“Gunderson?” Turnbull prompted.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
“Given Nita Dupris’s hatred of the tribal police, especially those with native blood, I’m sending you and Officer Ferguson to notify her about her daughter.”
I suspected it was more a choice of gender than skin color. “Isn’t that something Carsten should do as a victim specialist?”
“Carsten is not in charge of this case, I am.”
Man. Pissing contests all the way around this morning. Turnbull was my superior, and I would follow orders. “I’m assuming you’d like us to leave now, before this situation becomes common knowledge.”
“Yes. I’ll clear with Officer Spotted Bear to have Officer Ferguson accompany you, but I doubt there will be a problem.”
“And afterward? Where am I expected?”
“At the tribal PD.” Turnbull smirked. “I’ll leave you and the sheriff to discuss your private business. Coordinating day-care pickup, supper plans, and such.”
Jerk.
Dawson sighed. “Indian Fabio giving you grief about my kid?”
Given where we were, I couldn’t even crack a smile at Dawson’s nickname for Turnbull. “You think I can’t handle myself with him?”
“With who? Lex? Or Turnbull?”
“Either.”
“I’ve no doubt Turnbull is the way he is around you, or around us, because he doesn’t know what to make of you, or us.”
Was he purposely being vague? “I’m pretty sure your son doesn’t know what to make of me after the situation this morning,” I muttered.
Dawson discreetly reached for my hand. “I talked to Lex about it-as much as he’d let me. We’ll just have to remember to lock our bedroom door. I definitely don’t want that part of us to change just because we’ve got an eleven-year-old living with us.”
“Me neither.” I squeezed his hand before letting mine drop away. “Text me later.”
“Good luck with the rest of your day. You’ll probably need it.”
10
Officer Ferguson dropped her vehicle at the tribal HQ and hopped into mine. I didn’t ask if she was familiar with Nita Dupris’s address or whether she’d had to look it up.
The Dupris house was a trailer that’d been added on to in several places. Four cars were parked on the yard. A baby-blue, free-form swimming pool, the edges collapsed in, squatted next to a molded plastic playhouse. Broken toys were strewn everywhere. Tonka trucks and plastic guns, swords and Happy Meal figurines. Naked dolls that eerily resembled forgotten babies. Frozen to the ground were white lumps that looked like piles of snow but were discarded diapers.
I knew nothing of Verline’s family, but what I saw outside this house told me everything I needed to know.
Fergie sighed. “You taking the lead on this?”
My pride didn’t allow me to admit I’d never before been the bearer of bad news, in an official capacity. “Sure. I’ve got a whole pocket full of zip ties.”
She didn’t crack a smile.
“Let’s get it done.” I beat on the siding six times, hoping the noise would cut through the cartoons I heard blaring on the TV.
After two minutes passed with no response, I pounded again.
The inner door swung open, leaving the torn screen hanging between us.
An Indian woman of indeterminate age barked, “What?”
I asked, “Are you Nita Dupris?”
“Yeah. So? Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Gunderson with the FBI.” I gestured to Fergie. “This is-”
“I know her,” Nita said crossly. “What do you want?”
“We’re here”-a beat passed as I struggled for the appropriate words-“to talk to you about your daughter, Verline Dupris.”
“I ain’t seen that little shit for three days. So whatever she’s gone and done, I don’t know nothin’ about it.” Her harsh gaze settled on Officer Ferguson in her uniform. “And if she’s in jail, she knows better than to ask me to bail her dumb ass out.”
“Actually, Verline isn’t in jail. She was found at the landfill a couple of hours ago.”
“Landfill? What was she doin’…?” Nita’s lips flattened. “She hurt or something?”
“No, ma’am. She’s dead. I’m sorry.”
Nita didn’t break down. Nothing in her face or her posture softened. “You’re sure it’s her.”
“Yes, ma’am. She was positively identified.”
“By who? That fucking lowlife Rollie Rondeaux? Or by his loser son, Junior?”
Before either of us could answer, another Indian woman, about thirty, holding a toddler, sidled beside Nita in the doorway. “Momma? What’s goin’ on?”
“Your sister Verline has gone and gotten herself killed.”
“What?” The sister glared at us. “That’s why these asshole cops are here? To tell us Verline’s dead? Where the hell were you when-”
“Maureen. Enough. They don’t care.”
What were we supposed to do? Protest that we did care? Ask to be invited in so we could witness their grief to make sure they cared? Because I sure as hell wasn’t seeing any sadness.
Don’t judge.
Jesus, I wished Carsten was here. She’d do a much better job.
Another Indian woman, who looked identical to Maureen, bulled her way up to the door. “What the fuck do the cops want, Momma, and why ain’t you throwed them off the steps yet?”
“Hush, Carline, you’ll wake the babies.”
“They say Verline’s dead,” Maureen said.
Carline was the first to show any upset about the news. She gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. “My baby sister is dead? How?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” I said.
In the background kids shouted. The diaper-clad baby in Maureen’s arms wailed.
“Momma,” Maureen started, “we gotta tell-”
“I know what we gotta do.” Nita glared at us. “You done what you came to do. Now get the hell away from us.”
“This is a difficult time,” I said with as much empathy as I could muster, “but we’ll need to ask questions and get statements from all of you. As soon as possible.”
“Where? At the cop shop?”
I nodded.
“Fuck that,” Carline spat. “I ain’t gonna do it. You can’t make me neither.”
“True. But I’d think you’d want us to catch the person who killed your sister, and to do that, we’ll need more information than we’ve got now.”
“I can tell you exactly who killed her,” Maureen snapped. “Rollie Rondeaux. Check that motherfucker’s alibi.”
“Yeah,” Carline piped in.
“Look, I’d like to give you time to process this tragedy, but time is important. So we’ll expect to see all of you at the tribal police station. Before three o’clock this afternoon.”
“And if we don’t show?” Nita asked me.
“Then we’ll think one-or all-of you have something to hide. We’ll write a warrant for each one of you to appear at FBI headquarters in Rapid City. It’ll drag the process out for months. You’ll be as tired of seeing cops on your doorstep as we’ll be of showing up here, forcing your cooperation so we can prove that we do care, that we intend to lock up whoever murdered Verline. So put a lid on whatever issue you’ve got with law enforcement and trot yourselves down to the tribal police station before three o’clock today. If for no other reason than you owe it to Verline.”
I gave them my back and stomped on the debris littering the ground as I strode toward my truck.
Doubtful that Carsten would’ve approved of that outburst, even if it was a tame response from me.
Officer Ferguson didn’t have anything to add and didn’t speak until we’d returned to the tribal PD parking lot. “Well, that was fun.”