Merciless Page 3

  I’d never been a fan of forensic shows. Since joining the FBI I’d had to learn forensic science, not just to look for the physical clues that often get left behind. The victim’s body trauma leads profilers to a specific type of person capable of carrying out such a violent crime. I’d often wondered what these profilers would make of my sniper tactics.

  You’ll think of anything to take your mind off the reality of this young girl being abducted. Tortured. Probably raped before she was brutalized.

  “Agent Gunderson?”

  My focus snapped back to Turnbull. “Yes?”

  Before he could give instructions, another vehicle screeched up. Doors flew open. The all-male tribal police were much slower to react than I was.

  I heard the agonized shriek and managed to get ahold of the woman running toward the crime scene. Triscell Elk Thunder, I presumed. But she was determined, and she dragged me a few steps before I solidified my stance.

  “Arlette?” she screamed, fighting me. “Arlette!”

  “Ma’am. Stop. Calm down.”

  “Is that her?” She twisted and jerked.

  I literally dug my heels in and held on.

  She continued to flail. “Let me go!”

  “No. You don’t want to see her like this.”

  That angered her even more. “You have no idea—”

  “Yes, I do.” I shook her then. Hard. And got right in her face. “Listen to me. Trust me. You don’t want to see her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t erase it, once you see her like that. It’ll never go away. It won’t give you any closure. It’ll haunt you. Is that what you want? To have that memory every time you think of her?”

  She stopped thrashing.

  I could feel everyone around us staring. Waiting. I wasn’t certain I hadn’t somehow overstepped my bounds.

  Her resolve and resistance vanished. She crumpled to the ground with heart-wrenching sobs.

  A tall, older Indian man—whom I saw only from the back and assumed to be her husband, Tribal President Latimer Elk Thunder—dropped to his knees in front of her, blocking her view of Arlette. He coaxed her back into their vehicle. He spoke briefly, angrily to a tribal cop, and then they left.

  Numb from the cold, I waited by a fallen log. I remembered this area was lush and gorgeous in late spring. Sloping hills of green dotted with wildflowers. Cottonwood and elm trees budded out, sunlight glinting off waxy new leaves. The breeze blowing across the pond would be heavy with the scent of fresh vegetation and sun-warmed earth. Now this place was an ugly reminder of the encroaching harshness of winter.

  Turnbull finished his instructions to the ambulance crew. I didn’t know these EMTs, since they were from the tribal dispatch, although I’d been involved with the Eagle River County Emergency Services personnel so many times in the last year and a half I knew them all by name. Not exactly a badge of honor.

  Agent Turnbull approached me. “I’m sending the body to Rapid City. Someone from the crime lab can pull the urine and blood tests. If not, we’ll have the county coroner perform the exam.”

  “Exam? No autopsy?”

  He shook his head. “Standard procedure in Indian Country. For most traditional Indian families, an autopsy is considered a desecration of the body and the spirit. Especially in children.”

  My gaze flicked to Arlette’s bloodied, naked body being zipped in a black bag. “And what was done to her isn’t?”

  “I don’t make the rules. But we’ve gotta follow them. See you at the tribal police station.”

  • • •

  My first official murder case as an FBI agent.

  The prospect of an interview with Triscell Elk Thunder tied my stomach in knots. I understood the necessity of questioning the victim’s family ASAP, so I was grateful that Carsten McGillis, a victim specialist—VS—with the FBI, had driven from Rapid City.

  Given how Triscell had acted at the crime scene, I half expected that she’d burst in and act hysterical, spouting threats. But her stoic demeanor, her weariness, dug into me like a hidden thorn.

  Witnessing her grief sent me spiraling back to the day of Levi’s murder. Sadness and horror warred with my need for vengeance, not justice. I participated minimally in the interview, taking my own notes of what I believed would be pertinent information. A couple of things stood out to me:

  (1) Arlette didn’t have her cell phone on her person when she disappeared. What I knew of teens? They always had their cell within reach. The fact that Arlette’s phone was in her locker made me wonder if the killer had put it back after the fact.

  (2) Arlette’s status as the niece of the new tribal president made her a higher-profile victim. Arlette’s murder could’ve been a calculated move aimed at Latimer Elk Thunder in an attempt to distract him from tribal business. I put a question mark after that.

  (3) But if the distraction angle was the intent, why wasn’t the tribal president here holding his wife’s hand? According to the tribal cops, he’d gone back to work at tribal headquarters immediately after leaving the crime scene. Arlette’s murder hadn’t seemed to cause more than a hiccup in his normal schedule.

  (4) Why weren’t any of Triscell’s friends or other family members with her, lending support in her husband’s absence? In a community this small, even a fair-weather friend would offer to stand by her, if only for the opportunity to get the inside scoop for gossip.

  Turnbull’s interview technique resembled a disorganized fishing expedition. I’d had my fill of his borderline bullying tactics when I saw fresh tears rolling down Triscell’s cheeks.

  Carsten jumped in before I did. “Enough, Agent Turnbull. Mrs. Elk Thunder needs a break. Let her go home. She’s been extremely helpful.”

  Turnbull offered an imperious “A word, Miz McGillis?” and stood. He probably intended to blister her ear about undermining his leadership role. He thanked Triscell Elk Thunder for her cooperation. Then he ushered Carsten and the others from the room, leaving me alone with her.

  A sigh echoed to me. I figured she wouldn’t stick around, but I felt her stare as I feigned concentration on shuffling and reshuffling the papers in front of me like a Deadwood poker dealer.

  “You’ve been through this before.” She paused and clarified, “On the civilian side, not as an FBI agent.”

  Astute. I nodded.

  “With who?”

  “My nephew. Levi Arpel.”

  “I remember that. Happened about a year and a half ago?”

  “Sixteen months.” Hard not to keep track. Sometimes it felt as if that brutal day had been yesterday; other times it seemed years had passed since I’d found him.

  “That’s right. You shot the guy who did it. Leo … what’s his face. The hippie teacher.”

  I almost corrected her—it was Theo—but refrained because I refused to speak the man’s name. Still, I tensed. I suspected her next question would be to ask if killing him had offered me any closure.

  Goddammit. I did not want to justify my act of self-defense, which had ended Theo’s life, or to wait for her to ask about some magical coping mechanisms for grief after a violent death. That fit into Carsten’s job description as VS, not mine.

  I pushed back from the conference table, focused on sliding all my papers into a manila folder. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Elk Thunder.”

  “Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just …” She sighed. “I feel guilty. Arlette had changed in the last month, and I just went about my own life, assuming she was just being a teenage girl. I should’ve tried harder, and I have to live with that.”

  Big mistake looking at her. Her dark brown eyes brimmed. I softened my tone. “We will do everything we can to find out who did this to Arlette.”

  “FBI party line.” She sniffed.

  I rather pointedly held the door open for her. After she sailed through it, I pressed my back against the wall, waiting three full minutes before I ventured out of the room.

  The buildi
ng, constructed in the 1950s, had weathered tornados, an attempted burning, and vandalism—the aftereffects still lingered inside, years later. The place was a disaster. Shit was piled everywhere: broken office equipment, empty coffee cans, old uniforms, boxes overflowing with papers. I hoped they weren’t important papers, but since they were stacked next to filing cabinets marked ARREST RECORDS, I had to assume they were.

  I wondered why no one cared to clean up or at least attempt to organize the mess. Taxpayers who complained about red tape and lost paperwork would have a field day in here. But the tribal police didn’t have to play by the same rules as county or federal cops. All areas, with the exception of the conference room, were dirty and jam-packed with junk. No wonder my dad had hated coming here. Now I understood Dawson’s frustration, too.

  By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of coffee.

  No sign of Carsten.

  Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.

  “Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.

  I faced him. “Just wondering what’s next on the agenda today?”

  “Nothin’. But two of the victim’s friends scheduled interviews tomorrow.”

  “Really? They volunteered?”

  Turnbull gave me the assessing stare that signaled he was in senior agent mode. “Apparently. Why?”

  “Didn’t you get the impression from Mrs. Elk Thunder that Arlette didn’t have any friends?”

  “Adults know way less about what their kids are up to than they wanna admit.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “So are we done for the day?”

  He sipped his coffee. “Yep. Looks like I’m the one with the long commute today, hey?”

  Reverting to Indian speak. How … calculating of Special Agent Turnbull. Did he think the change in speech pattern gave the tribal cops the impression he was just another rez kid who’d made good? Please. He’d been raised in Flandreau. The Santee tribe had piles more money than the Minneconjou Sioux. “Can’t say I’m unhappy about being so close to home. I just needed to clarify if we’re meeting here tomorrow, and not at the VS offices.”

  “Far as I know. Carsten is scheduled in court and won’t be assisting us with the interviews.”

  “Thanks. Have a good evening, sir.”

  He nodded and gave me his back, returning to his conversation with Officer Spotted Bear.

  The wind sliced into me as I crossed the parking lot. The temperature must’ve dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. Pewter clouds hung low, heavy with the threat of snow.

  I climbed into my new—albeit used—Ford F-150. My dad’s old truck had finally crapped out and had been relegated to feed-truck status on the ranch. As I zipped down the black ribbon of empty highway, darkness already obliterating the foggy tinge of daylight, I sang along with Little Big Town about living in the boondocks, realizing I didn’t want to go home. Dawson wouldn’t be there, which was a total fucking girly excuse for avoiding the place.

  I hadn’t been in Clementine’s for a month, which might have actually been a new record for me, not counting the months I was out of town. But I wasn’t in the mood to chitchat with John-John or any of the regulars I had slung drinks for during my stint as a bartender. Lunch had been the last thing on my mind after I’d spent the morning at the crime scene. Now it was close to suppertime, and I was starved.

  Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.

  The homey aroma of warm bread and strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for the menu strategically placed along the wall.

  A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”

  But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”

  Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi beat me to the punch.

  “Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”

  We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling so cooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations. Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see what he does.”

  Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”

  I don’t know which annoyed me more—that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers. I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”

  “Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”

  Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”

  “Borscht or chicken noodle.”

  Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”

  “I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.

  “I know. Water’s fine to drink.”

  As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a scritch-scratch sound with every step.

  I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping my eyes closed, I focused on uji breathing to center myself.

  But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.

  Had Turnbull gotten the same impression? If so, why hadn’t he said anything to me? As a test? To see if I’d ask about bringing it to the attention of an FBI profiler?

  I couldn’t fathom being an FBI profiler. Sitting in an office, running probability and statistics on potential violent behavior. Knowing someone was out there waiting to strike again and being unable to stop it would be worse than dealing with the victim, the family, and the crime scene.

  Dishes rattled, and I opened my eyes as Mitzi slid my soup in front of me, hash browns to the left, bread to the right. “Anything else?”

  “Nah. I’m good for now.”

  The soup was hearty, the hash browns crispy and greasy. I was mopping up the last of the gravy with my dinner roll when the bench seat across from me creaked. I glanced up into Rollie Rondeaux’s placid face.

  That was a surprise. Rollie had all but vanished from my life. I’d called him after I returned from Quantico, but he had never called me back, or stopped by the ranch just to shoot the breeze, or take me for a joyride in his crappy truck. It’d been months since we’d laid eyes on each other. And to be honest, I was a little pissy about the situation, even when I knew what’d changed things between us: my status as a federal employee.

  Mitzi clomped over with a cup of coffee for Rollie and rattled off the pie selection.

  After he ordered pie, I wiped my mouth and casually asked, “What brings you into town?”

  “Outta diapers, and Besler’s is the only place that carries the tiny ones Verline wants.”

&nbs
p; “How is Verline?” Rollie’s live-in, Verline, had given birth to their second child prematurely, right after I’d returned from Virginia. I’d made a care package. Okay, Hope had done all the work, but I’d delivered it to their trailer.

  A package neither Verline nor Rollie had acknowledged.

  Rollie rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “Verline is …” He sighed. “Ain’t no way to describe how she’s been actin’ lately. I volunteered to go on a diaper run. Now that I’m out of the house I don’t wanna go back.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Trouble in paradise?”

  “Paradise.” He snorted. “Like hell most days. I’m too old for this cryin’-baby stuff, Mercy. I’m definitely too damn old to deal with a temperamental woman. Half the time I wanna throttle her.”

  I frowned.

  “She’s drivin’ me crazy, hey. Drivin’ me to drink.”

  “Like you’ve ever needed an excuse to drink. Besides, you’ve always said Verline makes you crazy. It’ll blow over.”

  His braids swayed when he shook his head. “Not this time.” He sipped his coffee. “What’s goin’ on with you and Dawson?”

  “You’d know the answer to that if you ever called me, kola.”

  He shrugged. “Been too busy dealing with my own stuff to worry about someone else’s.” His gaze dropped to my left hand. “You ain’t wearing his ring.”

  “I doubt you’ve dropped to one knee and proposed to Verline, and you’ve been with her longer than I’ve been with Dawson.”

  “Ain’t the same thing. I know he’s asked you.”

  No reason to lie. Dawson asked me to marry him every week. He just brought it up when the mood struck him. But I kept hedging. Not saying no, but more along the lines of, Can we talk about this later?

  “Mebbe the fact you ain’t said yes means he ain’t the man for you.”

  “As if I’ll take relationship advice from the old-timer who’s been divorced multiple times and is shacked up with a girl who can’t legally buy a six-pack.”

  “You got a mean streak, Mercy.”

  “Like that’s news. Besides, you’ve had issues with every man who’s ever been in my life, starting with my father.”