Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry

I’ll permanently forget about your little indiscretion with the marijuana and the booze.”
    â€œYou are all lathered up. What’s this Indian done?”
    â€œHe tried to rip off some fossil tracks at the Big Toe museum. Got himself blown to bits with faulty equipment and burned beyond recognition. It’s been on the news and in the paper.”
    Cyrus’ eyes sparked with interest. “Like I said, I’ve been sick. And when I haven’t been laid on my back, I’ve been working the night shift at that crappy job at the meat packing plant.”
    Flynn exhaled. They’d had this discussion before. With his brains and looks, Cyrus could have made something of himself. Maybe gotten a degree in Agriscience or even a doctorate in veterinary medicine. He’d always had a penchant for tending to animals. Instead he’d led a life filled chapter and verse with petty crimes of assault and battery, misdemeanor drug trafficking, car theft, and B & Es. So far, he’d only ended up in minimum security prisons or places like the Wyoming Honor Farm in Riverton. He’d been lucky.
    â€œStop scratching an old itch. It’s part of the parole package. If you’d kept your sticky paws clean, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”
    Cyrus puffed his cigarette and considered Flynn’s words. “And why exactly am I supposed to know the right people? I’m not an Injun.”
    â€œDon’t play dumb. At Riverton you trained mustangs in the wild horse adoption program sponsored by the BLM for eighteen months as part of your rehabilitation. You know a lot of jailbirds who might know this Indian. I need a lead and I want to notify his family. Every man deserves a decent burial, even a thief.”
    â€œYou must think he’s an ex-con. Why?”
    â€œDon’t ask questions. You just pounce on this. Get me some results.”
    â€œI might be able to pull in some favors,” Cyrus said, sniffing and wiping a hand under his runny nose. “I’ve got to make some long distance calls, though. You going to pay for them?”
    â€œI think the police department can foot the bill, but stick to business. No bullshit sessions with your old cell mates on my dime. Work with me Cyrus, and you’ll be doing a good thing for once in your miserable life.”
    Smoke funneled out of Cyrus’ nostrils. “I’ll get back to you.”
    â€œNo. I’ll get back to you. Don’t disappoint me.” He pulled some cash from his uniform pocket. “And go see a doctor.”
    â€œSure,” Cyrus said, grinding the butt in an ash-filled jar lid and grabbing the money. Then he plopped back onto the cushions, stretched out, and turned his back on Flynn. “I gotta rest. I’m working tonight.”
    Flynn gave one last lingering look at Cyrus and pivoted toward the door. He paced by a waist-high stack of teetering cardboard boxes when moonlight glinted off metal. He glanced down and saw a key ring probably tossed on the top carton when Cyrus had stumbled into the house drunk or stoned.
    The braided horsehair dangle contained several keys and a miniature bottle cap opener. It rested on a pair of black leather Flex gloves and a matching balaclava. What was Cyrus doing with a total-protection, night gear hood? Nothing legal, that was for sure. Stupid leaving such things by the front entrance, but Cyrus hadn’t expected him.
    Flynn moved slow and easy onto the porch, then went down the steps. As he neared the Camino’s pick-up end, he took a quick glance behind him. Cyrus was nowhere to be seen. Flynn perused the flatbed and saw scattered tools - ten-pound sledge hammer, a shovel, pry bar, an assortment of cold chisels.
    Something special caught his eye and he reached in. Bright moonlight illuminated the dark rock nestled inside his palm. He could make out a three-inch long pitted surface with one broad end and the other tapering into an