The Wild Inside (17 page)

“Did he threaten you or Paul? Or your son?”

“I don’t know. I guess. He was always spewing out threats. Nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever’s on his mind always turned to wanting whatever stash I’ve got around, but”—she looked at me suddenly, fright filling her eyes and making them seem to want to leap from her face—“you know I’m clean, right?”

I nodded. And I did know by the very fact that she was speaking to us—letting us into her home with some ease—that she was sober for the time being.

She exhaled and her eyes settled into something vague and guarded. “So”—she waved her cigarette—“I told him for the thousandth time I was clean and that I didn’t have anything around. Nothin’.” She stopped rocking and began bouncing her legs up and down as if there was some force like a geyser inside her that she was physically trying to keep from erupting.

“What exactly, Ms. Boone, was Victor wanting?”

“Anything. Alcohol from the fridge”—she gestured to the kitchen, then paused and looked at the floor. “But, you know, glass,” she mumbled. “Crystal. He was tweakin’. Went through my drawers, throwin’ shit around all over the place, my clothes. Said he figured I’d, at least, have some pills or something, you know, some Dilaudid or something. Even broke my jewelry box.” She set her Bible back on the floor again, went into her bedroom, and came out with a wooden box with a narrow drawer with a small silver handle at the bottom. “My mom gave me and my sister both one of these when we turned ten. Anyway, the asshole broke it.” She lifted up the lid that was splintered on the edges and detached from the box, the hinges hanging off and twisted.

“Did he hit you?”

“No, but he pushed me. Dumped the kitchen trash all over the living room. He even threw my Bible against the wall.” She looked at it lying on the lavender-colored carpet. “So when I heard what happened to him, I remembered how he threw it”—she nudged it gently with her toes, her foot clad in a striped brown sock—“that’s when I knew that he had crossed his line.”

“Whose line?”

“God’s line,” she said emphatically.

Monty glanced at me, then back to his notes. “What did Paul say when he came over to a mess made by Victor?” I asked.

Leslie turned to me, her head cocking to the side, her eyes narrowing. “I know what you’re suggesting”—she pointed her cigarette at me—“but you’re wrong.”

I held up my palm again. “I’m not suggesting anything, miss. Officer Harris here and I”—I gestured between Monty and me—“we just want to figure out who did this to Victor.”

“Well.” She paced again. “Paul didn’t come over until later and I had the place picked up.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“Some of it. But not how he broke my jewelry box.”

“Ms. Boone, forgive me, but I do need to ask you where you were and where Paul was on Thursday and Friday of this last week.”

“We were together. Here.” She held out her hands to her sides. “With Lewis. Watched a movie together.” She pointed at the TV.

“On Friday, you mean?”

She nodded.

“From what time on?”

“I don’t know, from like five or so.”

“Paul too?”

“He came around six, after work.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I was here with Lewis.”

“So, you were here from what time on Friday?”

“Lewis rode his bike to my sister’s house after school and she brought him by after a bit. We went and got a frozen pizza for dinner and a movie. That
Transformers
one. Then we came home for the rest of the night.” She made the same kissing sound again.

“And Paul? Where was he before he came over?”

She shrugged. “I told you—work. But it’s not like I know his every move.”

“Where does he work?”

“Plum Creek.”

“Okay. And what was your Thursday like?”

“Thursday?” She knitted her brow, then shrugged. “I worked most of the day. At the grocery store. I went right after Lewis left for school. I needed to clean the back supply room.”

“The store in Hungry Horse?”

“Yeah, then I came home for lunch around twelve thirty and went to clean at Dr. Nieder’s, the only dentist here in town, around two because that’s their half day and they leave by one thirty.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Until about three thirty or so. And when I got home, Lewis was already home from school.”

“And then?”

“Nothing, we were in for the night.”

“And was there anyone at the dentist’s office who can vouch for your appearance there?”

Leslie put her hands on her hips and looked at me like I was an idiot. “Mister, you think they’d let me alone in a dentist’s office with my history?”

“Good point.” I smiled at her. “At any rate, I’ll need the name and number of whoever was there with you.”

• • •

“So what do you think?” Monty eliminated the whistle this time. I pulled out my quarter—noticing that it was still the Vermont—and began rolling as soon as we got back in the SUV. I had finished with Leslie by asking her if she knew Stimpy. She got completely closemouthed and clammed up. Not uncommon for a former druggie, especially a female fearing for herself and her child. When you bring up a dealer, the trained response even if you’ve dried out is to quit talking as if the questioner suddenly puts a kink in the hose and the information flowing like water seconds before abruptly ceases. I figured we’d have to circle back to that one. Eventually, she’d talk. Each and every one
of them always does. The unwritten rule among the users is to never snitch on anybody, and they don’t. At first. But eventually, they all do.

By the time I’d brought up the animal torture, her sudden silence made her energy come out even more in the form of physical movement. She became too fidgety to address any other topic: sitting up and down; bouncing one leg; making that sucking, kissing sound; playing, twisting, and tangling her dark hair; rocking back and forth with a wild, distracted look in her eyes. I decided I’d get the lowdown from the vet before circling back to her on that one too. “I think she’s telling the truth that she was home, in spite of the fact that addicts are good at lying.”

“And why do you believe her?”

“Just a sense.” I started the engine and put my quarter back in my pocket. I decided not to set Monty on edge for the drive back to headquarters. “You didn’t believe her?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just, I don’t know, getting the Bible out like that and all. Just weird.”

I shrugged. “It’s her lifeline. Better life after death than death after meth.”

Monty half-smiled. “But Bones Church? I thought that was mostly for teens.”

“Teens. Young Adults. My guess is that it’s pretty harmless. They target the
lost generation
, right?”

“I thought they targeted the skateboarders and snowboarders, not the addicts. The addicts don’t have any money.”

“Boarders have money?” I asked.

“If they’re trust-fund babies, they do.”

“True, but the more, the merrier. And boarders or not, the young are the future.”

“I guess. So you don’t think there’s anything there to look at?”

“Gotta always be thorough,” I said. “But it’s not high on our list. Other things are, though, so this would actually be a good time for us to divide and conquer. I think you’re ready to handle some of these
people on your own. In fact, I’ve been meaning to tell you how great you were with Lou.”

“Thanks,” Monty said.

I believe he smiled, but I kept my eyes on the road.

• • •

At headquarters, I made a list of all the things I needed done: checking the DMV for vehicles registered under Victor’s name, checking with the bookkeeper at the dental office to verify Leslie’s presence from two until close to four p.m. Checking with Hungry Horse Grocery for her hours there. I needed him to verify Paul Tyler’s employment status at the timber company, to run a background check on him as well, and to look into the local hardware stores that sold duct tape on the off chance that the perpetrator had to go buy it and didn’t already have it on hand. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the tidbit on the capsaicin traces Gretchen had found on the tape. Searching for all the capsaicin sold in the area was a futile endeavor.

I was off to see the veterinarian whom the dog was taken to while he did these things. But before I left, I looked at Monty, “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He pressed a finger against the bridge of his glasses and set them up higher on his nose.

I stood for a moment, hesitant. Monty raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

I shrugged and left. I’m not sure why I paused. Perhaps I’d gotten used to having him along. The truth was I was beginning to like his company. For me, a little human companionship in Glacier was like having a drink or taking some pain-relieving medicine to take the edge off. Or maybe I just lingered because I had an urge to ask him about Ford. Because for some reason, Ford’s presence, even when there was no direct link, seemed to layer into all that I was trying to accomplish on the case. I didn’t even need to hear from the guy or have a conversation with him, but I felt his existence, like a deceiving, barely visible layer of ice coating the ground I was trying to cross.

11

T
HE NORTHWEST MONTANA
Animal Hospital was between Whitefish and Columbia Falls on Highway 40. The assistant at the desk—a young woman with a pretty round face in a pale-blue uniform with a pattern of pink paw prints—told me that Dr. Pritchard was just finishing up with a patient, so I thanked her and drifted over to a corkboard plastered with thank-you cards and pictures of dogs and cats. One picture reminded me of Tumble, the black Lab my family got when we moved from Florida.

A door opened to my left. “Can I help you?” Dr. Pritchard asked.

He had a deep voice, which I expected, because he was at least my height, six-two or -three, and had fine features, almost effeminate: dark, but surprisingly kind eyes, high cheekbones, russet skin. But he wore his hair disheveled, so he didn’t appear prim, and his face was weathered and lined in that Montana way—maybe from squinting in the wind, the cold, and the high-altitude sun.

“Dr. Pritchard,” I said. “I’m Ted Systead. I work as a homicide detective for the Department of the Interior. I’m just here to ask you a few questions if you have a moment.”

He looked to the gal behind the desk, and she looked back at him with wide doe eyes. His own appeared tired, heavy-lidded, but under the lids, I could see surprise and an ounce of curiosity since he had an unusual visitor, a break from the routine. “Okay, sure.” He shook his head slightly in the way people do when they have a sudden shiver, but I think the move was to simply shift himself into a different and unexpected gear. “Who’s waiting for me, Rose?”

“Just Mrs. Phelps, but I can send Elizabeth back with her to explain the phenobarbital dosage.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

He brought me into a small office where he had a laptop angled toward him. A picture of a woman and two children and another of him somewhere in the backcountry beside what appeared to be a wolf or maybe wolverine trap stood on the other end of the desk. He sat back languidly in his chair and motioned for me to sit. “What can I help you with?”

I told him about Victor and waited for his reaction, but there was no response. No
good,
he deserved it,
as if he knew him or no overdramatic
What? Are you kidding?
Or
oh no, that’s awful
As if he couldn’t believe such a thing would happen in his neck of the woods. He just sat silently and waited, perhaps exhaled a little louder than usual, and I saw his body slump a bit as if he was used to carrying a good amount of the world’s pain.

“I’m here because you treated a dog that was beaten badly last spring, and there’s a small chance that there may be a connection to the victim.”

“I see.” He nodded, complete comprehension crossing his face; he knew which dog I meant. “A connection?”

“Yeah, it’s a long shot, but in my job, I’ve got to follow up on everything.”

“Makes sense. Well, here’s what I know.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, and looked at me intently. “It was a shitty, shitty thing. One of the worst I’ve seen in my career.” He looked down for a moment. “I’ve been a vet for twenty-eight years now and I’ve seen a fair share of animal cruelty cases: horses underfed and left in overly small enclosures, dogs left outside in the cold until their hearts have nearly stopped, cats left trapped in trailers, puppies and kittens tied up in plastic bags and thrown in Dumpsters. One guy thought it fun to burn his kitten’s ears off on a stove burner . . . . But this poor Lab.”
He shook his head and ran a hand through the wavy, gray-flecked hair above his ears. “Whoever did this beat the poor dog so badly with a bat that his intestines exploded inside of him, the contents poisoning him. His skull was fractured, his shoulder and hip fractured. His spine broken.”

“Who brought him in?”

“Someone drove by and saw him tied to a fence. Collapsed and bloody on the ground. They stopped and checked his tags and saw my clinic’s name, so they brought him here. It was a Sunday and they called me on their way over. I met them here, not knowing how bad the situation was. I figured a few bruises—that he’d need some stitches.” He blew out a long breath, making his cheeks puff out with air. “They were a nice couple. Helped carry him in on a blanket they had in the back of their car and they stayed until I examined him. I knew I had to put him out of his misery as quickly as I could.”

“And that’s what you did?”

He rubbed his eyes as if he could smear the blackened bruise of the experience from his mind. He nodded. “I called the owner first. Gave him morphine intravenously to ease the pain until he could come. When he got here, I told him about his dog’s condition, then I got his go-ahead and euthanized him.”

“How did he take it?”

“Poorly. As you’d expect. He couldn’t believe it. He, he”—Dr. Pritchard sighed heavily—“he wanted to pound my walls down once the reality that someone could have done this to his dog sunk in. But he contained himself and got through it. He comforted the poor thing as best he could as I administered the dose.”