Merciless (25 page)

“I don’t keep foxglove on hand just for that reason.”

“Oh, smart.”

“Not that it matters. If food didn’t come prepackaged, or wasn’t full of fat, salt,
and sugar, she wouldn’t eat it. Arlette had an aversion to anything natural.”

I wondered if this woman had made her niece feel fat, or like a freak. In that moment
I had a pang of sorrow for Arlette and Verline. I took two steps back. “Thank you
for your time, Mrs. Elk Thunder. If you have any questions how the case is progressing,
don’t hesitate to contact Carsten McGillis, your FBI victim specialist.”

•   •   •

Agent Turnbull wasn’t in the office the next day, so I couldn’t share my interesting
findings about Latimer’s business practices and Triscell Elk
Thunder’s herbalist skills. And because I’d already been reamed for not sharing information
in a timely manner, I tried calling him, but he didn’t pick up. I learned from Frances
that he was stuck in court.

The following day, I’d had several cases to follow up on that weren’t related to the
murder cases in Eagle River. One involving a wiretap of an alleged member of a biker
gang and his threats against a judge. Another involving the placement of a witness
in protective custody with the U.S. Marshals Service in preparation for testimony
in a federal case.

By the time I caught up with Turnbull in the conference room right before lunch, I
wished I’d steered clear of him. Talk about manic highs and lows. I found myself biting
my tongue so as not to ask if he’d taken his bipolar meds.

When I tried to relay what I’d pieced together, Shay waved me off. “None of that matters
now.”

“None of the work I did on these cases for the last two days matters? Really? Even
if it changes the course of the investigation?”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you get a confession from someone?”

“No, but—”

“Then like I said, your busywork doesn’t matter.”

Busywork? Man, he was a total asshole today. “So?”

“
So,
is Rollie Rondeaux on your suspect list?”

“No, but that’s—”

“The problem. Rollie is your friend, and he played you, Mercy. Don’t you see that?”

Shay’s arrogance kicked my belligerence into high gear. “By telling me about the string
of suspicious deaths that’d gone unnoticed by the tribal police? That’s playing me?
Because I consider the initial information Rollie provided crucial to this case. No
one in the tribal PD or the FBI connected the dots—”

“Until
he
told you to look for the connection,” Shay snapped. “He told you there’d be more
deaths. And doesn’t that strike you as odd, Agent Gunderson? That Mr. Rondeaux, a
man who’s made no bones
about his hatred for law enforcement on any level, was suddenly helping us? Then the
next victim just happens to be his domestic partner? Coincidental and convenient,
don’t you think?”

Turnbull’s implication was wrong. I’d witnessed the look on Rollie’s face after he’d
seen what’d been done to Verline. He’d masked it quickly, but that type of horrified
anguish couldn’t have been faked.

I dropped my hands behind my back so Shay couldn’t see me clenching my fists. “So
you still believe Rollie killed Arlette to throw everyone off, just so he could get
rid of Verline? Bullshit.”

“Do you have any proof besides your gut instinct, Agent Gunderson?”

“I’m not discounting the tribal president as a suspect. Too many tribal members don’t
like him, which makes me wonder if the election was rigged because the margin was
so close. I can’t fit it all together yet, but he’s too slick. He didn’t miss a beat
after Arlette was found dead, and he was far too eager to pin his niece’s murder on
Rollie Rondeaux
before
Verline’s body had even cooled.”

“So the tribal president . . . what? Offed his niece because she was a nuisance? Then
he aced his political rival’s lover to throw suspicion onto Rollie for
both
murders? Huh-uh. Not buying it.”

“What about the fact Verline’s body was found at the dump? Is it coincidence that
Bigs Bigelow owns that land? And he supported Latimer Elk Thunder’s opponent for tribal
president? This is the second body with that common thread. You’re saying it’s just
a coincidence?”

“Maybe it’s
too
coincidental.” Shay studied me. “How much do you know about Rollie’s background in
the marines during Vietnam?”

“Enough to know that he did what he had to do to survive war. He did what he was ordered
to do, no different than the rest of us who took orders from Uncle Sam. Besides, how
do
you
know anything about his background? Military service records are sealed.” I’d always
suspected Shay had accessed mine, and when I saw the brief gleam in his eye, I knew
that checking up on Rollie wasn’t the first time he’d crossed the line.

He gave me that cool-eyed stare.

“Okay, Special Agent Turnbull, why don’t you tell me your suspects? Since you’ve exhausted
and discounted all of my theories.”

Shay poured himself a glass of water. He drank, jotted something in his notebook,
and then turned it toward me.

Two words were on the paper, in bold letters:

ROLLIE RONDEAUX.

“He’s my only suspect. He had a twofold purpose in killing Arlette. To prove to his
son that when he gives an ultimatum about family rivals and alliances, he expects
it to be followed. And to dick with Latimer Elk Thunder.

“You told me Rollie warned there would be other dead women on the rez. And a week
later his young girlfriend is dead? He doesn’t have an alibi. He suspects his son
was sleeping with his girlfriend. He cut off her hand as a symbol of biting the hand
that feeds you. He cut out her tongue because she knew that he’d killed Arlette and
he suspected she’d blab. And you told me that Rollie is familiar with native herbal
medicine. Verline had far more marks from being restrained than Arlette did, which
indicated she struggled harder, which I attribute to her being intimately acquainted
with her attacker. In each instance, Rollie had means, motive, and opportunity. That
puts a check mark next to every single thing on my list, which confirms him as a suspect.”
He pointed at me with his pen. “See, Agent Gunderson, you let your personal feelings
for him color your judgment.”

“And you let your hatred for him color yours.”

That comment caught him off guard. “I don’t hate him. But I don’t trust him. I know
he’s been on the wrong side of the law for years, and everyone always looks the other
way. He’s not some harmless old man, Mercy.”

“I never claimed he was.” My frustration with Turnbull’s refusal to consider other
suspects definitely put starch in my tone. “While I’m looking elsewhere, you’ll be
building a case against Rollie?”

“No need to look elsewhere. Rollie Rondeaux is guilty. I’ve already
built the case. We’ve got enough probable cause to ask the assistant U.S. attorney
to take this case to the grand jury.”

My mouth dropped open. “How can we possibly have enough evidence to ask for an indictment?”

“We’ll ask for this to be presented to the grand jury for investigation. That way
we can serve a warrant to Rollie’s son, Junior Rondeaux. We’ll serve a warrant to
the tribal president, Latimer Elk Thunder. We’ll use your testimony regarding what
he told you after the first murder victim was discovered but before the second victim
turned up. Rollie has firsthand knowledge of herbal medicine, and we can obtain a
search warrant for his residence. That should be enough for an indictment and his
subsequent arrest to stand trial.”

My stomach acid turned my morning oatmeal into sour mash. I’d have to give sworn testimony
against Rollie.

“We’re taking this to the assistant U.S. attorney after morning court adjourns.”

The action had already been decided before I’d entered the building.

Shay’s cell phone pealed. “Turnbull. Yes. What? No, you’re kidding, right?” Pause.
He stood abruptly. “When? How the hell is that even possible? No, fuck that. What
are our options . . . Sorry? Yes, sir. No, sir. I understand. Yes, I appreciate the
call.”

Shay hung up. He stalked to the window and squeezed his cell phone so hard that cracking
plastic echoed in the room.

“What’s going on?”

“Director Shenker was just informed by the Eagle River tribal PD that they arrested
Rollie Rondeaux last night on a charge unrelated to our cases. They’re holding him
in the tribal jail.”

Confused, I asked, “Which means what?”

“He’s locked up tight. A tribal member, accused of committing a misdemeanor crime
on tribal land, falls under the jurisdiction of the tribal court system, not the federal
system. We can’t forcibly extradite him until he’s faced a tribal judge and been convicted
or acquitted. It’s within the tribal police’s purview to keep Rollie incarcerated
until he’s brought
before a tribal judge. And since there’s no due process in the tribal court system,
Rollie is out of our reach. Indefinitely.”

A jurisdictional pissing match. How fun. “But Rollie has to stay in the tribal jail,
right? It’s not like he can post bond and roam around free on the reservation?”

Turnbull gawked at me like I had a screw loose. “That’s hardly the point, Mercy.”

“
You’re
missing the point, Shay. Rollie is locked up, out of society. If he is guilty of
a couple of gruesome murders, then he won’t be committing any more from behind bars.
The residents of the reservation are safe from him and his murderous ways.”

Another arch look from him.

“Is this just about you wanting the collar? Putting another feather in your federal
cap so you can get the hell out of this two-bit FBI office and back to a real division
office where you belong?” I taunted him.

He meandered toward me, snakelike. I held myself very still, half expecting to see
a forked tongue before venom-tipped fangs ripped a chunk out of me.

“Be smart, Gunderson. Be a team player. And if you haven’t figured it out? It’s very
much us versus them when it comes to tribal politics and jurisdiction. They’re more
than willing to take our help, but they rarely extend the same helping hand. This
is a slap down. The tribal police are proving they’ve got all the power.”

I’d hoped I’d left this political jostling behind when I’d left the army. “So what
now?”

“Now we see if we can assist Flack and Mested with their sex ring case, involving
interstate trafficking of minors, child pornography . . . You think reading obituaries
for a couple of days was bad? What you see and read today will make you question why
you became an FBI agent in the first place.”

Too late. I was already questioning it. “Lead the way. Beings you’re the senior agent
and all.”

Another scowl. “Give me a minute to find my—”

“FBI-mandated anger management course materials?”

He flashed his teeth. “Back the fuck off, Gunderson. But if you wanna see me in a
killing rage? By all means, stick around.”

I’d had enough of his male posturing. I poked him twice on the chest, right below
his snappy turquoise bolo tie. “You don’t scare me. You never have. So don’t even
fucking try.”

Evidently, the guys in conference room two had heard our exchange. They were mighty
quiet when we entered the room.

Good.

I
didn’t share my after-work plans with Turnbull. He’d argue. Blather on about the
FBI’s role, and mine.

The sporadic bouts of snow on the drive home were irritating. Just enough of the white
stuff fell from the sky to cover the ground, but not enough to mask the barrenness
of winter fields.

The jail was on the bottom level of the tribal PD building. The space wasn’t much
different from any other jail I’d been in, with the exception of the Iraq prisons,
which were little more than latrines.

A harried woman around my age inspected me. “Visiting hours ended at five.”

I slid the lanyard bearing my federal ID into the metal tray.

Her gaze dropped to my right hip. “You’re not carrying, are you Special Agent Gunderson?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sign in, please. Who are you here for?”

“Rollie Rondeaux.”

“Mr. Rondeaux has requested no visitors.”

“He’ll see me.” I smiled. “I’ll wait over here until I’m cleared through.”

The pamphlets in the waiting area shouldn’t have amused me, but they did. How to cope
with having a loved one in jail. The importance of family during a prisoner’s incarceration.
Advice on how to support the person behind bars, while disapproving of the crime committed.

I circled the coffee table, piled with magazines, and stopped in front of the map
that detailed the borders of the Eagle River Reservation.

“Agent Gunderson?”

I whirled around. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rondeaux will see you. At the buzzer, enter on the right.”

A loud buzz, and then the sound of locks disengaging.

I stepped into a small room with a state-of-the-art full-body X-ray machine. A voice
instructed me, “Feet shoulder width apart, arms at your sides, take a breath and hold
it.”

Beeeep.

“All clear. Exit through the rear door, Agent Gunderson.”

Another buzzing sound and more locks disengaging. I found myself in one of those rooms
like on TV, where individual cubicles were separated by pegboard walls. A Plexiglas
wall divided the two spaces. A phone hung on the right on each side.

The dingy gray-walled opposite room was empty.

A steel door opened, and a guard led an orange-jumpsuit-wearing, handcuffed Rollie
into the room.

The guard pointed at the center section, and I sat.

Rollie plopped into the chair across from me. The guard didn’t undo his handcuffs.
He didn’t leave after he’d handed Rollie the phone, either, but took the chair by
the door and leafed through a magazine.

Surprisingly, Rollie didn’t look bad.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you, hey,” he said.