell the card info on the dark web or they use it themselves and suck money from bank accounts. They try it with a 99 cent charge to see if it works, and they rapidly invade and drain your customer’s bank accounts,” Clay informed her.

“It’s so tiny. I never noticed it,” Rose said as she poked it with her finger, as if it would bite her.

“Fraudsters also insert shimmers, from the word wood ‘shim’. The device is the size of a chocolate thin mint. Slender metal electronics are almost impossible to detect except by Bluetooth. In the future: Go to Settings, General, Bluetooth on your cell phone –it will warn you if there is a signal near. Now, I recommend you return to cash only until we track down the perpetrators of this scam,” Clay said.

Rose wrung her hands. “Oh, my God, my customers. What will they think? I’m going back over everybody’s charges and I’ll warn them.”

Clay gathered up the shards. “I’ll download a prevention list for you to post for your customers. Use cash at a gas station. Try a small value credit card less than $100, not a debit card. Change to two-factor authentication. Watch for small 99-cent charges. Check all charges on cards. Physically check a card reader because the manufacturers welded the real top on. It’s heavy, sturdy, not flimsy or loose.” “We have to check every business within our jurisdiction. I’ll bet they’ve hit the gas stations, convenience stores, small businesses, and other restaurants along I-40. I’ll give a heads up to NCSO,” Michael said.

“My contacts in the Secret Service handle federal cyber-currency scams. The feds have more resources than you could imagine. There’s an entire cyber-currency crimes section,” Clay said. “I’ll notify them.”

“We definitely need to check every business. I can’t believe we’ve got a major skimming operation in our town. At the next chamber of commerce meeting, I’ll warn the business owners. Save this machine so I can demonstrate what to look for,” I said. “What if one is on the ATM at the bank? When we leave I have to warn the bank manager.”

 

Chapter Nine

February - Nine Men

“Nine men in ten are suicides.” Poor Richard. Benjamin Franklin.

 

The next day, three of us gathered around a map spread out on a table in the back of the Café. Michael explained to Clay the many agencies that covered law enforcement in our world. Northern Arizona was a patchwork of jurisdictions. Founding fathers diluted the power of the Native Americans by splitting Navajo and Apache counties lengthwise, while the Navajo reservation sprawled over four states and several counties across Northern Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah. The Apache reservation was in southern Navajo County, likewise the Zuni. The Navajo reservation surrounded the Hopi reservation. In addition, the Bureau of Indian Affairs had lesser power than the past.

The forest service, game & fish, and park departments controlled the Petrified Forest, Painted Desert, and Grand Canyon. A checkerboard of federal land alternated with private land. Navajo County Sheriff’s (NCSO) office covered Navajo county, while the Apache County Sheriff’s Office covered Apache County. The state police patrolled I-40. Federal Postal authorities covered mail fraud.

For example, Michael arrested a drug cartel driver with a semi-full of fentanyl. However, Michael decided the feds, DEA, and the state police handled taking the driver to court. In addition, the man was a Mexican citizen, and drove a registered Mexican truck, which involved another country. The cases proved too messy for Michael’s taste. As a retired ATF agent, he knew the government agency could do the job in this complex case. Case in point, Marshal Dubois was still stuck in Canada, testifying at a murder trial.

Michael touched our little pinpoint on Old Route 66. “We all try to cooperate. If it’s a big case, we help but eventually let the big guns take over. During the lockdown, the Navajo Tribal police kept non-tribal members from driving into the Reservation. It’s their land for thousands of years, so I refused to get involved, my decision didn’t make the mayor or ranchers happy.”

“Can I take this home so I can study it?” Clay asked. He meticulously folded the map..

“Sure, you’ll learn soon enough who’s in charge,” Michael clarified that it's not the Mayor, despite her belief in her absolute authority over Black Mesa.

Rose plunked down a carafe of coffee. “Special is Albondigas. It will warm your tummy. Weather channel predicts the jet stream is coming down from Canada tonight. What’s on the agenda today?”

“We’ll be on call this weekend. You’d better get a sound night’s sleep. Make sure you eat when you can. People drive crazy when the white stuff hits,” Michael said.

“They’ll probably cancel school. The boys will be home,” I said. We had a brief respite from winter, but we could always count on an Easter snowstorm. “I’ll bring some home to the kids. Also, Peg needs some for lunch.”

“Okay. You got me again. I’m going to need a dictionary,” Clay grinned.

“It’s like Mexican grandma, abuela, version of chicken soup. Cures all winter ailments: meatballs, chicken stock, rice, potatoes, carrots, peas, celery, onions, garlic, olive oil, tomato sauce, tomatoes, zucchini, and corn. Spices: cilantro, Yerba Buena, pepper, parsley. I let people add hot sauce if they want. Tortilla or chips instead of crackers. You won’t be sorry. It’s yummy.” Rose said.

“Okay, I’ll live dangerously,” Clay said.

“Three bowls to-go. Plus, I need a gallon for the boys. A bag of chips and salsa to go. A bowl for me. I’m not cooking supper.” I said.

“Okay, me too. Looks like a long night.” Michael made it three.

Michael, Clay and I had passed out warning posters for business owners to put up. The game was up, so I hoped this gave whoever was scamming people notice to get out of town.

“In addition, I finished warning the thrift store, food pantry, homeless shelter, ASPCA, antique store, beauty parlor, bank, clothing store, library, NCC, school system, Route 66 museum, and motels,” I told Michael. “I checked their machines, too.”

“Also checked the machines. Plus, I hit the gas stations, fast-food places, auto dealer, tire shop, junk yard, hardware store, feed store, VFW, American Legion, DAV, recruiting office, and western store,” Clay said.

“I did my part at the government offices, utility offices, mayor’s office, newspaper, radio station, TV station, license bureau, courthouse, NSCO county offices, ASPCA office, and the churches: LDS, Catholic, Baptist, Protestant, Lutheran, and Jewish Temple. Every ATM and card reader was scrutinized. Think of anything else?” Michael listed. “We’ve covered the entire town.”

“We should mail a warning to residents. The government has free mailers, I’ll order them. Maybe we can get the utility companies to insert them in the bills they send out.” I offered. “This financial storm affects every family, just like a tornado, flood, or forest fire.”

After Rose served our food, we picked her brain, too. “I’d be happy to put up a poster in the window,” she said. Rose held the pulse and heart of Black Mesa. She knew all the latest gossip.

Clay gave a thumbs up to the soup. “I’ll help you put the poster up.”

He walked behind Rose to the plate-glass window in the Café's front. Rose reached up to secure the poster to the window, while Clay held the bottom. Suddenly, he grabbed Rose and shoved her behind the counter. He covered her with his body and dived to the floor.

Glass shattered over them as a car crashed through the window and demolished the brick wall. It smashed tables to dust. The car engine still rumbled, although the furniture had stopped the car’s devastation. Smoke filled the Café. Michael rushed for the fire extinguisher and smothered the car’s engine. Several people from the volunteer fire department who had been eating lunch rushed to help Michael.

First, I called 911. Through the black smoke, I escorted the dining room customers out the back exit. Then I ran back in for a second batch of stunned families.

“OUT. OUT. Follow me. This way. NO, NO, not the front door. Out. Fire. The car’s on fire.” Blocking the dining-room double door, I guided them with my arms. Blinded and gasping for air, they were in distress. A woman grasped her child’s hand, while the baby screamed. Then, I pushed and shoved them out the kitchen door to fresh air. Few people knew about the back door. Soon the Café emptied. With a scarf over my mouth, I went back in one more time. I looked for any stragglers. Everyone was gone from the dining room. The fire fighters had escorted the diners from the main room and the coffee drinkers’ counter to safety. The Café was empty.

An ambulance flashed its lights, while I stumbled around to the front of the Café on Main Street. Michael pulled the driver out of the car and laid the man on the ground. My husband shook his head, crooked his finger, and then I stepped up to identify the victim. “Michael, it’s Ogden. Ogden Byfield, the CIS chair,” I recognized him immediately, from the department meeting last Friday morning.

The fire department attempted to extinguish the car fire, however, the new electric vehicle proved almost impossible to quell. Reinforcements brought more fire extinguishers. The local garage had a special extinguisher designed to put out gasoline fires. It seemed to work.

The ambulance loaded the body up and drove to Holbrook. Michael turned off the car. He reached in to the glove box. On the seat of the car was the professor’s laptop. Michael gave it to me to hold. My husband retrieved the registration and miscellaneous items. Next, Michael handed me a small usb drive and the man’s cell phone before they burnt up.

“It’s an electric car. They’re terrible news. Everyone needs to get back at least fifty feet. It could flare up in a minute. If it does, we have to let it burn. We need to get it away from the building,” the firefighter warned us. Michael hugged me and we sprinted away from the car. A mechanic hitched his hook to the car and towed it out to the street. Then he unhooked his truck from the car. The car combusted and exploded into flames again. The only solution was to let it burn itself out.

Clay wrapped a blanket around Rose and cuddled her. She was shivering. Her hair was full of glass, and her face bled. She lost her pencil somewhere so her hair tumbled down. Clay held a clean handkerchief to the jagged wound. His hair turned white with brick dust. The deputy’s face blackened with smoke.

“I’m taking Rose to the hospital,” Clay stated.

“Good. I’m sticking around to make sure this damn thing goes out. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Michael said. “Minnie, go home, lay down. I’ll see you later.” He wrapped my coat collar around my face. Then, he kissed me hungrily. “Stay safe, baby.”

As the adrenaline rush wore off, I sat in my SUV. My hands were shaking, and I rested my head on the steering wheel. The ice-cold, hard rubber soothed me. The trinkets of the professor’s electronic life felt icy to my touch as I reached into my coat pocket for my keys. Later, I’d tease out his secrets.

The wind blasted me, snow dusted the air, and I drove home before it hit. My responsibility: I coordinated death notices with the M. E. of a Black Mesa death. When I arrived home, I opened my cell phone, and apprised the college president of another death involving the college. Michael camped overnight at the Marshal’s Office. Clay took care of Rose; I had confidence in the new deputy. Again, I was an angel of death.

 

Chapter Ten

February- Biggest Mistake

“The man who does things makes mistakes, but he never makes the biggest mistake of all–doing nothing.” Benjamin Franklin

“Help. I’m down at the Café, the coffee drinkers are here.” My friend Rose called me at six a.m. Friday morning. 

“As soon as I get the boys settled, I’ll be there,” I promised her.

“Tom, can you make Max breakfast? There was a fire at the Café. I have to help Rose clean up,” I asked Tom.

“Sure, I’ll make his favorite Mickey Mouse pancakes, bacon, and cinnamon toast,” Tom said.

Michael’s oldest son woke up early to complete his research project in the morning’s peace, without having to vie for Wi-Fi. The internet was erratic out in the boonies where we lived.

"Thanks, I appreciate everything you do for me, Mike, and Max. I realize you have a heavy class load this semester, and virtual classes aren’t normal. My advice when they say the deadline is midnight on Sunday, they don't mean 12:01. When I was finishing my Master's degree, I learned the hard way. I took evening classes, worked full time, the twins were high school freshmen, and Mackie was in junior high. So much hard work, but it paid off in the end. You've saved thousands by taking general education classes at NCC."

"I don't commute except from my bedroom to the computer room. Staying home worked out for me since I can grab a snack any time of day or night.  Because I have plenty of room to spread my projects out, an amazing dark night sky, plus no lamplight or city light interference. My project advanced tremendously. Father bought me a state of the art telescope and new software program. Besides if Mother decides to live in the UK this might be the last time I will be able to be with Max."

Out of nowhere, I knew Tom needed a hug, however difficult since I was only 5’2” and he had grown to 6’5”. In spite of his somber demeanor, he would miss Max. Somewhere in his heart, he was still a little lost boy. Tom’s eyes glistened, and he wiped them off. Not sure, about a giving bear hugs to an almost grown twenty-year old man, I patted his shoulder.

Michael solved the problem when he came downstairs to the scent of breakfast burritos, sausage cooking, and coffee brewing. He had no trouble showing affection for his boys. My husband hugged Tom and kissed his forehead.

“That sure smells good from upstairs, Chef Tom. What got you up so early?” Michael asked as he lifted the cover off the frying pan.

“It is a treat for Max. Minerva Mater has to help Rose at the Café,” Tom said.

“Yeah, the whole town got together last night at city hall. Everybody’s going to help Rose DYI the Café. They’re all meeting downtown: bringing paint, drywall, glass, tables, chairs, and whatever they can spare. You know ranchers and farmers they never throw anything away. Might use it someday is their motto,” Michael said.

Max stumbled into the kitchen. Dressed in warm footed zip up pajamas, he dragged his favorite, Paddington Bear. It made my heart break at how sweet and cuddly Max was. The thought of him attending a boarding school far from home disheartened me. He hugged my waist, and I patted his head. Michael swooped Max up and threw the boy on his shoulders for a wild ride that made Max scream in delight.

“Dad and I have to help Rose fix her Café. Can you help Tom clean and do your school’s work?” I asked Max as he calmed down.

“MMMM,” Max nodded. Thanks, Tommie.” Max stuffed his mouth with pancakes.

The boys loaded the dishwasher and camped out in the sewing room for their virtual classes. Michael fed and watered Chico, and then gathered together supplies left from fixing our roof.

***

Clay’s Jeep passed us. Pearl and Victor followed. Soon we joined a caravan of vehicles headed toward town on Old Route 66. We met at the Black Mesa Café.

NCSO removed the electric car’s burnt hulk from the street and dragged it to the junkyard outside of town. Smoke blackened the front wall of the Café. Wanting to be useful, I started gathering up the condiments, salt, and peppershakers, and silverware wrapped in napkins. Bits that decorated the tables were now filthy. I threw all the cakes and pies out. Smoke ruined ice cream, salsa, hot sauce, and condiments, so I discarded them. Saving the food in the walk-in and refrigerators dashed hope. Food sealed in the pantry was fine, but open packages or cans had to be tossed. Because fire extinguisher foam covered everything in the Café, it needed sanitized. To save the restaurant equipment, the cleaning crew had to steam clean all the tables, booths, and chairs.

The classic memorabilia and art from old western movies had to be professionally restored. It would take museum quality expert’s help. Artifacts dated from silent movies through the seventies bloom of TV westerns. Rose’s most valuable poster was an original 1938 movie card signed by stars: young Bette Davis, Leslie Howard, and Humphrey Bogart. ‘The Petrified Forest’ featured the town of Black Mesa. Many movie stars donated their collections as they passed through on vacation to the Grand Canyon. 

“I’m so sorry Rose.” The devastation appalled me. An anonymous customer set up a go-fund-me page. Maybe Rose’s insurance would settle soon.

“Everyone arrived this morning when I opened the door.” Rose surveyed the busy helpers.

“Last night, I covered the door and window with boards. I’ve got 2x4’s. Plus, I bought a new bay window.” Clay twisted his hat around in his hands. “In addition, I got a wrought iron door and a stained glass insert for the front. I thought it would match your antique western look. It should be here tomorrow.”

“How can I thank you?” Rose said. She shook his hand. Somewhere in the debris, she found a pencil and shoved it into her messy bun as a barrette. A long row of stitches marred her freckled face from her eyebrow down to her left chin. “At least the plate glass missed my eyes. I’m so grateful you saved me.”

Clay stroked her cheek, his forefinger the barest whisper of touch. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect your face.”

“I’ll match the other scars and broken bones I’ve got from the rodeo. You should see the one I have on my back and my thigh,” she said, teasing him. 

“Let’s get the interns going. The Police Academy students volunteered on their day off. We have the fire department, the state police, and the NCSO and ACSO. The American Legion, VFW, and DAV vets brought all their tools, so let’s get this job done.” Michael broke into Clay’s thoughtful reverie.

“LDS food warehouse replaced my food,” Rose said. “Pearl’s Relief Society cooked breakfast for everyone at the LDS Stake Center. My dining room cleaned up by the Our Lady of Perpetual Peace Altar Society. Other churches and a synagogue provided lunch for OLPP Bingo Hall workers. The American Legion wanted everyone in town to meet at the Legion for a BBQ and cookout tonight at seven p.m. no charge.” 

The heart and soul of Black Mesa welcomed tourists and residents alike again. Busy weekend for everyone, Black Mesa people supported each other in a crisis. Rose was back in business by Monday. 

***

After a long, hard day, Michael and I arrived home. Both of us needed a shower. My hands were rough and red from scrubbing pots and pans. My jeans, shirt, and hair were smoky. Next, I threw my clothes in a one-load pile, because I wanted to wash off the stench of both our clothes. I was skeptical about being able to remove the odor from them. When I finished my shower, I wrapped myself in my favorite fluffy bathrobe. Then, I lay down on my bed and plumped up my pillows.

Michael strolled out of the shower after me. A white towel wrapped around his hips made him look sexy. He piled on the bed next to me, still with water glistening in his hair. Michael ran his fingers through my hair and kissed my neck. We made up for all the time we lost when he was working 24/7.

Later, after he fell asleep, I brushed his mop of hair back. He had thick black untamed eyebrows, and eyelashes any New York model would die for. His face was peaceful and relaxed. I kissed his unshaven chin. He exhaled with a gentle breath.

Forget the stupid cell phone. I reached over to my nightstand and blocked his phone. Whatever Black Mesa needed this evening could wait. Clay was a lifesaver. Tonight, Michael would get his first eight-hour sleep that he had in months since Charles Dubois left for Canada. 

NCC students didn't let me rest. Nevertheless, I felt I needed to check my cell phone. A tardy student always begged for an extension on a project that was already due a week ago.

The President of the college texted me. Bryce Chase denigrated adjunct faculty as if we were second-class citizens. On my weekend off? Why was he bothering me? I wasn’t a tenured faculty member at his beck and call. He observed no respect for family time. What did he want?

The message read:

"You are notified that you will take over Professor Byfield's Computer Information System classes. The two coding classes meet Wednesday and three Police Academy on Sunday. Thank You for your cooperation. We plan to hire an interim Department Chair who will take over Professor Byfield's administrative duties. You will receive tenured compensation as of the first week in February. I will discuss the opportunity for fall semester to continue your tenure as a full professor instead of Adjunct faculty. This includes full benefits. If you have any questions please contact my secretary for an appointment. Sincerely, President Bryce Chase, BS. MBA, Ph.D."

 “Holy crap.” I joked I would get tenure after a bus ran someone over, but I didn’t expect it to come true with Professor Byfield’s death. 

What about my computer classes on the Navajo/Hopi reservation? Most of my students were teachers, hospital workers, and government admins, even law enforcement. My Saturday Zoom classes were a hoot, and I enjoyed my Senior Citizens. Wednesday, my computer class was vital for widows, divorcees, and older women who returned to a job after years of being homebodies. They needed upgraded skills for career level jobs. I loved my students, and I improved their lives. Students had a safe place to learn, make mistakes, and not feel terrified of a computer if they made an error.

This NCC job offer was super overload. It meant ten credits on Monday, nine credits on Wednesday, three credits on Saturday, and nine more credits on Sunday. OMG. Thirty-one credits. Fifteen credits meant full time. Nine was adjunct. The only reason I got away with the extra credits was because the Small Business Administration paid my Wednesday class, and Black Mesa Senior Center paid the Saturday Zoom. I consulted for Michael on Tuesday and Thursday, the rare time I saw him these days.. 

“Be careful what you wish for. Isn’t that a curse?” I thought. Michael and I needed to discuss this opportunity disguised as a royal command.

 

Chapter Eleven

 

February- Electronic Asylum

 

“It’s been my policy to view the Internet not as an information highway, but as an electronic asylum full of babbling loonies.” Mike Royko.

Tuesday meant a day at the Marshal’s Office. My goal today: get a search warrant for Daemon’s apartment, and the professor’s NCC office. Byfield’s wife might make it easy to search his home since she had a restraining order against the Professor.

A search warrant allowed me to identify the commonalities between the men's technology. So far, the only red flag was NCC. I suspected a connection between the deaths of two individuals within a month. The local newspaper wrote a fragment of a paragraph other than the men’s obituaries. Which intimated that the college wanted to cover up both deaths?

***

My appointment with Judge Flake was early, because I knew the Judge liked to work in the morning. His chambers reflected pioneer roots. Old tintypes of long gone judges, law officers, and infamous outlaws posted to his walls. Beautiful framed copies of the Constitution, Bill of Rights, the Declaration of Independence, and the Magna Carta hung under baby spotlights. Bookcases full of red leather bound Arizona Statutes ran floor to ceiling along two walls. Despite digital accessibility on the internet, which he had learned in one of my classes, he loved physical books. He was an articulate, curious student thirsty for knowledge. Judge Flake went beyond any required class research project. Many times, he related how he caught himself for days researching subjects from King Hammurabi to Native American Treaties. His new wife, Penelope, attended my women only computer class before Covid hit.

Judge Jacob Flake, of Snowflake’s enormous Northern Arizona family, was a student in one of my classes. I updated him about the Secret Service National Computer Forensics Institute’s class in Digital Evidence for Judges. While laws took years to wend their way to a Supreme Court decision, technology adapted overnight. Therefore, a new court ruling might throw out evidence collected for months on a case. The search warrant was necessary to ensure legality. Never hurt to be cautious.

“Thank you for giving me time, Judge Flake,” I said.

“Except out of the courtroom, it is Jake to you Minerva,” Judge Flake said.

“How’s Penelope? I heard they ruled self-defense. I hoped she’d take another one of my classes now she’s settled. While heading to my classes, I saw her at Pearl's place.”

“Things are moving along. The new dentist brought in many clients. She moved in with me, so Penelope sold the ranch and the business. Kids went to college, married, and bought homes. She’s keeping busy with our new babies and grandkids.”

“I’ve taken over Ogden Byfield’s students and the Police Academy classes.”

“Congratulations, I knew you would get tenure. You’re a marvelous teacher. I learned a lot from you. How can I help?”

“As you know, two suicides are linked to the college, and I'm investigating them both. For the Marshal's Office, not the college, since it’s a messy case. Clay Woodall, the new deputy, uncovered some skimmers taking advantage of local businesses. Either it looks like the Professor or some of his students are involved,” I said.

“When I looked for my teacher's paraphernalia to take over Byfield’s class, I found skimmers in his NCC office file cabinet. Once I saw them, I knew I needed a legal basis to cover my bases. Although I had keys to the cabinet for supplies, the unknown pills I found reek of doubtful origin. They were sent to the state lab for analysis. If I found anything else suspicious, I wanted to avoid a conflict with NCC. Michael and Clay busted a truck full of fentanyl. The case was pending in Navajo County because they caught them outside city limits.” I explained.

“Okay, what do you need?”

“No autopsy results as yet. Both men’s laptops, cell phones, social media, thumb drives, digital photos, financial information, their cars, the file cabinet, their homes need searched. Although the professor’s car burnt to a crisp, I’d like to access where he traveled. Maybe they met somewhere outside of college grounds to plan. Cameras tracked their license plates.” I had to state specific search areas.

“All right. The M.E.’s Office told me autopsy results are running at least six weeks behind. Between drug deaths and border crossings in the desert, the M.E. has more than they can handle. Just try not to step on any official’s toes, before you receive the paperwork.” Jake issued the warrants.

***

Before the college got wind of our search, I rushed to the Marshal’s Office.

“We have to work fast. Judge Flake gave me a search warrant for Daemon and Byfield. Can we split up the job? How is Clay feeling? Tired?” I asked Michael.

“No, he said everything was quiet last night when we switched shifts this morning. He catnapped. I’ll call him,” Michael said.

“See if he can search Daemon’s apartment. It’s in the Tara House, Gloria Stephen’s old place, down the street from Clay’s house. Before anyone at the college gets wind, I want to do this quick”

“I’ll do his wife and home. She had a restraining order against Byfield,” Michael said.

“Couldn’t help overhearing, rumor has it Byfield had an affair with one of his students. The kid threatened to expose the Professor. His wife kicked him out after finding about the tryst,” Peg commented.

She shook her head and pointed to the Mayor’s son. He had headphones on and was glued to his cell phone.

“Say nothing to him. Have him clean up the jail cell and take out the trash while we’re gone,” Michael said.

“I’ll search the Professor’s office at the college. Then I’ll make a mirror of all the cellphones, laptops, and thumb drives. No chances of data deleted by accident or on purpose. Check both of their traffic habits,” I said.

“What else did Flake give us permission to look thru?” Michael said.

“Tonight when I get home, I’m checking their social media accounts and screen shoot them before they get shutdown or erased,” I said.

We lost no time in getting our objectives finished. Digital data was as ephemeral as ice in an Arizona August. Byfield’s office keys rattled in my pocket. Before the new department chair took over, I wanted to search it now, afraid I might lose my advantage.

When I arrived at Byfield’s NCC Office, I made copies of all the Professor’s papers, photographs, and diaries just in case.

President Chase had not named our new Computer Science Department chair, but I figured he’d promote Adrian Cole, the IT person. Adrian and I had several run-ins over security issues. Social Engineering concerned me, which the IT person dismissed as hearsay and word-of mouth. Too many students lent their IDs and passwords to non-college people. The dorms were rampant with outsiders.

***

We regrouped after the Mayor’s son finished his shift at 5 p.m. I reserved one copy of the technology for evidence, the other to reverse engineer. Everything locked up in the secure room before 8 p.m. that evening, because I didn’t trust Hayden Robinson.

Up until all hours of the night, I copied the two men’s emails and social media onto a four terabyte external hard drive. The usual internet sites were no problem, and I checked a few of the unusual dark web sites. Sure enough, Daemon, his team, and the professor had their own juicy vendor site offering stolen credit card data they skimmed.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t think I’d lurk into their Black Hat Hacker domain. I kept a clean laptop to search the Dark Web, to prevent contamination. Keeping the channel open was crucial. The absence of two villains may result in a new commander. Against all odds, Byfield secured permission to take underage students to Las Vegas. Moreover, they had the audacity to document their adventures, and the pictures showed me they felt invincible.

Photo albums brimmed with pictures of the Professor and his students at DEFCON, a computer nerd’s heaven. Someone documented the hijinks. The NCC team took part in the Capture the Flag exercises, a few hacks, webinars, classes, the tinfoil hat contest, fun and games.

***

Word soon got out at NCC that we searched Daemon's room, and the professor’s home. Sure enough, Friday morning, a cease and desist order arrived from Navajo County. NCC President Chase got a lawyer. All school property needed to be returned to the IT department: laptops, cellphones, projects, calendars, journals, photographs, emails, correspondence, personnel data, office contents, and thumb drives were school property. Likewise, since the Professor drove a school car, it too was school property.

However, I also found their social media accounts deleted when I logged back on the next morning. Adrian Cole was behind that deed at the behest of NCC President Chase, I reasoned. The trouble with digital evidence it was too easy to erase.

“Whew, talk about the nick of time,” Michael said. “Keep that idiot Hayden away from the evidence room and our computers. No interns allowed on the network.”

“Make sure everything is secure and locked tight,” I reminded Peg.

“Yep, he was snooping in desk drawers this morning. So, I keep the keys in my pocket and my purse locked away,” Peg replied.

“We need to watch a video I saw on the DEFCON site. A white-hat hacker security expert showed how he used Social Engineering to bypass all the safeguards at a major corporation. Sticky notes with passwords. A smiling friendly intruder with no badge or ID skulked around. Purses, desk drawers, car keys, no locks, laptops open, and sloppier habits revealed,” I said.

“I’ve seen that guy in action. He’s efficient. Michael and I need to enforce a daily checklist for procedures to safeguard our office,” Clay suggested. “We’ve got too many non-coms wandering around.”

“The interns had to pass a background check before they joined the Police Academy. But average college students don’t need one; neither do high school honor students who use the NCC computer labs,” I added. “The labs are like the wild west.”

“We’ve got one monkey wrench in the works, the Mayor’s kid. One more time, I catch Hayden snooping, or a no show, and he’s out,” Michael vowed.

Clay and Peg both nodded in agreement, since they had to put up with him more than I did.

 

Chapter 12

February- Stuck With Technology

“We are stuck with technology and what we really want is stuff that works.” Douglas Adams.

 

Michael and I discussed the possibilities of my becoming a tenured professor.

“If I stopped my Zoom class on Saturday, I could offer it during summer and fall semesters, since it’s an optional one day class,” I pondered.

“But you told me you get a kick out of the senior citizens, and their fascinating lives and experiences,” Michael said.

“Yes, one lady in my class is a WW2 vet. She flew planes from the US to UK. She lied about her age, a kid at fourteen.”

“You mentioned others in your class like her.” Michael said.

“But by giving up my Monday classes, I can free up ten credits. Then I would teach all-day and evening on Wednesday with an hour break between classes.”

“What about the Marshal’s office? Look how many cases we’ve solved together, even a twenty-year-old cold case. Dubois is clueless about computers. He’s an old school Mountie, who can read people. Charles has a core feel for human unacceptable behavior that’s amazing,” Michael protested. “But he doesn’t know from Shinola about technology. Look at his antique office stuff. I shove it aside in order to work. There’s a landline, for Pete’s sake, and a manual typewriter. I’d cram it in a box and stuff it up the attic, but I can’t until he returns.”

“I know you’re frustrated about the current situation. The mayor is on your back. You’re acting marshal until Dubois returns, and shorthanded. I’ll continue to write government grants. When Charles makes it back full time, the COPS grant can pay for three officers with eight-hour shifts. Instead of Black Mesa Marshal’s Office having two officers working twelve-hour shifts.”

“I’ll put Clay in charge of the ‘skimmers’ patrolling business since he discovered them. You and I keep our consulting days on Tuesday and Thursday,” Michael decided.

“The Police Academy is an opportunity I can’t pass. The Cyber Forensics is my area of expertise.”

“Yes, I’d like someone in our office who knows interns better too,” Michael said.

“I’ll do the coding classes but, I’m keeping my Wednesday night class, because I love my women’s computer class.”

The Navajo and Hopi communities opened to in-person classes. A computer science instructor could take over my classes if NCC hired another adjunct teacher. However, I knew an excellent Native American teacher, who ate lunch with me before Covid. She finished her Master’s degree and wanted a full time teaching job. Now she taught Medical Billing and Legal Transcription on the Navajo/Hopi Reservation. She would make a successful addition to a wider range of classes for students. I’d recommend her to the President.

So, I’d teach nine credits on Wednesday 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. and nine credits on Sunday 8 a.m. to 7 p.m., with an hour break between each class. Each three-credit class lasted sixteen weeks for regular classes and eight weeks for Police Academy classes. Michael agreed it sounded like a plan. Now, I had to convince the college President.

***

So, on Monday I said goodbye to my students, and introduced their new Native American teacher. She received all my notes, class roster, syllabi, books, teacher manuals, and passwords. Administrator privileges were granted to her on the laptops and network. I showed her the fussy computers, which needed TLC

To keep the network safe, I also recommended she follow my computer lab rules. Students kept their work on usb drives designed for classroom use only. Each student had a small lockbox. Working as a casino night auditor inspired my idea. The lockbox for every shift resembled an old time card catalog and required dual-key authentication like a bank safe deposit box. A steel cable with a combination lock wired the laptops to the floor to prevent vandalism and theft.

Every student had a sixteen-character passphrase, with the teacher being the admin. Like the WW2 Navajo code talkers, my students were encouraged to use their native language. I offered the new teacher my help if needed, but warned her about a two and a half-hour trip to the classroom. The IT person only wanted urgent calls. She was intelligent, nimble, and proficient even with the reluctant laptops that always caused trouble.

To ensure honesty, my students had to sign in and out on a time log verifying a working laptop. No broken mice without batteries, no keyboard letters exchanged, and no one used someone else’s password or login. I suggested she walk around, preventing monkey business. Some high school students acted like the infamous coyotes (tricksters) in old Native American legends. Elders supervised the lab, as mature students disliked computer interruptions.

***

Last night, I searched the professor’s laptop for classroom information. He didn’t change the NCC password default. What a lazy ass. He was the department chair. No rules, no security.

Meanwhile, I agreed to take over Ogden Byfield’s lab on Wednesdays, which was a catastrophe. First, I checked his desk. No syllabi, no textbooks, no teacher’s manual, and no usb thumb drives. Next, I rummaged through the file cabinet: skimmers, usb drives, and software CDs. Another mysterious medicine bottle with no label fell out of a corner.

Laptops were filthy. Food and crumbs scattered on the tables. Setting drinks was a long-standing student custom. The lab was disgusting, but I spent hours fixing it to my standards.

For security, I cleaned the laptops, wiped the hard drives with a magnet, and threw all the random hand lettered disks and miscellaneous thumb drives into a box. Software reloaded to a clean hard-drive. Nothing from the previous class could touch the reconditioned laptops. Each machine had a new user ID, two-factor authentication, and a sixteen-character passphrase.

First day dawned, the class contained fifteen students, five female, and ten males. No seating chart. The morning class had a few college-age students and the rest high school seniors. These were supposed to be honor students.

Students wandered in.

“Morning. Please sit down. My name is Minerva Doyle. I’m taking over for Professor Byfield. He was involved in a car accident and passed. I’m sorry.” I imparted the news.

The students sat silent.

“My educational background includes a BS in Computer Science and a Master's in Computer Information Systems. My past job experience was in law enforcement as a Cyber-Forensics expert for Navajo and Maricopa Counties. Yes, I worked for Sheriff Joe Arpaio.”

The class murmured and buzzed.

“Please pass the syllabus and class expectations.” I handed out my rules for behavior.

“I do not assign seats, but you will sit at the same computer during each class period from today on.” Serial number, IP address, and code number identified each laptop on a slip of paper.

Thus, I next had each student write his or her name on a laptop. Students received a thumb drive. A secure cabinet, with two keys for each drawer stood in the corner.

“Save nothing on the hard drives, ever, another lesson. The only thing on the hard drive is the software you use to code. Of course, they have MS Office Suite, Publisher, Adobe, Java, html, C++, Python and Linux. You will use these programs for your projects.” I rendered all hard drives unrecoverable by wiping them out with a magnetic device yesterday. The laptops were pristine.

“But Professor Byfield had us working on projects of our own. We’ve already started,” one student protested.

“Everyone starts over with a clean slate. You've all earned an 'A' for the first four weeks. I have no idea about your project. Learn to make a backup copy of your work. If not, this is the most valuable lesson you will learn from my class. I wiped the laptops, so you cannot recover what you wrote on them. You may retrieve your old devices, but do not use them in my lab. You will use the thumb drive assigned to you, and store it in the safe deposit box.”

“We already made our teams, “another said.

“In the real world, expect to collaborate with a diverse group of individuals, including those from other nations. Remember, your project manager, me, will choose your project and who you will work with.”

I brought out a black Stetson, which contained fifteen slips of paper. On each scrap were a default user ID, two-factor authentication, and a sixteen-character passphrase. By tomorrow’s class, none of them would work. Another hard lesson: never use the default. All the sloppy network and computer security habits that Byfield let them get away with would shock them out of their complacency. My class taught them all the dangers characterized by lazy, trusting, social naiveté, of the computer generation. 

“Ensure the laptop and all its components are in perfect working order before signing out. If there is any monkey business, you fix it before you leave. Login now. Please lock your usb drive in your assigned drawer. Luck with your new team. Don’t lose your key. There’s only one copy.”

The last ten minutes of class, they used to log off, power down, and put away their items. The astute ones would choose a new login, user ID, two-factor authentication, and sixteen-character passphrase. If not, they would have a rude awakening next week’s class. Some students compared slips of paper to see whose team they were placed. Nevertheless, as I said, using the default was a hard lesson to learn. Last, I hoped the symbolism of a black hat, did not lose its significance on some students.

My afternoon class received the same drill. By next Wednesday, they all knew I was serious, and cyber-security was no joke, or fun and games as it had been in Professor Byfield’s class.

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

February- Good News v Bad News

 

“The good news about computers is that they do what you tell them to do. The bad news is that they do what you tell them to do.” Ted Nelson.

 

Although Friday was my day off, Michael and I regrouped, and compared notes at work. Good news: the mayor’s son was a no-show as usual. The Bad news was that each smartphone and laptop had a metal tag inserted on it, identifying it as Property of NCC. Their lawyer had filed a motion with the superior court for the return of the men’s belongings. When the NCC representatives came, we decided they must ask for the possessions they believed were school property, not any property the men had bought. Especially after we had dug up evidence, complied with a Supreme Court ruling, and used a search warrant. Our team spent the entire morning photographing everything we planned to give back, no matter how insignificant. I ensured that the copies of the laptop's hard drive, thumb drives, video tapes, phone data, and traffic patterns were sheltered in our evidence repository. Michael snapped photos of the professor’s home, with Mrs. Byfield’s cooperation. Everything the Marshal found at the professor's house added to our case files. Daemon’s dormitory was a different story, since NCC owned the Tara house. In addition, I cataloged the articles in the evidence room. In case I needed them, I pocketed an extra set of Byfield's keys. As the person taking over his classes, I had a right to the computer information systems department supplies. I wasted no time taking proof to the Marshal's Headquarters, I discovered in the file cabinet including the unmarked pill bottle. Privacy laws ceased to apply once a person was dead.

 

A massive amount of technology research lay in front of me. Copying was effortless, but comprehending and correlating information on the devices was a complex task. One terabyte (trillion bytes) of the backup hard drive filled with files. The old saying of a picture is equivalent to a thousand words is true. As an illustration, the entire book's written content required less storage capacity than either an audio file or an image of the book's cover.

Peg locked the Marshal’s Office door. She stayed to guard the front desk and the phones. We had private interviews, so she gave all the interns the day off. We enjoyed the lunch from the Café brought in by Rose. While Clay, I, and Michael viewed the DEFCON photos, we viewed another video from a convenience store hit by the skimming machines. All of her clients were familiar to Rose, so Clay suggested Rose watch the video in case she identified the card skimmer thugs.

While we watched the skimmer video, perpetrators had their game plan down to a science. One of them distracted the clerk while the other fitted a device over the payment terminal. Likewise, they parked a van in front of the gas pump. The first person hid behind the vehicle door while the second tackled the credit card machine. The non-digital choice they paid cash in small bills. In less than thirty seconds, they handed over the payment for their fuel and munchies and disappeared. They used low-tech black electrical tape to adjust the numbers on the license plate. Their identity concealed with sunglasses, no-name hoodies drawn over their heads, sports gloves eliminated fingerprints, baggy clothes disguised physical builds, and tennis shoes gave no clue to sex.

Byfield recorded several of his lectures and webinars. The students wore lanyards with the NCC emblem. When we watched the DEFCON footage, I couldn’t identify the people by name. The computer programming classes were for skilled learners. Therefore, I’d have to pay close attention, make notes, and look closer at my new Wednesday class. Even though his classes were honors high school level and college coding geniuses, none of them won any awards or medals at DEFCON. They proved wrong about their experience when challenged by international masters in real world programming. 

In order to interview Daemon's roommates away from their college comfort zone, Michael planned to separate them and bring them to our Office. Clay took notes while I recorded in the background. Each person, including Byfield's wife, watched the videos. The widow noticed when the educator stayed out late. The new deputy Marshal hoped she could identify the person who had threatened to expose her husband.

Black Mesa offered only a few places to hide, such as a lone casino, bar, cafe, moonlit lake, and motel. Many gossips, nosy neighbors, and tattle-tales noticed a professor squiring a protégé. Michael utilized the round table method: ask around, a shoe leather trail, knock on doors, and talk to everyone who knew your business. I reverted to the modern equivalent of small-town gossip exposé, which was Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Tic-Toc, and Instagram.

 

Michael wanted to place the location of each student during the night Daemon died and the instance the Professor crashed his car through Rose’s Cafe window. In the ATF, Michael was adept at penetrating the defenses of witnesses. He disarmed suspects with his blue collar, easygoing manner. He never played the Bad Cop card. Interrogations were a chess game, a battle of wits where the coolest head prevailed. After we secured our video and audio interviews, we locked up Marshal’s Office.

***

The following day, Michael, Rose, and I assisted Clay in constructing a difficult obstacle course in his rear garden to assist him in preparing for his final evaluation. He aced the written exam with a perfect score. Then the weapons trial was no problem. The new deputy requested a waiver for years of service and education. He had a Master’s in criminal justice. However, he had to finish the physical training program test.

“I remember my hardest was the body drag. It slipped out of my sweaty hands. My grip on the darn canvas cover kept slipping. It wasn’t the weight, I’ve lifted bags of feed heavier than it. The sack was stubbornly stuck, but I angrily dragged it over the line.”

“The running killed me. I couldn't breathe due to a stitch in my side after I finished. Here I was in the dry Arizona terrain doing a test in 120-degree heat. If it was swimming proficiency, I could pass no problem. If I were in Miami, I could show them how to police the canals and beaches,” Michael said.

Clay remarked as he attached a long, slender, spring-like leg to his body. “I practiced with it in the high jump competition at the Paralympics, when I lived in Virginia. Rose watched in astonishment, while he ran with leaps and bounds similar to a kangaroo.

We set up railroad ties, dog food bags, and hay bales in Clay’s yard. The deputy didn't have to worry about the wooden fence as he relied on his upper body strength to cross it without touching it. Clay had to practice the chain-link vaulting over the metal enclosure as his artificial foot could get ensnared. Could he use the false leg, which worked like a spring, to give him enough momentum to leap across the barrier?

Because he fulfilled all the prerequisites, Clay was qualified to apply for a Police Officer position in Arizona. 

First: Served as a certified law enforcement professional in Arizona, another state, or federal agency, the secret service.

Second: Advanced training that showed substantial compatibility to Arizona’s basic course the secret service training.

Third: Qualifications appointment from an Arizona law enforcement agency, the Black Mesa’s Marshal’s Office Deputy

Fourth: Meeting all the qualifications, and peace officer physical aptitude test, a Master’s degree in Criminal Justice.

He only had (POPAT) left including:

-the obstacle course run is 99 yards long and has several sharp turns, and curb height obstacles.

-clear a 14-inch high obstacle

-body drag left with a 165 pound dummy 32 feet

-5 yards to 6-foot chain-link fence run 25 yards

-5 yards to 6-foot solid fence run 25 yards

-500 yards one lap + 60 yards of standard running track

-one concurrent session with the stopwatch

-warm up 15 minutes three times

-agility run two trials 15 minutes

-short grass order body drag two trials 15 minutes 32 feet grass lift under arms

-obstacle course chain-link two trials 20 minutes

-solid fence two tries 20 minutes

-May continue trying. If its first attempt is unsuccessful,

The scoring system is pass/fail and time all events.

-The written component comprises a comprehensive test divided into three blocks. -70% pass only one retake. Clay passed with a perfect score.

Firearms POPAT: Clay passed on target.

-Service weapon holster 150 rounds

-weapon cleaning

-Eye and ear protection

-twice average time scored

-50 shot daytime Q–15 silhouette minimum score to 10

-50 shot nighttime Q–15 silhouette minimum score to 10

-one target fail