Montgomery said, “Sounded as if the deputies weren’t much interested in him. You think the sheriff will consider him a suspect?”
“Be a fool not to.”
“Wonder if Milburn or Hartwell know they got new competition?”
“They’ll find out soon enough.”
“We better write up what we found,” Montgomery said.
Corey let out a dreary sigh and stared out the passenger window. “Yeah. You take care of it.” He cranked up the volume on the radio, sank low in his seat and jammed his knees against the dash.
Hank Williams wailed louder.
“The more I think about it,” Montgomery said, “we really should brief the superintendent as soon as we get back. All this, on top of the livestock kills. Same attack scenario every time. Or pretty close anyway.”
Corey shrugged.
“You know, Jack, I would hate for Gilmer to get surprised—”
“You know, Bantz,” Corey mocked, “if you want my goddamn job why don’t you go to the superintendent and ask for it?” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and began bobbing his head again while the godfather of country music begged for solace.
A light drizzle slowed Montgomery at Kingman Pass. The temperature had dropped enough for sleet to form until the road descended to a lower altitude. He drove with extra caution, recalling the last time a summer snowstorm at that elevation stranded them. After several miles without exchanging words, Corey shifted in his seat to get more comfortable and words crept from under his hat. “One more thing. You can forget about sneaking back to the scene and searching for animal tracks. It was a murder. Period. The sheriff’s handling it.”
Silence.
Montgomery’s eyes stayed fixed on the road.
“Did you hear me, Montgomery?”
“Loud and clear, Boss. I heard you loud and clear.”
NINE
Business was looking up. Two phone messages had come in for Dieter the next morning and he quickly got on the road to make ranch calls. The first was about treating a cow in Grayling suspected of dislocating a hip during delivery. It hadn’t. The cow and calf were going to be fine. A grimmer call took him to a ranch at Cliff Lake where a lamb and ewe received severe burns in a brush fire. Both the farmer and his wife cried when he told them he’d have to put the badly burned ewe to sleep.
In the afternoon Dieter made his way back to his makeshift clinic, Colter Veterinary Services, at the end of Bridger Avenue. There were two large rooms—the reception area and a room in the rear that he used for treatment. He’d managed to fit in a stainless steel exam table and to stock some basic supplies and a few holding cages in three sizes, all with the help of an eight-thousand dollar loan from the Montana Veterinary Association.
Molly had warned Dieter that Claire Manning, the managing editor of the Gallatin County Weekly Reporter, would be his first client of distinction. Her upscale style of dress and coiffure matched Molly’s description perfectly. He guessed she was in her fifties, but with the glossy face and tight skin, he couldn’t be sure.
He carried her cream-white Yorkie into the exam room and closed the door. King Tut stood on the cold steel surface of the table, holding its head low and shaking. The ten-pound dog had an under-bite and was groomed in the face to give a vague resemblance to his namesake.
“Come on now… good doggie.” Dieter stretched out his hand. King Tut lurched forward and nipped his index finger, drawing blood.
“Jeez!” He poured alcohol over the wound and placed a Band-Aid around it, then dug inside his white coat for a treat. When he gingerly held out the dog-biscuit, King Tut ignored it.
Mrs. Manning had told him that the dog whined often the last three days with spells where he shook his head uncontrollably. She suspected seizures. An exam with the otoscope confirmed Dieter’s hunch. One ear was bright red with a black fungus spreading in the canal, a common ailment among small dogs with floppy ears. He swabbed and medicated them, then emerged into the waiting room.
“King Tut should recover quickly with these drops,” Dieter said as he handed the pet back to Mrs. Manning and gave her a sample bottle of eardrops.
“If this works, I’ll just have to tell your rival down in West Yellowstone that I may have to switch vets,” Mrs. Manning beamed.
“Who’s my competition?”
“Dr. Milburn. I’ve been driving down to him for King Tut’s shots since we got him.”
He walked her to the door and she said to give Molly her regards. He stuffed his hands into his white lab coat pockets, not sure whether to say anything, but she was the editor of the local paper. Maybe a new client. Giving her a heads up might grant him even more credibility. Or maybe he just needed to talk with somebody about it. Whatever the reason, he blurted out, “Have you heard about the body found on the Madison?”
“Nothing of a kind! When did you hear this?”
He described how he came across the victim, but didn’t delve into the gruesome details. “I reported it to the sheriff’s office.”
“Mysterious deaths just don’t occur around here,” she said, shaking her head back and forth. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
“None.”
They both stood quietly for a moment while King Tut panted and kicked, eager to leave. She shifted the dog to her other arm. “Must have something to do with drugs,” she said. “So much of that is going around the West.”
Dieter agreed with a nod.
“Or, my Lord,” she continued, “it could’ve been an animal attack of some sort? A Grizzly maybe?”
“Difficult to tell. The body was on the bank across the stream from me.”
“You never know what could happen out there in the God Almighty wilderness. You don’t think it could have something to do with the wolves? It is possible, isn’t it?”
“I really don’t think so. I mean, I’ve never heard of wolves attacking people.”
“I fought the Park Service bringing in wolves to Yellowstone from the start. You just never know about creatures like that. And I’ll share with you something else, Dr. Harmon. The rangers running Yellowstone live and breathe those damnable wolves. Won’t listen to the ranchers who’ve been losing livestock since they arrived. Maybe they’re now going after people in the backwoods, too. I should pay the chief another visit.”
“The chief?”
“Jack Corey. Yellowstone’s chief ranger.”
“You know him?”
She hesitated. “We’re acquainted.” She grabbed King Tut again to keep him from escaping her arms. On her way out, she stopped and dug into her purse. “Here’s my card. If you get any more info, please give me a call?”
After waving goodbye Dieter slid the card into his trouser pocket and lingered by the door, then walked to his desk and picked up the phone. The woman at the Gallatin County sheriff’s office had no information. He said who he was and why he was calling. She placed him on hold.
When she returned, she spoke fast. “I really don’t have anything that I can release at this time, Dr. Harmon.”
“When can I call back to—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I have an emergency on another line.”
Click.
Familiar territory. Cops. Bureaucracy.
Fran’s murderer was never found. His trips to the station, his calls. None of it mattered in the end. He reflected on the first time they’d met—a wedding reception at Christ’s Methodist Church in Allentown. 1983. Her long, cascading hair framed a stunning face. Her carriage revealed a subtle sexiness as she pretended to ignore him, aside from one furtive smile. Her cockiness was enticing.