Merciless

8

Three buildings, built close together, made up the Eagle River Reservation tribal seat of power. The tribal police station on the right, which also housed the jail, was the largest building. The tribal services building in the middle contained a mishmash of service offices, including the Bureau of Indian Affairs-BIA, WIC, Department of Social Services, Social Security Administration, energy assistance programs, and the two rooms the FBI rented for victim specialists. The third structure on the left side was the Eagle River Tribal Headquarters building. It housed several different entities, all involved with the business of running the tribe. The top floor was devoted to the tribal court system. The second floor held the tribal council’s business offices and meeting spaces. The entire first floor, which was actually the basement since all three buildings had been built into the side of a hill, was devoted to tribal archives. Everything from the official tribal rolls to the newspaper archives-since the tribe owned the newspaper-to storage of closed cases, open old cases, police logs, and arrest reports from the tribal police were down there, plus historical documents dating back to when the tribe had taken the land offer from the U.S. government and became part of the reservation system.

I took the stairs and found the door locked. I had to use a buzzer to gain admission. “Yes?” echoed through the intercom.

“Special Agent Mercy Gunderson, FBI. I’ve been cleared with the tribal police through the tribal council to access certain archives.”

No human response, just the buzzing click that signaled I could enter the inner sanctum. I almost felt like I needed to wear a hooded robe and spout Latin as I opened the door, especially when I caught a whiff of the musty air.

Although this floor was identical to the floors above it, the layout was completely different. The main section was similar to the reference area at a library: rows and rows of periodicals, a gigantic desk covered with computer equipment and ringed with filing cabinets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t get a chance to peer down the hallway, as the man behind the desk was headed toward me.

He offered his hand first. Depending on how traditionally they were raised, some Indian males shook hands with women and some didn’t, so I never assumed. “Special Agent Gunderson, what a pleasure to see you again. I’m Sheldon War Bonnet, manager of the archives. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you when you filled out the tribal registration form.”

I didn’t remember him. “Nice to see you again, Mr. War Bonnet. The FBI appreciates your cooperation.”

“Please, call me Sheldon.” He gestured to a sitting area I hadn’t noticed. “Coffee?”

I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with this guy, but since I’d be here all week, I smiled. “That would be great.” I picked the overstuffed chair that faced the door-a ridiculous superstition given I was in a locked room. But me ’n’ Wild Bill Hickok had the same phobia about sitting with our backs to the door, and Wild Bill’s ignoring his gut reaction had gotten him killed.

“Cream or sugar?” Sheldon asked.

“Black is fine.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He handed me the coffee and eased into the chair opposite mine. “I didn’t get a chance to mention the one time you were in here that I knew your father. He was good for the county. A great sheriff.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled into my coffee.

“Pity you lost the election.”

“The better man won, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose only time will tell.”

I covertly studied Sheldon as I sipped my coffee. He appeared to be in his late fifties. A full-blooded Indian. His thick glasses gave off a wicked reflection in the fluorescent lighting and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I assumed they were brown. He wore a high-necked white T-shirt under a loose-fitting gray caftan with a split neckline. His khaki pants bagged everywhere, and his feet were behind the ottoman, so I couldn’t determine whether he wore beat-up Birkenstocks or dusty hikers. He definitely held that old-hippie vibe-long black hair pulled into a ponytail, soft-spoken voice, his gentle demeanor that put us on even footing from the start.

“So what brings the FBI here?”

I had to tread lightly. During training we learned to share the least information about a case and how to redirect. And, if necessary… to lie. But I tried to stay within a realm of truth. “What I’m looking for would fall under classified information. But since I’m here as sort of a managerial punishment, the truth is I’m not sure where to start.”

His eyes widened beneath his glasses. “Managerial punishment?”

“Off the record? Being the newbie agent in the office, I made the… ah, mistake of spouting off a theory to the big boss, and now I’ve been relegated to research said theory.”

“That sucks. For you.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m the type who prefers doing research to anything else. I assume you have parameters, so I can at least direct you to the correct archive?”

“That would be great. The cases I’ve been sent to research deal with a broad spectrum of fraud and sexual violation involving minors.”

“Still a pretty broad definition.” Sheldon frowned at his coffee. “How far back?”

“Does that make a difference in which area I’ll start in or end up in?”

“No, just trying to be helpful. I assumed you’d begin with the police case files.”

I drained my coffee. “Between us? This is busywork. So I don’t care where I start. Especially if you, as the expert, believe I’ll have better luck in a different area.”

Sheldon preened a bit at the word expert. “Since I don’t know specifics on what you’re looking for, I suggest sticking to the police case files.” He set his mug on the coffee table and unclipped a key ring from his belt loop. “I’ll get you started in this room.”

Looking at the precisely organized boxes of case files, it was obvious that the tribal PD could take organizational notes from Sheldon.

I’d compiled a list of obituaries I’d found online. Hard not to feel overwhelmed. I took down the first box, dated five years previously, and went to work.

Damn depressing that I found over a dozen instances of unexplained deaths of young women, including suspicious car accidents, assumed domestic violence, and drug overdoses. But for nearly every single one of the cases, information from the tribal police had been scant, at best, so I kept looking for more.

A loud rap on the door frame startled me, and I glanced up.

Sheldon said, “You have an incredible attention span. You haven’t moved for three hours.”

“Really?” I switched my head from side to side to alleviate the stiffness in my neck. “I attribute that more to stubbornness than anything else.”

“I usually close up at lunchtime for an hour.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose you could let me stay in here?”

“Afraid not. Tribal council rules prohibit anyone besides me being left unattended in the archives.” He smiled. “And I’m betting the break will do you good anyway.”

I shut my notebook and shoved it in my purse. I gestured to the files. “It’s okay if I leave these out? Since I’m coming right back?”

“Sure.”

Once we were out in the entryway, he punched the button for the elevator, and I booked it up the stairs.

I thought about snagging a microwave sandwich at the grocery store, but fresh air would help clear the sad facts from my mind. I drove a couple miles out of town to the casino. I’d heard the tribal cops talking about the lunch specials, and now I had an hour to kill.

I’d been in this casino once before and had ended up tangling with a pickpocket. Glad to see they’d improved security measures since my last visit.

The same kid still worked at the front of the restaurant at the host stand. He grinned. “Hey! I remember you. You’re with the FBI.”

“I remember you. You said the tribal president was your uncle. But I didn’t catch your name.”

He held out his hand. “Hadley DeYoung.”

I shook it. “Special Agent Mercy Gunderson.”

“Table for one, Agent Gunderson?”

“Yes.”

“This way.”

After I’d ordered an Indian taco salad made with ground buffalo, I glanced around the space. The decor was typically Native American themed. The acoustics were such that I could still hear the ding ding of electronic gambling machines even in this enclosed area. There weren’t too many people eating lunch. I’d bet with the nightly steak and crab special the restaurant did the bulk of their business at dinnertime.

Hadley stopped at the end of the table. “You out catching bad guys?”

“Nope. Just on my lunch break.” I leaned back in the booth. “So Hadley, how are you related to tribal president Elk Thunder?”

“My mom was his sister.”

“Ah. You weren’t related to Arlette Shooting Star?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know her?”

He looked down at his hands. “Not really. She hadn’t been here very long.”

“You didn’t see Arlette on holidays or at family get-togethers?”

“What family get-togethers?” he scoffed. “My uncle doesn’t have nothin’ to do with our family anymore. It’s all about Triscell’s family. Since they’ve got money and stuff.” He smirked. “But I sure like telling people he’s my uncle. Makes ’em look at me differently. Know what I mean?”

I nodded. “My dad was sheriff when I was your age. But that backfired on me. Most people thought I’d tattle on them to the law.”

He laughed, and it reminded me of Levi.

“Can I ask you kind of a strange question?” He nodded. “Did it bug you that Arlette got to live with your uncle and you didn’t?”

He thought about it for a few seconds. “Maybe a little. After my mom died, my dad got married again, and then he died a few years later, so I lived with my stepmom until she kicked me out. Never crossed my uncle’s mind to give me a place to crash, even for a little while.” He shrugged tightly. “But in some ways, I felt sorry for Arlette. ’Cause I know Uncle didn’t want her living there any more than he wanted me.”

Hadley had just confirmed Naomi’s observation about the tribal president’s attitude about his wife’s niece. “Did you guys know each other at school?”

He shook his head. “I dropped out when I was sixteen. Needed to get a job. Been working here since it opened.” He talked about his responsibilities until my food arrived, then left me alone to eat.

The food wasn’t bad, and the portions were huge. After I ate, I still had twenty minutes before I could return to the gloomy basement, so I opted to wander through the casino.

Not many gamblers were trying their luck at the one-armed progressive jackpot win today. I wandered to the blackjack tables. Only one table had players. And one of those players happened to be Devlin Pretty Horses.

Just my bad luck I’d seen him two days in a row. Was there truth to Rollie’s comment about Devlin owing money all over town? Surely the casino wouldn’t advance him a loan?

I watched from behind a video poker machine as the trio at the table played several hands. Devlin’s pile of chips was mighty small. It amazed me how fast the games went and how quickly chips vanished.

Devlin said something to the dealer. The dealer shook his head. An angry Devlin leaned closer, smacking his hands on the table to get the dealer’s attention.

The dealer signaled to security.

Immediately, a strapping guard came over and escorted Devlin out of the building.

Interesting.

I watched the dealer talking to a guy I assumed was the casino floor manager. The suit-and-tie wearing guy nodded a lot at whatever the dealer said. After five minutes, I wandered outside and saw Devlin on his cell phone.

The instant he noticed me approaching him, he ended the call.

“Hey, Devlin, I thought that was you.”

“Mercy, whatcha doin’ out here? This ain’t your normal hangout.”

You would know. “I’m working at tribal headquarters this week, so I came out for lunch. What are you doing here?”

“The same. I’m about to have lunch with a buddy. He’s running late. I’m just waiting out here for him.”

Liar. “Have a nice lunch. The taco salad is good.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

As I drove back into town, I wondered who I could ask to get the truth about Devlin’s gambling problem. Rollie? No. He kept secrets better than anyone I knew.

Maybe Penny. She’d seemed more than a little exasperated with her brother last night. I could swing by Sophie’s house tomorrow on my lunch hour when Sophie wouldn’t be there. I hated to go behind Sophie’s back, but these family issues were taking a toll on her, and I couldn’t stand to see her hurting.

I parked in the tribal headquarters lot. Although the lunch break had done me good, it was almost worse now, knowing I’d have to go back inside.

• • •

Wednesday was more of the same in the archives department. Sheldon and I chatted and had a cup of coffee before I locked myself in the newspaper archive section.

At Quantico we’d learned how to load the film into the microfiche machine. The damn movies made it look so easy, when in actuality, it sucked.

Sheldon refreshed my memory on the process before I selected a roll. Then I began the arduous process of separating out articles specifically regarding women, looking for any information on car accidents, suspicious deaths, missing persons, reports of suicide, and fund-raisers-which were usually for a health-related issue.

Residents of the Eagle River Reservation had a high mortality rate. This wasn’t one of those situations where a prescription for Lopressor or adding more fiber to a diet would change those stats.

I focused on young women between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five. In a one-year span, forty women died, which didn’t seem significant until I reminded myself the entire population of Eagle River was ten thousand residents. And I was looking at only a twenty-year age span for victims. The only age group that had it worse than women of that age group? Babies.

I’d been damn glad to go home, because this assignment really was beginning to feel like punishment.

So yeah, I’d dragged ass, getting to tribal HQ on Thursday morning. Lex hadn’t been thrilled I’d been tasked with car-pool duty again. Especially since Mason had had to work late the last two nights, which left me to ask Lex if he had his homework done.

I stopped by Sophie’s house to talk to Penny. I half expected Devlin would answer my knock, but no one came to the door. I gave up in case Penny was resting and told myself not to get pissy when I noticed John-John’s El Dorado was parked across the street.

Instead of going directly to the archives, I stopped in at the tribal PD. While Fergie didn’t have any news on the case-not that she’d tell me anyway, since Turnbull was in charge-she told me a funny story about her most recent night in a patrol car. I realized since I’d joined the FBI, Dawson no longer shared stuff like that with me.

It was almost nine thirty when I hit the call button to be let into the archives department. Five minutes passed with no response. But every minute I wasn’t in that room looking at sobering statistics was a happy minute. Still, I hit the call button again.

Sheldon finally answered and seemed annoyed to see me.

“Morning, Sheldon. I know I’m a little late-”

“Yes, you are. I understand you don’t punch a time clock, Agent Gunderson, but I do. Tuesdays and Thursdays are the only days the archives are closed to the public so I can catch up on my work. Except today, I have to open up at ten since we’ll be closed tomorrow. I wasted a half an hour this morning waiting around up front because I expected you earlier, and now I’m behind. When I get in the back rooms, I cannot hear the buzzer.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to add to your workload when you’ve been so helpful to me.” I followed him to the desk. “You’re closing tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m taking a much-needed personal day.”

I curbed my disappointment there wasn’t coffee. And I knew I had to make nice. This would be a test, making nice without the benefit of caffeine. “Lucky you. Do you plan on doing something fun?”

Sheldon stared at me, as if gauging the sincerity of my interest. “I’m going hunting.”

I gave him a big smile. “Really? That’s great! Where?”

“Near Viewfield. A friend lets me hunt on his place.”

“Good thing you’ve got permission. I tend to shoot hunters who trespass on our land.”

He didn’t find my attempt at humor funny. “You can’t possibly catch all the trespassers, hunters or otherwise, with the size of the Gunderson Ranch.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean it’s not fun trying to catch them.”

Another dour look. “What about the Sheriff? Does he bring his buddies or his family to hunt in such a prime location?”

Sheldon was pissy today, but I doubted it was due entirely to my late arrival. “Dawson hasn’t asked specifically that we open it up to his friends from Minnesota or his colleagues in the sheriff’s office. There are a few local families that’ve been hunting on Gunderson land for years. They follow the rules, or they lose the privilege.”

“Do you hunt?”

“Oh, yeah. I haven’t done it for years since I’ve been gone during hunting season. We scored antelope buck tags this year and both bagged ours last weekend. Usually I hunt alone, but luckily the sheriff and I have complimentary hunting styles.” I paused, wondering if I was blathering. “What tag did you end up with?”

“Deer tag for does. I put in for the elk lottery every year, but I’ve never been chosen.”

I shrugged. “Elk are too freakin’ big to pack out. And guaranteed, the damn thing is deep in the forest when you track one. I’m not that crazy about elk meat anyway.” I smiled. “But I’m all over getting to use a bigger hunting gun.”

Sheldon finally smiled back. “I wouldn’t know.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry about being snappy. I know this doesn’t seem like a stressful job, but it is.”

“Understood. And I am sorry I was late.”

He glanced at the clock. “Do you know where you’ll be working today?”

“With police logs and cases.”

“That room is unlocked. If you’ll excuse me, I have three things to finish before I open the doors.”

It surprised me how many people came in through the course of the day. I hadn’t paid attention yesterday, since I’d been in a room off limits to the general public. Evidently, the reference section was better than those at the high school or the Indian college.

Sheldon and I both worked through lunch. When four o’clock rolled around, I put away all the file boxes and microfiche rolls. I pawed through the extensive military history section while I waited until Sheldon finished helping an elderly woman with her genealogy questions.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you so much for all your help. You went above and beyond, Sheldon, and I appreciate it.”

“You did find the information you needed?”

“I think so. I’ll have to compile my findings and present everything to the boss to see if it gets my ass out of the hot seat.”

He smiled. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Good luck with the hunt tomorrow.” I wondered if he took offense when I practically skipped out of the dungeon.

• • •

Although Director Shenker wasn’t in the Rapid City office, Turnbull asked to see what I’d found, so I spent Friday morning at home putting all the data together before I headed into town.

“All right, Special Agent Gunderson. Wow me.”

No pressure. I looked at him. “You realize this report is raw. I haven’t had time to create flowcharts, graphs, timelines, or any of that fancy shit.”

“Yes. I get it.”

“I backtracked five years and focused on deaths of women in that initial age group.” My lists referred to the women as numbers, which I hated, but it appeared more concise on paper. “And between us? Not fun information to compile.”

“If we were in a bigger FBI office, you could’ve passed that tedious job onto an intern.” Shay looked at me expectantly. “Bottom line. Any validity to your theory?”

“Yes. And no.”

“See? If nothing else, you’re getting the hang of writing government reports.”

“Ha-ha. What I found is a lot of deaths. Mostly explainable. But each year for the past five years, there have been three or four deaths in a short period of time that weren’t explained or investigated.” I pointed to one report. “All with a… theme. If that makes sense. Three years ago, all three victims were killed in car accidents. Strange car accidents with no rhyme or reason. No witnesses. No other passengers in the car. And all the cars were found in remote areas.”

Turnbull frowned.

“Then two years ago, all the women who died had been documented former drug users.”

“Not unheard-of. The relapse rate is pretty high around here,” he pointed out.

“I understand. But these three women were all found outside in the elements. Not in their homes or their cars, where they could crash after shooting up. One was found in a ditch. The next one was found in a field, and the third one was found by a set of railroad tracks a mile outside of town. And the tribal police didn’t order an autopsy or blood work, or work the cases at all-including calling in the FBI. They assumed cause of death was due to drugs. Which is just so fucking… lazy, I can’t believe it.”

“How long was the time frame between victims?”

“For the alleged ODs? One month. For the alleged car-accident victims? One month.”

“So these situations, for lack of a better term, took place regularly over a three-month period?”

“Yep. And when I looked at last year’s victims, women who’d at some point been involved in violent domestic situations, the time spread was also one month. And again, the women were left outside. No need to take blood samples when the woman was gut shot and died, or when the woman was nearly decapitated and died, or when the woman was stabbed repeatedly and died. Each year I found a couple of cases that could go either way, as far as fitting the pattern, but I left them out of this. For now.”

“Why?”

“Because of what Agent Flack pointed out. No need to investigate when it appears to be a cut-and-dried fatal domestic. There were six other cases like that in the last two years.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe no one noticed this.” He glanced up at me. “I know getting this information sucked, Mercy, but this really is outstanding work.”

“Thank you. Last thing. I’m pretty sure Arlette is the first victim this year.”

Shay nodded. “But there’s no discernable pattern yet, so we’ve got no way of knowing what type of woman the second or the third victims might be.”

“Right. What I didn’t have time to check was the tie between victims in previous years. Besides the surface similarities in the manner and timing of death. So my question: Do we consult a profiler? See if they’ve got theories on the type of person we’re dealing with?” I paused a beat too long, and Shay glanced at me sharply.

“What else?”

“Or maybe they’ll tell me that, as a newbie agent, I’m completely off my rocker. That I’m seeing conspiracies where there are none. That maybe this is all coincidence.”

He sighed. “You brought up the same points Shenker will when we take this to him. We’ve been on this Shooting Star case over a week, and we’ve got more questions than answers.”

“Speaking of the case… out of curiosity, why wasn’t Latimer Elk Thunder brought in for a formal family interview? Arlette was his niece. And doesn’t it strike you as odd that we found out more about Arlette from her friends than from her aunt?”

“Now that you mention it, I expected he’d make a much bigger deal about the murder, given how quickly he bypassed tribal PD and came straight to the FBI.”

“Think Arlette’s death was a warning to him? He realized that too late and now he wants to shove it under the rug? By enforcing a no-contact-with-the-family edict? Hoping the FBI will go away? Because we’ve learned that Arlette was more of a nuisance in his life than a beloved family member. I heard that from more than one source.”

“Are you saying you think the tribal president had something to do with his niece getting staked?”

I hedged. “If the murderer’s intent was to rattle the new tribal president, it didn’t work.”

Shay removed a slip of paper from his stack of folders and slid it to me. “We’re thinking along the same lines. I made a list of Elk Thunder’s most vocal detractors.”

I scoured the short list. Rollie Rondeaux. Terry Vash. Arthur “Bigs” Bigelow. Bruce Hawken. Penny Pretty Horses. Not surprised to see Rollie’s name, but I was surprised to see Penny’s. “Are these names in any special order?”

“Contributors to Roger Apple’s campaign for tribal president and his staunchest supporters.” He tapped on Penny’s name. “I know you’re surprised to see her. But remember, she worked for the tribal council for the last twenty-five years. She had a strong opinion on who should lead the tribe.”

I whistled. “Arlette was found on Terry Vash’s land.”

“I picked up on that, too.”

We looked at each other.

My cell rang. The ID read LEX, and I noticed the time. “Shit. I was supposed to pick Lex up from school. Twenty minutes ago.” I answered with a cheery, “Hey, Lex. No, I didn’t forget.” Liar. “I got waylaid in Rapid City.” I waited while he hotly contested that response. “Don’t do that, I can call Hope or Jake to come get you. They’ll be there in fifteen minutes tops. It’ll take me an hour if I leave right now.” I briefly closed my eyes. “Fine. Call him and ask him if you can walk to his office. Just text me and let me know what I’m supposed to do.” He hung up on me.

I would’ve hung up on me, too. Dammit.

“Problem, Mama Mercy?”

“Yes. I screwed up and now-”

“Prince Dawson and the king will make you pay?”

“Oh, bite me. I’m still adjusting to this family-scheduling stuff.” Mason would be more understanding than Lex about my lapse. I hoped. “I’ve gotta go.” I gathered my papers.

“I’ll need a copy of those. I might get a chance over this long weekend to look at them.”

I frowned. “Long weekend?”

“Veterans Day, remember? The office is closed on Monday.”

“Damn. I forgot.” That meant school would be out, too.

Shay smirked. “You seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately, Sergeant Major. See you Tuesday.”