Little Girl Gone

by Gerry Schmitt

  “I’ll be damned,” Max said.

  “What about the phosphorescent stuff?” Afton asked. “The little bits and pieces that glowed when you ran the black light over her.”

  “Oh,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Under electron microscopic testing, they appear to be crystals of oxalic acid.”

  “What is that, please?” Afton asked.

  “It’s an agent commonly added to water to reduce the pH balance.”

  “Is this something commonly found in baby products?” Max asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Just the name oxalic acid sounds fairly dangerous,” Afton said.

  “Yes, well, I suppose it could be.”

  “Any idea how it got there?” Max asked.

  “None whatsoever,” Dr. Sansevere said.

  “You find anything else on her?” Max asked.

  “Nothing that was atypical considering the circumstances of where she was found. Leaves, a few animal hairs.”

  “Has she been DNA typed yet?” Afton asked.

  “We’re still working on that.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Max said. “I trust you’ll contact us right away if you learn anything else?”

  “Count on it,” she said.

  Max disconnected from her, then looked at Afton. “Thoughts?”

  Afton shook her head. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

  “Neither do I.” Max blew out his cheeks, and then said, “But I’m feeling antsy. Come on, let’s take a ride. Go blow out the carbon.”

  * * *

  WHEREVER they were headed, Afton decided that Max was taking the long way around. They sliced over to Hennepin Avenue, right in the middle of downtown Minneapolis, and cruised slowly along the thoroughfare.

  “This used to be appropriately tacky and mildly interesting,” Max said. “All sorts of dimey bars, strip joints, rock clubs, magazine shops that sold dirty books in back, record stores, and waffle houses. Now it’s all chain restaurants—Italian, Mexican, Chinese. If we ever patch things up in the Middle East, somebody will probably open a McFalafel.”

  They passed the Basilica, its dark green dome gleaming in the faint sunlight, slid under a bridge, and turned up Hennepin past the sculpture garden. Everywhere they went, traffic was either backed up or crawling at a glacial pace. Thanks to continued cold and two more inches of snow last night, there were also stalled vehicles, fender benders, and abandoned cars.

  Afton was pleased that Max had dialed back on his aggressive driving and was exercising a bit more caution today. She could almost relax in the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Almost.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, one eye still focused on the speedometer.

  “Sampson’s,” Max said. He momentarily swerved into the oncoming lane, dodging a car that was stuck at the bottom of a steep grade. “Gotta look somebody up.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy.”

  * * *

  MAX drove past Sampson’s Bar, made a U-turn, and then pulled in front of the bar, nosing into a no-parking zone. He threw an OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS card on the dashboard and said, “C’mon. We’re gonna have us a little confab with The Scrounger.”

  Afton gazed at the cheesy red-and-yellow exterior of Sampson’s Bar, which clearly announced, I’m a dive. The hand-lettered sign in the window advertising Dubble Bubble seemed to say, Come on in, the drinkin’s fine.

  “How do you even know he’s here?”

  “Couple of things tipped me off,” Max said. “First off, there’s his butt-ugly pickup truck held together with Bondo tape parked illegally in a spot marked ‘Handicapped.’”

  “Okay.”

  “Plus Sampson’s is the crappiest bar in the neighborhood, which makes it his official stomping ground. Everything else around here is your basic fig and fern bar.”

  “I think fig and fern bars went out in the early nineties,” Afton said.

  “What do they call them now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe craft beer bistros or wine bars. Something like that.”

  “Still,” Max said. “It’s the same old bullshit.”

  “Of course it is.”

  The interior of Sampson’s was darker than pitch. Probably well under the regulation lumens required by the liquor licensing board. That was okay with Afton. This way she wouldn’t have to look at the winos who were already slumped anonymously at the front bar, or the ugly orange carpet, or the studded red plastic lamps that dangled on bare cords.

  Max paused to study the inhabitants, didn’t recognize any familiar faces lurking at the bar, and turned his attention to what could loosely be called the dining room. Loosely, because it was basically three Formica tables and an unattended pull-tab booth encased in chicken wire.

  Seated at one of the tables, eating peanuts and sipping an amber-colored drink, was a man dressed in coveralls, Red Wing work boots, and a red cap with the earflaps down. His chair was tipped back and he was watching a college hockey game on TV.

  “There’s our boy,” Max said.

  They strolled across a dark expanse of dance floor that felt sticky underfoot, and headed straight for The Scrounger’s table.

  “Whoa,” The Scrounger said when he caught sight of Max. “Look who’s out slumming.”

  “How do,” Max said.

  “Detective Montgomery,” The Scrounger said. “What an unexpected pleasure.” His eyes flicked over and took in Afton. “And I do believe you’ve made a serious upgrade when it comes to your choice in partners.”

  “Thanks,” Afton said. “I think. Although I’m not technically a detective.” The Scrounger had ginger-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, a scruffy beard, and brown eyes that were pinpricks of intensity. He looked like a cross between a stoner and a University of Minnesota English professor.

  “Mmn,” The Scrounger said, smiling at Afton. “You must be a protégée then.”

  “Something like that,” Max said. He sat down across from The Scrounger and Afton followed suit. “This is Afton Tangler. She’s been working with me on the Darden kidnapping case.”

  “Ah,” The Scrounger said. “Nasty.” He crunched a peanut between his front teeth and smiled again at Afton. “I meant the case, not you.”

  “The FBI is working the case pretty hard,” Max said. “Obviously, they would. But MPD is running its own investigation as well.”

  “It’s been all over the news,” The Scrounger said. “They think it might have been a woman who stole the kid?”

  “It’s possible,” Afton said.

  “I know that Kenwood Parkway, where the Dardens live, is one of your routes,” Max said.

  “Surely you don’t think that I—”

  Max held up a hand. “No, no, nothing like that. But I know you’re familiar with that particular part of the city.”

  The Scrounger nodded. “Intimately.”

  “And I was wondering if maybe you’d seen or heard anything that was a little off?”

  “You mean suspicious,” The Scrounger said.

  “Right,” Afton said.

  The Scrounger thought for a few moments. “Last week I found an entire set of encyclopedias dumped in a trash can in the alley that runs behind James Avenue. Can you believe that? A compendium of universal knowledge trashed along with the detritus of chicken bones and potato peels. The biography of Cicero, great battles of World War Two, and botanical miracles. What’s the world coming to?”

  “Digital,” Afton said.

  “But are we better off for it?” The Scrounger picked up his almost empty glass and tinkled his ice cubes.

  “Probably not,” Afton said. Though she did love her iPad.

  “No, of course not,” The Scrounger said. “But to get back to your original inquiry . . . I have not noticed anything unusual or out
of place in that neighborhood. Except for an empty Ripple bottle tossed into the recycling bin of a home that generally prefers Château Margaux Grand Cru or, at the very least, a Mondavi Cabernet. Though perhaps it was an insensitive transient who deposited his refuse among that of the hoi polloi.”

  “So nothing at all,” Max said. He sounded disappointed.

  “Nothing, my friend,” The Scrounger said. “Though I wish I could propel you in a more positive direction.”

  “Ever hear of a halfway house called Dean’s Place?”

  “Sure,” The Scrounger said. “Bunch of ex-druggies and drunks.”

  “There’s a guy lives there named Al Sponger,” Max said. “Worked for the Dardens once. We brought him in for questioning yesterday and he’s being released this morning.”

  The Scrounger nodded. “I see.”

  Max pulled a photo out of his pocket and slid it across the table. “It’d be worth your while if you’d keep an eye on him.”

  The Scrounger studied the photo. “Ah . . . a second level of surveillance. Your basic shadow-type investigation.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Max slipped a twenty from his wallet and placed it on top of the photo. “In case you’d like another refreshing beverage.”

  “Always,” The Scrounger said.

  * * *

  BACK in the car, Max seemed at a loss for what to do next.

  “Maybe we should finish going through the interviews?” Afton suggested.

  “Better than just twiddling our thumbs,” he said, just as his cell phone rang. He grabbed it and swiped the On button.

  “Detective Montgomery?” a voice blurted out. It was a man, his voice high-pitched and loud over a background of radio static and frantic voices. He was excited and speaking loud enough that Afton could hear him.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Sergeant Bill Hadley over at the Hudson Police Department?”

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant Hadley?” Max hit another button and the phone was now on speaker.

  “You’d better get over here fast,” Hadley said. “One of the witnesses you guys interviewed in that missing baby case was killed last night.”

  Max didn’t seem to register what Hadley had just said. He hesitated for a few moments and then he said, “What?”

  “One of the witnesses . . .”

  “No, I heard that part,” Max said. “It’s just that . . . Wait, are you saying that Muriel Pink has been killed? The woman who was interviewed on TV last night?”

  “Yes,” Sergeant Hadley said. “That’s it. Muriel Pink.”

  “And she was . . .”

  “It’s a mess,” Hadley cried. And this time he sounded anguished. “Worst I’ve ever seen!”

  26

  IF Max could hardly believe Muriel Pink had been murdered, neither could Afton. They both stared straight ahead as Max banged onto the entrance ramp to I-94, ignoring the speed limit as they sped across town heading for Hudson.

  “How could this happen? How could this happen?” Max muttered.

  Afton could only keep repeating, “I know, I know.”

  They flew through downtown Saint Paul’s Spaghetti Junction, rocketed through Woodbury, flew past the Minnesota Highway Patrol weigh station, and finally crossed over the bridge that ran above the Saint Croix River. As they swerved onto the icy off-ramp, Afton said, “Easy, take it easy. You’re gonna fly right off this curve and take us straight into the river.”

  “That damn Portia,” Max seethed. His knuckles were white from his death grip on the steering wheel; his face was as red as a Roma tomato. “That interview aired last night and set somebody’s whiskers a-twitching. God, somebody should have known. I should have known. We should have had somebody watching Muriel Pink. At the very least brought in the Hudson Police.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Afton said.

  “It had to be that damn doll lady,” Max snarled. “She figured out where the old lady lived, then came back and finished her off. Murdered the poor old bat.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “That’s the funny thing,” Max said. “I do know that.” He glanced over at her. “And so do you. Tell me you don’t have the same gut feeling that I do.”

  “Okay,” Afton said as they passed the local Dairy Queen, barely squeaking through a yellow light. “I do.”

  * * *

  MURIEL Pink’s neighborhood looked starkly different from the last time they’d been there. Squad cars with flashing lights, an ambulance, and several unmarked FBI vehicles clogged the street in front of the murder house. On the front walk and in the side yard, crime scene investigators marked, measured, and cataloged footsteps in the newly fallen snow.

  Grim-faced neighbors stood in clumps of two and three, watching the spectacle. Their faces were as gray and shocked as Afton figured hers must be. Muriel Pink’s murder was unforeseen. But yes, in hindsight, someone should have been worried about her and put some security precautions in place.

  “Son of a bitch.” Max swore under his breath as he stepped from the car. They’d been forced to park a block away. Now they were running the gauntlet of watchers and law enforcement.

  Max badged both of them through two different rings of security. Then, rounding the corner of the house, they caught a glimpse of Don Jasper. The Chicago FBI agent was standing at the back door, talking to a crime scene tech in a navy jumpsuit. When Jasper saw them, he motioned for them to come forward.

  “How bad?” Max asked as he and Afton crowded onto a sagging back porch.

  “Bad,” Jasper said. His affable nature and normally twinkly eyes seemed dulled by what he’d just witnessed. “See for yourself.”

  They pressed into the kitchen, where it was crowded and stuffy with at least a half dozen people jostling around. Cameras strobed wildly and Afton surmised that Muriel Pink must be lying in the middle of that maelstrom of activity.

  Max elbowed his way through the crowd, Afton practically riding his coattails. He stopped abruptly and they saw her. Muriel Pink was lying on the linoleum floor, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, her face as yellowed and crinkled as old parchment paper. Her floral robe was flung open revealing the fact that her torso had been slashed from sternum to stomach. An enormous pool of blood had congealed around her and soaked up into her clothing. An older white-haired man in green scrubs was leaning over her. Afton figured he might be a local doctor, doing his turn as county coroner.

  “Who found her?” Max said to no one in particular.

  A Saint Croix County sheriff’s deputy turned to answer him. “Neighbor. When the old lady didn’t come over for her usual cup of coffee, the neighbor got worried and peeked in the back window. Saw this.”

  “Damn,” Max said. “Somebody really went to work on her.”

  The officer removed his Smoky Bear hat, as if in deference to the slain woman, and ran a hand over his blond brush cut. “Carved her up pretty good.”

  “You ever see anything like this before?”

  “Not exactly like this,” the deputy said. Then he paused. “Well, maybe once when I arrested a couple of hunters. They’d shot a doe, but didn’t have a proper deer license. They were hurrying to . . .” He gestured futilely, not finishing his sentence.

  * * *

  AFTON stepped around the circle of onlookers and walked quietly into the living room. A brass clock over a small red brick fireplace ticked reassuringly. Dolls smiled out from the shelves of a bookcase. A pair of fuzzy white slippers were tucked next to a well-worn lime green easy chair. An AARP magazine was spread open on a nearby end table. But Muriel Pink was never again going to sit in here and enjoy her cozy little home and read her magazines.

  Just who were they dealing with? Obviously, a person so callous they would break into a person’s house, b
eat the crap out of the babysitter, steal a baby, and then double back and stab an old lady witness. Sometimes the world was a pretty sick place.

  “Afton!” Max called. “Afton!”

  Afton spun around to find Max huffing toward her. It was clear he hadn’t cooled off. If anything, he seemed to have doubled down on his anger.

  “We’re not going to get anything here,” Max told her. “Between the FBI, local law enforcement, and crime scene techs, they’ve got it under control.” He drew a deep breath. “But there’s only been one officer so far who canvassed the neighborhood.” An expectant look filled his face.

  “What are we waiting for?” Afton said.

  * * *

  BACK outside, the gawkers who had been standing on the front lawn had all but disappeared. Their absence was either a result of freezing temperatures, the fact that being on the fringes of an investigation was pretty boring, or the Saint Croix County deputies shagging them away. The only evidence that something unholy had taken place here was the string of law enforcement cars and vans snaking around the corner.

  Max took one side of the street, Afton took the other. She knocked on the doors of three houses before she found someone who was at home. But when she introduced herself and asked the woman if she’d seen anyone walking around outside last night, the woman shook her head. No, she hadn’t seen or heard anything until the police has shown up at poor Mrs. Pink’s home a couple of hours ago. And wasn’t that an awful thing?

  Afton continued to plug away, but was having miserable luck. And by the set of Max’s shoulders as he covered the other side of the street, he was striking out, too.

  It wasn’t until Afton hit her sixth house that a woman named Ellie Schroeder remembered seeing someone walking down the street last night.

  “What time was this?” Afton asked her.