Merciless

by Lori Armstrong

  “At the tribal PD.” Turnbull smirked. “I’ll leave you and the sheriff to discuss your private business. Coordinating day-care pickup, supper plans, and such.”

  Jerk.

  Dawson sighed. “Indian Fabio giving you grief about my kid?”

  Given where we were, I couldn’t even crack a smile at Dawson’s nickname for Turnbull. “You think I can’t handle myself with him?”

  “With who? Lex? Or Turnbull?”

  “Either.”

  “I’ve no doubt Turnbull is the way he is around you, or around us, because he doesn’t know what to make of you, or us.”

  Was he purposely being vague? “I’m pretty sure your son doesn’t know what to make of me after the situation this morning,” I muttered.

  Dawson discreetly reached for my hand. “I talked to Lex about it—as much as he’d let me. We’ll just have to remember to lock our bedroom door. I definitely don’t want that part of us to change just because we’ve got an eleven-year-old living with us.”

  “Me neither.” I squeezed his hand before letting mine drop away. “Text me later.”

  “Good luck with the rest of your day. You’ll probably need it.”

  10

  Officer Ferguson dropped her vehicle at the tribal HQ and hopped into mine. I didn’t ask if she was familiar with Nita Dupris’s address or whether she’d had to look it up.

  The Dupris house was a trailer that’d been added on to in several places. Four cars were parked on the yard. A baby-blue, free-form swimming pool, the edges collapsed in, squatted next to a molded plastic playhouse. Broken toys were strewn everywhere. Tonka trucks and plastic guns, swords and Happy Meal figurines. Naked dolls that eerily resembled forgotten babies. Frozen to the ground were white lumps that looked like piles of snow but were discarded diapers.

  I knew nothing of Verline’s family, but what I saw outside this house told me everything I needed to know.

  Fergie sighed. “You taking the lead on this?”

  My pride didn’t allow me to admit I’d never before been the bearer of bad news, in an official capacity. “Sure. I’ve got a whole pocket full of zip ties.”

  She didn’t crack a smile.

  “Let’s get it done.” I beat on the siding six times, hoping the noise would cut through the cartoons I heard blaring on the TV.

  After two minutes passed with no response, I pounded again.

  The inner door swung open, leaving the torn screen hanging between us.

  An Indian woman of indeterminate age barked, “What?”

  I asked, “Are you Nita Dupris?”

  “Yeah. So? Who are you?”

  “I’m Special Agent Gunderson with the FBI.” I gestured to Fergie. “This is—”

  “I know her,” Nita said crossly. “What do you want?”

  “We’re here”—a beat passed as I struggled for the appropriate words—“to talk to you about your daughter, Verline Dupris.”

  “I ain’t seen that little shit for three days. So whatever she’s gone and done, I don’t know nothin’ about it.” Her harsh gaze settled on Officer Ferguson in her uniform. “And if she’s in jail, she knows better than to ask me to bail her dumb ass out.”

  “Actually, Verline isn’t in jail. She was found at the landfill a couple of hours ago.”

  “Landfill? What was she doin’ …?” Nita’s lips flattened. “She hurt or something?”

  “No, ma’am. She’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  Nita didn’t break down. Nothing in her face or her posture softened. “You’re sure it’s her.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She was positively identified.”

  “By who? That fucking lowlife Rollie Rondeaux? Or by his loser son, Junior?”

  Before either of us could answer, another Indian woman, about thirty, holding a toddler, sidled beside Nita in the doorway. “Momma? What’s goin’ on?”

  “Your sister Verline has gone and gotten herself killed.”

  “What?” The sister glared at us. “That’s why these asshole cops are here? To tell us Verline’s dead? Where the hell were you when—”

  “Maureen. Enough. They don’t care.”

  What were we supposed to do? Protest that we did care? Ask to be invited in so we could witness their grief to make sure they cared? Because I sure as hell wasn’t seeing any sadness.

  Don’t judge.

  Jesus, I wished Carsten was here. She’d do a much better job.

  Another Indian woman, who looked identical to Maureen, bulled her way up to the door. “What the fuck do the cops want, Momma, and why ain’t you throwed them off the steps yet?”

  “Hush, Carline, you’ll wake the babies.”

  “They say Verline’s dead,” Maureen said.

  Carline was the first to show any upset about the news. She gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. “My baby sister is dead? How?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine,” I said.

  In the background kids shouted. The diaper-clad baby in Maureen’s arms wailed.

  “Momma,” Maureen started, “we gotta tell—”

  “I know what we gotta do.” Nita glared at us. “You done what you came to do. Now get the hell away from us.”

  “This is a difficult time,” I said with as much empathy as I could muster, “but we’ll need to ask questions and get statements from all of you. As soon as possible.”

  “Where? At the cop shop?”

  I nodded.

  “Fuck that,” Carline spat. “I ain’t gonna do it. You can’t make me neither.”

  “True. But I’d think you’d want us to catch the person who killed your sister, and to do that, we’ll need more information than we’ve got now.”

  “I can tell you exactly who killed her,” Maureen snapped. “Rollie Rondeaux. Check that motherfucker’s alibi.”

  “Yeah,” Carline piped in.

  “Look, I’d like to give you time to process this tragedy, but time is important. So we’ll expect to see all of you at the tribal police station. Before three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “And if we don’t show?” Nita asked me.

  “Then we’ll think one—or all—of you have something to hide. We’ll write a warrant for each one of you to appear at FBI headquarters in Rapid City. It’ll drag the process out for months. You’ll be as tired of seeing cops on your doorstep as we’ll be of showing up here, forcing your cooperation so we can prove that we do care, that we intend to lock up whoever murdered Verline. So put a lid on whatever issue you’ve got with law enforcement and trot yourselves down to the tribal police station before three o’clock today. If for no other reason than you owe it to Verline.”

  I gave them my back and stomped on the debris littering the ground as I strode toward my truck.

  Doubtful that Carsten would’ve approved of that outburst, even if it was a tame response from me.

  Officer Ferguson didn’t have anything to add and didn’t speak until we’d returned to the tribal PD parking lot. “Well, that was fun.”

  I pocketed my keys and faced her. “I take it that wasn’t the first time you’d landed on Nita’s doorstep.”

  She shook her head. “Far from it. We get several calls during the year with reports of domestic disturbances. Usually the neighbors call it in, and we’re obliged to check it out. And even if one of them is beat to hell and bleeding? No one ever presses charges.”

  “Who’s involved in the domestics?”

  “Nita’s daughters, never the same one. And I have a helluva time keeping them straight.”

  “How many kids does she have?”

  “Nine. Two boys and seven girls. Ten years ago, her teenage daughter—I think her name was Arlene—died in a hit-and-run, and the family blamed the cops for some reason. Five years ago, her daughter Eileen was killed in a car accident. Both her sons are in the state pen. Now she’s lost another kid.” Fergie shook her head. “It’s sad. No matter how much we wanna help them, nothin’ changes. My understanding is tha
t Nita got smacked around all the time by her kids’ assorted baby daddies. For a while, rather than allowing her kids to get placed in foster care, they were shuffled among family members. But since her first daughter died, Nita has kept most the family together. Including her sons’ kids and most of her grandkids. I’ve been told almost two dozen people live in that trailer.”

  And that information, while appreciated, sent off a warning that Officer Ferguson knew way more about the Dupris family than just gossip. She must’ve read my expression because she blushed.

  “I only know all that because I busted Nita’s daughter Doreen two years ago for possession. She did ninety days in jail. None of her family came to see her. As soon as she got out, she packed up her two kids and moved to Rapid. So she is trying to break the cycle. I just hope when she comes back here—”

  “She doesn’t get sucked in again.”

  She nodded.

  “Me, too. Let’s see what other shitty tasks the boys have lined up for us.”

  The tribal police station was surprisingly quiet. But before I snagged a cup of crappy coffee, Turnbull hailed me.

  He waited outside a closed door to a room I’d never been in. “What’s up?”

  “The tribal president is here, and he wants an update on where we are on the Shooting Star case.”

  I frowned. “You’re the senior agent. Why didn’t you handle it?”

  His golden brown eyes held suspicion. “You tell me, Gunderson, because he specifically asked for you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because I assume he’s tired of seeing my ugly mug.”

  “Ugly,” I snorted. “Right, pretty boy.”

  Shay leaned a fraction closer. “Seriously. No postulating, no wild theories, just the facts we know, okay?”

  “Fine. But we’d know a helluva lot more if we’d been allowed to interview him.”

  “I think so, too. But watch your step with him.”

  I pushed open the door to the office.

  Latimer Elk Thunder finished his cell phone conversation and rose, thrusting his hand across the table. “Special Agent Gunderson. Good to see you again.”

  I shook his hand. “Likewise, President Elk Thunder.”

  “Please. Have a seat,” he said. “Could we get you anything to drink?”

  “No. I’m good.” Rather than make small talk about the weather or ask if he regularly took over the tribal police chief’s office, I said, “So I understand from Special Agent Turnbull that you want a status report on your niece’s case?”

  “Only in how it relates to the other young woman found murdered this morning.”

  I felt Turnbull’s quizzical gaze but didn’t acknowledge it. “To be honest, sir, I’ve barely had time to catch my breath this morning, let alone look at the possible correlations between the cases.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I was under the impression there was already a suspect in the Dupris case.”

  I didn’t bother to mask my reaction. “Your impression—your information—is wrong. We’ve brought no one in for questioning. And we just informed Verline Dupris’s next of kin of her death. So I’m suggesting you allow us at least a couple of days to proceed with this investigation before we start checking to see if there are similarities.”

  He leveled a cool gaze on me. Expecting I’d crack under the weight of his disapproving stare? I’d have been offended if his puffed-up attempt at intimidation wasn’t so laughable—and predictable. I studied him with equal aloofness.

  Latimer Elk Thunder dressed to impress. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face mostly smooth, save for the wrinkles on his forehead and bracketing his mouth. I might call him a distinguished elder, but that seemed premature. Far as I knew, he’d done nothing to earn that honor.

  “Well, Agent Gunderson. I’ll admit I’m disappointed in your verbal report. I’d hoped bringing the FBI in on this would result in much quicker … results. But I appreciate your taking the time to explain the reason why there’s been little to no progress.”

  For fuck’s sake, Mercy, bite your goddamn tongue.

  “Let my secretary know when you have new information, and she’ll schedule an appointment.”

  Dismissed. Thank God. I booked it out of the room, Turnbull on my heels. I didn’t stop moving until I pushed through the door to the stairs. When I looked at Shay, he was grinning in a way that annoyed me. “What?”

  “Well done, grasshopper.”

  “I’ve been dressed down by generals. I know how to placate the brass on the fly, even if it’s not what they want to hear.”

  “Good to know.” He rested one shoulder against the wall. “Anything notable happen at the Dupris residence?”

  “Not really. I told them to come in for questioning today and threatened a warrant if they didn’t show, so we’ll see if they do.”

  “Not a bad morning’s work. Now if you’d only gotten to pull your gun.”

  “It ain’t quitting time yet.”

  He laughed.

  “Glad I amuse you.” I held my hand to my stomach when it growled. I didn’t feel like eating, but my body didn’t care. “I’m gonna grab some coffee. Do a little research over at the tribal HQ. Ping me when Rollie and the Dupris family arrives.” I squinted at him. “I am sitting in on the interviews, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Carsten?”

  He scowled. “Yes.”

  “What’s your problem with her?”

  “Why would I have a problem with a privileged, know-it-all white girl who landed a job with the FBI because she wants to right the wrongs inflicted upon Native American people?”

  “She said that?”

  “No, but that’s her attitude, and it pisses me the fuck off.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I hope you don’t expect me to play referee between you two.”

  Shay bristled. “I can handle Carsten just fine.”

  I suspected that might be part of the problem. He’d like to handle the very attractive VS in a wholly different and unofficial manner.

  I headed down the stairs and out the back door. So much for thinking that cutting behind the buildings was easier than going through the front entrance. I’d never realized how spread out the buildings were; the angle from the front created the illusion they were closer together. Plus, being built on top of a hill, entrances were actually on the second floor, not the first floor.

  Since this was the first time I’d been at this vantage point, I’d never noticed the first level of the tribal HQ had an asphalt driveway running behind it like it’d once been used as a loading dock.

  Steel doors bookended each corner. I wandered closer to the first door. It appeared to have been painted shut. Dead weeds lined the cracks in the faded blacktop. The width of the building was more than I’d initially gauged when I reached the second door. This one had been opened recently. I tried the handle, on the off chance that it was open and it’d save me a trip around the front of the building.

  But it was locked.

  I started around the corner and hoofed it up the hill, reminding myself to ask Sheldon about the back doors and what they were used for.

  At the front entrance, I took the stairs down to the first floor and rang the intercom.

  “May I help you?”

  “It’s Agent Gunderson.”

  The buzzer went off, and I opened the door.

  Sheldon greeted me. “Mercy, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be here, either, but I’ve got a break, so I figured I might as well tie up some loose ends. Mind if I have coffee?”

  “Help yourself.”

  I poured a cup and let it warm my hands as I inhaled the aroma.

  “So you’ve been released from your punishment and the drudgery of research?”

  “No official word from the higher-ups, but I’ve been involved in fieldwork.”

  “That’s what all agents want, right? To be out doing something instead of shuffling paperwor
k inside?”

  “That’s what I thought I wanted,” I muttered.

  Sheldon refilled his cup. “I heard another body was found.”

  I lifted a brow. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “Yes, the rumors reach into the bowels of the basement.” He blew across his cup. “Are the rumors true?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t imagine preferring finding dead bodies to sitting behind a desk, Agent Gunderson.”

  “It’s worse when you know the victim.”

  “I imagine it is. Sounds like your week has already started out on a sour note.”

  I exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

  “Has the victim’s name been released?”

  “Verline Dupris.”

  His eyes widened beneath his thick glasses. “I knew Verline. Well, I didn’t know her, but I knew who she was. Wasn’t that long ago she’d registered her baby with the tribe.” He sipped his coffee. “Such a shame. She was so young. Do you have any suspects?”

  That direct question earned him an abrupt subject change. “Not only was I unprepared for fieldwork first thing this morning, but I left my notebook with my research notes at home. I hate to be a pain, but do you have paper and a pen I could borrow?”

  “Of course, I’ll set it in the police case files archive room for you.”

  I gulped my coffee and poured another cup in his absence. When he returned, I said, “Thanks, Sheldon.”

  “Just doing my job.” He shuffled back to his desk, his gait slow and measured, as if he was in pain.

  I felt like a jerk for being so brusque. For the most part, the man worked by himself day in, day out. It wouldn’t kill me to visit with him for a bit. I wandered over to his desk. “Been a rough day all around.”

  He seemed surprised I was talking to him. “I can’t imagine dealing with all you do in the FBI.”

  “So far it’s not nearly as bad as what I dealt with in the army.”

  “Your dad mentioned you were in the military. The man was awful proud of you.”

  “How’d my military service come up in conversation?” I asked suspiciously.

  “He saw my military certificates.” He pointed to his desk. “I was full time in the National Guard.”

  “Oh. How long were you in?”

  “Twenty. I opted out, figuring they might freeze retirement by the time my next option came around. I was a little gimped up anyway.”