Lori Armstrong - Merciless

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?”