Merciless (17 page)

“Yes, you are. I understand you don’t punch a time clock, Agent Gunderson, but I do.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are the only days the archives are closed to the public so
I can catch up on my work. Except today, I have to open up at ten since we’ll be closed
tomorrow. I wasted a half an hour this morning waiting around up front because I expected
you earlier, and now I’m behind. When I get in the back rooms, I cannot hear the buzzer.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to add to your workload when you’ve been so helpful to me.”
I followed him to the desk. “You’re closing tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m taking a much-needed personal day.”

I curbed my disappointment there wasn’t coffee. And I knew I had to make nice. This
would be a test, making nice without the benefit of caffeine. “Lucky you. Do you plan
on doing something fun?”

Sheldon stared at me, as if gauging the sincerity of my interest. “I’m going hunting.”

I gave him a big smile. “Really? That’s great! Where?”

“Near Viewfield. A friend lets me hunt on his place.”

“Good thing you’ve got permission. I tend to shoot hunters who trespass on our land.”

He didn’t find my attempt at humor funny. “You can’t possibly catch all the trespassers,
hunters or otherwise, with the size of the Gunderson Ranch.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean it’s not fun
trying
to catch them.”

Another dour look. “What about the Sheriff? Does he bring his buddies or his family
to hunt in such a prime location?”

Sheldon was pissy today, but I doubted it was due entirely to my late arrival. “Dawson
hasn’t asked specifically that we open it up to his friends from Minnesota or his
colleagues in the sheriff’s office. There are a few local families that’ve been hunting
on Gunderson land for years. They follow the rules, or they lose the privilege.”

“Do you hunt?”

“Oh, yeah. I haven’t done it for years since I’ve been gone during
hunting season. We scored antelope buck tags this year and both bagged ours last weekend.
Usually I hunt alone, but luckily the sheriff and I have complimentary hunting styles.”
I paused, wondering if I was blathering. “What tag did you end up with?”

“Deer tag for does. I put in for the elk lottery every year, but I’ve never been chosen.”

I shrugged. “Elk are too freakin’ big to pack out. And guaranteed, the damn thing
is deep in the forest when you track one. I’m not that crazy about elk meat anyway.”
I smiled. “But I’m all over getting to use a bigger hunting gun.”

Sheldon finally smiled back. “I wouldn’t know.” He sighed and ran a hand through his
hair. “Sorry about being snappy. I know this doesn’t seem like a stressful job, but
it is.”

“Understood. And I
am
sorry I was late.”

He glanced at the clock. “Do you know where you’ll be working today?”

“With police logs and cases.”

“That room is unlocked. If you’ll excuse me, I have three things to finish before
I open the doors.”

It surprised me how many people came in through the course of the day. I hadn’t paid
attention yesterday, since I’d been in a room off limits to the general public. Evidently,
the reference section was better than those at the high school or the Indian college.

Sheldon and I both worked through lunch. When four o’clock rolled around, I put away
all the file boxes and microfiche rolls. I pawed through the extensive military history
section while I waited until Sheldon finished helping an elderly woman with her genealogy
questions.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you so much for all your help. You went above and beyond, Sheldon, and
I appreciate it.”

“You did find the information you needed?”

“I think so. I’ll have to compile my findings and present everything to the boss to
see if it gets my ass out of the hot seat.”

He smiled. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Good luck with the hunt tomorrow.” I wondered if he took offense when I practically
skipped out of the dungeon.

•   •   •

Although Director Shenker wasn’t in the Rapid City office, Turnbull asked to see what
I’d found, so I spent Friday morning at home putting all the data together before
I headed into town.

“All right, Special Agent Gunderson. Wow me.”

No pressure. I looked at him. “You realize this report is raw. I haven’t had time
to create flowcharts, graphs, timelines, or any of that fancy shit.”

“Yes. I get it.”

“I backtracked five years and focused on deaths of women in that initial age group.”
My lists referred to the women as numbers, which I hated, but it appeared more concise
on paper. “And between us? Not fun information to compile.”

“If we were in a bigger FBI office, you could’ve passed that tedious job onto an intern.”
Shay looked at me expectantly. “Bottom line. Any validity to your theory?”

“Yes. And no.”

“See? If nothing else, you’re getting the hang of writing government reports.”

“Ha-ha. What I found is a lot of deaths. Mostly explainable. But each year for the
past five years, there have been three or four deaths in a short period of time that
weren’t explained or investigated.” I pointed to one report. “All with a . . . theme.
If that makes sense. Three years ago, all three victims were killed in car accidents.
Strange car accidents with no rhyme or reason. No witnesses. No other passengers in
the car. And all the cars were found in remote areas.”

Turnbull frowned.

“Then two years ago, all the women who died had been documented former drug users.”

“Not unheard-of. The relapse rate is pretty high around here,” he pointed out.

“I understand. But these three women were all found outside in the elements. Not in
their homes or their cars, where they could crash after shooting up. One was found
in a ditch. The next one was found in a field, and the third one was found by a set
of railroad tracks a mile outside of town. And the tribal police didn’t order an autopsy
or blood work, or work the cases at all—including calling in the FBI. They assumed
cause of death was due to drugs. Which is just so fucking . . . lazy, I can’t believe
it.”

“How long was the time frame between victims?”

“For the alleged ODs? One month. For the alleged car-accident victims? One month.”

“So these situations, for lack of a better term, took place regularly over a three-month
period?”

“Yep. And when I looked at last year’s victims, women who’d at some point been involved
in violent domestic situations, the time spread was also one month. And again, the
women were left outside. No need to take blood samples when the woman was gut shot
and died, or when the woman was nearly decapitated and died, or when the woman was
stabbed repeatedly and died. Each year I found a couple of cases that could go either
way, as far as fitting the pattern, but I left them out of this. For now.”

“Why?”

“Because of what Agent Flack pointed out. No need to investigate when it appears to
be a cut-and-dried fatal domestic. There were six other cases like that in the last
two years.”

“Jesus. I can’t believe no one noticed this.” He glanced up at me. “I know getting
this information sucked, Mercy, but this really is outstanding work.”

“Thank you. Last thing. I’m pretty sure Arlette is the first victim this year.”

Shay nodded. “But there’s no discernable pattern yet, so we’ve got no way of knowing
what type of woman the second or the third victims might be.”

“Right. What I didn’t have time to check was the tie between victims in previous years.
Besides the surface similarities in the manner and
timing of death. So my question: Do we consult a profiler? See if they’ve got theories
on the type of person we’re dealing with?” I paused a beat too long, and Shay glanced
at me sharply.

“What else?”

“Or maybe they’ll tell me that, as a newbie agent, I’m completely off my rocker. That
I’m seeing conspiracies where there are none. That maybe this is all coincidence.”

He sighed. “You brought up the same points Shenker will when we take this to him.
We’ve been on this Shooting Star case over a week, and we’ve got more questions than
answers.”

“Speaking of the case . . . out of curiosity, why wasn’t Latimer Elk Thunder brought
in for a formal family interview? Arlette was his niece. And doesn’t it strike you
as odd that we found out more about Arlette from her friends than from her aunt?”

“Now that you mention it, I expected he’d make a much bigger deal about the murder,
given how quickly he bypassed tribal PD and came straight to the FBI.”

“Think Arlette’s death was a warning to him? He realized that too late and now he
wants to shove it under the rug? By enforcing a no-contact-with-the-family edict?
Hoping the FBI will go away? Because we’ve learned that Arlette was more of a nuisance
in his life than a beloved family member. I heard that from more than one source.”

“Are you saying you think the tribal president had something to do with his niece
getting staked?”

I hedged. “If the murderer’s intent was to rattle the new tribal president, it didn’t
work.”

Shay removed a slip of paper from his stack of folders and slid it to me. “We’re thinking
along the same lines. I made a list of Elk Thunder’s most vocal detractors.”

I scoured the short list. Rollie Rondeaux. Terry Vash. Arthur “Bigs” Bigelow. Bruce
Hawken. Penny Pretty Horses. Not surprised to see Rollie’s name, but I was surprised
to see Penny’s. “Are these names in any special order?”

“Contributors to Roger Apple’s campaign for tribal president and his staunchest supporters.”
He tapped on Penny’s name. “I know you’re surprised to see her. But remember, she
worked for the tribal council for the last twenty-five years. She had a strong opinion
on who should lead the tribe.”

I whistled. “Arlette was found on Terry Vash’s land.”

“I picked up on that, too.”

We looked at each other.

My cell rang. The ID read
LEX,
and I noticed the time. “Shit. I was supposed to pick Lex up from school. Twenty
minutes ago.” I answered with a cheery, “Hey, Lex. No, I didn’t forget.”
Liar.
“I got waylaid in Rapid City.” I waited while he hotly contested that response. “Don’t
do that, I can call Hope or Jake to come get you. They’ll be there in fifteen minutes
tops. It’ll take me an hour if I leave right now.” I briefly closed my eyes. “Fine.
Call him and ask him if you can walk to his office. Just text me and let me know what
I’m supposed to do.” He hung up on me.

I would’ve hung up on me, too. Dammit.

“Problem, Mama Mercy?”

“Yes. I screwed up and now—”

“Prince Dawson and the king will make you pay?”

“Oh, bite me. I’m still adjusting to this family-scheduling stuff.” Mason would be
more understanding than Lex about my lapse. I hoped. “I’ve gotta go.” I gathered my
papers.

“I’ll need a copy of those. I might get a chance over this long weekend to look at
them.”

I frowned. “Long weekend?”

“Veterans Day, remember? The office is closed on Monday.”

“Damn. I forgot.” That meant school would be out, too.

Shay smirked. “You seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately, Sergeant Major. See
you Tuesday.”

T
uesday morning, Turnbull’s number flashed on my cell phone screen just as I’d left
my house. “Gunderson.”

“Agent. We’ve caught a case.”

Best to save my breath asking questions. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone
anyway. “Where are you?”

“In your neighborhood. I’ll meet you in the parking lot at Besler’s grocery.”

“I’ll be there after I drop Lex off at school.”

“Is Dawson punishing you for your oversight last week? He has you working as a kid’s
taxi service?” Turnbull said with a hint of snark. “What’s next? You’ll swap the FBI
for the PTA?”

I shot a look at Lex, his Broncos winter hat pulled almost over his eyes. He stared
straight ahead, his jaw set in the same stubborn manner as his father’s.

“Who pissed in your corn flakes this morning, Agent Turnbull? Jesus. Have another
cup of coffee and quit being an ass. I’m on my way.” I hung up.

Lex looked at me, shocked.

“What?”

“Ah, nothin’.” He turned and stared out the passenger’s-side window.

Talk about awkward. And I was a little annoyed that Dawson’s phone call a half hour
ago had allowed him to run out, leaving me to take Lex to school.

Oh, and to try to explain that barging into anyone’s bedroom without knocking isn’t
ever a good idea.

In the short amount of time we’d been living together, we were used
to being alone in the house—at least in our bedroom, even if the kitchen seemed to
be full of people in the morning. I’d sweet-talked Mason into a quickie before we
started our day. Being lost in the moment, neither of us bothered checking to see
if we’d locked our bedroom door. Lex burst in and saw me riding his dad like a jockey.

So how did I handle this? Tell him when two people loved each other . . . nah. Lame.
I’d give it to him straight: I was crazy in lust with his father, and yes, even old
people like us got it on at every opportunity. Nah. That was way too much information.

“Lex, look. About what you saw this morning—”

“I didn’t see anything,” he said way too fast. “And my dad already lectured me enough.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you.”

He shrugged, as if to say he didn’t care. “Who’s picking me up today?”

“I assume your dad. Why?”

“I need some school supplies. For a report. Stuff they don’t have in Eagle Ridge.”

“If you’ve got a list, I could pick the stuff up since I’m probably headed to Rapid
at some point today.”

“We’re getting the list in second period. I just wanted to make sure
someone
wouldn’t forget to take me.”

Nice shot at my lapse in parental time management. Rather than defending myself or
continuing the small talk, I reached over and turned up the radio. A catchy Keith
Urban tune filled the truck cab, and I resisted the urge to sing along, a fact Lex
probably appreciated.