The Wild Inside by Christine Carbo

higher on the bridge of his nose. “Which are none of your business.” He stood up and grabbed his coat.
    I smiled and slowly my grin turned to a laugh. “Right answer, Officer Harris.” I grabbed my coat as well. “Right answer.”
    • • •
    The cabin assigned to me by either Joe or Ford had two bedrooms, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a main room with a river-rock fireplace, deeply scarred wide-planked wooden floors, and several west-facing windows darned with old red-and-blue-plaid curtains.
    The wind had picked up from bubbling, playful tousles to forceful shoves, and the cabin creaked with each gust. I was tired but wired. I felt small in a cabin in a place like Glacier, cold and deserted this time of year with the gusty weather, the mountains, and the icy waters a reminder of my insignificance—my thread-thin presence in the great fabric of nature around me.
    I knew I wouldn’t sleep well. I never did on the first night of a case. There were too many images, details, and questions darting through my mind. And, of course, there was the lingering rawness that at first drapes over you after breaking bad news to a victim’s family, but by bedtime, presses into you, squeezes into you like shrink-wrap. I kept picturing Penny Lance’s frail frame curled up as she hugged her stomach.
    Monty and I had gotten some dinner at the Glacier Café, the same place we had lunch because of the lack of dining options in West Glacier. I knew I’d have to hit Hungry Horse, the closest town with a decent grocery store, and stock up on some things as soon as I had a moment. In the meantime, I went next door to the café and grabbed a six-pack, some beef jerky, and some OJ for the morning.
    After dinner Monty drove me back to headquarters to meet Joe, who had a park vehicle gassed up and ready for me. He had finished the paperwork, making it legit for me to use it while I was on the case. We said good night to Monty, and I followed Joe down the road to my new home away from home, which really wasn’t so bad. Aside from the damp cold and the musty smell, the cabin was homey enough.
    One good fire would push out the chill. I made one with some leftover logs and some paper I had ripped out of an old Trout Magazine , grabbed a beer, and sat in an old-oak Adirondack-style chair to go over my notes. I took out a quarter and was surprised to see that it was still the Vermont. I’d used change at the convenience store but apparently managed to hang on to it. I began rubbing the quarter between my thumb and forefinger, its surface quickly made smooth by the natural oils from my fingers.
    Victor Lance, drug problem. Penny Lance, the enabling mother. Father—absent, but I had Monica on it. She would come up with his whereabouts and access divorce papers to see what kind of role he played in Victor’s life, at least financially. The rest I would find out from his sister and Penny. As far as girlfriends—one decent, one not so decent. Probably a host of others that Mom didn’t know about. This was just the beginning. Tomorrow would have to bring more, much more. The old adage about forty-eight hours was sort of a cliché but not entirely; the first forty-eight are the most important. Cases can go cold quickly if strong leads are not established within a two-day time frame. Often, you could get a suspect and a strong lead if you did your homework, canvassed correctly, did extensive background checks and copious interviews. Over the years, though, forensic science and information technology had dovetailed in a way that both complicated things and made them easier. What you found in forty-eight often needed to wait for days or weeks anyway for testing and lab results. And in other ways, tests and computer technology sped things along drastically, shoved you in directions you might not have considered otherwise.
    The fire popped and grabbed my attention. It never failed to make me uneasy. The orange flames fingered around the logs, waving