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other female deaths on the reservation that might relate to the
     Shooting Star case?
    The crotchety old man had a bug up his butt about all law enforcement agencies—especially
     federal—since the American Indian Movement, known as AIM, uprisings in the 1970s.
     He refused to admit whether he’d been involved in the AIM violence. But given his
     issues with the government after his military discharge during the Vietnam War, I
     wouldn’t be surprised if he’d masterminded some of the shit that’d gone down.
    My dad hadn’t been sheriff during those rocky years, so I hadn’t known details about
     the outbreaks of fatal violence until I’d studied the case histories and investigations
     during my training at Quantico.
    Since I’d already been assigned to an FBI office with multiple Indian reservations
     in the jurisdiction, I’d had to take extra classes on racial sensitivity and honoring
     traditional Indian customs within the confines of federal laws. Not even being a registered
     member of the Eagle River tribe had let me klepp out of the courses.
    Although I’d been armed with information after the lectures, nothing I’d learned about
     that turbulent time was cut and dried. Emotions ran high, untruths abounded, subterfuge
     on both sides culminated in tribal members and FBI agents dying. Not a particularly
     proud moment for either AIM or the FBI. But I had a better understanding of Indian
     resentment . . . as well as the feds’ frustration.
    So I had to question Rollie’s motive in telling me to look deeper. Was he trying to
     lead me off course? And if so, why?
    At home I flipped on the TV and my laptop, nestling into the living room couch with
     a beer. I started my Internet search wide, going back twelve months, using the keywords:
     Indian reservations, women’s deaths, accidents, violence.
    1,379 results popped up.
    Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass. I narrowed the search to the local papers in
     western South Dakota and retrieved more manageable data. I started clicking on links,
     copying pertinent ones into a separate document.
    Three obituaries from last year caught my notice. Each a month apart. The first one
     was for Tunisia Broken Arrow, age twenty-two. Nothing in the obit about cause of death.
     The second one for Minneola “Mimi” Diggeman, age thirty. Again, nothing in the obit
     about cause of death. The third obituary was for Delia Moss, age twenty-seven. No
     listed cause of death.
    How could all of these young women have died of natural causes? I cross-referenced
     the time frame, and none of the names were listed as car accident victims. Illness
     possibly? Or suicide?
    I changed the parameters, going back twenty-four months, and found three more obituaries.
     All young women, all dead within a month of one another. None of the obits listed
     cause of death.
    What the hell was going on? The only way to make any sense of this was to see the
     tribal PD’s report logs. There’d be a written report for a suicide. As well as a written
     report on a death due to exposure—I noticed these obits were mostly from the late
     fall/early winter months.
    I knew I’d have to bring this up with Turnbull.
    My cell phone buzzed with a text message from Dawson: Crushed under the weight of unfinished paperwork. Trying to catch up. Late night and
     early-morning shift means I’m crashing in my office tonight. Sorry. Miss you.
    I miss you, too.
    I hated that our schedules didn’t mesh, but that would probably always be a wrinkle
     in our private life together. No wonder cops had suchhigh divorce rates. I sucked it up, swallowing the missing-my-man girly whine, then
     shut everything off and went to bed.
    •   •   •
    My sleep was fairly restful, considering the previous day’s disturbing events.
    But as I drank coffee and looked at what the computer search engine had dredged up
     the night before, I knew I needed to talk to Rollie again—before I brought up my suspicions