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Alexander Kingbird. Things could easily fall apart, get real messy.”
    “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, this whole situation getting out of hand. I’d feel a lot better if I had Lonnie Thunder in custody. That might go a long way toward pacifying everybody.” She gave him a sidelong glance.
    “This is what you wanted to talk to me about?”
    She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “You’re part Ojibwe. People on the rez trust you.”
    “Trust me more than they trust you anyway. It’s a situational kind of thing. For a lot of Shinnobs, I’m still way too white.”
    “Cork, I don’t have a single deputy with a drop of Ojibwe blood in him.”
    “No one to creep around the rez and snoop unnoticed? No one to go looking for Lonnie Thunder? That’s what you want me to do?”
    “That’s where I was headed, more or less.”
    “I would do this why? For the sake of friendship or some other sentimental crap?”
    “There’s something you need to see at Kingbird’s place.”
     
    Captain Ed Larson headed up major-crimes investigation in Tamarack County. He was midfifties, a tall, studious-looking man who wore wire-rims and preferred button-down oxford shirts and suede bucks. When Dross and Cork arrived at the Kingbird home, Larson was out front deep in conversation with Agent Simon Rutledge from the Bemidji office of the BCA, the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Cork knew Rutledge well. He liked the man and respected his abilities.
    Rutledge seemed surprised to see him. “Cork?”
    “Hey, Simon.” He shook the agent’s hand, then Larson’s. “Morning, Ed.”
    Larson appraised Cork’s attire: sport coat, white shirt, tie. “Church?”
    “I snatched him after the service,” Dross said. She exchanged a handshake with the BCA agent. “Thanks for coming, Simon.”
    Rutledge wasn’t an imposing figure. A couple of inches under six feet, he had reddish thinning hair and a hopelessly boyish smile. He was, however, one of the most effective interrogators Cork had ever worked with. It was his style, full of sympathy and very winning. Cork had seen him coax confessions out of suspects whose lips were sealed with distrust, anger, contempt. People in the cop business who knew Rutledge called his style of interrogation “Simonizing.”
    “You don’t mind me asking, what’s O’Connor doing here?” Rutledge said to Dross. “No offense, Cork.”
    “None taken.”
    “I asked him here in a consulting capacity. Have you had a chance to look things over?”
    “Ed walked me through the scene. Your team’s doing a good job.”
    “What do you guys think?” Dross asked.
    Larson nodded toward the garage. “We found blood on the grass over there. Isolated and, as far as we can tell, not related to the shootings themselves. Kingbird had a head wound. Somebody clubbed him pretty good. A lot of bleeding but not much swelling, so looks as if it happened just prior to the killing.”
    Dross glanced at Cork. “How was he last night?”
    “Nobody had clubbed him when I left.”
    Rutledge looked confused. “You were here last night, Cork?”
    “We’ll get to that in a minute, Simon,” Dross said. “Go on, Ed.”
    “What it looks like is that Kingbird came outside and was assaulted near the garage. My guess would be that he was drawn out. But he was careful. He left the doors locked behind him. Whoever it was who assaulted him had to break into the house through the door to the utility room. I imagine they were after Rayette. She was probably a witness. Or maybe the assailant had planned all along to make her a victim.”
    “Any 911 calls?” Cork asked.
    Larson shook his head. “The phone line was cut. And we’re too far out for a cell to be able to pick up a signal.”
    “Lucinda Kingbird found the bodies, is that right?”
    Larson nodded.
    “Where is she?”
    “Deputy Minot took her home.”
    “How was she doing?”
    He shrugged. “Soldier’s wife. While I interviewed her, she didn’t shed a