Little Girl Gone (13 page)

“What about her speaking voice?” Max asked.

“Fairly smooth,” Susan said. “But now that you mention it, she was doing the nicey-nice thing. You know, like salesclerks do? Pretending they're your friend?”

“Did you get the impression that this woman was educated?” Afton asked.

“Just the opposite,” Susan said. “In fact . . .” She stopped, tilted her head, and said, “She had that Midwestern dialect going. Kind of like those people in the movie
Fargo.
Like, when she finished a sentence, her voice kind of went up at the end. As if she was asking a question, even though she wasn't. Hmm, it's funny how I just remembered that.”

“You did good,” Max said.

“You did great,” Afton said.

Susan gazed at them, her eyes suddenly turning red and moist. “Are you going to find my baby?”

Afton never hesitated. “Absolutely we're going to find her.”

S
PITS
of ice and snow pinged the windshield of Max's car. Car exhaust boiled up around them, making it look as though they were navigating a field of hot springs in Iceland. Instead, they were blasting through the heart of downtown Minneapolis on barely plowed streets, headed for the Medical Examiner's Office.

“You shouldn't make promises like that,” Max said. He reached over and turned on the radio. Taylor Swift's “Bad Blood” blared out. He curled his lip unhappily and clicked it off as they slewed wildly around a corner.

“We have to give Susan some hope,” Afton said. She held a cup of coffee in her hand and was alternately trying to warm her hands, sip from it, and avoid a catastrophic spill.

“Why?” Max asked. He switched lanes and ended up directly in front of an enormous sixty-foot-long articulated bus. When the driver blasted his horn, Max simply ignored him.

“Because
we
have hope. We still believe that baby can be found.”

“Maybe,” Max said. They were on their way to meet with the ME about yesterday's Cannon Falls baby. Neither of them was looking forward to it. In fact, Afton was dreading it.

“Do you think this is really necessary?” she asked. “Wasn't this Cannon Falls baby case already kicked over to the FBI?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Max said. He had a big plastic Super America travel mug that he was sipping from. Afton figured the coffee had to be stone cold. “But you never know what we might find.”

“You think the two cases are connected?”

“Not really.”

“But you have a hunch.”

“Not exactly,” Max said.

“A twinkle?”

“Whatever.” Max aimed the nose of his car at the opening of an unmarked parking ramp. “Here we are.” They bumped into the darkness and sped past a row of dark blue state cars, then circled up two floors and found a spot.

“I was wondering,” Afton said, “if I could sit in on your session with Richard Darden this afternoon?”

Max kicked open the driver's side door and frigid air swept in. “Not possible,” he said. When he saw the look of disappointment on Afton's face, he added, “But I could probably arrange for you to watch the interview from behind a one-way mirror.”

*   *   *

CROWDED
into an anteroom just outside the morgue, Afton and Max grunted as they struggled with disposable gowns, gloves, and masks, trying to pull them over their street clothes. The morgue attendant, a tiny Hispanic man who seemed to speak in a perpetual hoarse whisper, supervised their transformation.

“Booties,” the attendant rasped. He pointed at Afton's uncovered loafers and handed her two blue puffs of crinkly paper.

It was, of course, a wise precaution until the medical examiner got a firm handle on the cause of death. Or in case the maniac who'd murdered this poor child had transmitted any sort of communicable disease.

As the two of them shuffled awkwardly into the morgue, Afton gave an involuntary shudder. Cold, clinical surroundings never failed to depress her. And this place had it all—stark metal tables and cabinets, the inevitable
sound of running water, unholy plumbing that kinked down into floor grates.

“Good morning, I'm Marie Sansevere.” The medical examiner gave a perfunctory smile as she introduced herself.

Afton noted that Dr. Sansevere had a body that was beyond thin, almost bordering on anorexic. Her green scrubs hung loosely on her spare form and her pale, translucent skin looked as though she'd never seen the sun's rays, an indulgence Afton still allowed herself. Dr. Sansevere's short, cropped, Scandinavian white-blond hair was the type seldom seen outside Minnesota or Wisconsin. Afton decided the good doctor was as pale and ethereal as the bodies she worked on.

Once they'd gathered around the autopsy table, Dr. Sansevere said, “You know we only have time for a cursory look this morning?”

“Understood,” Max said.

The baby lay on a waist-high aluminum autopsy table that sloped gently from top to bottom and featured drainage holes much like a kitchen colander.

“This is awful,” Afton whispered to Max. He nodded back.

Dr. Sansevere began with a visual inspection of the body, dictating her observations into an overhead microphone. “Rigor mortis is well developed and livor mortis is dorsally distributed,” she said in a monotone.

Afton and Max followed Dr. Sansevere around the table like a pair of ducklings as she took various swabs and blood samples. Then she put on a pair of magnifying glasses and examined the infant carefully.

“See anything?” Max asked. “Hairs or fibers?”

“A couple,” Dr. Sansevere said. She touched a tweezers to the baby's right hip and extricated a strand of something. Then she turned off all the lights in the autopsy suite and switched on a black light. She focused the light about six inches from the body and moved it slowly across, then up and down. Where a few areas glowed a ghostly phosphorescent white, she stopped and took smears from those areas.

“What causes that weird glow?” Afton asked.

“Not sure,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Until we run tests.”

“Do you know what the cause of death was?” Afton asked.

“Not until I open her up,” Dr. Sansevere said.

Max grimaced. No way did he have the stomach to stick around for that.

“She looks underweight,” Afton said.

“She is,” Dr. Sansevere said. “This child was malnourished.” She shook her head, took a step back, and pulled off her mask. “A few months ago, I autopsied two children. The mother and the boyfriend, both crack users, had kept them locked in a closet for almost a year. The older one, the five-year-old girl, should have weighed at least sixteen kilos, but she was just under twelve. Died of starvation and pneumonia.” She busied herself with her instruments. “Absolutely inhuman,” she muttered.

Twelve kilos
, thought Afton. That translated to about thirty-five pounds. It was heartbreaking to think that two children had been kept in a dark closet, starved to death, and never given medical attention. But over the last couple of years, she'd come to know and understand firsthand the harsh realities of the world. Terrible beasts roamed the earth, killing and wrecking havoc at will, leaving carnage in their wake. In a little cottage in North Minneapolis, she'd come face-to-face with a woman who'd fed rat poison to her sick and aging parents. Sitting handcuffed in her cheery harvest gold kitchen with matching café curtains, the woman had matter-of-factly explained to police that her parents had simply become too much of a burden for her.

*   *   *

YOU
ready to go back to the scene of the crime?” Max asked. They were ripping off their paper suits and hastily stuffing them into a bin that was labeled, H
AZARDOUS
W
ASTE
.

“What?” Afton said.

“I mean go over to Hennepin County Medical Center to talk to that babysitter, Ashley. HCMC is, like, two blocks away. We can walk there through the skyway.”

“I guess,” Afton said. The truth of the matter was she was dreading it. All night long she'd had troubled dreams where she'd struggled with a faceless attacker, fighting him off as his hands crept around her throat to
choke her. And when she finally pushed him away and reached out to rip off his mask, there hadn't been any head at all. Just a bloody neck stump.

“It's been a couple of days since the girl has talked to the FBI,” Max said casually. “Lots of times it takes that long for a witness to calm down and start remembering critical details. Look at Susan Darden, how she was able to dredge up a few impressions of that doll lady. It all helps, you know. Solving a kidnapping, a homicide, is like putting together a big fat jigsaw puzzle.”

“Okay,” Afton said. “But you don't want to be late for Richard Darden. You're supposed to talk to him at one.”

Max squinted at his watch. “We got time. Darden can sit and spin for all I care.”

*   *   *

ASHLEY
Copeland was in a horrible mood.

“Who are you guys?” she spat at them. “And why is there a fat cop sitting outside my room?” She was ninety-six pounds of quivering rage packed into a teenage girl's body.

Afton and Max quickly introduced themselves, and then Max said, “There was a small incident here last night. We didn't want you to feel like you were in danger.”

“That's the same excuse my mother gave me about being moved to a new room,” Ashley said. She tossed her head, and her blond hair swished back and forth. “I want to know what kind of incident? And should I be scared?”

Afton chose to ignore her questions. “How are you feeling?”

Ashley had a small white splint on her nose and was sitting up in bed in her private room. She was covered in a paisley down quilt that was probably more Martha Stewart than standard hospital issue. Surrounding her was a clutter of gossip magazines—
OK!
Magazine
,
Life & Style
, and
People
—as well as candy bar wrappers, Coke cans, an iPad, an iPhone, and a pink Hello Kitty notebook.

“That's such a stupid question,” Ashley said. “Look at me. I've got three cracked ribs and I was supposed to have surgery today on my nose. Now it's been postponed.” She touched a hand to the splint she was wearing.
“Everything hurts like hell and I look like the biggest freaking dork that ever walked the planet.”

“It's not that bad,” Max said.

“You think I'd post a selfie looking like this?” Ashley asked. “Boy, are you ever stupid.”

Max threw Afton a helpless look. This wasn't going as planned. Then again, Max had two boys. He'd never dealt with the vanity, insecurities, fluctuating hormones, self-centeredness, and angst of a teenage girl.

Afton knew she had to steer the conversation onto a more manageable plane. “Other than your ribs and your nose, how are you feeling?”

Ashley touched a hand to her neck where pink welts showed above the neckline of her flannel T-shirt. “My neck still hurts. Where that asshole lassoed me.”

Afton smiled. She could relate. “But you're obviously feeling feisty.”

“I guess,” Ashley said. “I asked my mom if I could have my boobs done at the same time they fix my nose. You know, while I was under anesthesia. But she said no.” She picked up a magazine, riffled through it hastily, and then hurled it across the room, where it smacked against the wall. “It's not fair.”

“No,” Max said. “None of this is.”

Ashley stared at them. “My mom says you didn't find the baby yet.”

“Not yet,” Afton said.

“I bet you won't find her,” Ashley said. “Those were really mean people who broke in and took her. They're probably going to
do
something to her.”

“That's why we need your help,” Afton said. “Because we're running out of time.”

Ashley's brows puckered together. “What do you want from me? I'm a victim here, too.”

“You certainly are,” Afton said. “So we thought if we could just talk to you, ask a few questions, you might be able to nudge us in the right direction.”

“But I don't
know
anything,” Ashley whined.

“You were there,” Afton said in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “Maybe you could kind of fill us in on what you remember.”

Ashley let loose a heavy sigh. Afton and Max waited. Hoped.

Finally she said, “The pizza guy.”

“Yes,” Afton said. “The one who came knocking at the door that night.”
And probably tried to attack you again. Only he ended up attacking me.

“That guy was bat-shit crazy,” Ashley said. “He came crashing in and smashed my face with his fist. I fell down and started bleeding really bad. It hurt like hell. I've never been in so much pain in my entire life!”

Afton nodded.

Tears filled Ashley's eyes. “I could hardly breathe, but he still climbed on top of me and tied me up. Stuck a gag in my mouth.” She lowered her voice. “I think he wanted to, you know, have sex with me, 'cause he started to pull down my pants. But thank God he didn't.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Max asked.

“Not really,” Ashley said. “At least I don't remember anything.” She frowned. “Not actual words anyway.”

“But there was something,” Afton prompted.

“Kind of,” Ashley said. “The whole time he was tying me up, he was making this weird low-level sound. Like he was humming or something.”

“You mean like a song?” Max asked.

Ashley shook her head. “No, no. More like an angry . . . insect. It was weird. Scary.”

“Do you think you could identify him if we showed you a picture?” Afton asked.

Ashley shook her head. “No.”

“You did an Identi-Kit, right?”

“That stupid computer drawing thing? Yeah, I did it. But I couldn't remember much about the guy. He was, like, this generic dude.”

“But you were face-to-face with him,” Afton said. “So you must have gotten a fleeting impression. What do you remember most?”

“Maybe his eyes,” Ashley said. “They were blue, but they looked kind of vacant. Like . . . blue marbles. Just rattling around inside his head.”

“Anything else?” Afton asked.

“I think he had a tat.”

“A tattoo?” Max asked. “Where was it?”

“Like, on his neck.”

“Could you make out what it was?”

Ashley shook her head and her hair swished back and forth like a golden curtain. “Not really.”

“Part of it maybe?” Afton asked.

“I'd be guessing, but maybe an angel's wing? Or a cloud?”

“What about the other person who came in behind him?” Afton said. “Can you recall anything about her?”