Lori Armstrong - Merciless

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.”

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.