Merciless

“Ma’am. Stop. Calm down.”

“Is that her?” She twisted and jerked.

I literally dug my heels in and held on.

She continued to flail. “Let me go!”

“No. You don’t want to see her like this.”

That angered her even more. “You have no idea-”

“Yes, I do.” I shook her then. Hard. And got right in her face. “Listen to me. Trust me. You don’t want to see her.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t erase it, once you see her like that. It’ll never go away. It won’t give you any closure. It’ll haunt you. Is that what you want? To have that memory every time you think of her?”

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.