Merciless

Three buildings, built close together, made up the Eagle River Reservation tribal seat of power. The tribal police station on the right, which also housed the jail, was the largest building. The tribal services building in the middle contained a mishmash of service offices, including the Bureau of Indian Affairs-BIA, WIC, Department of Social Services, Social Security Administration, energy assistance programs, and the two rooms the FBI rented for victim specialists. The third structure on the left side was the Eagle River Tribal Headquarters building. It housed several different entities, all involved with the business of running the tribe. The top floor was devoted to the tribal court system. The second floor held the tribal council’s business offices and meeting spaces. The entire first floor, which was actually the basement since all three buildings had been built into the side of a hill, was devoted to tribal archives. Everything from the official tribal rolls to the newspaper archives-since the tribe owned the newspaper-to storage of closed cases, open old cases, police logs, and arrest reports from the tribal police were down there, plus historical documents dating back to when the tribe had taken the land offer from the U.S. government and became part of the reservation system.

I took the stairs and found the door locked. I had to use a buzzer to gain admission. “Yes?” echoed through the intercom.

“Special Agent Mercy Gunderson, FBI. I’ve been cleared with the tribal police through the tribal council to access certain archives.”

No human response, just the buzzing click that signaled I could enter the inner sanctum. I almost felt like I needed to wear a hooded robe and spout Latin as I opened the door, especially when I caught a whiff of the musty air.

Although this floor was identical to the floors above it, the layout was completely different. The main section was similar to the reference area at a library: rows and rows of periodicals, a gigantic desk covered with computer equipment and ringed with filing cabinets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t get a chance to peer down the hallway, as the man behind the desk was headed toward me.

He offered his hand first. Depending on how traditionally they were raised, some Indian males shook hands with women and some didn’t, so I never assumed. “Special Agent Gunderson, what a pleasure to see you again. I’m Sheldon War Bonnet, manager of the archives. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you when you filled out the tribal registration form.”

I didn’t remember him. “Nice to see you again, Mr. War Bonnet. The FBI appreciates your cooperation.”

“Please, call me Sheldon.” He gestured to a sitting area I hadn’t noticed. “Coffee?”

I didn’t want to make idle chitchat with this guy, but since I’d be here all week, I smiled. “That would be great.” I picked the overstuffed chair that faced the door-a ridiculous superstition given I was in a locked room. But me ’n’ Wild Bill Hickok had the same phobia about sitting with our backs to the door, and Wild Bill’s ignoring his gut reaction had gotten him killed.

“Cream or sugar?” Sheldon asked.

“Black is fine.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He handed me the coffee and eased into the chair opposite mine. “I didn’t get a chance to mention the one time you were in here that I knew your father. He was good for the county. A great sheriff.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled into my coffee.

“Pity you lost the election.”

“The better man won, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose only time will tell.”

I covertly studied Sheldon as I sipped my coffee. He appeared to be in his late fifties. A full-blooded Indian. His thick glasses gave off a wicked reflection in the fluorescent lighting and I couldn’t see his eyes, but I assumed they were brown. He wore a high-necked white T-shirt under a loose-fitting gray caftan with a split neckline. His khaki pants bagged everywhere, and his feet were behind the ottoman, so I couldn’t determine whether he wore beat-up Birkenstocks or dusty hikers. He definitely held that old-hippie vibe-long black hair pulled into a ponytail, soft-spoken voice, his gentle demeanor that put us on even footing from the start.

“So what brings the FBI here?”

I had to tread lightly. During training we learned to share the least information about a case and how to redirect. And, if necessary… to lie. But I tried to stay within a realm of truth. “What I’m looking for would fall under classified information. But since I’m here as sort of a managerial punishment, the truth is I’m not sure where to start.”

His eyes widened beneath his glasses. “Managerial punishment?”

“Off the record? Being the newbie agent in the office, I made the… ah, mistake of spouting off a theory to the big boss, and now I’ve been relegated to research said theory.”

“That sucks. For you.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m the type who prefers doing research to anything else. I assume you have parameters, so I can at least direct you to the correct archive?”