“And now after I’ve been in the tribal police headquarters? I see the same problem. To be perfectly blunt, the place is a disorganized pigsty, with who knows what files spread everywhere. So if there is a connection or pattern to these deaths, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the tribal cops didn’t catch the similarities because they wouldn’t know where the hell to find the information.”
No one looked at me.
Maybe I had gotten a little vehement, maybe it was a shot to my ego they wouldn’t listen. As the highest enlisted rank in my squad, my opinions always commanded attention. I didn’t expect special treatment as an agent, but I sure as hell hadn’t expected my observation to be discounted immediately.
Director Shenker steepled his fingers, just like the FBI honchos on TV. “Tell you what, Special Agent Gunderson. I’ll let you put your money where your mouth is. I don’t know what important case files you think you saw carelessly strewn around the tribal police department, but I have it on good authority the arrest records, case reports, and official police logs are locked up tight in the tribal HQ archives department. Alongside other sensitive matters to members of the tribe, like family lineage, land succession, recorded oral histories, births, deaths, marriages. You know where that department is, right? Since you registered as a member of the tribe, what… eight months ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
He tapped his fingers on his lips a couple of times. “Since we have meetings scheduled Monday, starting Tuesday, you’ll backtrack through all the police files-cases, arrest records, police logs, plus the obituaries, the official death records, media articles, and whatever else you can find to document your theory. Get me proof. Then I’ll listen to your gut.”
I’d just been demoted to flunky.
I’d suck it up, like a soldier, and do my job, because I’d done a lot worse things under orders than paw through musty file folders. I managed a tight smile. “Thank you, sir, for the opportunity to test my theories.”
Director Shenker frowned, unsure if I was being sincere or sarcastic.
I wasn’t quite sure myself. As much as I loathed the idea of being stuck underground like a mole, I’d prefer doing something that might make forward progress on this case, or reopening cold cases, rather than sitting through more courses on FBI procedures.
Turnbull could handle the particulars of the current investigation. He’d be thrilled I wasn’t impeding his lone-wolf investigative prowess anyway. I sent him a sidelong glance, expecting to see his superior smirk.
But he was pissed, as evidenced by the telltale clenching and flexing of his jaw.
Screw him. Nothing I ever did made him happy.
“Now, on to the next order of business,” the director said.
I listened, ignoring Shay’s stealthy interest in the notes I jotted down.
As soon as Shenker announced the break, I booked it to the one place Shay couldn’t follow me: the ladies’ room.
Might make me a chickenshit, especially when I’m normally ready to fire-either a gun or my mouth-but I didn’t slide back into my chair until after the meeting reconvened.
Director Shenker liked to hear himself talk. And he didn’t seem to notice I didn’t participate. He dismissed us-not for lunch, like I’d expected, but for the rest of the day. He stopped my rapid exit with a curt “Gunderson.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll clear you to be at tribal headquarters archive department. You’ll be assigned on this task until further notice. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Turnbull, I’ll need you to stick around for a bit,” Shenker added, allowing me to make a clean getaway.
5
It was an indication of how crappy my morning had been that I was actually looking forward to my trip to the dreaded Hellmart-aka Walmart. As usual, the parking lot was jam-packed, and I practically had to park on the moon. But I gave myself props for remembering to remove my gun, since I was always way too temped to use it in the store.
Once inside the building, I cut through the health and beauty aisles to reach the dog food. Might as well stock up. I zipped past the gun department, briefly stopping to price bullets.
I spent so little time in the household-goods section of the store it took me a couple of rows to find it. And holy hell, the color choices for comforters fanned out before me like a rainbow. Couldn’t go wrong with navy blue. I piled a blanket, a comforter, a sheet set, and matching plaid curtains on top of all the other junk.
Seemed Hope was always running out of diapers, so I detoured to the baby section and threw two packs into the cart. I couldn’t resist a new outfit for Poopy, a darling pair of denim overalls with glittery butterflies appliquéd on the butt.
I skipped the food section and wished for the hundredth time Sophie knew how to text so she could send me the weekly grocery list since I was already here.
My cell buzzed while I waited in line. I debated ignoring it, except I wouldn’t want to miss sexting with Dawson because I was avoiding Turnbull. The text wasn’t from either man, but from Hope, asking me to pick up diapers. One step ahead of ya, sis.
Since I had no place to be, I stopped at Wendy’s for lunch. Afterward, on a whim, I pulled into Runnings, a ranch supply store. Seeing the display of hunting gear, I realized I didn’t have the mandatory neon orange article of clothing required for all hunters. It went against everything ingrained in me to wear something so blatantly obvious. I picked the least offensive item I could find: a knit hat. I tossed one in the cart for Dawson, too. Checking the prices of various calibers of bullets, I was surprised they were a buck less a box than at Walmart, so I scooped up a box of.308 for my rifle, a box of.270 for Dawson’s Remington bolt action, a box of.223 for my AR, and a box of.22 for target practice.
Since I’m a sucker for western clothes, I detoured through the women’s clothing department and found two rhinestone shirts a little on the tacky side that I couldn’t live without.
My last stop was the candy aisle. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I’m the only one in my family. Sophie loved old-fashioned horehound candy. Jake had a thing for lemon drops. Dawson could eat black licorice by the truckload, and Hope preferred maple nut goodies. I bought two packages of each and wondered what kind of candy Lex liked.
I flashed back to Levi as a kid and how crazy he’d been for circus peanuts-those disgusting molded blobs of orange fluff. But I hesitated to throw in a package. Sometimes the simplest thing would start Hope on a crying jag. She’d gotten better in the last few months. At least now she and I could talk about Levi without either of us breaking down every time.
I loaded everything into the truck and finally started for home. I’d managed to shove aside the morning’s events during my shopping foray, but as soon as Rapid City reflected in my taillights, those suppressed thoughts surfaced unbidden and unwanted. Dammit. I’d been in such a happy-albeit girly-place with the lunch and the shopping. Needing to stay out of my head, I cranked the country music and belted out tunes about cheating, drinking, and more drinking.