Lori Armstrong: Merciless

Although I’d been armed with information after the lectures, nothing I’d learned about that turbulent time was cut and dried. Emotions ran high, untruths abounded, subterfuge on both sides culminated in tribal members and FBI agents dying. Not a particularly proud moment for either AIM or the FBI. But I had a better understanding of Indian resentment… as well as the feds’ frustration.

So I had to question Rollie’s motive in telling me to look deeper. Was he trying to lead me off course? And if so, why?

At home I flipped on the TV and my laptop, nestling into the living room couch with a beer. I started my Internet search wide, going back twelve months, using the keywords: Indian reservations, women’s deaths, accidents, violence.

1,379 results popped up.

Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass. I narrowed the search to the local papers in western South Dakota and retrieved more manageable data. I started clicking on links, copying pertinent ones into a separate document.

Three obituaries from last year caught my notice. Each a month apart. The first one was for Tunisia Broken Arrow, age twenty-two. Nothing in the obit about cause of death. The second one for Minneola “Mimi” Diggeman, age thirty. Again, nothing in the obit about cause of death. The third obituary was for Delia Moss, age twenty-seven. No listed cause of death.

How could all of these young women have died of natural causes? I cross-referenced the time frame, and none of the names were listed as car accident victims. Illness possibly? Or suicide?

I changed the parameters, going back twenty-four months, and found three more obituaries. All young women, all dead within a month of one another. None of the obits listed cause of death.

What the hell was going on? The only way to make any sense of this was to see the tribal PD’s report logs. There’d be a written report for a suicide. As well as a written report on a death due to exposure-I noticed these obits were mostly from the late fall/early winter months.

I knew I’d have to bring this up with Turnbull.

My cell phone buzzed with a text message from Dawson: Crushed under the weight of unfinished paperwork. Trying to catch up. Late night and early-morning shift means I’m crashing in my office tonight. Sorry. Miss you.

I miss you, too.

I hated that our schedules didn’t mesh, but that would probably always be a wrinkle in our private life together. No wonder cops had such high divorce rates. I sucked it up, swallowing the missing-my-man girly whine, then shut everything off and went to bed.

• • •

My sleep was fairly restful, considering the previous day’s disturbing events.

But as I drank coffee and looked at what the computer search engine had dredged up the night before, I knew I needed to talk to Rollie again-before I brought up my suspicions with Shay. Since we had interviews scheduled for first thing this morning, I’d drop by his place at the Diamond T after work tonight.

Jake must’ve come by early because the dogs weren’t around when I stepped onto the porch. I squinted at the sky. Another dreary day. The moist air seeped into my bones, and I shivered. Wet cold is worse than dry cold. I’d take winter in the high plains desert over winter in the supposed warmer clime of North Carolina. At least if it snowed, the dulled, gray, lifeless tones of late fall would be hidden beneath a blanket of white.

The parking lot at the tribal police station was nearly full-an odd occurrence this early in the morning on the rez. I remembered to put my FBI parking tag on the dash. Hopefully, that wouldn’t earn me a tire iron to the windows or headlights.

Inside, a dozen or so people crowded around the receptionist’s desk, arguing about wrongful incarceration of a family member. I dodged fighting kids and skirted a hefty woman in a wheelchair who was blocking the door. After winding my way through teetering boxes in the hallways, any calmness evaporated once I reached the conference room. I hated that I wanted Agent Turnbull here. I hadn’t dealt with the tribal cops much, and I was still finding my footing as to who was in charge in what circumstance.

Officer Ferguson was kicked back, with her boots on the table and a file folder obscuring most of her face. Those boots dropped with a thump when she saw me. “Sorry, Agent.”

“No problem.” I spied a coffeepot and poured myself a cup.

“Is your partner coming today?” she asked.

No surprise she’d be asking about Shay. The man’s amazing looks could’ve landed him on the cover of a historical western romance, where the scantily dressed, brave Brave held the virginal white girl in his big strong arms. “Special Agent Turnbull is not my partner. He’s my supervisor. So I assume he’ll show.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” She gave me a curious look. “Do you think the reason we’re interviewing Arlette’s friends is because we’re women?”

Oddly enough, that comment relaxed me, because I’d had the same thought. “Probably. But I’ll take a dozen teenage girls in interview any day over one strung-out male meth head.” I sat across from her and sipped my coffee. “Do you know these friends of Arlette’s?”

She shook her head and slid me a file folder.

I skimmed the lone document. “Where’s the other girl’s statement?”

“That’s all we’ve got.”

I bit back a comment about the seemingly haphazard treatment of documents at the tribal PD. When I glanced up, I noticed the curtain to what I’d assumed was a window was now open. It wasn’t a window but a two-way glass to a viewing room. That’s where Turnbull would be.

Three raps sounded on the door, and the receptionist stuck her head in. “Fergie? Are you ready for Naomi Malloy? The Kicking Bird family has taken over the front office, and she’s getting spooked.”

Officer Ferguson looked at me and I nodded. “Bring her in.”

After the door closed, I said, “So… Fergie, huh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I got that nickname after Fergie, the former Duchess of York, became a household name, but before Fergie, from the Black Eyed Peas, became popular.” She smirked. “But I’m sure you can see my resemblance to the latter.”

Redheaded Officer Ferguson was about five feet three and as curvy as a tipi pole.

“One of my nicknames in the army was Gunny, which pissed off the marines we were stationed with, because that name is used exclusively for a male gunnery sergeant. They still gave me the stink eye after I pointed to my name patch and explained Gunny was short for Gunderson.”

“Fucking jarheads,” she muttered. “I was in the air force for a decade, so I know how they are.”

“You were military police?”

Fergie nodded. “Ended up stationed at Ellsworth for the last of my enlistment. Met a native guy, moved to the rez, got a cop job… and here I am.”

“He fell in love with your lovely lady lumps?”

She grinned and started to retort, but the door swung inward, sucking the humor from the room. The ashen face of a young Indian girl reminded us of our unpleasant task.

I stood and offered my hand. “Naomi? I’m Special Agent Gunderson of the FBI. Thank you so much for coming in to speak with us.”

“Why don’t you sit here.” Officer Ferguson offered her a seat between us. “That way we won’t have to shout at each other to be heard. You want coffee or water?”

Naomi shook her head and slid into the chair.

I studied her openly. Long, straight hair scraped back into a ponytail. Eyes heavily lined with black eye shadow. She peeled back the oversized, black ski jacket. The puffiness of her down-filled coat made her look much huskier than her actual slight stature. Rings adorned all ten of her fingers. Her fingernails were painted black, but the polish was mostly chipped off.