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wasn’t,” Tommy Lee said. “The heritage of the tribe has benefited from the influx of casino money. And increased tourism means increased opportunities to tell the real Cherokee story, not just sell rubber tomahawks and cheap jewelry.” He turned left and then made a U-turn in the museum’s parking lot. “I got talking and missed the road to the police station.”
    A mammoth carving of an Indian head bordered the entrance to the museum. Imagine a tall totem pole but with only one image, a long rugged face with a single feather pointing from a headband to the sky. Tears were permanently sculpted in the corner of the eyes, never to roll any farther down the high cheekbones.
    â€œThat’s quite a statue,” I said.
    â€œSequoyah,” Tommy Lee said.
    â€œThe tree?”
    He laughed. “Tree and subject. The carving was made on a single redwood log that was a gift from the Georgia-Pacific Company. That’s Sequoia the wood. Sequoyah the man was the Cherokee who invented the alphabet for their language so they could match the writing advantage of the European settlers.”
    â€œWhy not just learn English?”
    â€œBecause the Cherokee are a proud people and losing their language would have killed their culture. Sequoyah is a heroic figure, a genius really, and they claim he’s the only individual in known history to single-handedly create a written language.”
    â€œI see the word Indian everywhere. I thought that was politically incorrect.”
    Tommy Lee turned onto the main road and backtracked a block. “There’s pushback on the label Native American. A feeling that once again they’re being lumped into a category created by others and diluting their unique identity.”
    â€œSo, if I try to be politically correct I’ll offend them?”
    â€œBarry, I’m confident you’ll find a way to be offensive no matter what you say.”
    If the casino revenues were pouring money into the tribe, the flow was bypassing the facilities of the police department. The small single-story building sat on a ridge above the river and town. The metal front door could have used a fresh coat of paint, but impressing visitors wasn’t its purpose. Restricting access seemed to be the primary function.
    A sign instructed us to press the intercom button to announce our intentions. One didn’t just walk into the station.
    â€œMay I help you?” A woman’s voice vibrated through a tinny speaker.
    â€œSheriff Tommy Lee Wadkins and Deputy Barry Clayton to see Detective Sergeant Hector Romero.”
    â€œRomero?” I whispered.
    â€œMarriage on and off the reservation has created the same variety of surnames you’ll find in any American community. I’ve worked with Hector before. He’s a good man.”
    The door buzzed and Tommy Lee yanked it open.
    We entered a short hall that resembled an airlock. On the left, a woman sat behind a glass partition that looked more like a movie ticket booth than a receptionist’s office. A clipboard with a sign-in sheet lay on a ledge. A coiled tether insured no one abducted the attached ballpoint pen.
    â€œWrite your name and the time, please,” the woman said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
    Tommy Lee signed for both of us while the receptionist picked up the phone and spoke to someone.
    â€œHe’ll be out in a moment,” she announced. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
    Making ourselves comfortable meant sitting in the two battleship-gray steel chairs pushed against the far wall of the cramped space. Neither Tommy Lee nor I took advantage of such luxury.
    We couldn’t have waited more than a minute before the inner door opened only to be filled by a man of roughly the same size and proportions. Jet black hair topped a square head. His chest was long and broad, adding more to his height than his legs, which were each as thick as my waist.