The Wild Inside (22 page)

Monty shrugged. “Sounds like a bad movie.”

“It does.” I chuckled. “Must be the whiskey. Speaking of which, your ice is melting.” I lifted my chin to point at his glass. I felt like an older college student trying to corrupt his younger roommate. To my surprise, Monty grabbed his glass and finished the entire amount in one swig. He cringed, then he grabbed a handful of chips and threw the bag across the table toward me.

“I like to stay away from the far-fetched.” I grabbed a few. “Another?”

“Why not?”

I brushed the salt off my palm on my jeans and went to the kitchen to grab the bottle and felt how noodlelike my legs were. Honestly, this was the best I’d felt in the last sixty-some hours. I refilled Monty’s drink and went back with the bottle. “How come you didn’t tell me about Lou Shelton before we went to see him?” I asked.

“Tell you what?”

“That you knew Ford was attempting to get a life estate out of him?”

“Didn’t know about it. Never even heard the Shelton name before.”

I eyed Monty, tried to read if he was being straight with me. “And you don’t think that’s strange?”

“What? You mean in terms of Ford or Shelton or me?”

“All three.”

“I didn’t work on the west-side projects. I’ve been working mostly on the mining claim inholdings east of the Continental Divide, which were part of the Ceded Strip.”

“The Ceded Strip?”

“Yeah, you know. George Grinnell bought the strip in about 1895 from the Blackfeet and sold it to the government for conservation purposes, although, of course, at the time, before Taft even signed the bill to make the park in 1910, the government was mainly interested in mining, laying roads for that, and trapping into places like Quartz Lake or even Cracker.”

“So, what work do you have with that now?”

“You’d be surprised. By Cracker Lake in the St. Mary region, there are mining claims in court because the Park Service still doesn’t own that strip of land even though it’s in the designated border of the park. It’s still part of the Ceded Strip. The Blackfeet are still fighting for it because the government didn’t uphold its end of the bargain, you know, we’ll give you X amount for this land and we’ll also do Y and Z. Then the government doesn’t do Y and Z.”

“Sounds like a familiar story.”

“Yeah, but the court cases are a waste of time. They’ll never get that land back from the government. Then there are other claims, like from the Cattle Queen’s lineage. You’ve heard of her.”

“I suppose.” I had a vague notion that I’d heard of her in some Montana history book in college.

“She ran a cattle ranch near the town of Choteau in the late 1800s and had a mining claim on a creek that ran through the park, Cattle Queen Creek.”

I hadn’t heard Monty talk this much since he’d joined me and I wondered if the historical element of the park is what drew him to working with the superintendent. “And what about this side?” I asked.

“Even the west side has a few old mining claims, but mostly, it’s the homesteads and some ranches up past Polebridge where they used to have cattle that have the inholdings.”

“And what’s the main deal with the inholdings around West Glacier?”

“Just that the people who own private lands that are locked inside the park usually have lineage that goes way back. That’s the reason they have the land. For years, the Park Service has been trying to buy most of the inholders out with not a whole lot of success. People underestimate the value of family heritage. And for these people, their land and what they decide to do with it often is very different from what the Park Service wants to do with it.”

“Like the unbroken strip by Lake McDonald?”

“That’s right.”

“Before the wildfire of 1920, Lake McDonald was starting to look almost as crowded as any old lake in Montana at the time and people were constructing more and more cabins on their own property. But the fire wiped some eighteen of them out and then the Park Service went in and bought up as much of the land as they could. People thought they were getting a good deal after losing their cabins in the fire. But the homesteads that hung on now know how priceless what they have is. To the inholders, the land has economic and family value—the priceless value of home. To the park, it’s about the wilderness and drawing the public in to enjoy it—the whole point of the park.”

“So you don’t know much about the Sheltons?”

“Not until just today after Ford told me about him”— he gave a sly, sketchy smile and held up a finger—“so I looked at his file.” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I copied Ford’s notes.”

I leaned in, surprised that he’d done this. “And Ford knows you’ve done this?”

“I didn’t say anything to him. But why should he care? If the guy’s a suspect, then he’s a suspect. Right?”

“Absolutely.” I reached for the paper and scanned it. There were just a few notes scribbled down by Ford, noting the background with Roger and Eloise Shelton, that the cabin would be Lou’s for his life span and that nothing had been designated as far as the grandchildren were concerned. On the second page was a note on an incident in June of 2010 stating that Lou Shelton refused to allow the Park Service to test his septic system. “Why do you suppose he didn’t want his septic tested?”

“I don’t know. Most of the inholders hate some of the regulations the park imposes, so they take a stand. All the test involves is putting some bright-blue dye in the system and if the dye shows in the lake, then the park demands they clean up the system. Most people around here hate the interference. They despise having government tell them what they need to do with their own property.”

“I bet.” I took another sip of my drink. “And Shelton definitely strikes me as an antiauthority kind of guy. Thought he was going to rip my DOI badge right off of me and flush it into that system you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, and it’s the DOI that sets the septic regulation, so when the Park Service goes in, it’s the department that gets mentioned.”

“So judging by his financial records—his Chapter 11 filing in the nineties, he might just not be so good at managing his money and he might not have had anything to spare if his system was leaking into the lake.”

“Could be the case.” Monty grabbed a few more chips, wiped the grease on his pants, and took another sip of whiskey. “Which tells us what in terms of the case?”

“Not much really. Just speculation. But really, what we need to do is to refocus on the crime.” I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my forehead. “What I can’t figure out is whether we’re looking for one person or two. The fact that he was out there for over eighteen hours is confusing. Gretchen hasn’t found evidence to suggest that someone
was hanging around with him for that entire time, no clothes fibers on fallen logs or nearby large rocks big enough for sitting and waiting. No obvious prints. So assuming that whoever bound him left—was it the same guy that returned to do him in? Or was it someone else doing the dirty work for him?”

Monty shook his head. “That’s way beyond my expertise.”

“Well, I’m not a profiler, but I’ve learned a lot in all my background analysis work, and here’s what I think.”

Monty quit chomping on a chip and looked at me like a kid ready to hear a good story.

“I think whoever did this wasn’t quite sure about whether they actually wanted Victor dead or not.”

“And why do you think that?”

“More of a hunch than evidence.” Monty’s eyes were on me, waiting intently for me to say more. “The fact that the shot was fired so close and from a strange angle”—I held my hand up like I was holding a pistol and pointed it downward toward my rib cage—“it . . . it makes me wonder if the killer went back to talk to him again. Maybe he needed information and he left Victor out there to torture it out of him. And when he went back to get it, something went wrong and he shot him instead. Maybe Victor said something that angered him, or maybe Victor wouldn’t give him the information he needed, or maybe Victor tried to grab the gun because the guy got too close—in his face. After all, his arms weren’t bound, just his waist and chest. His wrists were bound, but his hands were capable of grabbing for something.”

“Sounds so mafia-like.”

“It wouldn’t be the first mafia incident in a national park. There’s still a presence up in Eureka, although very much watered down. But Victor Lance was a lowlife. Forgive me for saying, but these meth dealers aren’t the brightest of the criminals and the mob wouldn’t waste their time with ’em.”

“I’ll forgive ya.” Monty half-smiled again, and I began to laugh. I
was definitely feeling tipsy and thankful for it—the relaxation of my chest and gut—even though I knew I’d pay for it the next day.

• • •

Before the night was over, I made a fire because the cabin was getting cold. Monty and I continued to go over some of the files, and, of course, rehashed what happened with Stimpy.

“You think that guy’s it?”

“He’s no angel. That’s for sure.”

“What about his alibi?”

“That’s why you need to go get some rest because that’s what you’ll be working on tomorrow. Along with a million other small details.”

Monty nodded and lifted up his notebook to show me. “I know. I’m keeping a list.”

“Good,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t have a strong feeling. He’s weird. Typical. But he didn’t act guilty.”

“Then why did he go see Megan?”

“Like I said, he’s typical. He’s an out-of-control goon who needs to throw his weight around and because he doesn’t want anyone sniffing around his business.”

“But he didn’t seem too concerned about the local police, and he didn’t seem to care that much that we were there. He wasn’t nervous or on his best behavior with us.”

“He was nervous, even with the drugs. The drugs just disguise it. But still, there’s a part of him that feels special, important, because he’s the big guy in the neighborhood now. And because of his ego, he’s too stupid to be humble around the law, especially when he’s got a friend around to impress.”

Monty chuckled. “You’re pretty good at reading people.”

I shrugged. “How hard is it to read a meth dealer?”

13

H
EADQUARTERS SEEMED BUSY
the next morning when I arrived. While getting some water from the cooler for some Tylenol, I noticed Bowman, Smith, and Ford arguing over something in one of the conference rooms. Then I heard someone up front announce his name was Will Jones and that he was a reporter from the
Daily Flathead
and wanted to speak to Savannah Williams, Ford’s lead PR manager.

I quickly swallowed the capsules and hurried up front and introduced myself.

“So you’re the detective working the case?” Jones asked. He seemed young, maybe twenty-five, had a Denver Broncos cap on and shoulder-length hair curling out from underneath. He looked completely harmless—boyish—and I could see why Megan felt like she could say anything.

“That’s correct.”

“And you’re with the sheriff’s office?” He was looking my clothes over. I was wearing my navy DOI jacket, but other than that, no clothes that would look like a uniform. I had on jeans and a striped shirt under my jacket.

“No. The Department of the Interior.”

“How does that work?”

I explained to him how it was with Series Eighteen-Eleven, and he began to jot the information down.

“I thought the FBI would be called in since it’s federal?”

“Sometimes they are, but usually we get called because local FBI is
working on other issues. Look.” I held up my palm. “I’m sure you can appreciate how dangerous it is for you to ask questions in places where things are a little touchy.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“For one, meth users might be a bit on edge about people snooping around their business, no?”

He didn’t say anything.

“You could potentially jeopardize this entire investigation, not to mention endangering Victor Lance’s sister by dropping her name around the wrong people.”

He continued to give me a stupefied look. “Well.” He shifted stances, then cleared his throat, and I could tell he hadn’t considered such a thing. “I’m, I’m just trying to do my job. It was obvious once rumors started flying that the sheriff’s department wasn’t giving us the full story.”

“May I ask which rumors?”

“In the department. You know, I go there every day to check the log. Don’t you think someone’s eventually going to say something to me?”

I nodded. “No, listen, I agree. You should’ve been given more, but you need to understand that there are sensitive situations here. All I’m asking is that if you need any information in the future that you’re not getting from the park’s PR department, make sure you come to me before investigating on your own.” I handed him my card. “I promise to make your job easier.”

Jones smiled widely as if he’d just won at poker. “Deal.”

• • •

I found Monty in our office down the hall. He was drinking coffee and going over his list of things to accomplish. He had fetched me a cup as well and pointed to it on the desk. “Heard you down the hall,” he said. “Figured you could use some.”

I paused, the small act of kindness on Monty’s part making my brow furrow for a brief moment. “Thank you.” I picked up the mug. “I appreciate it.”

“No biggie,” Monty said. “Needed to stretch anyway. Been at it for a bit.”

“You got it covered?” I was referring to the long to-do list.

“Go over the victim’s phone record, check the dental office and the grocery store, check the timber company and the hardware stores in Kalispell and Whitefish. The hardware stores in Columbia Falls had no recent sales of duct tape to anyone suspicious in the last week. And by the way, there’s no record of Victor owning either a Toyota or a motorcycle.”

“Figures,” I said, then paused and looked at him, at his youthful energy permeating the room. “You feeling all right?”

Monty smiled. “Feeling good, sir. You?”

He didn’t appear to be remotely affected by the whiskey like I was. Suddenly I felt old and pushed away the voice reminding me of how tired and shaky I was beginning to feel. “Fine,” I said. “I’m off to track down Rob Anderson, the owner of that dog. Call me if anything interesting at all turns up.”