* * *
AFTON and Max were halfway through their notes, everything spread out around them on the conference room table, when Thacker careened into the room. He was wearing khaki slacks and a maroon-and-gold University of Minnesota hoodie. It was the first time Afton had ever seen him in casual attire. She thought he looked decidedly untucked.
“Divers just recovered the snowmobiler’s body along with the duffel bag of money,” Thacker told them, sounding a little breathless. “Pulled out the whole damn sled, too.”
“Holy shit,” Max said. “Do we know who the guy is?”
“Was it a woman?” Afton asked.
“Not a woman,” Thacker said. “That’s the weird thing. Saint Paul just ID’d him and it turns out the guy’s a lawyer.”
Afton was confused. “Wait a minute, you mean Darden’s lawyer? Slocum?”
“No, no. Oh, hell no,” Thacker said. “This guy’s ID says his name is Lars Torbert.”
“Who’s Lars Torbert?” Max asked. “I never heard of him. Wait, you said he’s a lawyer?”
“Lawyer from Saint Paul,” Thacker said. “A firm by the name of Scanlon and Torbert.”
“No shit,” Max said. “So what’s his connection to the kidnapping?”
“We don’t know,” Thacker said. “The FBI is at Torbert’s office right now. They’re pulling it apart, top to bottom, trying to see if they can figure this thing out.”
“Torbert has a partner?” Afton asked. “What was the other name you mentioned? Scanlon?”
“Right,” Thacker said. “A woman. She’s in custody right now. Over in Saint Paul. But she’s not talking.”
A woman, Afton thought. Could it be the doll show woman?
“Do you think this Scanlon knows anything?” Afton asked.
“Possibly,” Thacker said. “But it’s hard to say. She’s not talking and she’s asked for a lawyer.”
“A double layer of lawyers,” Max said. “Are you going to charge this woman with anything?”
“Yes, but it probably won’t stick for very long unless the FBI uncovers a shitload of evidence.”
“Still, you’ve got her for the time being,” Max said. “Maybe she’ll crack. Maybe we’ll get some sort of confession.”
“And maybe a bunch of daffodils will pop out of my ass,” Thacker said, looking glum. “Hell, we don’t even know if this Torbert had anything to do with the kidnapping or if he was just the negotiator.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call that negotiating,” Afton said. “Grab the money and then try to punk Darden with a fake baby?”
“I say nail his ass,” Max said.
“Except that he’s dead,” Thacker said.
* * *
I hate to say this,” Afton said once Thacker had left, “but Torbert probably got what he deserved.”
“Karmic justice,” Max said. “In light of the slimeball move he pulled last night.”
“The problem being, if the female partner wasn’t involved, then we’re back to square one.”
“We’re back to square one anyway.”
Afton was studying the FBI’s interview with Jilly Hudson when the phone rang. It was Dr. Healy, the director of the Medical Examiner’s Office over in Hudson.
“Dr. Healy,” Max said. “How’s your brother-in-law?”
Afton stopped what she was doing to listen in.
Max listened for a moment and then said, “Good. Glad to hear he’s doing so well. So what’s up? You found something on the body?” He listened for a few more moments. “Uh-huh. Okay.” He made a few quick notes and then thanked Healy.
“What?” Afton asked, once Max had hung up.
“Dr. Healy says they ran a number of tests on Muriel Pink using a mass spectrometer and have some preliminary results.”
“Can he send them over to us?”
“He’s e-mailing everything right now,” Max said. “Grab my laptop and open the e-mail. It’s probably being dumped into my in-box right now.”
It was.
“Okay, this is interesting,” Afton said as she scanned Dr. Healy’s report. “They found tiny flakes of paint on Muriel Pink’s body.”
“Paint,” Max said.
“Ho, wait a minute,” Afton continued. “It also says that crystals of oxalic acid showed up.”
“Same as the baby from Cannon Falls.”
“What the hell?” Afton was mystified. “When I asked if there might be a connection, I was pretty much grasping at straws. But this . . . this almost confirms it.”
“Not exactly,” Max said. “We still don’t know what this oxalic acid shit is used for. It could be a component in some common household product.”
“Okay. Let me Google it.”
Afton hunted around for a few minutes. “Well, crap. It says here there are all sorts of industrial uses.”
“There you go.”
“One of them is for pickling.”
“Pickling what?” Max asked. “Pickling pickles?”
“I don’t know,” Afton said. “I’m still reading this shit.” She mumbled to herself as she skimmed along. “Okay, here’s something else. It also says that oxalic acid is used in taxidermy.”
“Taxidermy?” Max said.
“For pickling and tanning hides. To stop bacterial growth and degrade the soluble proteins.”
Max frowned. “No shit.”
But Afton’s brain had begun to spin. “Think about this,” she said, starting to get excited. “If you look at this as a kind of hobby activity, taxidermy might not be all that different from creating reborn dolls. You’re working with stuffing material, glass eyes, and animal hairs and fibers.”
“Holy crap,” Max said. “We gotta take this to Thacker.”
* * *
THACKER was impressed. So was Don Jasper.
“We need to start looking at taxidermists,” Jasper said, jumping on the information.
“We can make some calls,” Max said. “Maybe go out and start canvassing, talking to area taxidermists.”
“No, no, you two stick around,” Thacker said. “Let the FBI take care of all that. They’re the computer geniuses. They can run down a list of area taxidermists, start asking questions, and alert the various law enforcement agencies around the state. Maybe bring in the DNR people, too, since it could involve animal parts.”
“This is good work,” Jasper said. “This is actionable information.”
* * *
BUT there wasn’t nearly enough action for Afton and Max.
“The thing is,” Afton said, “if this is somehow connected to taxidermy, it could be a taxidermist over in Wisconsin.”
“So we alert Wisconsin taxidermists as well as state law enforcement officials,” Max said.
Afton had continued her search on the Internet. “I found something else that’s interesting.”
“What’s that?” Max asked.
“There’s a company over in Menominee, Wisconsin. Burdick’s Taxidermy and Supply. Besides doing actual taxidermy, they claim to be the Midwest’s largest distributor of taxidermy supplies.”
Menominee’s just thirty minutes from Hudson,” Max said.
“That’s what I’m thinking, too. Hudson’s become a sort of . . . what would you call it? A chokepoint for us.”
“Problem. There are three inches of fresh snow on the roads and the National Weather Service is predicting seven more.”
“So?” Afton said. “We’ll take the Navigator.”
41
THE accumulation of snow on the Interstate had made driving so treacherous that Afton and Max barely made it to Burdick’s Taxidermy in Menominee.
“I was going to close early,” Burt Burdick told them when, after a nerve-racking ninety-minute drive, they finally showed up at his door. “But then I got your call. Not many
folks crazy enough to venture out on a day like this. Especially when you’re coming all the way from The Cities.”
Burdick was short, stocky, and wore a khaki shirt and matching stiff pants tucked into hunter green rubber boots. Afton thought he looked like a DNR guy who’d been defrocked of all his wildlife badges.
“We appreciate you staying open for us,” Max said. “I hope you’ve got a vehicle with four-wheel drive. Conditions are seriously lousy out there.”
“Drive a Jeep Grand Cherokee myself,” Burdick said. “Should be okay if this conversation doesn’t take too long.” He stared at them through thick glasses that magnified his inquisitive brown eyes. “What is it you detectives are so hot to talk to me about anyway?”
Without getting into specific details, Max told Burdick about the crystals of oxalic acid that had turned up on two separate bodies. He didn’t mention anything about a dead baby or about Muriel Pink’s murder.
“We did some research,” Afton said, “and discovered that oxalic acid is one of the main components in pickling and tanning agents.”
“It is,” Burdick said. “And I’ve got a funny feeling about the direction this conversation is headed. Two homicide detectives show up on my doorstep?” He shook his head. “I hate like hell to think one of my customers might be some kind of damn killer.”
“Well, we already know they kill animals,” Afton said.
Burdick shot her a wary, disapproving look. A look that said, You’re clearly one of those radical, delusional people who are dead set against hunting.
Afton just fixed him with a cool smile. “Why don’t you just give us a little background information about your store and its products.” She nodded toward the interior, where glass counters glistened with bottles of degreaser, skull bleach, and tanners, and shelves held glass eyes, fleshing knives, scalpels, and modeling tools.
“Okay then.” Burdick hitched at his belt. “We’re one of the preeminent taxidermists in the state of Wisconsin. Besides myself, I employ two other full-time taxidermists.” He waved a hand at a wall that was a rogue’s gallery of stuffed animal heads. “We handle everything from jackrabbits to black bears. Last year we even did a Cape buffalo.”
“Impressive,” Max said.
“I understand you’re also a supply house,” Afton said.
“That’s right,” Burdick said. “We also wholesale materials to other taxidermists.”
“How many taxidermy studios like you are there around here?” Afton asked.
Burdick shook his head. “There’s nobody like me. I’m the largest tool and chemical supplier in the upper Midwest.”
“Then how many other just plain taxidermists?” Max asked.
“In this local area? Not many. There’s Hap Johnson over in Eau Claire, Wally Fitzler up in Hayward . . .”
“So a dozen or so?” Afton asked.
“More like a half dozen. Not that many indies left anymore.”
“Hunters today aren’t interested in having their game stuffed?” Max asked.
“Yes and no. The big thing is there are a lot more freelancers,” Burdick said.
“Freelancers?” Afton’s brows shot up.
“Sure,” Burdick said. “There are lots of guys doing taxidermy down in their basements. It’s caught on real big. So they come to me and buy all the chemicals, degreasers, and tools that they need. Then they go home and get their instructions off the Internet.” He chuckled. “You can find step-by-step videos on YouTube.”
“Do you have any kind of list?” Afton asked him. “Of freelancers from around here? From this immediate area?”
“I have a customer list,” Burdick said. “A database on my computer.” He tapped an index finger against his lower lip. “To pinpoint just the customers from around here, I’d could probably sort them out by zip code if you’re interested. And it sounds like you are.”
“We definitely are,” Max said.
“Thank you,” Afton said. “We really appreciate your help on this.”
“Take me just a couple minutes to print that list,” Burdick said.
“One more thing,” Max said. His voice had taken on a slight edge and Afton knew where he was going. What he was about to ask.
“Of all your current customers,” Max said, “is there anyone you can think of who might be a little dangerous, a little bit out there on the edge?”
Burdick gazed at him. “You mean, do I know anybody who might be a killer?”
“That’s right.”
“No, I don’t,” Burdick said. “At least I hope I don’t.”
* * *
AFTON studied the list Burdick had given them over burgers and hash browns at the Liberty Café in downtown Menominee. The café was an old-fashioned luncheonette-type place with red vinyl bumper car booths, a juke box attached to the wall in every booth, and copper pans and kettles hanging on the wall. A thin skim of dust coated the copper pans and kettles.
“There’s twenty-six guys on this list Burdick gave us,” Afton told Max. “Which is way too many for us to investigate on our own. We’re going to have to bring in Wisconsin DCI.”
“That’s what we probably should have done in the first place,” Max said. He glanced out the café’s front window, where the street was practically devoid of cars and the swirling wind was busy carving snow into drifts. “Bad out there.”
A waitress was suddenly hovering at their booth.
“Everything okay?” she asked. She was motherly looking and wore a pink frilly apron and a plastic spoon-shaped name tag that said JANELLE.
“Fine,” Afton said.
“Tasty,” Max said. He had wolfed down his entire burger and was eyeing Afton’s.
“Is there anything else I can get you folks? Piece of apple pie? The check?” She was obviously anxious for her shift to be over. Anxious to get home before the storm clobbered them with its full intensity.
“No thanks,” Max said. “Looks like you’re probably going to close this place early, huh?”
“We’re planning to do exactly that,” Janelle said.
“Then just the check,” Max said.
Janelle peeled their check off her notepad and set it down on the table. “There you go, hon.” And she was off to the next booth, trying to hurry them along like a mother hen. A frightened mother hen.
“If we don’t get back across the river pretty soon, we’re gonna be stuck here forever,” Max said. “Hey, you’re not gonna eat your pickle?”
Afton shook her head.
“Give it here.”
* * *
THEY shrugged into coats and hats, wrapped scarves around their necks, ready to head back outside and brave the elements.
Max studied the bill, muttered to himself, and then pulled out a twenty.
“You want me to . . .” Afton asked. But Max shook his head. He’d be expensing it anyway.
Just as they were heading for the door, Afton pointed to a piece of taxidermy that sat on a wooden pedestal near the coatroom. It was a large brown wolverine posed on a twisted hunk of cedar. The animal was pulled back onto its haunches, snarling. Its eyes were fierce and bright, and its right front paw was raised up in front of it.
“This is really something,” Afton said. “Who did this?”
Janelle gazed at her across the top of an old brass cash register. “A local kid by the name of Sorenson. He’s pretty good.”
“Yes, he is,” Afton said.
“Is Sorenson on our list?” Max asked.
Afton pulled out her sheet of paper and checked. “Yup. And so are twenty-five other guys.”
“Add that to the fifty-three taxidermy guys in Minnesota and that’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Gonna take a while,” Afton said.
* * *
A half mile out of town, when they slid down the entry ramp on
to the Interstate, the situation had worsened.
“Has this even been plowed?” Afton asked. “I thought for sure they’d have been out plowing by now, trying to keep the freeway clear. I mean . . . there are trucks, truckers driving up from Chicago and Milwaukee . . .”
“The Highway Department has been plowing,” Max said. “They’re just not keeping up. This snow’s coming down too fast.” He frowned. “You okay? You sound rattled. Do you want me to drive?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Just take it easy and keep your eyes on the road. Hold your speed down and don’t take any chances.”
“You’re a fine one to talk.”
“Well . . . it doesn’t matter how long it takes us to get back now. Once we’re home, we won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
As they cruised down the hill outside Hudson and crossed over the Saint Croix River, Afton started to breathe a little easier. It felt like the halfway point now. Halfway home and halfway closer to Poppy and Tess. She knew exactly what they were all going to do tonight. She was going to make pigs in a blanket, Poppy’s all-time favorite. Then they were all going to curl up together. Maybe play a game. Something old-fashioned and soothing, like Candy Land or Monopoly.
“There’s open water here, too,” Max said. His head lolled to one side, studying the river as they spun by.
“Because of that power plant upstream,” Afton said. “Must disgorge a lot of hot water.”
“Good for the ducks and geese that hang around all year.”
“Unless somebody shoots them and stuffs them.”
“You’re in a mood,” Max said. Then he chuckled. “You know how many snowmobiles go crashing through the ice every winter?”
“I don’t know,” Afton said. “But I bet you’re going to cheer me up by telling me.”
“There were something like a dozen snowmobiles last year, even more the year before. I tell you, it’s an epidemic. And I’m not just saying that because of that Torbert guy last night. Guys tow their fish houses out onto a lake, hammer back a few shots, and then go blasting around on their ’bile, never even noticing the open spots.”
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