The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  • • •

  On my way to go talk to Lou, Monica called.

  “I have your number,” she said.

  “And?”

  “It belongs to Louis P. Shelton.”

  “No kidding?” I said.

  “That help?”

  “Considerably,” I said, immediately feeling lighter. “In fact, I’m going to see him right now.”

  • • •

  This time I met Lou’s wife, Becky. She answered the door looking like she had the day off, her hair in a messy braid, and she wore a pair of baggy, faded jeans, but she was surprisingly pretty. I only took note of this because I was having a hard time imagining any woman interested in Lou, but perhaps I wasn’t being fair.

  “Hello, Mrs. Shelton. I’m—”

  “Deats. I didn’t take Shelton when we married.”

  I noticed that she still had a cute figure for her fiftysomething age, a small nose, big doe eyes, and I could see that if she let her hair out of its braid, it would be full and wavy. “Thank you. Ms. Deats.” I bowed my head as I tried to place in my mind whom she reminded me of, maybe some TV actress. “I’m Detective Systead, and I spoke to Lou the other day about his nephew’s death.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “I know. He filled me in.”

  “Is Lou here?”

  “No, he’s in Kalispell getting some stuff at Costco.”

  “I see. Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions in the meantime?”

  “Me?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Sure,” I said nonchalantly. “Just a few simple things to help us get a better understanding of Victor?”

  She pulled the door back to let me in and led me to the dining room table that was directly off the living room. I took a seat, and she offered me some coffee. I asked if it was already made, and when she said it was, I said I would.

  She went into the kitchen, which smelled of something having been cooked, maybe onions and potatoes. A washing machine whirred in the background from another room. I looked around at the knickknacks on the shelves: glass figurines of deer, elk, and mountain goats, earth-toned pottery, and some pictures of a young boy with wavy blond hair who I assumed was her son. “Nice photos of your son—I’m assuming your son—anyway,” I called out toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah, that’s Tanner.” She came back with the cup of coffee for me, offered me cream and sugar, and told me it was her day off. I said I was sorry to bother her.

  “It’s okay, just catching up on chores,” She smiled nervously. “Sorry about the mess. You caught me in the middle of laundry.” She gestured to a basket full of a tangled bunch of whites that she’d set down on the floor. In whichever way Lou had filled her in about Monty’s and my visit, this woman didn’t seem to have an attitude about me. “So what would you like to know about Victor?”

  “Did you know him very well?”

  “Not really. I didn’t see him much.”

  “When was the last time you did see him?”

  “August. At Lou’s birthday party. The whole family was over here.”

  “Lou told us about that. How long have you been with Lou?”

  “’Bout nine years now.”

  “And you’ve known Victor all this time?”

  “Yeah, but like I said. Not a lot of contact. He irritated most of the family members—asking for money and such all the time.”

  “Are you aware of any contact between Lou and Victor since the August party?”

  She furrowed her brow and looked around the room. Avoiding eye contact, I considered. She pushed a strand of her auburn hair behind one ear. “No, I’m not aware of any contact.” She shrugged, a small twitch of a motion. “Why does that matter?”

  “We’re just trying to find out what was going on in Victor’s life before this mess. So no contact, not even by phone?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, sir, but I don’t think so.”

  “He hasn’t stopped by asking for money?”

  “No, nothing that I’m aware of.” She pursed her lips and I wondered if she was holding something back, maybe protecting Lou.

  “So if he was always bugging his relatives for money, why do you suppose he’s stayed away all this time?”

  “Because he was a coward—afraid to show his face—and Lou told him to not bother us for money. He’s made that clear to him over the years.”

  “Was there a time when Lou was giving him money, then?”

  Again, the small twitch of a shrug. “I really can’t remember, but yeah, probably. Everyone in the family has given him money at one time or another. Mostly Penny, though. Besides . . .” She looked intently at me. “Why don’t you ask Lou, Penny, or Megan these questions?”

  “I will, Ms. Deats. That’s what I came to do. When do you think he’ll return?”

  She glanced at the clock on one of her kitchen walls. “In a couple of hours or so. He was going to run some other errands while in town.”

  “I don’t mind coming back later, but just one more thing, were you and Lou having an argument last Friday late afternoon to early evening?”

  She looked at her lap and clasped her hands, “Yes, Detective. We were.”

  “And he left?”

  “That’s right.

  “Do you remember at what time?”

  “Sometime after four.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention to the time. Lou was angry. Needed some time to himself.”

  “Mind telling me what you were fighting about?”

  “Yes, yes, I do.” She looked at her lap again. “It’s on the personal side.”

  “Personal?”

  “That’s right. Personal.” She narrowed her eyes. “You never have a personal argument with your significant other?” she asked, sarcasm in her tone. “Or don’t you have one of those?”

  I ignored her remark. “Look, Ms. Deats, Lou doesn’t have an alibi right now, so anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

  “Are you telling me that Lou is a suspect in all this?”

  “I’m not saying that either. I’m just checking all avenues of everyone involved—all family members, all friends . . .”

  She began laughing. “Well, I’m no detective and I’m not telling you how to do your job, but if I were you, I’d focus on those meth heads Victor hung out with.”

  “We’re doing that as well,” I said. Her laughter died, and she fidgeted in her chair. I scratched the razor stubble building on the side of my cheek and said, “Thank you for the coffee, then.” She walked me to the door and on the way, I stopped at their gun cabinet, a unit made from some type of oak, darkly stained, with glass doors. A padlock hung from the looped handle in front. Two rifles and two shotguns lay in order, propped between each wooden rung. At the bottom of the cabinet lay a pistol in its brown leather case, but I could see by the handle that it was a Smith & Wesson. “Lou hunts?” Becky nodded. “And nice.” I pointed down to the floor of the case where the pistol lay. “That a Model 19?”

  “I think it is,” she said. “A .357 Magnum.”

  “Very nice,” I said. “Can’t be in this business without admiring guns,” I lied.

  When I got down the porch steps, Becky said, “Are you talking to the other family members as much as you are to Lou?”

  I turned and looked into her hazel eyes, “Yes, Ms. Deats,” I lied again. “We are. It’s part of the process.”

  “I suppose that means you don’t have any real suspects?”

  I stared at her. Was about to speak when she saved me by saying, “No, I know.” She held up her hand. “You can’t say.”

  • • •

  On my way out of the driveway I called Joe and ordered him to have one of his men from Park Police pull Lou over as soon as he crossed the park entrance station and bring him to headquarters
so I could speak to him. I wanted to get his story alone and then check back with Becky before they saw each other and were able to compare notes.

  I drove to headquarters and looked back at the phone records. “Once a week,” I said to Monty. “Once a week Victor called Lou for three months in the spring and again in the fall. Selling or buying meth? Placing bets?” I looked at Monty.

  “Basketball in the winter. Football in the fall?” Monty pushed his glasses up.

  I leaned back in my chair and scratched my face. I definitely needed a shave.

  “Would someone on meth care about betting on sports?” Monty asked.

  “Addictive behavior is addictive behavior. What else can you think of? January to March. August to when the phone is cut off?”

  “Could Lou have entered the meth ring somehow—been buying from or for Victor?”

  “Possibly, but I’m not getting that vibe. Although it’s entirely possible that Victor had become a runner.”

  “How about Victor calling Lou for money, nothing more?”

  “That’s possible. From the sounds of it, he hit all the family members up most of the time.”

  • • •

  Officer Ken Greeley was chomping on a piece of gum again, just as he was the day I questioned him the first time. He still chewed it a little too vigorously, as if he couldn’t control his excitement to have the chance to apprehend a guy and bring him in for questioning. I had thanked Ken at the reception area of headquarters and said, “I’ve got it from here.”

  He stood for a moment, not wanting to go anywhere until I thanked him a second time, at which point he finally got the hint to leave.

  I held out my hand to an angry-looking Lou, who refused to shake it, so I dropped mine and led him back to a little room across from the one we were using. It had a smaller table than ours and was cold and bare-looking with white walls. I left him there to get a couple of coffees and chat a bit with Joe, giving Lou time to sit and seethe.

  “Hello again,” I said cheerfully when I went back in. I offered him coffee.

  “No. No, I don’t want coffee. I want to know what the fuck some asshole park officer makes me come to park headquarters for when I haven’t done a goddamned thing?”

  I held up my palm. “No need to get worked up here.”

  Lou crossed his arms before his chest and set his jaw into a rigid position.

  Monty came in and made a production of setting up the small handheld video recorder I had requested onto a tripod and pointed it at the table where Lou sat. “Thanks,” I said to Monty and sat back down. “Want to join us?”

  “Sure,” Monty said in a chirpy voice.

  “Agent Systead and Officer Harris, interviewing Louis P. Shelton,” I said to the recorder. Lou glared at the camera, not moving a muscle. “Just a precaution.” I smiled at Lou.

  “Why am I here?” he asked.

  “You sure you don’t want some coffee? I know you must drink it. Becky makes a good cup.”

  He shot me a piercing look.

  “I went to your house, but you were shopping, so I had a cup with her. Had a nice chat.”

  His look turned sarcastic. “Good for you.”

  “Actually, it was good, in terms of our investigation.” I glanced at Monty. I was, of course, bluffing since Becky hadn’t given me anything useful, but it didn’t hurt to keep him wondering. “Now, Lou, once and for all, we just need to make sure certain details are straight because we have reason to believe they’re not”—I cleared my throat—“all that straight, that is.”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Lou said.

  “Where were you on Friday evening?”

  “I told you.” He shook his head in irritation. “Becky and I were in an argument. I left and went up to the entrance to the Inside Road.”

  “At what time?”

  “At around quarter to five.”

  I wrote this down, more for show than of necessity. I knew his answer squared up to the one he’d given before and to what Becky had said. I continued questioning him, making him cover the rest of his activities while he was near the Inside Road. All his answers were consistent with the ones he gave previously, and the repetition seemed to make him wary and more annoyed, but not nervous as I’d hoped. “Listen,” I said, getting up and leaning my back against the small counter against the wall. “What’s the story on the willing sale you might have going on with the park?”

  Lou laughed and let his head hang as he looked at the ground. “Are you for real?”

  I sat back down and shrugged. “I don’t know; I’m curious.” I looked to Monty. “Aren’t you?”

  Monty still had the nice little connection he’d established with him the first time and leaned forward with a pleasant, interested look as he set his chin casually on his fist. “Actually, Lou, I do quite a bit with the inholdings on the east side of the park. I’m not all that familiar with what’s going on here.” He sounded utterly sincere, as if he were only having a beer with Lou. “What is the deal with your place?” He knit his brow in a confused way.

  Lou sighed. “Then I don’t need to tell you. It’s the usual story in the park and I have no idea what this would have to do with Victor.”

  “Not much really.” Monty shrugged. “Other than we know the grandchildren aren’t really into taking care of the place the way you have and that they’re all suddenly taking an interest in it now that it’s dawned on them that it might be worth something.” Monty leaned back. “It’s just an interesting topic to me more than anything.”

  “I told you. There’s not much to tell,” Lou said. “Same old park story—the likes of you guys want the lake front and are willing to pay for it. It’s my choice what I do with it and until then, it’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  “Lou,” I said sternly, “what about Thursday night? Where were you?” I asked, taking him off guard.

  “Thursday?” He squinted at me as if he was calculating the time frame in his head. I could see that he was shocked that Victor might have been out there since Thursday evening—that he thought this was only a Friday ordeal. “With Becky,” he said. “And Tanner, at home.”

  “When was the last time you had contact with Victor?”

  “I told you, in August.” His jaw stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

  “Really, August?” I shuffled through several of the files I had placed in front of me when I came in. I made a show of opening one with crime scene photos, giving him glances at the bloody mess, but not a close look at any of the pictures. Then I closed it and tucked it under another file. I opened the top one and pulled out the cellular records. “No contact at all since August?”

  I could see his shoulders stiffen ever so slightly.

  “That’s not what these records show.”

  “I told you I hadn’t seen Victor since August.”

  “No, I’ve actually got it on the recording.” I hit rewind and played the part where Lou answered my question regarding contact with Victor. “Do you know what that means, Lou, when we catch someone lying to us in a federal murder investigation?”

  Lou jutted his chin out. “I didn’t lie. I thought you meant the last time I saw him.”

  “That so? Well, we’re not thinking you’re that dumb. So”—I stood up and peered down at him—“lying by omission, withholding, whatever you want to call it . . . I won’t go into all the details, but often that kind of deceit leads to a search or two, sometimes to an arrest, unless we understand why the suspect is not being up-front with us. In fact, I should probably tell you at this point that you have the right to stay silent unless you’d prefer not to, and anything you do say will—”

  “Christ Almighty.” Lou pushed back from the table and stood. “You want to arrest me for killing my nephew?”

  “I don’t want to arrest you for anything, but your v
ehicle seen in the vicinity of the crime combined with no alibi and now, Lou”—I paused until he looked me straight in the eyes—“you not being up-front with us about the amount of contact you’ve had with your nephew is obstruction of an investigation and I hate to tell you, but that’s a federal charge.” I sighed, holding my palms up and glanced at Monty to take over. I had briefed him earlier on this part.

  “Wait, wait,” Monty offered calmly. “Let’s just back up a bit. Let’s not split hairs here. Please, sit down.” He gestured to the chair. Lou looked to the chair, then to each of us. He sat down slowly. “When was the last time you spoke with Victor?”

  Lou pursed his lips for a moment, then exhaled forcefully. “On and off on the phone early in the fall. I don’t remember any exact dates.”

  I picked up the phone records and read them. “How ’bout September twenty-fourth?”

  Lou nodded. “I guess that sounds right.”

  “So why was Victor calling you?”

  “He wanted to borrow money. Like usual.”

  “How much money?”

  “Whatever I had to spare.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “What I always tell him: to stop calling.”

  “I have records here that show you spoke frequently from January to March and from August until Victor’s phone got shut off in late September. How do you explain that?”

  “The same way. He called for money often. He was persistent, and I kept telling him to leave us the fuck alone.”

  “You speak to relatives that way?” I asked facetiously.

  “To him I did,” Lou said. “Come on, even you have gathered by now that he was a pest.”

  “Yeah, pesky enough to take out and tie to a tree in the woods to teach a lesson to?”

  “No.” Lou smiled a half smile—the same kind that I do when I’m most calm and I took it as a very bad sign. This was not our man. He was too calm and confident. “You’ve got it wrong. All wrong. He wasn’t pesky enough for that. No one’s pesky enough for that.”

  • • •