The Wild Inside

by Christine Carbo

  • • •

  “The bear,” I said immediately to Joe as soon as his daughter was out of earshot. “The damn thing most probably has a slug in his gut.”

  “What?”

  “Wilson’s found a stippling pattern on the victim.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  I told him about the autopsy, about the victim being out all Thursday night and Friday during the day, about the timing of the death, and the fact that the victim was alive but not responsive when the bear attacked.

  “So except for possible evidence in the bear’s belly,” Joe said, “from the park’s perspective, there’s no reason to put him down. To that bear, the guy was as good as dead.”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But the bullet, as you know, is always an important piece of evidence.”

  Joe nodded. “Talk to Sean. I’ll talk to Kurt Bowman. Ultimately, it’s going to be the super’s call. All we do is make a strong recommendation. Even though it’s your investigation, you know that he makes the final call. But he’ll listen to your department’s recommendation”—he shrugged as if he didn’t completely believe his own words—“if it’s going to obstruct justice in some way.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I sighed. “Look, I have no desire to put this beast down, especially if we don’t even find the bullet. He could have crapped it out by now.”

  “It’s a possibility but unlikely if he’s near the end of his hyperphagia when his digestive system slows down to gear up for dormancy. We probably still have time,” Joe said.

  From what I’d read, prior to hibernation, grizzlies go into hyperphagia—an excessive eating and drinking period to fatten up for hibernation—and can gain up to four hundred pounds. During this time, they eliminate large amounts of nitrogenous waste. But right after this stage, just before hibernation, grizzly metabolism slows to a snail’s pace, and they don’t go very much until right before they den up.

  “And the corridor of water near McGee?” I switched focus to the gun. “If I recall my geography of the area, there are four bridges, maybe five, but two are smaller streams and easy to search. Can we get some metal detectors on the smaller streams today?”

  “Absolutely.” Joe nodded.

  “And given the high likelihood of disposing a gun in deeper water, there are three main rivers with bridges.”

  “McDonald Creek, the Middle Fork in West Glacier, and the South Fork, past Hungry Horse,” Joe offered.

  “Yep, plus there’s the Flathead in Columbia Falls, but that’s a pretty populated area. I’m more interested in the two in the park. Can we get Walsh to agree to some divers?”

  Joe tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think I can talk him into it, especially given the fact that Walsh’s department has actually solved several crimes around the Flathead that way.” He grabbed his keys from his pocket and looked at his watch. “Let me catch up with my daughter. I’ll be back in ten to deal with this. We should at least trap the bear as soon as we can.”

  • • •

  Kurtis Bowman, the bear guy, came in as soon as I had hung up from speaking with Sean, who is stereotypically crabby enough of a boss to say that he didn’t give a rat’s ass whether I ordered the bear down or not—that he simply wanted me to do my job in whichever way I saw fit.

  “So you’re recommending that we put this bear down over a bullet?” Bowman tried to ask nicely, but I could hear the edge in his voice.

  “Ted Systead.” I set my coffee down on the local newspaper I’d been reading before Sean returned my call, stood up, and held out my hand. I had finally checked out the Sunday news and seen that Ford had given very little information, just that the sheriff’s office was called in to investigate a death of a twenty-seven-year-old male named Victor Lance early on Saturday morning. No bear was mentioned, no foul play, no use of the kidnapping or the murder word, not much other than the victim’s name had been mentioned. Monty had joined me, and we were planning to question Lance’s sister as soon as we figured out the bear situation.

  “Kurt Bowman.” He briefly shook my hand, then looked at Monty. “Hey, Monty.” He tipped his head.

  “Good to see you, Kurt.” Monty smiled.

  “Look,” I said. “I haven’t made a recommendation yet. I didn’t say I wanted to put him down. However, Wilson believes it’s in the bear’s digestive track, and I’m sure you know that ballistics are important to investigations. It potentially tells us what kind of a gun was used and sometimes we can come up with a computerized match in the FBI or ATF database if there’s been another crime committed with the same gun in which a slug was identified. Not to mention, if we find a suspect with the gun in their possession, we can get a match.”

  “Yeah, I get that, but grizzly bears are important to ecosystems. And this one did nothing wrong.”

  Dealing with a federally protected park bear was a tricky situation. We needed to weigh and balance all factors: the importance of locating evidence vital to any investigation and the bear’s danger to other humans now that it had fed on human flesh versus the need of the grizzly species to keep a healthy young male alive. When it came to the investigation, we needed to figure out the best way to get the bullet because it could be essential for the conviction of the criminal, if not the solution to the crime. Short of euthanizing the bear and cutting it open to search its intestines, the next best step was to wait for it to defecate.

  It was reasonable to suspect that it would pass the bullet eventually, at which time it would go into hibernation and form its fecal plug, which prevents it from defecating in its den while hibernating. Giving the bear a laxative would upset this delicate process, and though it might not kill him outright, the change in gut metabolism, intestinal flora, and hormonal balance would likely mean the bear would die during the hibernation process.

  I agreed with what Bowman was saying—that the bear had done nothing overtly dangerous to humans, and I’d decided not to push putting the bear down because of that. Instead, I thought we should capture it and go from there. But Bowman coming in with his guns loaded made me want to play the devil’s advocate, because I was in the same mood I’d been in since I’d stepped foot in Glacier. In a crazy, completely nonsensical way, I felt it was my job to somehow subdue Glacier’s wild energy so we could solve the crime. “No, but he’s fed on human flesh. Do you not see that as a problem?”

  “We do.” Bowman sighed. “We do, but under the circumstances, we would not put a bear down for this. He is not actually a conditioned bear or even habituated.” I knew that he was trying to label the bear, making the distinction between conditioned and habituated, because earlier in the year, a review board in Glacier had tinkered around with definitions to help the park’s Bear Management program after they had to put down an old sow who had never been aggressive to people, but instead had gotten a little too curious and slobbered on tents, checked out a few backpacks, and held trails when people approached. Many of the locals who’d enjoyed seeing her around got enraged that park officials decided to kill her and made numerous angry calls to headquarters and wrote letter after letter to the small local papers nearby.

  From what I remember reading, a conditioned bear referred to one who had stolen food, damaged property, or displayed aggressive behavior toward people. A habituated bear only meant that a bear had become tolerant of human presence. The definitions apparently matter because how a bear is classified helps cast its fate.

  “He doesn’t approach people or tents, backpacks, or food storage containers when people are present,” Bowman continued. “Only banged on a few containers when the campgrounds were empty. He hasn’t bluff-charged innocent people walking down a trail, or even held a trail. He smelled blood and acted appropriately. As far as the bear is concerned, those remains could have been elk.”

  “Yeah, an elk looking exactly like a human.” I leaned my hip against the counter and c
rossed my arms, baiting him further. “Come on.” I narrowed my eyes at Bowman. “I don’t have to tell you that grizzlies are intelligent.” And they are. It’s common lore that a grizzly’s intelligence compared to a black bear’s is like comparing a dog’s brain to a mouse’s.

  “Listen, other than banging on a garbage container or two,” he repeated, “he’s not a conditioned bear. He’s not aggressive. We have no reports of him being hostile to anyone, ever.”

  I caught my lower lip with my front teeth, then let it pop out, my teeth scraping the flesh underneath harder than I intended. I sensed I was in some weird zone, like I was on thin ice with conflicting emotions about a Glacier Park bear. I actually surprised myself that I was doing less than advocating for the bear like everyone else seemed to be doing. “I know this is a shitty situation.” I sighed. “But if this investigation goes unsolved because we didn’t get the evidence from this bear, which, quite frankly, could potentially end up doing damage to someone else in the future, we’ll all be in a heap of trouble.”

  Bowman looked at the white linoleum floor for a moment. Monty watched us both. “Really now”—Bowman lowered his voice—“what are the chances that getting the bullet will help you solve this case?”

  “You’d be surprised.” A moment of silence enveloped us until Bowman took in a deep breath.

  “Agent Systead,” he said, “do you know what the population of grizzlies is in the Northern Continental Divide?”

  “Actually, I do, around seven fifty, eight hundred.” I knew that the Northern Continental Divide Ecosystem, called NCDE, in western Montana had the largest population of grizzlies in the lower forty-eight. This included Glacier, the Bob Marshall Wilderness, and the Rocky Mountain front. But still, even with it being the largest, the population of grizzlies in the lower forty-eight was only two percent of what it once was when grizzlies inhabited a range from the prairie lands to California and from central Mexico on up to Alaska. “And numbers are up in Yellowstone, in spite of it being a bad year for them there,” I added. I knew that deaths there this year neared record levels, but still, numbers had risen to six hundred for the first time since recovery efforts began in the seventies.

  “So?” Bowman said, one lip curled in disgust. “You think those numbers are high? An estimated seventy-five of them were killed or removed from the wild, do you know what that means?”

  I didn’t answer, just folded my arms in front of me.

  “It means that one grizzly has been taken out for every eight counted this year in Yellowstone. Not to mention that since that ecosystem is fairly isolated, the limited variety in breeding practices is hurting the viability of the population. And I won’t even go into the effects of their dwindling supply of whitebark pine nuts as a food source.”

  “But that has no bearing on the situation here. Safety is safety, on more levels than just one—in terms of finding the person who committed this crime and in terms of grizzly management in the park. Risk management is risk management.” I was ready to end this conversation. “Look,” I said with some finality, “first and foremost, we’re searching for the weapon, and if and when that turns up, we will need the slug. I told you when you first came in that I did not want to put this bear down and for now, I don’t intend to pressure you or Ford to do that. But I need that slug.”

  Bowman widened his eyes.

  “So at the very least, we need to capture it and see if he purges soon and we can find it in his scat.”

  Bowman nodded vehemently. “We can definitely do that.”

  Silence enveloped us, and I could feel my heart palpitate faster at the thought of capturing the bear, at the thought of euthanizing and cutting him open if he didn’t eliminate the bullet. I don’t know why I cared. Evidence was in the bear’s belly, and if I screwed up another case because I had too much compassion for a damned grizzly and didn’t push the right course of action, Sean would not be happy. “Good.” I nodded firmly. “Put the culvert traps out immediately and have someone inform me when you get him. I’ll also need someone extensively checking his scat. Don’t lose an ounce of it, and make sure Gretchen and her team are called in to check the surrounding area where you trap him for all the piles within a five-mile radius.”

  Bowman shook his head, a hopeful look on his face. He really cared about sparing this bear. “I can have some of my men checking even farther out than that.”

  “Great, just make sure they don’t touch the bullet if they come across it.”

  “All right, thanks. We’ll do our best,” Bowman said and left the room.

  Monty stared at me. I’d forgotten he was even in the room.

  “You ready to go?” I asked.

  “Yep, I’m ready.” He held up his notepad.

  I grabbed for the car keys in my pocket, my palms slippery with sweat and my jaw clenched. “I’m driving,” I said, pulling out the keys.

  • • •

  I didn’t exactly want to be around when they went grizzly trapping. And I was already way behind in my questioning because of my trip to Missoula and this bear dilemma, which was not helping me get rid of the morning’s headache.

  Monty and I headed first to Victor’s sister’s apartment in Columbia Falls, no more than ten to fifteen miles from West Glacier, a town that lies before the entrance to the canyon leading to Glacier. An old aluminum plant sits at the base of Teakettle Mountain and was one of the biggest employers in the valley for years, but died a slow death as global demand for aluminum shrank and cast hundreds of locals out of work. Luckily, a mill called Plum Creek, an international timber provider, still supplied a number of jobs, but with the recession had to lay off large numbers. Houses suddenly became hard to sell, and banks began foreclosing on people while they looked for jobs that weren’t there. Meanwhile, in Whitefish, just fifteen miles to the west at the base of Big Mountain on Whitefish Lake, houses still sold to wealthy Californians, Texans, and mostly Canadians rich on oil money who were taking advantage of the low market.

  As we drove through the canyon, through the succession of poverty-ridden, two-gas-station, three-church, and three-bar towns—Coram, Martin City, Hungry Horse—Monty ran me through his discoveries. They were meager. Lance did have a cell phone but didn’t pay the bill. It was shut off the month before. Records from the prior months were being emailed to me as we spoke.

  Then my phone rang twice as we continued through the canyon by the Flathead River past the confluence of the middle and south forks. Monica called to confirm that Victor and Megan Lance’s father, Philip Lance, failed to make the paltry support payment of two-fifty per month that the court assigned him back in the eighties. The second call was from Ford, which I silenced. Of course, not a minute after I killed the ring, Monty’s phone rang and he, being the good little boy he was, answered it promptly. I pulled out my quarter and began rolling it over my knuckles, my right hand on the wheel.

  After a string of “Yes, sirs,” and an evil glance from me, Monty said good-bye.

  “Your boss angry?” I asked.

  Monty shrugged. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do things, but shouldn’t you have called him right away about your decision to trap the bear?”

  “Why? It’s not his investigation. Usually the super’s not that involved in law enforcement efforts anyway. I’m just wondering why this guy is so gung ho to be involved.”

  “He’s always been very hands-on,” Monty offered. “It’s his park, and he has the ultimate say.”

  “Really? US National Parks don’t belong to the citizens of the United States?”

  “You know what I mean.” Monty stuck his phone back into his jacket pocket. “The bear’s a big deal, and if the press gets ahold of it, this thing’s going to get complicated for the park, and that’s Ford’s deal.”

  “Um hmm,” I grunted. “Well, it won’t be the first time a grizzly needs to be captured. Usually, the public’s t
hankful for keeping ’em safe when it comes to bears.”

  “Not this summer. People were outraged over the Lake Ellen Wilson bear they put down.”

  I didn’t reply. I’d had enough of talking about bears. “Anyway,” I said dismissively, “I knew Ford would find out faster than I could even pull up his number.”

  Monty glanced disapprovingly at my quarter rolling, then stared out the window silently until we reached Megan’s apartment above a small soup café on the main drag in Columbia Falls. She actually worked in the café but had taken the day off under the circumstances. Megan’s mother had given us her cell phone number, and we had called to make sure she would be home and available for us to stop by.

  • • •

  Megan answered the door smoking a cigarette. She had apparently showered before we came, her long dark hair sleek and dripping wet patches onto on her mauve T-shirt on the mound of each breast. Thick eyeliner and mascara attempted to hide the puffiness in her eyes. She had invited us in and showed us to a small, round kitchen table and plopped herself down in front of a window next to her kitchen sink. Monty and I sat without an invite. The wet patches, like badges of helplessness, made her look slightly pathetic and made me pause before I found my words. When I did find them, I gave my condolences, Monty following suit.

  Megan sat, framed by the gray sky, still dismal at two thirty in the afternoon. Her shoulders slumped downward as if her arms were weighted. Her eyelids draped heavy with grief and perhaps caution, even skepticism. Past the mascara, she had the type of eyes that could change from dark brown to tan to hazel with the slightest shift in light. I began to think my initial impression of her vulnerability was wrong, and in the partially shaded hardness of her eyes, I thought I saw a flicker of contempt. She might not be as helpful as I thought the little sister would be. “Smoke?” she offered.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  She looked at Monty as if weighing him. “You?” She stretched out the pack of Camels to him.