“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, HAZARDOUS WASTE.
“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.”