Document of Expectations

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Overview

When Hopi/White Mountain Apache anthropologist Tony M. Smokerise is found murdered in his office at Central Highlands University, the task of solving the crime falls to jaded Choctaw detective Monique Blue Hawk and her partner Charles T. Clarke. A seemingly tolerant and amicable office of higher education, the university, Monique soon learns, harbors parties determined to destroy the careers of Tony and his best friend, the volatile Oglala anthropologist Roxanne Badger. In the course of her investigation, Monique...

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Document of Expectations

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More About This Book

Overview

When Hopi/White Mountain Apache anthropologist Tony M. Smokerise is found murdered in his office at Central Highlands University, the task of solving the crime falls to jaded Choctaw detective Monique Blue Hawk and her partner Charles T. Clarke. A seemingly tolerant and amicable office of higher education, the university, Monique soon learns, harbors parties determined to destroy the careers of Tony and his best friend, the volatile Oglala anthropologist Roxanne Badger. In the course of her investigation, Monique discovers that the scholars who control Tony’s department are also overseeing the excavation of a centuries-old tribal burial site that was uncovered during the construction of a freeway. Tony’s role in the project, she realizes, might be the key to identifying his murderer. This virtuosic mystery novel explores, in engrossing detail, the complex motives for a killing within the sometimes furtive and hermetic setting of academia.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

In this carefully woven narrative, Mihesuah takes readers though an intricate maze of dysfunctional departmental politics and the lucrative world of stolen Indian artifacts. Along the way, she exposes a range of long-held stereotypical and colonial assumptions about indigenous people, and in particular about the aims and purposes of indigenous activist scholarship in American universities. This book is a compelling and highly entertaining mystery, but is also an important contribution to the literature of indigenous resistance.

?Michael D. Wilson, author of Writing Home: Indigenous Narratives of Resistance

A novel of great drama and high crime. With obvious anger and subtle plotting Document of Expectations manages to keep the reader on the edge of their seat with anticipation…. One is reminded of Ishmael Reed?the drama, politics, and culture all mingle to create a wonderful effect.

—David Treuer, Leech Lake Ojibwe, author of The Translation of Dr. Apelles

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781611860115
  • Publisher: Michigan State University Press
  • Publication date: 9/13/2011
  • Series: American Indian Studies Series
  • Pages: 202
  • Sales rank: 1,137,462
  • Product dimensions: 5.90 (w) x 8.90 (h) x 0.50 (d)

Meet the Author


Devon Abbott Mihesuah is the Cora Lee Beers Price Professor at the University of Kansas. She is a citizen of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, the atuhor of more than a dozen award-winning books, and a former editor of the American Indian Quarterly.
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Read an Excerpt

DOCUMENT OF EXPECTATIONS

By Devon Abbott Mihesuah

Michigan State University Press

Copyright © 2011 Devon Abbott Mihesuah
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-61186-011-5

Chapter One

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

The Oscar ranger seminar room on the second floor of the old stone building known as anthropology grew hot after a day under the late spring sun. Unlike other buildings on campus, which housed multiple departments, Anthropology held only one. The comparatively affluent anthropologists enjoyed the comfort of their own freestanding building, with its name newly carved in marble above the majestic front doors. A decade before, the Department of anthropology had been just another minor entity in the College of Social Sciences at central Highlands university, but a wealthy benefactor, a collector of antiquities, had given funds for an endowed chair and for unspecified "site improvements." The donor's only stipulation was that the funds be directed to anthropology. Because of the president's desire to please the benefactor (who also gave money to reroof the School of Hotel and Restaurant Management), the inhabitants of the College of Education were booted from the elegant stone building and transferred to a lesser structure, which had once held the now-defunct School of Drama. The anthropologists had moved in to take education's place and were now solidly ensconced in the fine edifice.

It was early May, unusually warm during finals week, and the air conditioning would not be turned on until the first summer session began in three weeks. The students felt uncomfortable in the stuffy seminar room on the second floor of Anthropology, so the first professor to use the room that morning opened the old casement windows. At the end of the day, the professor giving the last exam of the semester, on "Southwestern Rock Art and Sacred Vortexes," would normally have paid no attention to the windows. But this day was different. After the last haggard student dropped her blue composition booklet on the table next to the lecture podium and left the room, the professor picked up his thermos full of Hawaiian Punch, walked to the window and poured the red liquid on the carpet. That is how it had been planned since well before the sun had risen that morning.

SUNDAY, 11:30 P.M.

Thick Virginia creepers proliferated around the base of the old stone anthropology building. Tiny feet of the lush, green tendrils had latched on to the century-old cement and rock outcroppings, and over a long period of time the ivy had ascended the outer walls.

In the night's darkness a figure in black pants, a black, long-sleeved knit top, black shoes, and a black mask crept along the edge of the flowerbeds, then stopped to look up. Lights in two of the offices on the third floor were still on. Stepping across a flowerbed, the intruder put black-gloved hands onto the wide sill of the eastern window of the first floor and, with a small hop, pulled up onto the sill.

The intruder ascended from the first-story window ledge the intruder reached toward three large rocks as handholds, intending to scale to the top of the old greenhouse at the second floor, a steamy conservatory that the university medicinal botanists had insisted stay attached to Anthropology. Considering the amount of grant monies the biologists brought in every year, the president of CHU didn't argue with them. So the greenhouse had remained. From there it would be an easy step for the figure in black across the roof to the wide window ledge of the second-story Ranger Seminar Room windows.

However, the intruder found the ascent to the second floor more arduous than expected. A light rain had fallen earlier in the evening, and the trespasser struggled to hold on to the slippery, leaf-covered rocks. A gloved hand tried to grip one of the stones as a handhold, but slipped off the wet leaves. The intruder fell backwards, arms flailing, snapped through a rose bush, and landed with a splat a few feet below in the muddy flowerbed. Cursing, the prowler stood up and reached back to pull thorns that had penetrated denim and stuck into soft flesh.

The prowler took a few deep breaths and started upwards again. This time, instead of trying to grab the top of the rocks, hands reached up under the leaves to take hold of the granite chunks protruding from the wall, and now the ascent went better. Small lizards in hiding for the night scurried away to sounds of wheezing. Holding onto the old vines and setting feet on solid stones, the climber reached the second story. Breathing heavily, the trespasser rested, then crossed over the greenhouse to the seminar room windows.

At the center window, the invader turned sideways to step through. Halfway into the room, the intruder stepped onto the floor with a right foot, which sank into the shaggy carpet.

"Shit," the prowler muttered tersely. The carpet had been steam-cleaned after the exam on Friday afternoon. A pair of socks covered the prowler's Nikes. No tread marks showed in the fluffed carpet, and measured steps made no sound in the dark seminar room as the figure walked to the outer door, passing the enormous oak conference table in the center of the room. On the walls, glare from the lampposts along the nearby sidewalk reflected off the glass-covered aerial photographs of the university. It felt strange to be inside the building during off-hours, and the prowler thought that it would be very easy for anyone to trash select offices. At the moment, however, there was more serious business to see to.

The trespasser carefully turned the interior knob of the heavy door to the seminar room, emerging into the hallway. The solitary form stepped slowly to the stairwell and silently climbed the stairs to the third floor. Again the intruder rested a few moments, breathing heavily, before tiptoeing down the hall and turning the corner to peer at the office door of Professor Roxanne Badger. This was one of the two offices with its lights visibly on from outside the building.

Light filtered out past the edges of the flyer the professor had taped over the small window in her office door. The dark figure moved quickly to the door, pulled a glinting object from a sheath attached to a belt, put a gloved hand on the knob, and tried to turn it gently. The intruder tried again, applying more pressure, but to no avail. It was locked.

The prowler would have to knock. The shadowed form gripped the shining object and tapped its handle lightly on the dark old wooden door. A few moments passed, silent but for a few labored breaths. no one answered. The trespasser leaned close to the window and peered through a thin slit at its edge that the poster did not cover. The woman was not in her office. She had forgotten to turn her lights off.

"Shit," he muttered again. He had missed one target.

The figure retraced the route down the hall, with uncertainty in every step. Stopping at the stairway, hesitating, looking down the stairs, the invader decided what to do next. Instead of descending, the infiltrator crept slowly to another corner and peeked around it. Light shone brightly through a door that was left ajar in the third office from the end of the hall. The prowler heard paper rustling inside.

A smile formed under the hot, scratchy mask as the intruder gripped a stainless steel hunting knife with laminated wood handle and a five-inch blade with a gut hook.

It was just a few steps down the hall to the lighted office. It's just not safe to work at night in this building the mind thought as the face grinned.

MONDAY, 4:00 A.M.

Monique Blue Hawk opened her eyes and saw the outline of her Afrin squirt bottle and a tumped-over plastic water cup on the nightstand. A hazy dream drifted through her mind, although she couldn't say what the dream was. She dozed and dreamed more of the same, and during her thrashings flung her arm across the table and knocked the cup off the nightstand. That woke her up for good.

The ceiling fan whirled above her, creating a pleasant breeze. Steve, her husband, snored softly beside her, holding a teddy bear with his left arm and cradling their impressively ugly cat, Foogly, with his right. Monique wasn't sure how many men slept with a cat, much less a stuffed animal, but she did know that if she took either animal away from him, he'd toss and whimper. The bear friend was one of Steve's childhood things, one she had never understood. As a kid Monique had played with Tonka trucks and frogs.

It was no use trying to sleep. Monique kissed her finger and touched Steve's face. He slapped his face as if he thought a mosquito was sucking on his cheek. He sat up, looked around, and said, "I wanna pizza with extra mushrooms for dinner." Then he lay back down and hugged Bear. Foogly meowed indignantly and licked her calico butt.

Monique yawned and rubbed her temple. She had run too far yesterday, then lifted weights for half an hour without drinking enough water. All night she had paid for her workout with a dehydration headache that hadn't improved with the passage of time. She swallowed an ibuprofen with help from the extra water bottle stashed on the floor next to the bed, stood up, and, in the darkness, almost tripped over a pile of books, one of many stacked throughout the house. In the darkness she blindly pulled a CD from the wooden entertainment center and hoped that she'd picked Robert plant instead of Steve's Willie Nelson.

Monique made her way to the kitchen, where she flipped on the coffee pot that she had prepared the night before. After a few seconds of waiting for sounds of percolation that never came, she realized that she hadn't put in water. "Damn it," she muttered, filling the pot. She pinned up her long hair with two butterfly clips, turned on the stereo, slipped on headphones, and read Consumer Reports while slowly pedaling her recumbent bicycle.

No sunlight peeked through the curtains yet. Steve and their son Robbie normally woke at 7:00, early enough for Steve to get ready for work at his auto parts store and for Robbie to finish whatever eighth grade homework he hadn't completed the night before.

She set the resistance on high and peddled hard for half an hour before venturing out to get the paper. The sun was rising and the day felt like it would bring t-shirt weather. A box turtle puttered across the lawn. She picked him up and he promptly peed on her. She opened the gate that led to the back of their home, an old rambling ranch-style house that sat comfortably behind what soon would be a riot of wildflowers, elephant ears, crepe myrtles, and dozens of other plants that spanned the color spectrum. It had taken five years to design and grow the landscaping. If the newspaper girl threw the paper anyplace but on the walkway, Monique had to search for it in the jungle.

She took the turtle to the garden, where she had planted vegetables and herbs every place the sun shined. Sunflowers and tall cannas with orangey blossoms lined up against the fence.

"Hey Monique!" Her nosy neighbor called to her from his porch, where he drank early morning coffee and watched her. "Do you plan to enter your salsa and squash in the county fair again this year?"

"You bet," she yelled back. "and be very afraid."

Monique went inside to shower in the guest bathroom, then sat in the den lounge chair with its footrest elevated. She wore a pink camisole and girl's underwear that was supposed to look like boy's boxers. A bag of frozen peas lay across her right thigh and another on her left knee, from which most of the cartilage had been missing since a nasty fall off a horse ten years before. The permanent limp the doctor had promised her had improved into an occasional hobble that kicked in after a long run or hike.

On the end table next to Monique sat several bottles of her favorite liquids: grape Propel, Evian, V8 splash, Gatorade, an almost full bottle of white merlot. There was another smaller container of her trusty Advil and a half empty can of Budweiser. She looked around the den and assessed what she needed to do that weekend: seal the skylight on the west side before the next rain, strip and polish the wooden floor in front of the front door, and repot the unhappy decorative orange tree.

Because it was almost time for Monique's menstrual period and therefore headaches, a third bag of peas lay on top of her head. As she flipped on the television to see a rerun of the Crocodile Hunter, her fourteen-year-old son robbie wandered in, his shaggy hair tangled from flopping in his sleep.

"Good bike ride?" He yawned.

"Yes, baby. Thanks."

"Didn't you run last night?"

"Yes again. Thanks for noticing. Get ready for school."

"Doesn't your knee hurt?"

"Sort of."

"Then how come you make it worse?"

"Good question."

"Can I get a kayak?"

"You have a canoe."

"Yeah, but a kayak's different."

"We'll see."

"Ah, dang."

"I said maybe."

"Sa-hochvffo," he said.

"Nanta vpa chi-bvnna-o? oatmeal or cream of Wheat?"

"Total corn flakes sa banna hinla." He wandered off to wash his face.

The hot water heater thumped, meaning steve was in the shower. Monique looked at the clock.

"Yikes," she said out loud. It was 7:20 already.

"Robbie," she yelled, "you're going to have to cut up your own strawberries. I'm late for work."

She dropped the television flipper on the end table, almost toppling the drinks. The bag on her head fell off onto the floor, where the peas rolled out of the split pouch like marbles. "Damn it," she muttered, hurriedly scooping them up and dropping them into the garbage.

"I heard that, mom!" Robbie yelled from the bathroom. "You owe me a dollar!"

"Shit," she said in a whisper.

"Did you say 'shit'? Another dollar!"

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a four-foot dark ribbon moving fast along the floor, heading for the kitchen. "Damn."

"Another one!"

"Robbie, enough. Diesel's out. You left the top of his cage off. Kindly grab him before he gets behind the fridge again."

MONDAY, 8:05 A.M.

The three Central Highlands University police officers had completed the last patrols of their all-night shift when they received the call from the dispatcher about a dead person in a trashed office in anthropology. The sleepy men jerked to attention and turned on their sirens and flashers while they sped through the winding campus streets, their elaborately painted silver and blue Ford Tauruses looking more like escorts for the Dallas Cowboys than university patrol cars.

The officers parked crookedly in the small lot in front of anthropology, jumped out of their cars, and sprinted to one of the two front entrances. All three had master keys and they bumped into each other trying to unlock the door. Once inside, they looked cautiously up and down the corridor, then walked quickly to the departmental office to find Mary, the secretary.

"Up there," the thin, crying woman pointed. She looked ready for an afternoon of clam digging in her cream-colored Capri pants, brown mules, and a black T-shirt. "Third floor. The door's open." She sobbed wetly.

Jeff Ogden took charge. "Okay, men," said the lanky senior officer. His prominent Adam's apple moved up and down as he spoke. He wore thick glasses and carried an old .38 smith and Wesson in his holster, a tear gas canister strapped to his belt, and a snub-nosed .22 charter Arms velcroed above his left ankle. He backed up those weapons with a blackjack and heavy-handled flashlight. "You never know how belligerent a college student might get around finals week," he once told his inquisitive wife.

"I'll get tape to cordon off the stairs," he continued in a calm voice. "Richard," he said to sweaty rookie officer Richard Snelson, a big body-builder, "you call for backup now. We need guards at the front entrances and one in back to keep out faculty and students with keys." Snelson thought he might be sick. He'd never investigated a violent death before.

"Frank," Ogden said to Frank Villario, the jumpy Puerto Rican native who looked ready to make a quick draw if necessary, "sweep the building. I'll be back to help you in a minute." Frank stood with his shoulders hunched forward and fingers twitching in anticipation of finding a lurker in the hallways.

(Continues...)


Excerpted from DOCUMENT OF EXPECTATIONS by Devon Abbott Mihesuah Copyright © 2011 by Devon Abbott Mihesuah. Excerpted by permission of Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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