Merciless Page 4
That shut him down.
Mitzi swung by with Rollie’s pie.
“What’s goin’ on at the FBI?” he asked after a bite of lemon meringue.
“Mostly procedural courses behind a conference table.”
He lifted a dark brow so high it moved his PI hat up an inch. “That’s it? I heard Hoover’s henchmen are involved in the Shooting Star case.”
Nothing stayed secret for long on the Eagle River Reservation. “Yeah. Didn’t take long for her to go from missing to dead.” I paused to sip water. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothin’.”
Bullshit. Rumor was Rollie was more aware of rez happenings than the tribal cops. I’d have to ply him with flattery to unlock his lips. “Come on. You’ve got your ear to the ground. What’s your take on this?”
“I ain’t ever gonna snitch for the feds.”
“If you don’t want to give information to the feds, then why are you talking to me?”
Rollie’s gaze searched my face. “Mercy, we both know being a fed ain’t really you. How long you think you’ll last in the FBI?”
I bristled. Why would he imply I’d fail after having the badge for only a few weeks? “So I’d be better off pulling taps at Clementine’s?”
“Mebbe. At least when you were working for the winkte, you weren’t drinkin’ as much. And I guarantee what you see in this job will send you straight back to the bottle.”
“How can it be worse than what I dealt with in the army?”
He curled his hands around his coffee cup. “The feds in Indian Country deal with the bad stuff. The really bad stuff. Not just murders, but rapes. Child abuse. Sex crimes. All the sick stuff most people, even the cops, on the rez turn a blind eye to.”
“Why is that kind of shit allowed to slide?”
“Because it’s easier to ignore it than admitting one of your relatives is capable of raping a two-year-old. Or that burning a six-year-old with a cigarette is an acceptable form of discipline. Or sexually assaulting an eight-year-old with beer bottles and kitchen utensils is a form of entertainment. And those I mentioned? They’re not the worst cases.”
Bile rose, and I swallowed it down with a gulp of water. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life. I’ve watched how no jobs, no purpose, and too much alcohol affect the tribe.”
“What if I can make a difference?”
Rollie raised his eyes to mine. “Because you’ve got a dab of Indian blood?”
I blinked at him. That was more than a little snarky coming from the man who’d encouraged me to enroll in the tribe about eight months ago.
“Besides, you can’t make a difference. No one can. Watch yourself, Mercy, when you go digging into this bad stuff. There’s always someone wantin’ to keep their sick little secrets. There’s always someone wantin’ to prove they’re smarter than you.”
“Can you stop talking in riddles for one damn minute?”
He picked at the toasted meringue. As I formulated my next question, Rollie demanded, “Did Latimer bring in the feds right away when she went missin’?”
“Why?”
“’Cause he’ll milk this tragedy for all it’s worth, even though he really don’t give a damn about that girl.”
“No love lost between you and the tribal president?”
“He’s a self-serving prick who reeks of false piety.”
Harsh. “That doesn’t seem to be the general attitude on the rez. People have great hopes he’ll implement changes.”
“Two words that mean nothin’ in politics: hope and change. Especially not when it comes to his ideas.”
That didn’t sound like differing philosophies; it sounded personal. “How long have you known Latimer Elk Thunder?”
“Since before he became a white man in Indian skin.”
For Rollie that was an unforgivable offense—in men, anyway. “Are you guys business rivals or something?”
“Since he owns the only gas station on the rez, he ain’t got no rivals.”
“So were you rivals over a woman? You said some nasty stuff about my dad because you believe he stole my mother from you.”
He harrumphed and ate another bite of his pie.
“So you weren’t in love with his wife and she threw you over for Latimer?” I joked.
“Not hardly. I ain’t ever been impressed with her, either. Though she’s awful damn impressed with herself.” His black eyes met mine. “How was the niece killed?”
That was an abrupt subject change. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
“Was she brutalized before her body was discarded like an unwanted animal? Or after, at the dump site? I’m betting after.”
“Who told you this?”
He clammed up when Mitzi refilled his coffee.
“How did you know?” Dammit. I shouldn’t have let that slip. “Are you having some kind of visions like John-John?” I demanded.
Rollie snorted. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell nobody.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
He shoveled in a bite of white fluff. Then pointed his fork at me. “I didn’t tell you nothin’. I hazarded a guess.”
Outwardly, I managed a bored look. Inwardly, I imagined snatching away his pie.
“Ain’t ya gonna pull that high-handed fed crap and threaten to haul me in if I don’t cooperate?”
I offered a half shrug. “You haven’t actually given me any useful information, Rollie. You’re just guessing, right?”
“Guess you don’t know that Arlette Shooting Star ain’t the first dead girl to show up around here, and I doubt she’ll be the last.”
My jaw nearly hit the table.
Before I could formulate a response, he was gone.
3
On the drive home I couldn’t help but wonder what Rollie’s angle was. How could the FBI not be aware of other female deaths on the reservation that might relate to the Shooting Star case?
The crotchety old man had a bug up his butt about all law enforcement agencies—especially federal—since the American Indian Movement, known as AIM, uprisings in the 1970s. He refused to admit whether he’d been involved in the AIM violence. But given his issues with the government after his military discharge during the Vietnam War, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d masterminded some of the shit that’d gone down.
My dad hadn’t been sheriff during those rocky years, so I hadn’t known details about the outbreaks of fatal violence until I’d studied the case histories and investigations during my training at Quantico.
Since I’d already been assigned to an FBI office with multiple Indian reservations in the jurisdiction, I’d had to take extra classes on racial sensitivity and honoring traditional Indian customs within the confines of federal laws. Not even being a registered member of the Eagle River tribe had let me klepp out of the courses.
Although I’d been armed with information after the lectures, nothing I’d learned about that turbulent time was cut and dried. Emotions ran high, untruths abounded, subterfuge on both sides culminated in tribal members and FBI agents dying. Not a particularly proud moment for either AIM or the FBI. But I had a better understanding of Indian resentment … as well as the feds’ frustration.
So I had to question Rollie’s motive in telling me to look deeper. Was he trying to lead me off course? And if so, why?
At home I flipped on the TV and my laptop, nestling into the living room couch with a beer. I started my Internet search wide, going back twelve months, using the keywords: Indian reservations, women’s deaths, accidents, violence.
1,379 results popped up.
Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass. I narrowed the search to the local papers in western South Dakota and retrieved more manageable data. I started clicking on links, copying pertinent ones into a separate document.
Three obituaries from last year caught my notice. Each a month apart. The first one was for Tunisia Broken
Arrow, age twenty-two. Nothing in the obit about cause of death. The second one for Minneola “Mimi” Diggeman, age thirty. Again, nothing in the obit about cause of death. The third obituary was for Delia Moss, age twenty-seven. No listed cause of death.
How could all of these young women have died of natural causes? I cross-referenced the time frame, and none of the names were listed as car accident victims. Illness possibly? Or suicide?
I changed the parameters, going back twenty-four months, and found three more obituaries. All young women, all dead within a month of one another. None of the obits listed cause of death.
What the hell was going on? The only way to make any sense of this was to see the tribal PD’s report logs. There’d be a written report for a suicide. As well as a written report on a death due to exposure—I noticed these obits were mostly from the late fall/early winter months.
I knew I’d have to bring this up with Turnbull.
My cell phone buzzed with a text message from Dawson: Crushed under the weight of unfinished paperwork. Trying to catch up. Late night and early-morning shift means I’m crashing in my office tonight. Sorry. Miss you.
I miss you, too.
I hated that our schedules didn’t mesh, but that would probably always be a wrinkle in our private life together. No wonder cops had such high divorce rates. I sucked it up, swallowing the missing-my-man girly whine, then shut everything off and went to bed.
• • •
My sleep was fairly restful, considering the previous day’s disturbing events.
But as I drank coffee and looked at what the computer search engine had dredged up the night before, I knew I needed to talk to Rollie again—before I brought up my suspicions with Shay. Since we had interviews scheduled for first thing this morning, I’d drop by his place at the Diamond T after work tonight.
Jake must’ve come by early because the dogs weren’t around when I stepped onto the porch. I squinted at the sky. Another dreary day. The moist air seeped into my bones, and I shivered. Wet cold is worse than dry cold. I’d take winter in the high plains desert over winter in the supposed warmer clime of North Carolina. At least if it snowed, the dulled, gray, lifeless tones of late fall would be hidden beneath a blanket of white.
The parking lot at the tribal police station was nearly full—an odd occurrence this early in the morning on the rez. I remembered to put my FBI parking tag on the dash. Hopefully, that wouldn’t earn me a tire iron to the windows or headlights.
Inside, a dozen or so people crowded around the receptionist’s desk, arguing about wrongful incarceration of a family member. I dodged fighting kids and skirted a hefty woman in a wheelchair who was blocking the door. After winding my way through teetering boxes in the hallways, any calmness evaporated once I reached the conference room. I hated that I wanted Agent Turnbull here. I hadn’t dealt with the tribal cops much, and I was still finding my footing as to who was in charge in what circumstance.
Officer Ferguson was kicked back, with her boots on the table and a file folder obscuring most of her face. Those boots dropped with a thump when she saw me. “Sorry, Agent.”
“No problem.” I spied a coffeepot and poured myself a cup.
“Is your partner coming today?” she asked.
No surprise she’d be asking about Shay. The man’s amazing looks could’ve landed him on the cover of a historical western romance, where the scantily dressed, brave Brave held the virginal white girl in his big strong arms. “Special Agent Turnbull is not my partner. He’s my supervisor. So I assume he’ll show.”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” She gave me a curious look. “Do you think the reason we’re interviewing Arlette’s friends is because we’re women?”
Oddly enough, that comment relaxed me, because I’d had the same thought. “Probably. But I’ll take a dozen teenage girls in interview any day over one strung-out male meth head.” I sat across from her and sipped my coffee. “Do you know these friends of Arlette’s?”
She shook her head and slid me a file folder.
I skimmed the lone document. “Where’s the other girl’s statement?”
“That’s all we’ve got.”
I bit back a comment about the seemingly haphazard treatment of documents at the tribal PD. When I glanced up, I noticed the curtain to what I’d assumed was a window was now open. It wasn’t a window but a two-way glass to a viewing room. That’s where Turnbull would be.
Three raps sounded on the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. “Fergie? Are you ready for Naomi Malloy? The Kicking Bird family has taken over the front office, and she’s getting spooked.”
Officer Ferguson looked at me and I nodded. “Bring her in.”
After the door closed, I said, “So … Fergie, huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “I got that nickname after Fergie, the former Duchess of York, became a household name, but before Fergie, from the Black Eyed Peas, became popular.” She smirked. “But I’m sure you can see my resemblance to the latter.”
Redheaded Officer Ferguson was about five feet three and as curvy as a tipi pole.
“One of my nicknames in the army was Gunny, which pissed off the marines we were stationed with, because that name is used exclusively for a male gunnery sergeant. They still gave me the stink eye after I pointed to my name patch and explained Gunny was short for Gunderson.”
“Fucking jarheads,” she muttered. “I was in the air force for a decade, so I know how they are.”
“You were military police?”
Fergie nodded. “Ended up stationed at Ellsworth for the last of my enlistment. Met a native guy, moved to the rez, got a cop job … and here I am.”
“He fell in love with your lovely lady lumps?”
She grinned and started to retort, but the door swung inward, sucking the humor from the room. The ashen face of a young Indian girl reminded us of our unpleasant task.
I stood and offered my hand. “Naomi? I’m Special Agent Gunderson of the FBI. Thank you so much for coming in to speak with us.”
“Why don’t you sit here.” Officer Ferguson offered her a seat between us. “That way we won’t have to shout at each other to be heard. You want coffee or water?”
Naomi shook her head and slid into the chair.
I studied her openly. Long, straight hair scraped back into a ponytail. Eyes heavily lined with black eye shadow. She peeled back the oversized, black ski jacket. The puffiness of her down-filled coat made her look much huskier than her actual slight stature. Rings adorned all ten of her fingers. Her fingernails were painted black, but the polish was mostly chipped off.
She tugged down a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words TEAM JACOB, and I bit back a groan. A Twi-hard. My sister had convinced me to watch the first Twilight movie, and I had done so with extreme cynicism, leaving on my running shoes to make a fast getaway. But the flick was entertaining, despite the bucket loads of teen angst.
“Since you’re a minor, we can wait to begin until there’s a parent or guardian present.”
“My mom’s dead; my dad’s in jail. I live with my grandma, and she don’t get around too good. I don’t need anyone’s permission to talk.”
I glanced at Fergie, and she shrugged, as if to indicate that this happened regularly. “If it’s all right with you, we’ll start with the basics. How well did you know Arlette?”
Naomi twisted her rings. “We hung out. We liked the same books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Vampire ones, mostly.” Her chin came up, daring me to make fun of her.
I played dumb. “Vampire books like Dracula or the ones Anne Rice writes?”
“No. Like the Twilight series.” She pointed to her T-shirt. “Like the Vampire Academy series. The Vampire Diaries.”
“Ah. Did you and Arlette see each other outside of school hours to talk about your shared interest of vampire books?”
“Yes, as often as we could.”
“Would you meet at her house?”
“How was her relationship with her uncle?”
“In front of other people, like tribal members, he acted as if he liked having her around. But when it was just them two and her aunt? He wasn’t nice to her, and she heard him say he couldn’t wait until she was gone.”
My gaze narrowed. “Did you hear him say that?”
“Once. On one of the rare times I stayed over at her house. I needed a drink of water, and I overheard him and Arlette’s aunt arguing in the living room. He said he’d never wanted kids—his own or anyone else’s—and maybe if they were lucky, Arlette would screw up just like her mother had, and then they’d be rid of her.”
“Did you tell Arlette what you overheard?”
She shook her head. “It would’ve made her feel worse because she knew her uncle didn’t want her around.”
Rotten luck to overhear such a cruel remark in light of what happened to her friend. “Did Arlette ever tell you that her uncle physically hurt her? Or threatened to hurt her?”
“I don’t think so. He just said mean shit to her all the time. Especially after he’d been drinking.” Naomi’s eyes widened with fear. “You won’t tell him I said any of that?”
“No. Everything you tell us is confidential.” I glanced up from the scant notes I’d jotted in my notebook. “Who else did Arlette hang around with?”
“We were both kinda loners. People made fun of our interest in vampire books.” Naomi scowled. “She sometimes hung out with Mackenzie Red Shirt. But only when Mackenzie wanted something.”
“Like what?”
“Like a ride to one of the parties out at Dickie’s slough. Or if she wanted Arlette to do a report for her.”
“What would Arlette get in return?”
Naomi became interested in the frayed end of her scarf.
After a silent minute or two, Officer Ferguson prompted, “Naomi?”
She looked up at me. “Mackenzie kept promising to introduce Arlette to this older guy she’d been crushing on.”