Lori Armstrong: Merciless

“Wyatt Gunderson was your dad?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t work with him much since he took ill right after I signed on with the tribal PD, but he seemed like a good guy.”

“He was.” A gust of wind blew, scattering dead leaves and bringing the wet scent of decay. I faced away from him, taking in the eerie scene. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people here.”

Orson shrugged. “It’s early. And since she’s the tribal president’s niece, we’ve tried to keep it off the scanners. Brings out the gawkers, ya know?”

“What time did you get the call?”

“About an hour and a half ago. I was closest, so I drew the short straw.”

“Me, too.” I squinted at the tree line but couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary from this angle. I let my backside rest against the hood.

“Aren’t you gonna go poke around the crime scene?” he asked.

“Nope. My”-I bit back the word partner -“the other FBI agent en route has more experience. I’m new enough I’d probably muck it up.”

“I hear ya there.”

“Is this your first dead body?”

He gave me a strange look. “On the rez? Hell no. Not since I’ve been a cop and not before that.”

“How long have you been a cop?”

“Four years. The first two I worked security for the jail. I got moved up after I finished the six-week training course.”

I wasn’t the type to make small talk, but something about this kid kept my gums flapping. “Is being a cop what you thought it’d be?”

“Honestly? No. I hate all the domestic calls. I spend most shifts busting up fights and arresting drunks. Seems nothing ever changes.”

“You got family around here?”

“My wife does. Or else…” His gaze hooked mine. “Never mind. I’m tired and babbling like an idiot after working a twelve.”

I leaned closer to him. “If you tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it. But the Eagle River Sheriff’s Department is looking for deputies. It might be an option if you want to change it up and stay in the area.”

Officer Orson nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

The suggestion was purely selfish on my part. I wanted to ease the sheriff’s workload, and I suspected Dawson was in the interview process with applicants, although he never spoke of it to me. And this young kid would be a better fit in county law enforcement. Only so much room for advancement in the tribal PD if you were mostly white.

“When we got the BOLO on Arlette, I just hoped we’d find her alive.”

Took me a minute to remember that BOLO was shorthand for “be on the lookout” and not a western string tie-worn by cowboys and Indians alike around here-instead of a real necktie. “Did you know her?”

“No. Pisses me off that someone did this to her. All violent deaths suck, but it’s worse when it’s a kid.”

I shoved aside the images of the other dead teens I’d seen in the last year. “So when she went missing, and you were talking to her friends about why she might be missing, did anything strike you as odd?”

He cocked his head. “I didn’t talk to her friends or family. I’m too low on the departmental totem pole for that job.”

The sound of approaching vehicles brought us both to our feet. We watched as two SUVs and an ambulance bumped past the pickups, stopping behind Officer Orson’s patrol car.

Special Agent Shay Turnbull was first out of the black SUV. Not only did he own an authoritative presence, I’d seen his charm work with nothing more than a smile. I’d watched him wrest control of a situation with a single word. I understood how lucky I was to be unofficially training with him, even while I also realized Mr. Perfect FBI Agent had done something serious to derail his promising career and end up in rural South Dakota. Not that he’d shared his deepest darkest secrets with me. Although mine were an open book, as he seemed to’ve memorized my military history.

The sun hadn’t burned off the early-morning cloud cover, yet Turn-bull wore dark shades in the dim gray light. He claimed his sunglasses provided anonymity. I think he believed the lenses gave off an air of mysterious badass. Must be a guy thing because Dawson wore his sunglasses all the damn time, too.

Three other tribal cops followed Turnbull. One carried a camera.

“Agent Gunderson,” Shay said to me in lieu of a “good morning.”

“Agent Turnbull, this is Officer Orson. He’s been keeping an eye on the crime scene and the witnesses since the initial emergency call.”

Turnbull nodded then addressed me again. “Have you been over there?”

“No, sir.”

“Let’s go.” He tossed me a pair of latex gloves and signaled to the camera guy. “I want pictures of everything. And I mean everything. ”

I knew Turnbull preferred his own FBI team on crime scenes, but that wasn’t always possible. This reservation was two hours out of Rapid City, so most agents were familiar with being their own Evidence Response Team, or ERT-in FBI speak.

I hadn’t asked Officer Orson to describe the scene, so as not to skew my initial impression. When we reached the clearing where the body had been laid out, I wished I’d had more warning about the brutality of the situation.

Arlette Shooting Star was naked. A long piece of wood, driven directly through her heart, staked her to the ground. Dried blood spattered her chest. A dark stain spread across the dirt beneath her slim torso. Her arms and legs were precisely arranged in a T formation, not in the akimbo manner consistent with the randomness of a body falling to the earth. Her brown eyes, covered in a milky blue film of death, were wide open. Her top teeth covered her bottom lip, her face forever frozen in a grimace of pain.

The photographer began snapping pictures of the body from every possible angle. Turnbull said nothing. He just squatted as he moved in a crouch, scribbling in his notebook. The other two cops who’d arrived with him flanked Officer Orson. None of the men said anything. We all just watched, trying to reconcile the horror of what we were seeing.

I’d never been a fan of forensic shows. Since joining the FBI I’d had to learn forensic science, not just to look for the physical clues that often get left behind. The victim’s body trauma leads profilers to a specific type of person capable of carrying out such a violent crime. I’d often wondered what these profilers would make of my sniper tactics.

You’ll think of anything to take your mind off the reality of this young girl being abducted. Tortured. Probably raped before she was brutalized.

“Agent Gunderson?”

My focus snapped back to Turnbull. “Yes?”

Before he could give instructions, another vehicle screeched up. Doors flew open. The all-male tribal police were much slower to react than I was.

I heard the agonized shriek and managed to get ahold of the woman running toward the crime scene. Triscell Elk Thunder, I presumed. But she was determined, and she dragged me a few steps before I solidified my stance.

“Arlette?” she screamed, fighting me. “Arlette!”

“Ma’am. Stop. Calm down.”

“Is that her?” She twisted and jerked.

I literally dug my heels in and held on.

She continued to flail. “Let me go!”

“No. You don’t want to see her like this.”

That angered her even more. “You have no idea-”

“Yes, I do.” I shook her then. Hard. And got right in her face. “Listen to me. Trust me. You don’t want to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t erase it, once you see her like that. It’ll never go away. It won’t give you any closure. It’ll haunt you. Is that what you want? To have that memory every time you think of her?”