Little Girl Gone (30 page)

T
HE
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 J
ANELLE
.

“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 onto 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.”

“You should probably count ATVs, too.”

“There you go, that'd up the number considerably.”

“What are you gonna do?” Afton said.

“Not much you can do. Just fish out the idiots.”

*   *   *

THEY
were on the outskirts of Saint Paul, cruising past 3M. The three-lane highway had been reduced to just one icy rut when they got a call from Thacker.

“We might have discovered something interesting,” Thacker said. “The FBI just got done tearing through that lawyer's office. Torbert's office.”

“What'd they find?” Max asked.

“They discovered a file with a number of names in it. They think it might have something to do with illegal adoptions.”

“They found something in Torbert's office that might pertain to illegal adoptions,” Max told Afton.

“Holy smokes,” Afton said. “That could be the break we've been looking for.” She motioned with her hand. “Hurry up, put him on speaker.”

Max hit the speaker button and Thacker's voice crackled out. “Don't get your undies in a twist yet, kids. All they found was paperwork on what looked like payments.”

“Payments,” Afton said. “Why do you think they relate to illegal adoptions?”

“Because it looks like that was Torbert's specialty. Adoptions. Private adoptions.”

“No shit,” Max said.

“What else do we know about these payments?” Afton pressed.

“There's receivables and payables,” Thacker said. “The receivables, those may have come from adoptive parents, since they're all in the range of one hundred to two hundred thousand dollars. The payables are in far lesser amounts, but we don't know what those are all about. We haven't contacted Torbert's bank yet or tried to run down any of the names.”

“Let us know when you do, okay?” Max said.

“Wait a minute,” Afton said, feeling jazzed. “The payables, the smaller amounts. Do we know who those went to?”

“Um . . . yeah,” Thacker said.

“What are the names?” Afton dug in her jacket pocket and pulled out the list Burdick had given her. She knew it was a long shot. “We got some names from that taxidermy distributor. Let's at least see if we can cross-reference something.”

“We're going to end up with a pile of names,” Max said. “Why don't we let the computer sort it out, wait and see if we get any kind of match?”

“I realize that's the protocol,” Afton said. “But couldn't we at least get a jump start?”

“I guess it couldn't hurt,” Max said.

“Okay,” Thacker said. “Whatever. It's a short list.”

“First name?” Max asked.

“Monahan,” Thacker said. “Harold Monahan.”

Afton scanned the list as she drove, veering off slightly toward the center median.

“Don't be doing that,” Max crabbed at her. “You can't read and drive at the same time. Here, hand over that list before you slam this car in the ditch and cripple us both for life.”

“Sorry,” Afton said. She handed over the list.

Max scanned the list. “Mmn, Monahan's not here. What's the second name?”

“Adams,” Thacker said.

“Nope.”

It was the third name that sent the cherries spinning and the bells clanging like crazy.

“Sorenson,” Thacker said.

This time, even though Afton had both hands squarely on the steering wheel, she once again swerved toward the center median. Because she recognized the name from Thacker's list. It was the name of the kid who'd stuffed the wolverine back at the Liberty Café.