Free The Wild Inside by Christine Carbo

I’ve met. Megan said that his old girlfriend, Mindy, was with him now and again and . . .” Penny sighed. “Mindy was bad news. A real druggie.”
    “What’s Mindy’s last name?”
    “Winters.”
    There was a pause. Monty looked at me.
    “Did Victor have any other friends who might know his whereabouts over the past few days?” I asked.
    Penny shrugged. “Nobody worth mentioning. Always different stragglers here and there. I don’t even know the names of half of them. I would just beg him to not hang out with such people.”
    “Such people?”
    “You know, druggies. You could tell because they looked skinny and unkempt, just like Victor was starting to look all over again. You might talk to Daniel. Daniel Nelson’s been a buddy of his for some time.”
    “Can you think of anyone in particular that would want to harm Victor? Did any of his friends catch your attention for any reason at all?”
    A look I couldn’t quite pinpoint, something even sadder than her present grief, swam across Penny’s eyes like a dark shadow of a fish. She looked down. “No.” She shook her head, then put her tissue to her eyes again. “No, nobody in particular, but there have been a lot of bad people in my son’s life because of all the drugs.”
    “I understand, but, Ms. Lance, it’s important that you tell us everything and anything that might be pertinent.”
    “I will,” she said robotically, her eyes vague and her attention slipping away into deeper grief. “I think, I think I really need to go to my room now.” Her entire body sagged, her frame like a small wounded animal lost in the big recliner as she hunched forward. She folded her arms between her chest and her knees as if she had a stomachache. Her small feet lay pale on the floor with her toes curled under. I thought of a bird perching on a wire.
    • • •
    “Wow,” Monty said when we got back in his SUV. “Intense.”
    “Yeah. Usually is. She took it better than most, though. She’s a tough one.”
    “I guess so.” Monty shook his head and made the same low whistle he had made at the crime scene. “Dealing with a druggie son like that, I guess it would thicken your skin.”
    “Yeah, but she thought of something near the end there. Not sure if it was important, but something crossed her mind that she either didn’t want to share or simply saddened her even more. Made her fade.”
    “I was writing and didn’t see her expression.”
    “I could be wrong, but we’ll be talking to her again.”
    “I noticed you didn’t ask about the father.” Monty kept his eyes on the highway.
    “Next time,” I said. “We got more than usual under the circumstances. Often they’re too distraught to even undergo questioning.”
    Monty nodded.
    I thought about our victim, Victor Lance, as I looked to the Whitefish Range, the bare runs of the ski resort cutting down Big Mountain like prominent veins on the underside of a wrist.

5
    T HE ILLEGAL CAMPING couple seemed like they were out of a sitcom. They were young and constantly bickering. Kaylynn Lowden had crazy, curly, haywire reddish-brown hair, a big smile, and an unrelenting giggle, and Jarred Mercord had a dark, brooding, sulky look that neutralized his girl’s enormous energy and filled up the makeshift interrogation room at park headquarters, making it seem too small for the three of us. All her remarks teetered on the naïve, and it didn’t take long to realize she knew very little.
    When we brought Jarred in, it also didn’t take long to realize he didn’t know much either, although it seemed like some kind of a game to him. His comments desperately worked toward sophistication and headiness but fell short primarily because of his youth. When we asked him to try to recall anything strange occurring during the time they were camping at Fish Creek, he said in a deeper voice that “ all credibility, all good conscience, all evidence of truth come from the senses .” Then he added: “That was