Merciless

9

Tuesday morning, Turnbull’s number flashed on my cell phone screen just as I’d left my house. “Gunderson.”

“Agent. We’ve caught a case.”

Best to save my breath asking questions. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone anyway. “Where are you?”

“In your neighborhood. I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Besler’s grocery.”

“I’ll be there after I drop Lex off at school.”

“Is Dawson punishing you for your oversight last week? He has you working as a kid’s taxi service?” Turnbull said with a hint of snark. “What’s next? You’ll swap the FBI for the PTA?”

I shot a look at Lex, his Broncos winter hat pulled almost over his eyes. He stared straight ahead, his jaw set in the same stubborn manner as his father’s.

“Who pissed in your corn flakes this morning, Agent Turnbull? Jesus. Have another cup of coffee and quit being an ass. I’m on my way.” I hung up.

Lex looked at me, shocked.

“What?”

“Ah, nothin’.” He turned and stared out the passenger’s-side window.

Talk about awkward. And I was a little annoyed that Dawson’s phone call a half hour ago had allowed him to run out, leaving me to take Lex to school.

Oh, and to try to explain that barging into anyone’s bedroom without knocking isn’t ever a good idea.

In the short amount of time we’d been living together, we were used to being alone in the house-at least in our bedroom, even if the kitchen seemed to be full of people in the morning. I’d sweet-talked Mason into a quickie before we started our day. Being lost in the moment, neither of us bothered checking to see if we’d locked our bedroom door. Lex burst in and saw me riding his dad like a jockey.

So how did I handle this? Tell him when two people loved each other… nah. Lame. I’d give it to him straight: I was crazy in lust with his father, and yes, even old people like us got it on at every opportunity. Nah. That was way too much information.

“Lex, look. About what you saw this morning-”

“I didn’t see anything,” he said way too fast. “And my dad already lectured me enough.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.”

He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t care. “Who’s picking me up today?”

“I assume your dad. Why?”

“I need some school supplies. For a report. Stuff they don’t have in Eagle Ridge.”

“If you’ve got a list, I could pick the stuff up since I’m probably headed to Rapid at some point today.”

“We’re getting the list in second period. I just wanted to make sure someone wouldn’t forget to take me.”

Nice shot at my lapse in parental time management. Rather than defending myself or continuing the small talk, I reached over and turned up the radio. A catchy Keith Urban tune filled the truck cab, and I resisted the urge to sing along, a fact Lex probably appreciated.

Lex bailed out as soon as I pulled up in front of the middle school, before I could pep him up to have a good day and to study hard. I didn’t leave immediately, wanting to see if friends would hail him. I remembered from my childhood in this small town that being the new kid didn’t always translate into instant popularity. Geneva’s kids exited the bus, and Doug yelled for Lex to wait. Relieved, I whipped a U-turn and headed to the meeting point.

Turnbull wasn’t standing beside his Blazer when I pulled alongside his vehicle in Besler’s lot. He was on the phone and motioned for me to wait before he rolled down the window.

“What’s going on?”

“Follow me, and I’ll explain when we get there.”

Turns out we didn’t have to go far. Just a mile on the other side of the city limits by the dump.

That’s when my stomach dropped. Picking up a case at the dump couldn’t be good. After we cleared the gate, a rusted-out scrap of metal with one hinge that hadn’t been closed in years, I noticed a half-dozen vehicles. Mostly emergency and law enforcement-including Dawson’s patrol car.

Yippee.

Then I bristled. Had his abrupt departure this morning been related to this case? He couldn’t have warned me? I huddled in my coat after I slid from my pickup and waited for Turnbull. He’d parked in a vacant spot up closer to the action. He jogged back to me.

“I take it you’ve already been here?”

He nodded. “I got the call from the tribal police about this early.”

I squinted over his shoulder but couldn’t see anything beyond the cars besides patches of dead grass and a hillside dotted with litter. “What’s the sheriff’s office doing here?”

Shay studied me. “Dawson is pissing circles on the ground, bellowing about jurisdiction.”

“That sounds about right.”

“As soon as I saw the scene, I knew this was connected to our case, and I-”

“Took over.” Connected case meant one thing. “There’s been another murder?”

“Yeah. But before we head that way, you should prepare yourself.”

Another gruesome scene. Good thing I’d had only coffee for breakfast. But something in his tone keyed me in. “Prepare myself? Why? I know the victim, don’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why Dawson is here, too?”

“No.” Shay moved a fraction closer. “You okay, going head-to-head with him on this?”

“I’ll be fine, Turnbull. You seem to’ve forgotten I’ve spent most of my life in a male-dominated profession, shielding those closest to me about specifics of my job. This is no different.”

That placated him, and he relaxed slightly. “Well, this case is gonna hit you from another side.”

I braced myself. “Who’s the vic?”

“Verline Dupris.”

Shit. “Who reported her missing?” I couldn’t imagine her disappearance would go unnoticed. I scanned the vehicles for Rollie’s crappy pickup. Why hadn’t Rollie called me when she’d gone missing?

Maybe because of your reputation as being a bloodhound for the newly departed. But I hadn’t discovered a dead body in months, so I was hoping my debt to the universe had been marked PAID IN FULL.

“That’s the thing. According to both the tribal police and the sheriff’s department, she hadn’t been reported missing.”

My gaze snapped back to his. “How is that even possible? She has two little kids. One is a baby.”

Turnbull sighed. “I have no idea.”

“Who found her?”

“A guy who’d decided to dump his refrigerator just before dawn broke. He almost ran over her.”

It’d been only a week since Verline had been at my house. She’d given off a vibe of unhappiness, and young, unhappy people sometimes did impulsive, stupid things. If she hadn’t been reported missing… “You sure this wasn’t a suicide?”

“I’ll let you judge for yourself.”

I’ll admit I paused at the edge of the crime scene before I allowed my eyes to focus fully on the horror in front of me. My brain didn’t want to process the images.

Verline. Naked. Just like Arlette Shooting Star. Her body precisely arranged, also like Arlette’s body. But unlike Arlette, Verline hadn’t been staked.

I squinted at the object resting on her stomach. It took a second to register that the object was Verline’s hand. But that hand wasn’t attached to her arm. Her hand had been cut off at the wrist and placed on her lower belly. The fingers curled into a claw, as if those bloodied and dirty nails intended to dig into the flesh of her abdomen.

Definitely not a suicide.

Trying to maintain clinical detachment was hard when faced with such an atrocity. Huge purple bruises dotted Verline’s body. Rope burns crisscrossed her ankles from being bound. Her knees were scuffed up, as if she’d been kneeling on a concrete floor. My gaze skimmed her thighs and quickly moved over the dismembered hand. I glanced at the other wrist and saw more rope burns dug so deep into her flesh that the wounds had bled.

Had she been awake when this sick fucker had chopped off her hand?

I fought the surge of anger and forced myself to focus. Verline’s chest was awash in blood, which had congealed into black goo. That’s when I noticed her throat had been slit. With the funky angle of her neck, even lying down, I suspected Verline had been upright, tied to something when the fatal blow had been dealt. I glanced at Verline’s face. Her eyes were closed. Lines of blood had poured from the corners of her mouth and over her lips.

What made no sense to me was the neatness of her hair. Not a snarled mess, no hair sticking up like I’d expect from a woman who’d been tied down and had thrashed about. Especially since she’d struggled hard enough against her bonds that her wrists and ankles were bruised and had bled. Her hair was neatly fanned out above her head.

There was little blood on the ground beneath her. She’d been killed someplace else and dropped here.

Why here?

To reiterate the point Verline was a piece of garbage?

To guarantee she’d be quickly discovered?

I looked at the skiff of snow covering the ground. Perfect timing on the killer’s part. Dumping the body before the snow fell. No footprints. No tire tracks.

More white flakes drifted from the sky. My gaze connected with Shay’s. “Has Rollie been told?”

“Not by any official agency.”

Which wasn’t to say he didn’t know. Rollie had the reputation for having his ear to the ground. But if it’d been only an hour since the discovery of Verline’s body, he might not be aware.

And I sure as hell didn’t want to be the one to tell him. Part of me hoped that responsibility would fall to one of Dawson’s officers.

I finally caught my first glimpse of Dawson, bearing down on us like a freight train.

“Agents,” he said brusquely, “an update on jurisdictional status would be appreciated.”

Turnbull said, “You want to claim the case for the county? Go ahead. But I’ll warn you, you’ll have it less than twenty-four hours and it’ll be right back in our hands.”

Dawson scowled. “So noted.”

I didn’t say anything. Two dogs in a pissing match was enough.

Officer Spotted Bear approached us. “Agent Turnbull?”

“Yes?”

“Rollie Rondeaux just arrived. What should I do with him?”

All three men looked at me.

I shook my head. “No. No. Fucking. Way.”

Turnbull spoke first. “We all know it’ll be easier for him to deal with someone he knows, and doesn’t loathe, and we all know that ain’t me or the sheriff.”

“Nothing about this will be easy, Agent Turnbull.” I looked at the scene. “Where’s Carsten?”

“On her way. She should be here any time.”

“Then I’ll wait for her.”

Turnbull shook his head. “This should be done now.”

Dammit. “Exactly what will you be doing while I’m with Rollie?”

His expression didn’t change.

I looked at Dawson. His face held the same stoicism.

Then I knew. The knot in my belly tightened. “You both intend to watch him for signs of guilt when he sees the woman he lives with, the mother of his children, carved up like a pumpkin? That’s your big professional, investigative play? Jesus.” I whirled around and took several deep uji breaths before I tracked down Rollie.

He sat in his pickup with the door open, puffing on a cigarette.

I waited in silence for him to say something.

Rollie dropped to his feet with a soft uff, shut the door, and ground out the red ember of his cigarette butt with the heel of his cowboy boot.

When our eyes met for the first time, it hit me how old he looked. The wrinkles lining his mouth became more apparent when he frowned. “So’s it true? About Verline?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” I knew I shouldn’t ask the question, but I did anyway.

“Did you find her, Mercy? Since you…” He gestured vaguely.

“No. How long had she been missing?”

“She wasn’t missing.” Rollie’s tired eyes darted to the scene just beyond our line of sight, then back to mine. “I see your confusion, Mercy. Me ’n’ Verline had a fight a few days ago. She packed up the boys and took them to Nita’s. I ain’t heard from her since, but that’s the way it goes with her. She gets mad at me and takes off. Sometimes for as long as a week.”

“Who’s Nita?”

“Verline’s mom. I ain’t surprised Nita didn’t call the police neither. Woman’s got a serious distrust of tribal cops.”

“More than you?” tumbled out before I could stop it.

“Uh-huh. I doubt Nita would be worried anyway. Even when Verline is staying there, she bounces from place to place.”

“With the kids?”

Rollie shook his head. “Nope. She leaves ’em with Nita. After a couple days Nita calls me to bitch about getting stuck takin’ care of ’em again. She hasn’t called me this time.” He paused for a second. “But I did get a call about this.”

He wouldn’t reveal his source, so I didn’t ask. “I assume you’re here to identify her?”

He nodded. Then he asked, “It’s bad, huh?”

“Yeah, Rollie, it is. I’m sorry.”

Any color he’d had in his cheeks drained away. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and twisted his gnarled fingers around the beads on his horsehair necklace. His lips moved, but I couldn’t make out the words. When he looked at me again, the coldness on his face and in his eyes chilled me to the bone.

“Take me to her.”

Without a word, I led him to the scene.

All forensic activity stopped when we reached Verline’s body. Rollie walked around her until he reached her head. He stared down at her for the longest time. I suspected he assessed every body trauma. I wondered why I hadn’t stopped him from seeing this atrocity, the way I’d stopped Triscell Elk Thunder.

Because I knew Rollie could handle it?

I chanced a look at Turnbull and Dawson. Both men had donned shades.

A yelled warning had my focus zipping back to Rollie.

He’d dropped to his knees. His hand stroked Verline’s arm, and his lips brushed her forehead. I watched as he pulled out a knife and sliced off a chunk of Verline’s hair.

Officer Spotted Bear jerked Rollie to his feet.

“Let him go,” Carsten said sharply. “And back off.” She strode over to Rollie, ignoring everyone else. They spoke in low tones. Rollie nodded a lot.

Carsten patted his arm and made her way to us, her eyes flashing fire, her voice low and clipped. “He is a grieving man. Respect him in this moment.”

Color me impressed. I’d worked with Carsten before, but the petite blonde always struck me as the observant rather than the active type.

She stood on the tips of her boots and got in Turnbull’s face. “This is your scene; you’re responsible for all law enforcement agencies. You know protocol in Indian Country.”

“Always happy to have a victim specialist tell me how to do my job.”

“Do your job properly, Agent, and I won’t have to remind you.”

Awkward. But Carsten had a point. There were many superstitions and death traditions within the Indian community. Turnbull should’ve kept a tight leash on Officer Spotted Bear-and the Indian officer should’ve known better anyway. It just made me think he had it in for Rollie as much as Turnbull and Dawson did. It also reminded me of how little I knew about some of those Sioux death rites and rituals.

Rollie looked at all of us. “You think I could’ve done this to her?” Then he spoke to Officer Spotted Bear softly in Lakota, guaranteeing few would know what the hell he said.

Spotted Bear remained stoic after Rollie had said his piece.

“Are you finished so we can process the crime scene?” Turnbull asked Rollie.

I thought Carsten might punch Shay in the mouth. I’d offer to hold her coat.

Rollie’s eyes blazed at Turnbull. “Verline is not a ‘crime scene’ to me. You best remember that, boy.”

“Mr. Rondeaux, we appreciate your cooperation, and we’re sorry for your loss,” Carsten said, stepping between the two men.

“But we’ll need you at the tribal police station so we can ask a few questions,” Turnbull added.

“When?” Rollie asked Carsten.

“As soon as you’re up for it. Today.”

“I’ll be there.” Rollie pointed a shaking finger at Turnbull. “Feel free to tell Verline’s mother about this crime scene,” he said sarcastically. “It ain’t my place to overstep my bounds and let her know that another one of her daughters is dead.” He turned and shuffled off.

The crime scene techs shooed us away to finish.

Carsten’s phone rang, and she disappeared.

Turnbull, Dawson, and I gathered by Dawson’s patrol car. Dawson rested his hands on his hips. “I’ll be honest, Turnbull. We all know this body is in my county and not on the rez. The problem I have right now is lack of manpower. We’re running double shifts until I get approval of the deputy applicant’s paperwork from the county board. So I’ll hand off the case to the feds, if you can guarantee that we will not be kept out of the loop. That if I ask for a progress update on this case and the one tied to it, you’ll give me as much information as you’re able to so I can use that information to protect the residents in my county.”

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.”