“He’s just known around town as The Scrounger,” Max said. “Here.” He slowed to a crawl and then stopped. “This is his place.”
The Scrounger lived in what looked to be a shabby duplex with a falling-down three-car garage out back. The backyard was heaped with junk—tires, old bicycles, snow blowers, lawn mowers, rolls of metal fencing, railroad planks, old oil barrels, and a pile of demolished swing sets.
“This is his place of business?” Afton asked. And then, “What exactly is his business?”
“Scrounging,” Max said. “He drives around in this beat-up old black pickup truck looking for stuff.”
“Stuff.”
“Junk that people toss into the alley. Or that’s been left on the street. You name it.”
“What does he do with it?” Afton said.
“I don’t know, he repurposes it.”
“Isn’t that just a fancy name for selling scrap metal?”
“I suppose,” Max said.
“How do you know this guy, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Popped him a couple years ago on a B and E. But the thing is, he’s kind of a charming guy. Well-spoken, reads a little William Carlos Williams, sneaks into Orchestra Hall when the good conductors drop into town.”
“You took pity on this Scrounger guy because he’s got taste?” Afton gazed at the junk-strewn backyard again. “Well, maybe he does when it comes to the arts.”
“Let’s just say we have a well-oiled quid pro quo going on.”
“And you think The Scrounger might know something about that doll we just found?”
“Not that specifically,” Max said. “But he’s connected, he knows this neighborhood.” He nodded to himself. “And maybe even the whack job who planted the doll.”
20
SITTING behind a battered wooden desk at the Family Resource Center in New Richmond, Wisconsin, Marjorie Sorenson was hardly recognizable. In her long black wool skirt and prim white blouse, with her hair combed neatly back and held in place with a crisscross of bobby pins, she looked like a nun. Or at least one who’d recently kicked the habit.
Not only that, Marjorie had cleverly appropriated the demeanor of a nun. No longer the caustic, tough-talking kidnapper, she spoke to the young woman sitting across from her in a measured and thoughtful tone of voice.
At the same time, Marjorie noted that the girl was clearly frightened out of her wits. She’d come creeping into the Family Resource Center looking like a tentative rabbit, all hunched over, her face a mask of pain. She’d asked to speak with one of their counselors, and Libby Grauman, the director of the center (which was really not about family resources at all, but distinctly pro-life) had directed the girl to Marjorie.
Marjorie volunteered two mornings a week. She typed (badly), filed (haphazardly), and helped counsel the pregnant, unwed teens and twenty-somethings who came tiptoeing in. The ones who had nowhere to turn, whose boyfriends had skulked off at the mere hint of a bun in the oven.
She’d been given her role at the center because of her professed belief in the sanctity of life. But Marjorie thought of herself as a kind of wolf on the prowl. Someone who was smart, cunning, and had a discerning eye for the weak and easily manipulated. In other words, those particular young women who were more than willing to put their names on a hastily produced document and sign away their babies.
“How far along are you?” Marjorie asked. She was filling out a form as she spoke soothingly to the girl.
“Three months,” said the girl, who’d identified herself as June. Just June. She wore a dowdy dress, scuffed brown boots, and a coat that was definitely of the thrift store variety.
She probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together, Marjorie thought, as she kept up her gentle patter.
“And you’re living at home?” Marjorie asked.
“For now,” June said. “After this . . .” She patted her stomach. “I’m gonna go live somewhere else.”
Marjorie didn’t ask where because the girl probably hadn’t figured that out yet. Maybe never would.
They’d been talking for twenty minutes and Marjorie suspected June was going to be one of the easy ones. She had that trapped-animal look about her. All she wanted was to be done with her pregnancy problem and get rid of the evidence.
“I’m so glad you found your way to us,” Marjorie said, giving her a smile and revealing pink gums. “If you sign an agreement to carry your baby to full term, the Family Resource Center can guarantee that we’ll find a wonderful loving home for it.”
“That sounds . . . good,” June said. Her boyfriend had already left for Afghanistan and her parents were ready to disown her. Living in a small farming community didn’t give her a lot of options.
Marjorie dug a file folder out of her desk drawer. “Let me show you something.” She pulled out a glossy color photo of an eager-looking young couple. “These are the kind of people who would love your baby as if it were their own, and give it every opportunity in the world.”