“Agent Gunderson?”
My focus snapped back to Turnbull. “Yes?”
Before he could give instructions, another vehicle screeched up. Doors flew open. The all-male tribal police were much slower to react than I was.
I heard the agonized shriek and managed to get ahold of the woman running toward the crime scene. Triscell Elk Thunder, I presumed. But she was determined, and she dragged me a few steps before I solidified my stance.
“Arlette?” she screamed, fighting me. “Arlette!”
“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.”