The sun hadn’t burned off the early-morning cloud cover, yet Turn-bull wore dark shades in the dim gray light. He claimed his sunglasses provided anonymity. I think he believed the lenses gave off an air of mysterious badass. Must be a guy thing because Dawson wore his sunglasses all the damn time, too.
Three other tribal cops followed Turnbull. One carried a camera.
“Agent Gunderson,” Shay said to me in lieu of a “good morning.”
“Agent Turnbull, this is Officer Orson. He’s been keeping an eye on the crime scene and the witnesses since the initial emergency call.”
Turnbull nodded then addressed me again. “Have you been over there?”
“No, sir.”
“Let’s go.” He tossed me a pair of latex gloves and signaled to the camera guy. “I want pictures of everything. And I mean everything.”
I knew Turnbull preferred his own FBI team on crime scenes, but that wasn’t always possible. This reservation was two hours out of Rapid City, so most agents were familiar with being their own Evidence Response Team, or ERT-in FBI speak.
I hadn’t asked Officer Orson to describe the scene, so as not to skew my initial impression. When we reached the clearing where the body had been laid out, I wished I’d had more warning about the brutality of the situation.
Arlette Shooting Star was naked. A long piece of wood, driven directly through her heart, staked her to the ground. Dried blood spattered her chest. A dark stain spread across the dirt beneath her slim torso. Her arms and legs were precisely arranged in a T formation, not in the akimbo manner consistent with the randomness of a body falling to the earth. Her brown eyes, covered in a milky blue film of death, were wide open. Her top teeth covered her bottom lip, her face forever frozen in a grimace of pain.
The photographer began snapping pictures of the body from every possible angle. Turnbull said nothing. He just squatted as he moved in a crouch, scribbling in his notebook. The other two cops who’d arrived with him flanked Officer Orson. None of the men said anything. We all just watched, trying to reconcile the horror of what we were seeing.
I’d never been a fan of forensic shows. Since joining the FBI I’d had to learn forensic science, not just to look for the physical clues that often get left behind. The victim’s body trauma leads profilers to a specific type of person capable of carrying out such a violent crime. I’d often wondered what these profilers would make of my sniper tactics.
You’ll think of anything to take your mind off the reality of this young girl being abducted. Tortured. Probably raped before she was brutalized.