Tléix' (ONE)
Koloshan, AK—1980
The small, one-story jail stood alone at a bend in the dirt street, a short sprint away from the bay that connected them to other parts of Alaska. From the outside it looked like a rustic hunter’s cabin, square and weathered. There was no sign to indicate that this was Koloshan’s jail. No sign was needed; everyone in the village knew what it was.
You couldn’t get to Koloshan by road, so not many strangers came to town, except in summer. Then, an occasional pleasure boat stopped in the harbor, or a small cruise ship dropped off a dozen or so passengers for a couple hours. There was a landing strip referred to as the “airport,” although the runway was too short for commercial airplanes. Unscheduled flights by small private planes accommodated resident needs and brought in a few visitors. But most out-of-towners in Koloshan were fishermen who came in to sell their catch.
There was also a ferry from Juneau that came twice a week on a loop route that included a number of small villages. Unless the weather got in the way, the Tuesday stop was in the late morning when the ferry was on its way from Juneau. The Thursday stop in Koloshan was at midnight when the ferry was returning to Juneau. In both instances, the boat only paused long enough to load and unload. So, for the most part, the predominantly native village of about 800 residents remained isolated. And that was just the way most villagers liked it.
Jonah St. Clair, Koloshan’s only police officer, was sitting at his desk, contemplating a crack in the small window to the left of the door. Only last year he had replaced the glass after having the window boarded up for the two years before that. And now it was broken again.
When his telephone rang, he picked up the receiver and said: “St. Clair.”
“Jonah, you’d better get over to the Center right away!” The urgency of the statement shocked Jonah into action. He didn’t bother asking what the problem was; he’d find out soon enough.
He could have walked to the Center, but the locals expected their only police officer to wear a uniform and to drive a vehicle with an emblem on the side. They were all aware he had spent six years on the L.A. police force before a tour in Vietnam, but they hadn’t known him then. Without the uniform, the badge, the sidearm, and his official pickup truck with the village eagle and mountain logo on its door, he was just plain Jonah, someone who had spent a lot of his youth in Koloshan, someone everyone called by his first name. The uniform symbolized his office in the same way the ornamental robe and headdress signified the chief of the village at ceremonial gatherings.
When his aging, dust-streaked official vehicle wouldn’t start, Jonah cursed and angrily pumped the gas pedal. Once the engine finally caught, he didn’t wait for it to warm up. Ignoring its uneven sputtering, he kept pressure on the gas as he drove up the dusty hill road. Despite the panic in the caller’s voice, he didn’t anticipate it would be anything too serious. Most police calls for assistance in Koloshan were fairly routine. A fight. Vandalism. An accident. Still, the caller had sounded like it was something more pressing than usual.
Jonah could see the Center in the distance as he maneuvered around the bumps and ruts in the poorly maintained road. The official title was the Koloshan Native Arts Center. It had been built a few years earlier with a state grant acquired by a local teacher. Her goal was to display the Raven House screen and any other artifacts village residents could be persuaded to donate. Tlingits had lived in the area for centuries. The collection in the Center was a tribute to their local heritage.
Although the community was proud of the Center and what it represented, few locals bothered to stop by. But since it was on several tourist brochures, it got a handful of visitors from time to time. In one corner of the Center’s main room, there was a table where locals were able to sell their crafts. Not everything on the table was native art, but the occasional tourists who purchased memorabilia didn’t seem to mind.
As he pulled up in front of the Center, a modern structure by village standards, Jonah noted that it was already looking shabby. Koloshan’s long winters were hard on buildings. He also noted that there were more cars than usual in the small parking area. The large bay window in front visually linked the parking lot with the main display area inside. Jonah could see a crowd gathered, kids running around, weaving in and out among the adults. Faces peering anxiously through the dirt streaking windows, obviously waiting for him to arrive. As he got out of his car, the double doors in front of the Center opened wide, and several individuals energetically waving him inside. “Jonah,” one shouted. “Come see what they’ve done!”
Murmured complaints echoed around the room as the crowd parted to let him through. Then, suddenly, everything became quiet. Even the young children stood still, staring up at Jonah as he made his way to the center of the room. At 6’4”, Jonah towered over everyone there. His height set him apart, but it also gave him status, a mixed blessing at times. Without saying anything, he looked around, noting who was there, reading sorrow and anger on their faces. At the same time, something registered at the back of his mind: there was something wrong, something terribly wrong.
The Raven Screen was gone.
The glass display cases empty.
Ending the silence, someone said, “Can you believe it? We’ve been robbed.” At that declaration, the room erupted into a cacophony of outrage as everyone slowly turned toward the huge wall where the Raven House screen used to dominate the room. Jonah followed their gaze. Once the centerpiece of the collection, only a few hooks remained, dangling from bent nails on the bare wood wall.
Suddenly, kids were back in motion with everyone talking at once. Jonah forced his eyes away from the wall where the screen used to be and began walking around the perimeter of the room, feeling as empty as the display cases. All the artifacts that had been so carefully labeled and put on display were all gone. Jonah did not have Tlingit ancestors, but after years living and working in Koloshan, he still felt their absence as a personal loss, accompanied by a sharp-edged anger at those responsible for the theft.
He turned his attention to the individuals gathered there, taking in their distress, their incredulity about what had happened. They were all waiting for his reaction. He knew he needed to push his personal feelings aside and start treating the Center as a crime scene.
“When was this discovered?” Jonah asked one of the Center’s volunteers. It had obviously been a hurried job, pedestals overturned, display cloth trampled, one glass case smashed, its padlock still intact. A hurried but thorough job. Whoever had done it had left nothing behind.
“About an hour ago. Stella found it when she came to work.” Stella was standing quietly at the back of the group, a small, older woman with graying hair in a long braid wrapped around her head Norwegian fashion. There wasn’t much to do at the Center; Stella held the one paid position funded by the state. She usually opened the Center by ten o’clock during the week, although sometimes a bit later, and if she had something else that needed doing, she might miss a day here and there. But she always showed up for cruise ship arrivals, no matter what day they came.
Jonah looked around, mentally making a list of names of those present. There would be time later to admonish those responsible for not calling him before potentially messing up any physical evidence that might help him track the thieves. For now, he needed to send most of the villagers on their way so he could take a close, unhurried look at the room.
“Stella. Jack. Ray. Earl. Harold.” Jonah called out the names of those he wanted to stay. The four men were Tlingit elders, influential members of the community; he hoped they would be able to give him some insight into what had happened. He could question the others later. “Everyone else, please leave,” he said. “And would you mind staying on the path alongside the building instead of going into the parking area.” It was an order, not a question. “You can pick up your cars later, after I’ve had a chance to have a look around. Okay?”
There were a few mumbled protests, but no real resistance to his request. They would obviously have preferred to remain and watch what Jonah did next. But Jonah was the law, and, for the most part, they were law-abiding citizens. The kids were rounded up and everyone obediently made for the exit. “Remember, stay away from the parking lot,” Jonah called after them, adding “I may want to talk to some of you later.” He didn’t have to tell anyone that they shouldn’t leave town. He knew all of them. And, unless they went by boat or airplane, they weren’t going anywhere.
Three of the Tlingit elders Jonah had asked to stay stood near a smashed case, reading aloud the plaques for the missing objects, their voices filled with emotion. “Eineit sh ” or horn spoon. “Yoo katan ltaa.” Curved knife. “Sh s′aatée wutsaagáyi.” Dance staff.
Jonah and Stella watched as the three men began working their way methodically around the room, pausing at each empty space to read the small card stating what had been there. It felt like a memorial for the artifacts. Although few in the village spoke Tlingit, it seemed appropriate to mourn the pieces using their Tlingit names.
“Káa yooka.όot' x'όow.” Button blanket.
“Naaxein.” Chilkat blanket.
“X'uskeit.” Leggings
“Sheishόox.” Rattle.
As he listened to the unique cadence of the words, Jonah felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the theft. When the Center first opened, he had come here with his adopted grandfather, Dennis Gray. He remembered Dennis proudly pointing out the translucent horn spoon made from the curled horn of a mountain sheep, decorated with abalone shell rectangles on the handle. Before being donated to the Center, it had been in the Gray family for generations.
Crest hats, bentwood boxes, paddles, button blankets, baskets, halibut hooks, frontlets, bowls, headdresses, pipes, rattles, masks—Koloshan had never been a rich village, but its approximately 500 native residents had inherited these artifacts from ancestors and kept them through all the cultural changes that had altered their daily lives. The donations were made to safeguard the collective community heritage and to share that heritage with future generations.
And now those treasured objects were gone. All of them. Gone.
One elder had not joined the other three as they made their pilgrimage around the room. Harold stood off to the side, his face etched with mixed emotions. Jonah wasn’t sure what was going on with him, but that could wait. His most urgent need was to talk with Stella. He motioned for her to join him at the back of the room.
“I will need a list of what was taken, and a brief description of the artifacts. Can you put that together for me?”
“Yes, it will take a while though. I’m in the process of consolidating our records.”
“That’s fine—maybe just identify some of the more valuable pieces for now and get that to me as soon as possible. I want to let officials know what to keep an eye out for. But first, I understand you discovered this when you got here this morning. What time was that?”
Stella glanced around, and her mouth quivered as she tried to respond. “I . . . I . . . got here a little after 10:00.”
“Were the doors locked when you arrived?”
“No, they weren’t.” Jonah had observed that the lock had not been forced, and there were no broken windows. But he also knew this was not a casual burglary, someone simply taking advantage of an unlocked entrance. The screen was at least fifteen feet by eight feet. And the two carved corner posts were heavy and would have been awkward to handle. Then there were the smaller artifacts, many of them fragile. Moving all that had taken a lot of planning.
“How many keys to the building are there?”
“Three. I have two. I keep one in my purse and one in my desk drawer. The archeologist, Austin Mann, has the third. He’s using one of the back rooms as a temporary office.” She paused, then said, “You don’t think . . .” She suddenly seemed to consider that what had happened might be due to her own negligence.
“No, Stella. Not your fault. It wasn’t someone who found an unlocked door and snatched a few items. This was a professional job.” He looked around at the empty space. Many of the items taken were valuable if sold on the black market, but the idea that something like this could happen in Koloshan hadn’t been on anyone’s radar. No one in the village worried much about security. Most businesses locked their doors, but the only break-in Jonah could remember was a group of half-drunk teenagers noisily smashing a window in the liquor store. But even without a key to the Center or smashing a window, it would have been relatively easy for someone with the right skills to have gained access by picking the lock on the front door.
“Stella, what was the first thing you did after you saw what had happened?”
“I called Harold.” She pointed at one of the three elders surveying their losses. Jonah knew that Harold had fought for the grant for the Center and had spearheaded the collection and organization of the artifacts. “He said to stay put and he would be right over.”
“Did you see anyone near the building when you arrived? Any cars or trucks in the area?”
She shook her head “no.”
“And did you try to clean anything up while you waited for Harold?”
“No . . . I called my mother.”
That explained all the people. Stella’s mother, quick-witted and with time on her hands, had undoubtedly called friends and relatives to tell them about the robbery. In the small, isolated village, word traveled fast. The family-and-friends network was as effective as any big-business communications system.
Jonah motioned Harold over. He was in his late sixties, black hair streaked with gray, square chin beneath obsidian eyes. When Harold wore traditional dress for participation in ceremonies, he was the poster child for Tlingit ancestry. “Did you tell anyone about what happened?” Jonah asked.
“Just my wife.”
“And, as far as you know, did she tell anyone?”
“She might have.”
Knowing Harold’s wife, that “might have” was a certainty. Between her and Stella’s mom, almost everyone in Koloshan probably knew about the theft by now. Jonah would have preferred being able to ask questions before everyone had time to massage facts by consciously or unconsciously merging what they knew with what someone told them.
Jonah called to the other three men, interrupting the naming of missing artifacts. “Thanks for staying. I need to get on this as quickly as possible.” Before he could say more, Ray interrupted. Known for being outspoken, he tossed out an accusation like someone lobbing a grenade.
“We all know who’s responsible.” He looked meaningfully at Harold.
“You accusing me of something, Ray?” Harold’s voice loud in the empty room. “Go ahead, spit it out.”
Jonah could have stopped the confrontation, but he didn’t. Sometimes you learned more if you held back.
“You’ve been trying to get us to sell the Raven House screen from the beginning.” He pointed to the empty wall where the screen had been displayed. “You have no feeling for the past, no understanding of what it means to the community to be able to see what our ancestors made and valued . . .”
When Ray paused, Jonah jumped in. “Ray, do you have reason to suspect that Harold might be involved in the theft? Any evidence?”
Harold glared at Ray, daring him to make the accusation official. All four men were in their 60s and had known each other all their lives. If an outsider had said something against any one of them, they would have stood together no matter what the issue. But in this village dispute over whether they should sell or keep some or all of the Center’s artifacts, sides had been taken, friendships set aside, old resentments rekindled.
“Who else?” Ray said angrily.
“Why you—.” The lines around Harold’s mouth deepened with rage.
“I asked if you have any evidence,” Jonah said firmly but calmly.
Ray hedged, “Well, nothing specific. But it was him that got that museum interested in the screen. It was him that wanted to sell it, sell our heritage.” Jonah knew they had once been offered a half-million dollars for the screen and corner posts by a wealthy collector, an almost incomprehensible amount by Koloshan standards.
Jonah looked Harold in the eyes and asked, “Were you involved in this?”
“Of course not. I’ve never said we should sell ‘everything.’ Just the screen. We can’t care for it properly here. It will only deteriorate. We ought to sell it before—.” He stopped and glanced up at the empty wall where the screen had been mounted, as if suddenly realizing that arguments for and against selling the screen were no longer relevant.
“Does anyone have anything specific they can tell me?” Jonah dark eyes rested briefly on each of the five individuals he’d asked to stay. “Can you think of someone who may have done this? Or suggest somewhere to look for the missing items?”
Five sets of eyes returned his gaze. But silence hung in the air like the calm after a storm. It was Stella who finally spoke. “There have been a number of outsiders who’ve shown interest in purchasing the screen. A few dealers, a couple of collectors. A museum or two.”
“Can you get me those names?”
Stella nodded.
Jonah stared at the others, willing them to know something, anything, no matter how small, that might be a lead. But still none of the men responded.
“There must be rumors, someone who knows something . . .”
The four men shook their heads in defeat.
“Ask around, okay? And remember, this isn’t about money, or clans, or blame. It’s a police matter. And we could be dealing with some organized criminals, most likely outsiders. So, I don’t want any of you trying to follow up on your own if you get a lead. If you learn anything that you think might be helpful, anything, even something that seems insignificant, come to me and I’ll deal with it. Understood?”
They all nodded in agreement, not looking at each other. Lines had been drawn before the break-in, hardened in place by lack of clarity around who actually owned the screen. Initially it may have been made for a family or group of families belonging to the Raven moiety, one of two groups of clans. But its lineage before being installed in the longhouse at the new Koloshan site had been forgotten, partly because, at the time, no one considered “ownership” important; it had belonged to the community.
Nor did anyone know who the original artist was. It was even possible that several artists had worked on the screen and the corner posts. Written records were vague; official records non-existent. The lack of provenance was muddied further by conflicting stories supporting different chains of ownership. That was one of the arguments against selling the screen. Who had the right to make the decision? Who would receive the payment? Having the Center acquire the screen had stilled the controversy temporarily, but now the theft was about to revive old grievances. Jonah knew it wasn’t going to be easy to function both as a member of the community and as their police officer in this instance. But he had no choice. He had to try.
When no one seemed to have anything to add, Jonah suggested they leave, by the same path the others had taken. All except for Stella. He asked her to stay and work on the lists she’d promised him.
He watched them go, moving single file down the dirt path. For an instant he imagined them as they might have looked 200 years ago, dressed in deerskin clothes with their straight dark hair pulled back and secured with leather thongs. Then the sunlight skittered across the bright plaid shirts and denim jeans, and the image vanished.
Jonah stood there a moment after they disappeared from sight and let the silence wash over him, remembering the lilt of the Tlingit language as the missing artifacts were acknowledged one by one by the descendants of the original artists. So little was left of their culture. A complex and half-forgotten language, only a few of the traditional crafts, bits and pieces of an oral tradition, stories and legends of the past held fast by a handful of elders, and a collection of artifacts . . . This theft was going to be a spike into the heart of this village—a violation of the personal identity of its residents. If he failed to find the thief or thieves, everyone in the village would suffer. And as a non-native committed to serving the community . . . well, failure wasn’t a possibility he wanted to face.
