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Chief Banner stood in the middle ofthe living room, talking to two officers, a serious, subdued tone. Then, dismissing the officers with an impatient wave, he turned toward Father John. He might have been a chief in the Old Time, Father John thought, or one of the warriors in the Curtis photographs, with black hair; high, thick cheekbones; and the humped nose of the Arapaho. A stocky man, medium height with broad chest, wide shoulders, and big hands that hung beneath the cuffs of his navy-blue uniform shirt. A thin silver wedding ring was embedded in a fleshy finger. The man had headed up the Wind River law enforcement as long as Father John had been on the reservation. “God help me, I love the job,” he’d once told him. “I want to get the bad asses out of here.”
    â€œYou saw her?” Banner asked.
    Father John nodded. “How’s T.J.?”
    â€œPretty broken up.” The chief gestured with his head toward the kitchen. Through the archway, Father John could see T.J. still at the table, face dropped into his hands.
    â€œGianelli’s been talking to him.” There was resignation in Banner’s voice. Unexplained deaths on the reservation fell within the FBI’s jurisdiction, even probable suicides, which put Gianelli in charge, a fact that, Father John knew, rankled the chief.
    â€œT.J. claims he was working late tonight on council business,” Banner went on, nodding toward the kitchen. “Came home about nine, found the front door unlocked. Not unusual. You know how Arapahos are.” He shrugged. “People wanna come in and help themselves to your stuff, well, they must need it real bad. T.J. says he was surprised to see Denise’s car out front because she was supposed to be at the college in Casper for a teacher’s workshop today and tomorrow. He walked back to the bedroom, and that’s when he found her.”
    Gesturing again toward the kitchen, he said, “Go on in. Man’s gonna need all the consolation he can get.”
    The minute Father John stepped through the archway, he could see that T.J. was sobbing silently, chest heaving, shoulders shaking. He walked over and put one hand on the man’s back. “I’m sorry, T.J.,” he said.
    At the far end of the narrow kitchen, Gianelli was leaning over the counter, writing something in a notepad. He had on blue jeans and a leather vest that hung open over a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up over thick forearms. He glanced around and gave Father John a half-nod. There was a flicker of weariness in the man’s eyes.
    T.J. shuddered beneath his hand, then flattened his own hands on the table and looked up, eyes blinking in the light. Moisture glistened on his narrow, brown face. He seemed older than a man in his forties, with lines at the corners of his eyes and the collar of his tan shirt standing out around his thin neck. “There’s no call for Denise to shoot herself,” he said. “Why’d she do it, Father?”
    Father John pushed a chair over with his boot and sat down next to the man. “Try to believe that God hasn’t forgotten you, T.J. He’ll help you through this.”
    â€œGod!” A low, guttural sound, like a death rattle. “Why’d God let her do it? I never gave her any cause to turn on me like that.”
    Father John stopped himself from asking what he meant. T.J. was in shock. He recognized the symptoms—the vacant stare, the twitching hands.
    â€œYou’ll bury her?” T.J. said, as if this was something he couldn’t handle, the mundane tasks that lay ahead.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œShe’d want a traditional ceremony, too. She’d want to be painted.”
    â€œI’ll talk to the elders. We’ll work it out.” The elders would place the sacred red paint on Denise’s face, so the ancestors would recognize her and take her into the spirit world. Without the paint, her spirit