Wicked Eddies by Beth Groundwater Page A

you to listen in on my interview with him, compare your recollection of the campsite layout with his and see if there are any differences.”
    â€œDifferences? Why?”
    â€œCould be an indication that Nowak’s lying, or that someone was at the campsite in between your two visits, or something else.” He shrugged. “Newt’s words could stir something in your memory, too.”
    Mandy nodded. “Okay, I just need to clear it with Steve. He expected me to patrol the river today.”
    After okaying the plan with her boss, Mandy followed Quintana to the interview room and slipped into the observation room next door. Deputy Thompson, whom she had met during a previous investigation, was seated at the table behind the one-way glass that looked into the interview room. Mandy took the empty seat next to him. They shot the breeze until Quintana brought Newt into the interview room and seated him facing the glass. Thompson opened his notebook and clicked his pen while Mandy peered at Newt.
    He was a thin, pale-skinned guy with stringy red-brown hair and dark shadows under his eyes, as if he’d been up all night. The shadows made him look like he was in his forties versus his late twenties. Newt was dressed in a holey T-shirt, stained camp shorts, and flip-flops. His fingertips started a nervous staccato beat on the tabletop, accompanied by a bony knee jiggling under the table. His tongue darted in and out of his lips while he glanced around the small room. Mandy could see where his nickname had come from.
    When Newt’s gaze rested on the glass in front of him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is someone behind that watching me?”
    Quintana, who had seated himself at the end of the table so as not to block the view of Newt, answered with a placid face. “We always have another officer observe in case I miss something, but we figure most folks are more comfortable talking to one person. Just ignore the glass. Now, tell me about Howie Abbott. When did you see him?”
    â€œMonday morning, about ten. I’d walked into the Vallie Bridge campground and was picking up cans.” He grimaced. “Then I saw the body.”
    â€œYou didn’t go to the campground earlier, say on Sunday?”
    Newt shook his head vigorously. “No way.”
    Quintana looked skeptical. “You sure?”
    â€œSure I’m sure!”
    â€œWhere were you from Saturday evening to Sunday evening?”
    â€œNowhere near Vallie Bridge.” Newt half-rose out of his seat. “You’re not trying to pin this on me, are you? I’m cooperating, for God’s sake!”
    â€œWe’re asking a lot of people where they were last weekend,” Quintana answered smoothly, motioning with his hand for Newt to resume his seat. “It doesn’t mean we suspect you in particular of anything. So, where were you?”
    Newt sat but kept tapping the table. “I went to an AA meeting at six on Saturday, then hung out with my buddy, Gonzo Gordon, at his place. We grilled burgers, watched a movie, then he drove me back to my tent and I crashed for the night. All day Sunday, I was collecting cans at Hecla Junction. I took them to Safeway around seven and used the money to buy some bread and peanut butter and hiked back to my tent.”
    â€œWhere is your tent, Newt?”
    â€œOh man, do I hafta tell you?”
    â€œIt’ll go better for you if you do, and even better if someone else saw you there. I don’t really care where you’re camping out right now, though if it’s illegal, I suggest you move.”
    Newt blew out a breath. “My tent’s on National Forest land, and three other dudes have tents pitched there. Any of them could probably vouch for me, but I don’t want to get them in trouble, too.”
    â€œI’m not going to haul them in, but I do need to question them,” Quintana said. “Or would you prefer to have no alibi for the