Lori Armstrong: Merciless

She stopped thrashing.

I could feel everyone around us staring. Waiting. I wasn’t certain I hadn’t somehow overstepped my bounds.

Her resolve and resistance vanished. She crumpled to the ground with heart-wrenching sobs.

A tall, older Indian man-whom I saw only from the back and assumed to be her husband, Tribal President Latimer Elk Thunder-dropped to his knees in front of her, blocking her view of Arlette. He coaxed her back into their vehicle. He spoke briefly, angrily to a tribal cop, and then they left.

Numb from the cold, I waited by a fallen log. I remembered this area was lush and gorgeous in late spring. Sloping hills of green dotted with wildflowers. Cottonwood and elm trees budded out, sunlight glinting off waxy new leaves. The breeze blowing across the pond would be heavy with the scent of fresh vegetation and sun-warmed earth. Now this place was an ugly reminder of the encroaching harshness of winter.

Turnbull finished his instructions to the ambulance crew. I didn’t know these EMTs, since they were from the tribal dispatch, although I’d been involved with the Eagle River County Emergency Services personnel so many times in the last year and a half I knew them all by name. Not exactly a badge of honor.

Agent Turnbull approached me. “I’m sending the body to Rapid City. Someone from the crime lab can pull the urine and blood tests. If not, we’ll have the county coroner perform the exam.”

“Exam? No autopsy?”

He shook his head. “Standard procedure in Indian Country. For most traditional Indian families, an autopsy is considered a desecration of the body and the spirit. Especially in children.”

My gaze flicked to Arlette’s bloodied, naked body being zipped in a black bag. “And what was done to her isn’t?”

“I don’t make the rules. But we’ve gotta follow them. See you at the tribal police station.”

• • •

My first official murder case as an FBI agent.

The prospect of an interview with Triscell Elk Thunder tied my stomach in knots. I understood the necessity of questioning the victim’s family ASAP, so I was grateful that Carsten McGillis, a victim specialist-VS-with the FBI, had driven from Rapid City.

Given how Triscell had acted at the crime scene, I half expected that she’d burst in and act hysterical, spouting threats. But her stoic demeanor, her weariness, dug into me like a hidden thorn.

Witnessing her grief sent me spiraling back to the day of Levi’s murder. Sadness and horror warred with my need for vengeance, not justice. I participated minimally in the interview, taking my own notes of what I believed would be pertinent information. A couple of things stood out to me:

(1) Arlette didn’t have her cell phone on her person when she disappeared. What I knew of teens? They always had their cell within reach. The fact that Arlette’s phone was in her locker made me wonder if the killer had put it back after the fact.

(2) Arlette’s status as the niece of the new tribal president made her a higher-profile victim. Arlette’s murder could’ve been a calculated move aimed at Latimer Elk Thunder in an attempt to distract him from tribal business. I put a question mark after that.

(3) But if the distraction angle was the intent, why wasn’t the tribal president here holding his wife’s hand? According to the tribal cops, he’d gone back to work at tribal headquarters immediately after leaving the crime scene. Arlette’s murder hadn’t seemed to cause more than a hiccup in his normal schedule.

(4) Why weren’t any of Triscell’s friends or other family members with her, lending support in her husband’s absence? In a community this small, even a fair-weather friend would offer to stand by her, if only for the opportunity to get the inside scoop for gossip.

Turnbull’s interview technique resembled a disorganized fishing expedition. I’d had my fill of his borderline bullying tactics when I saw fresh tears rolling down Triscell’s cheeks.

Carsten jumped in before I did. “Enough, Agent Turnbull. Mrs. Elk Thunder needs a break. Let her go home. She’s been extremely helpful.”

Turnbull offered an imperious “A word, Miz McGillis?” and stood. He probably intended to blister her ear about undermining his leadership role. He thanked Triscell Elk Thunder for her cooperation. Then he ushered Carsten and the others from the room, leaving me alone with her.

A sigh echoed to me. I figured she wouldn’t stick around, but I felt her stare as I feigned concentration on shuffling and reshuffling the papers in front of me like a Deadwood poker dealer.

“You’ve been through this before.” She paused and clarified, “On the civilian side, not as an FBI agent.”

Astute. I nodded.

“With who?”

“My nephew. Levi Arpel.”

“I remember that. Happened about a year and a half ago?”

“Sixteen months.” Hard not to keep track. Sometimes it felt as if that brutal day had been yesterday; other times it seemed years had passed since I’d found him.

“That’s right. You shot the guy who did it. Leo… what’s his face. The hippie teacher.”

I almost corrected her-it was Theo-but refrained because I refused to speak the man’s name. Still, I tensed. I suspected her next question would be to ask if killing him had offered me any closure.

Goddammit. I did not want to justify my act of self-defense, which had ended Theo’s life, or to wait for her to ask about some magical coping mechanisms for grief after a violent death. That fit into Carsten’s job description as VS, not mine.

I pushed back from the conference table, focused on sliding all my papers into a manila folder. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Elk Thunder.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just…” She sighed. “I feel guilty. Arlette had changed in the last month, and I just went about my own life, assuming she was just being a teenage girl. I should’ve tried harder, and I have to live with that.”

Big mistake looking at her. Her dark brown eyes brimmed. I softened my tone. “We will do everything we can to find out who did this to Arlette.”

“FBI party line.” She sniffed.

I rather pointedly held the door open for her. After she sailed through it, I pressed my back against the wall, waiting three full minutes before I ventured out of the room.

The building, constructed in the 1950s, had weathered tornados, an attempted burning, and vandalism-the aftereffects still lingered inside, years later. The place was a disaster. Shit was piled everywhere: broken office equipment, empty coffee cans, old uniforms, boxes overflowing with papers. I hoped they weren’t important papers, but since they were stacked next to filing cabinets marked ARREST RECORDS, I had to assume they were.

I wondered why no one cared to clean up or at least attempt to organize the mess. Taxpayers who complained about red tape and lost paperwork would have a field day in here. But the tribal police didn’t have to play by the same rules as county or federal cops. All areas, with the exception of the conference room, were dirty and jam-packed with junk. No wonder my dad had hated coming here. Now I understood Dawson’s frustration, too.

By the time I’d navigated my way into the break room, I’d decided against a cup of coffee.

No sign of Carsten.

Agent Turnbull’s shoulders rested against the door frame as he spoke to Officer Spotted Bear. My anxiety kicked in. In the military I’d stand off to the side, at rest, waiting to approach a superior officer until I received acknowledgment. Protocol wasn’t defined within the FBI. So I hung back awkwardly, pretending to study the topographical map on the wall, splattered with dark splotches that looked like blood.

“Something you need, Gunderson?” Turnbull finally asked.