Merciless (19 page)

That was the first I’d heard about how far Dawson had gotten in his deputy search.
I knew he’d been taking applicants, but not that he was to the hiring stage. And it
was a perfect example of how well we were able to keep our personal and professional
lives separated.

Turnbull nodded. “That’s fair. Thank you. So far I don’t have the BIA and the DEA
telling me the agencies I can share information with, which is a relief.”

They talked about the two murder cases, and I probably should’ve been listening, but
I tuned them out. My mind drifted to Rollie and the upcoming changes in his life.
How would he raise two small children at his age? Or would he just permanently dump
them with Verline’s mother? I clicked on a comment my father had made years ago, about
Rollie’s disinterest in any of his offspring, regardless of which woman had borne
that child. And come to think of it, I’d met only one of Rollie’s adult progeny. Did
his other kids live around here? Did I know any of them, not knowing Rollie was their
father? The way Indians passed on surnames never made sense to me, so Rollie’s kids
might all have different last names.

“Gunderson?” Turnbull prompted.

“Sorry. What did you say?”

“Given Nita Dupris’s hatred of the tribal police, especially those with native blood,
I’m sending you and Officer Ferguson to notify her about her daughter.”

I suspected it was more a choice of gender than skin color. “Isn’t that something
Carsten should do as a victim specialist?”

“Carsten is not in charge of this case, I am.”

Man. Pissing contests all the way around this morning. Turnbull was my superior, and
I would follow orders. “I’m assuming you’d like us to leave now, before this situation
becomes common knowledge.”

“Yes. I’ll clear with Officer Spotted Bear to have Officer Ferguson accompany you,
but I doubt there will be a problem.”

“And afterward? Where am I expected?”

“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.”

O
fficer 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 that 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?”