Johnson studied the rock under his boot. He stood on a shelf of dark gray granite shot through with a webwork of pure white, probably quartz.
The contrast of dark and light, and the crazy tracery of veins begged explanation.
The Tchoktay peoples called the rocky mound Mother's Breast, swelled with milk and petrified in a tale that was long since lost.
When the Snoquallup tribes pushed the Tchoktays east into the desert, they renamed the outcropping something that translated to "the land's vulva splashed with semen." Father Comet spilled his seed here. It probably sounded good to a people faced with such a fertile, fecund valley as this. Plenty of water and feed, and game so thick the rabbits practically hopped right into your cook fire.
These days the dairy farmers, loggers, and teenagers desperate to avoid a life as a dairy farmer or a logger called it Popcorn Rock.
History and place names are decided by the winners, no matter how damned stupid they are.
Johnson kicked at the rock. The loud scritch of gravel against his boot soles made Bird flinch.
Johnson squinted through the low morning sun at Bird slowly making his way down a small amphitheater of jumbled rock.
When the Captain had introduced them, Bird has said his name was "Fierce Bird", a name given to him by his grandfather after a dreamtime struggle with an eagle. Johnson didn't believe that white tourist bullshit for a second and just called him "Bird".
Johnson was man enough to admit that Bird was a very good-looking guy. He wore his night-black hair in a close, corporate style, not in a fat braid like an Indian nerd or hippy wannabe. He stood an athletic six feet two inches and cut a hard, lean figure in the department's regulation sport coats. His fine, dark features and easy smile made him very easy to like.
Johnson had been with Bird only two days and already most of the local women and girls were wetting themselves over him. Johnson almost enjoyed standing near the aura of so much female attention. He knew he'd never get anything like that himself, not with his 52 years and his paunch.
Johnson was surprised that he didn't hate Bird's guts.
Bird had picked his way down and was standing over the body. From Johnson's vantage with the sun in his eyes, all he could see was a prone figure and jeans.
"She looks local," Bird shouted, "Ants haven't gotten to her yet."
Johnson shook his head and lifted his radio to his mouth.
"Use your walkie-talkie, Bird. You don't have to shout."
He watched Bird unclip the radio from his belt.
Bird's voice crackled, "You city cops and your fancy gadgets."
"Welcome to the 21st century, Red Man."
"Ugh."
"What else can you tell me?"
"Looks like she's probably 17 or 18. No obvious trauma. No blood. No sign of struggle. Only her tracks coming in and no tracks going out."
Johnson ran his thumb along his eyebrow. "We should wait for the crime scene guys."
"Those losers don't know shit, Paleface. They strut in here with their latex gloves and digital cameras and college degrees… half the time they can't keep from fucking up the whole thing."
"Yeah, but who's a jury going to believe? The college pukes or a cocky, piss-ant Indian cop?"
Bird didn't bother broadcasting his reply.
Johnson continued. "So why do you think she was up here?"
"Why else? To get drunk, high, or laid… or all of the above. Hold on, I'm going to try something."
Johnson watched Bird swarm up the rock pile, hopping lithely from boulder to boulder. No mean feat in leather-soled wingtips.
"There are tracks here. New ones. Looks like a sneaker, maybe a TygerStrypes cross trainer."
"Don't give me that Indian tracker bullshit."
"I'm not. They're just really popular with the kids trying to be cool."
"OK. You've found tracks. Now get back here."
"Just a minute."
Johnson shook his head again and was about to let loose into his radio when Bird's voice crackled again.
"Hey boss, the shoes are definitely TygerStrypes."
"And how the hell do you know that?"
"The owner's lying here with his throat cut. Bled out all over. Arterial spray. It's a mess."
"Dammit."
<to be continued... hopefully... at some point... maybe...>
Pakeha