Shadow Girl

by Gerry Schmitt

  He retched suddenly and violently, hot spittle spurting from his mouth. Frightened, suddenly feeling as if tiny pig eyes were focused on him, he backed away and almost tripped. He spun around fearfully and saw a partially eaten leg, the shoe still on, half-buried in the mud.

  Farm strong or not, Gene couldn’t help himself from screaming.

  • • •

  DAN Fuller, a senior deputy with the Scott County Sheriff’s Office wasn’t happy. Neither were the three police officers from Prior Lake. It was their case and their jurisdiction and they wanted to work it. Nothing this exciting had ever happened on their watch.

  “Problem is, guys,” Max said, “Jay Barber belongs to us.” He was fairly sure it was Barber because a blue Saucony running shoe was still attached to one mangled foot.

  Fuller, who resembled a khaki-clad Captain Kangaroo, said, “I knew when I called it in that this was going to slide right through our fingers.” He glanced over at the pen, where two more deputies, wearing fishing waders, were stomping around toward the front of the pen, where the body had been found. They were working under two light stanchions that had been hurriedly set up and now flooded the mud with an eerie glow. Needless to say, the pigs had been moved into one of the barns.

  “You can still work the scene,” Max said. “We’ll ship the body . . . well, what’s left of it anyway . . . to the ME in Minneapolis. But if you guys could canvass the neighbors, see if anybody saw cars coming and going or anything suspicious, that would be a tremendous help.”

  “Especially if they saw a red car,” Afton said. She was thinking of the car that Sammy Mah had identified.

  Fuller and the three cops nodded as they exchanged glances.

  “We can do that,” Fuller said. “We’ll do that for sure.”

  “Who found the cell phone?” Max asked. That’s how the initial identification had been made.

  One of the Prior Lake officers raised his hand. “I was first on the scene,” he said. “I guess pigs don’t like the taste of plastic.”

  “And the farmer was pretty upset?” Afton asked.

  The officer, whose name tag read DOBSON, nodded. “Mr. Schreiber was crying. So was his wife. Nothing like this has ever happened to them before. I was pretty shocked myself, which is why I sent out an alert to area law enforcement.”

  “It’s lucky that Deke Henley was on the Homicide desk this morning,” Max said to Afton, “and kicked it right over to me. He knew I was working a homicide and a missing persons.”

  “This is a pretty damn gruesome scene,” Fuller said. “I’ve known the Schreibers for going on fifteen years. Good people. Shame this had to happen to them.” He glanced sideways. “Speaking of which . . .”

  A thin woman with a blue paisley shawl clutched around her shoulders was ghosting toward the barn. But instead of going into the barn, she veered left toward the hog pen.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Afton said. She hurried over to intercept her. “Are you Mrs. Schreiber?”

  Wild-eyed and white-faced, the woman bobbed her head. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “This is a police investigation,” Afton said. “We need a little space right now, so if you could go back inside your home, we’ll come over and talk to you in a bit, answer any questions you might have. Okay?”

  Mrs. Schreiber nodded, but continued on her path toward the hog pen.

  “Mrs. Schreiber?” Afton said, her voice louder this time. “We need you to . . .”

  “Holy hell!” a voice inside the pigpen suddenly roared. Then, “Oh no!”

  Afton grabbed the woman by the elbow and turned to stare at the screaming man at the same time. One of the sheriff’s deputies, who’d moved toward the rear of the pen, was leaning on his shovel for support and looking utterly forlorn.

  “What is it?” Max went rushing over. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re gonna need your Crime Scene unit pronto,” the deputy in the pen stammered out. “I think we just uncovered”—he swallowed hard, as if he was trying not to lose his breakfast—“a second body.”

  • • •

  FIFTEEN minutes later, Jim Klopp, the Scott County ME, showed up. He was a barrel-chested man with graying hair, and he wore trendy Clark Kent glasses. He said hello to the assemblage of local law enforcement, shook Max’s hand, gave Afton a solemn nod, and proceeded to pull on a pair of leather gloves as well as Orvis hip boots.

  “Might ruin those nice hip boots,” Deputy Fuller pointed out.

  “Ah,” Klopp said, “I haven’t made it over to the Brule for a couple of years anyway.”

  “Good trout fishing on the Brule River,” Officer Dobson observed as Klopp entered the pigpen. “Brown trout and speckled.”

  Klopp squished his way through the muck, then set to work with the two deputies to carefully disinter the second body. “This one in back is fairly well intact,” he called to everyone who was watching. “Pigs seem to have trampled it rather than lunched on it. You want to come in here and take a look at him? See if it’s anyone you recognize? Detectives?” He looked directly at Max and Afton. “Probably pertinent to your case.”

  Afton and Max stepped gingerly into the pen, trying to avoid the stinkier, muddier parts, which was all but impossible. They bent over the mangled body and studied it.

  “Nobody I know,” Max said.

  “Same here,” Afton said.

  Deputy Fuller came over and took a good, hard look. “Nope. Me neither.”

  The ME took photos, bagged the head and hands, and then carefully dug into the dead guy’s pockets. Slowly, he extricated a black leather case and dropped it into a clear plastic baggy.

  “Got an ID here,” one of the deputies called out.

  Everyone crowded in again.

  “What’s it say?” Max asked.

  Klopp slowly worked the wallet open inside the plastic bag. “Looks like we’ve got a Minnesota driver’s license here as well as a University of Minnesota Medical Center ID card.” He gazed at everyone, then looked back down at the two IDs. “This second victim’s name is Gary Toft.”

  “He worked at the University of Minnesota Medical Center?” Max said.

  “Holy crap,” Afton said. “There’s your inside man right there. The guy who knew when Odin’s heart was coming and alerted the shooters.”

  “You think?” Max said.

  “Gotta call that hospital lady we talked to. See if we can confirm his employment and find out if he was working that night.”

  Max squinted at Afton. “Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Mrs. Manchester,” Afton said, glancing up at a riffle of pink clouds as morning painted the sky.

  Max held up an index finger. “I’ll make the call. Give me five.”

  • • •

  LIKE a heat-seeking missile, Sharon Schreiber emerged from her house again, looking just as distressed and distracted. Afton once again cut her off at the proverbial pass and, amid her pleadings and protests, herded her back indoors.

  Max looked grim when he came back and joined the group.

  “What?” Afton asked.

  “I talked to that woman, Manchester,” Max said. “She confirmed that Gary Toft was indeed an employee at the university hospital.”

  “What else?” Afton asked. She could tell from the look on Max’s face that there was more.

  “Toft was working there the night the helicopter was shot down,” Max said.

  “Holy shit,” Deputy Fuller said. He spread his feet apart and placed his hands on his ample hips, the better to make his point. “From all the background you’ve given us, it looks like you’ve got yourself a genuine class A murder mystery.”

  “Jeez,” one of the other deputies said. “Does that mean you’re looking for a serial killer?”

  Max grimaced. “It’s a five-body pileup anyway.”

  • • •

  AFTON and Max were leaning against Max’s car and talking quietly.

  “At least we know this hospital guy, Toft, wasn’t about to call
in sick and take off running,” Max said.

  “No,” Afton said, shivering in the early morning cold. “He called in dead.”

  “It certainly looks as though Toft was somehow connected to the shooters, to the killers,” Max said. “But how is he connected to Barber?”

  “Maybe our friends from Bangkok killed them both,” Afton said. “Toft to clean up any loose ends, Barber because he was Odin’s partner.”

  “Okay. But how are our killers connected to DSN?”

  “There’s got to be something going on with DSN that these guys are after,” Afton said. She glanced over at the pigpen, saw one of the deputies stringing up yellow-and-black tape.

  “Contraband of some kind,” Max agreed. “Weapons? Dope?”

  “Most of the stuff they sell on DSN comes from Asia. Maybe they’re importing something illegal along with the regular stuff.”

  “What if this isn’t DSN-related?” Max asked.

  Afton considered Max’s words as, off in the background, some sort of motor revved up. “Then it’s directly related to Leland Odin,” she said. She was aware of the noise growing louder and raised her voice a notch. “Maybe some kind of sideline that Odin had going.”

  Max looked up and said, “Oh man, the vultures are circling.”

  A bright blue helicopter with the words NEWSWATCH 7 painted on its side blew by overhead. It circled the farmyard twice, hovered—probably looking for a choice landing spot—and then headed for a nearby field. Dust and flotsam from the morning’s frost spun up like miniature tornadoes. Then the chopper settled on its skids and, a few moments later, two figures jumped out. A man shouldering a camera and a blond woman in a bright red blazer and skirt.

  “That woman keeps turning up like a bad penny,” Max said under his breath.

  “It’s Portia?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Max said. He sounded pained, as if he’d just been slugged in the jaw.

  Despite wearing three-inch stiletto heels, Portia managed to run through the dirt and ruts to outpace her cameraman. When she skidded to a stop directly in front of Max, she wasn’t the least bit winded after her long sprint.

  Pilates, Afton thought. The chick’s in shape.

  Portia lifted the microphone up to her mouth just as her cameraman arrived and started shooting. “Portia Bourgoyne,” she said, “reporting for Newswatch Seven.” Now she assumed her serious face. “I’ve just arrived at the Gene Schreiber farm in rural Prior Lake, where I’ve been told the dead, mutilated body of DSN executive Jay Barber has been discovered.” Now she stuck the microphone in Max’s face. “Detective Max Montgomery, can you fill our viewers in on exactly what happened here?”

  “I’m afraid we’re unable to release any details right now,” Max said in a fairly even tone.

  Portia was unfazed. “Tell me, Detective, is it true that Mr. Barber’s body was partially consumed by pigs?”

  Max clenched his fists but managed to keep his cool. “Again, I’m unable to comment on anything until after the scene is processed and the bodies are transported to the medical examiner’s office.”

  “You said bodies,” Portia said, pouncing on his words. “Are you talking about two dead bodies? Because if you are . . .”

  Max shook his head and walked away. He’d tangled with Portia before and it had never ended well.

  Nonplussed, Portia started to follow Max, jerking her head at her cameraman, indicating that he should follow along.

  Afton stepped in front of them and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “But I’m not you,” Portia said in a snarky tone. “And why, pray tell, do you continue to photo bomb my shots?” She waved a hand breezily as if she were shooing away an annoying, buzzing fly. “Aren’t you supposed to be a crime victim’s hand-holder? Of course you are. So why on earth would the Minneapolis Police Department allow you to be present at what has to be one of the most horrific crimes scenes ever?” Portia curled her lip as she brushed past Afton and hurried after Max.

  Afton stood there, feeling powerless, insulted, and put down. Part of her even wondered if Portia was right. If she couldn’t be of help, what was she doing here?

  32

  THERE has to be a solid connection,” Max said, “between DSN and the people from Bangkok. We knew it three days ago, but those crazy killers have had us chasing all over the place like a pack of hungry wolves. Now Barber is dead and that university guy, too.” He and Afton were back from the body dump site and had just given Deputy Chief Thacker a blow-by-blow description.

  Thacker stared at Afton and Max across the raft of desks in the Homicide division as if he almost didn’t believe them. “The university guy,” he repeated.

  “Uh . . .” Max twirled a finger.

  “Toft,” Afton said, filling in the blanks. “Gary Toft.”

  “And he was shot?” Thacker asked.

  “Shot in the head,” Afton said.

  “And Barber?”

  “Appeared to be mostly stabbed and burned,” Max said. “And eaten.”

  Thacker flinched. “Mrs. Barber’s been notified, but nobody’s told her about that.”

  “Yeah,” Afton said. “It wasn’t good.”

  “Hard way to go,” Max said.

  “But we still haven’t nailed down a motive,” Thacker said. “Or figured out the connection between the killers and DSN.”

  “It’s sure not the Saudi buyers,” Max said. “Or Consolidated Sports.”

  “Something must have happened in Thailand between Leland Odin and these people to bring them right here to our doorstep,” Afton said. “To send them on this mission of destruction.”

  “But what?” Thacker asked.

  “Drugs?” Max said. “A drug cartel?”

  Thacker looked puzzled. “You think Odin and his people stumbled into something?”

  “I doubt it was quite that innocent,” Afton said. “At least it doesn’t feel that way. These people, these killers, are on a major revenge trip. Something big went down.”

  They let Afton’s words rumble around in their heads for a few moments, until Dillon walked in.

  “Happy days, huh?” Dillon said. “You know there’s a media shit-storm going on out there, don’t you?”

  “I’m guessing you saw the footage that Newswatch Seven shot,” Afton said.

  “I did and it was stellar stuff,” Dillon said. “You guys are very photogenic, even though Max was making with his Easter Island impression.” He took off a brown suede jacket and hung it on a peg. Pulled out a bottle of Mountain Dew. “Now what?” He uncapped the bottle and took a slug.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Max said. “How to locate this mysterious woman.”

  “If it was up to me, I’d go to a bunch of Thai restaurants and order as much pad thai and green curry as I could eat,” Dillon said. He touched a hand to his chest, let go a loud burp. “Or hang out at the airport? The old lady’s got to leave the country sooner or later, unless she intends to kill every living soul who works at DSN.”

  “Maybe she’s already gone,” Max said. “After last night’s killing spree she could have hopped on a plane. Delta and United had half a dozen flights leaving for the West Coast and beyond. I checked.”

  “But TSA and airport security have the composites,” Dillon said. “And they’ve been on TV.”

  “We looped everybody in right away,” Thacker said. “As soon as we had composites and got the fake identities from the Hotel Itasca people. We figured the killers might make a run for it.”

  “I’m guessing they probably have another full set of IDs,” Afton said. “With credit cards to match. Especially the old lady. She could put on a wig and a pair of dark glasses and—bam. She’s out of here. Hell, she could probably stroll down Nicollet Mall and nobody would even take notice.”

  “What do we really know about this woman?” Thacker asked. “Besides the fact that she appears to be an American living in Thailand.”

  “She’s rich,” Af
ton said. She spoke so softly that Max was the only one who heard her.

  “What?” Max said. He held up a hand to still the conversation. “Wait a minute,” he said to Thacker and Dillon. “Listen to this for a minute.”

  Thacker frowned. “Listen to what?”

  “Go ahead,” Max said.

  “I think this woman, the woman we think might be the mastermind behind all these killings, is extremely wealthy,” Afton said. She took a deep breath and continued. “Look at the facts so far. She’s stayed in a fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night penthouse suite for almost a week and she smokes cigarettes that cost twenty dollars a pack.”

  Thacker was staring at her. “Go on.”

  “The hotel people said she dressed well, spared no expense on room service, and . . . well, I think she wore Chanel perfume.”

  “Huh,” Thacker said. “You could tell that?”

  “The woman could be a highly paid assassin,” Dillon said.

  “She could be,” Afton agreed. “But it doesn’t feel right. She probably didn’t fire the rocket launcher, because she’s also small-statured and older. Someone else did the actual shooting. But she went along—she was right there.”

  “Because she wanted the job done correctly,” Max said slowly. “The old woman went along to make sure everything was carried out to her exact specifications.”

  “She’s used to giving orders,” Afton said. “And taking risks. I think she might be some sort of . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “Some sort of kingpin.”

  “And affiliated with Kantana Industrial Group in Bangkok?” Dillon asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” Thacker said. “This has to be a drug cartel, yes?”

  “Yeah,” Dillon said. “But what drugs and which cartel?”

  “We have to go back and talk to Sunny,” Afton said. “She has to know more than she’s been letting on.”

  Thacker glanced at his watch. “Dicey move. The woman’s attending her own husband’s funeral right now.”

  “Then we’ll talk to her afterward,” Afton said. “Catch her on the way out.”

  “I got another idea,” Max said. “The DEA’s already dialed into this, so why don’t we get a couple of drug-sniffing dogs to go through DSN’s warehouse? See if anything unusual turns up.”