Free The Wild Inside by Christine Carbo Page B

leaned against the counter—“thatWalsh could be right and that we can pretty much assume that the guy was alive when the bear got him. There would be no reason to bind an already dead body to a tree. What would be the point?”
    “There would be no point. If he were already dead, you would just toss him out there if you wanted the corpse eaten.”
    “Or bury him. You wouldn’t bind him, unless you tortured him first and then killed him.”
    “So whoever taped him,” Monty said, “must have wanted to torture him either way, whether they wanted him alive or dead. Then the bear came along.”
    I nodded. “Torture him, hold him, make an example of him. But what a risk to leave someone alive out in the woods. If someone discovered the victim before he was attacked, the guy would be completely exposed.”
    “So whoever did this, if they left Victor Lance out there alive, took a huge risk—actually went out of his way—to leave his victim alive like that.”
    “If that’s the way it went,” I said. “It could be to torture or to stage. It could also be a lesson or display of some sort. Maybe to make a point to other druggies who don’t pay up?”
    Monty shrugged.
    “At any rate, either way, our guy got lucky. The bear did get Victor Lance.”
    “Yeah, and that makes me wonder . . .” Monty drifted off.
    “Wonder what?” I asked.
    “The burn area. It’s my understanding that not many bears or other predators go through that area much, so if the killer knows anything about animal behavior, he must have known he was taking an even bigger risk that the guy would not be attacked by an animal. Maybe he didn’t want him attacked and just wanted to hold him there, like you said.”
    “But that’s not true about burn areas. Fresh vegetation and newroots popping up attract all sorts of animals. I’ll double-check with Bowman, but I’m pretty sure about it.”
    “Then again”—Monty raised a shoulder—“we’re probably giving the killer way too much credit. He probably doesn’t know a damn thing about animal behavior or burn areas.”
    “That’s right.”
    “He could just be some psychopath,” Monty said.
    “If that’s the case, once we start digging in, he shouldn’t be too difficult to track.” I looked at Monty, his short dark hair, pale skin, and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his pointy nose, and wondered what would make a guy like him become Park Police, then end up tagging along behind the super, probably picking up the guy’s dry cleaning, and sitting on his ass before a computer all day writing reports.
    Most Park Police and rangers I know take the jobs because they want to be outdoors. Joe Smith was the perfect example. Some are jacks-of-all-trades and can still pack a horse and handle a chain saw and some are educators, historians, and naturalists. But most of them understand that without warning, their job can turn from the leisure pace of helping a tourist who’s lost their keys, warning people that their dogs aren’t allowed on the trail, and clearing out bear traffic jams to the high stress of dangling thousands of feet in the air to rescue overzealous hikers or sightseers who find themselves in dangerous crevasses.
    Most want the job because they know that on a clear summer day, it can be the kind of job where they almost feel guilty for getting paid for it. And on a bad day, they find a frozen body in one of the fast-running streams: an old grandpa who slipped backward off a rock while taking pictures of his wife and was washed downstream.
    Monty didn’t look like any of the above. He had an obsessive-compulsive-accountant look with what appeared to be premature gray hairs beginning in his sideburns and begging the question of his age. “So, Monty.” I cocked my head. “How come you wanted to work for the Park Service?”
    “What?” He seemed surprised I asked.
    “Why did you become a park officer?”
    “Uh, the usual reasons.”
    “Which are?”
    He pushed his glasses