“So she was doomed from birth?” Afton asked.
“I would say so, yes,” Dr. Sansevere said. “That was the main issue we encountered in her autopsy. I found no petechial hemorrhages to indicate she might have been smothered, which is an insidious but common way to kill an infant. There were no ligature marks, no cuts or bruises. Her head hadn’t been shaken, nothing abnormal showed up in her scan. The only thing abnormal about that little girl was her heart. And the fact that she was somewhat malnourished.”
“I’ll be damned,” Max said.
“What about the phosphorescent stuff?” Afton asked. “The little bits and pieces that glowed when you ran the black light over her.”
“Oh,” Dr. Sansevere said. “Under electron microscopic testing, they appear to be crystals of oxalic acid.”
“What is that, please?” Afton asked.
“It’s an agent commonly added to water to reduce the pH balance.”
“Is this something commonly found in baby products?” Max asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Just the name oxalic acid sounds fairly dangerous,” Afton said.
“Yes, well, I suppose it could be.”
“Any idea how it got there?” Max asked.
“None whatsoever,” Dr. Sansevere said.
“You find anything else on her?” Max asked.
“Nothing that was atypical considering the circumstances of where she was found. Leaves, a few animal hairs.”
“Has she been DNA typed yet?” Afton asked.
“We’re still working on that.”
“Okay, thank you,” Max said. “I trust you’ll contact us right away if you learn anything else?”
“Count on it,” she said.
Max disconnected from her, then looked at Afton. “Thoughts?”
Afton shook her head. “I don’t know what any of that means.”
“Neither do I.” Max blew out his cheeks, and then said, “But I’m feeling antsy. Come on, let’s take a ride. Go blow out the carbon.”
*
WHEREVER they were headed, Afton decided that Max was taking the long way around. They sliced over to Hennepin Avenue, right in the middle of downtown Minneapolis, and cruised slowly along the thoroughfare.
“This used to be appropriately tacky and mildly interesting,” Max said. “All sorts of dimey bars, strip joints, rock clubs, magazine shops that sold dirty books in back, record stores, and waffle houses. Now it’s all chain restaurants—Italian, Mexican, Chinese. If we ever patch things up in the Middle East, somebody will probably open a McFalafel.”
They passed the Basilica, its dark green dome gleaming in the faint sunlight, slid under a bridge, and turned up Hennepin past the sculpture garden. Everywhere they went, traffic was either backed up or crawling at a glacial pace. Thanks to continued cold and two more inches of snow last night, there were also stalled vehicles, fender benders, and abandoned cars.
Afton was pleased that Max had dialed back on his aggressive driving and was exercising a bit more caution today. She could almost relax in the passenger seat and take a deep breath. Almost.
“Where are we going?” she asked, one eye still focused on the speedometer.
“Sampson’s,” Max said. He momentarily swerved into the oncoming lane, dodging a car that was stuck at the bottom of a steep grade. “Gotta look somebody up.”
“Who?”
“A guy.”
*
MAX drove past Sampson’s Bar, made a U-turn, and then pulled in front of the bar, nosing into a no-parking zone. He threw an OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS card on the dashboard and said, “C’mon. We’re gonna have us a little confab with The Scrounger.”
Afton gazed at the cheesy red-and-yellow exterior of Sampson’s Bar, which clearly announced, I’m a dive. The hand-lettered sign in the window advertising Dubble Bubble seemed to say, Come on in, the drinkin’s fine.
“How do you even know he’s here?”
“Couple of things tipped me off,” Max said. “First off, there’s his butt-ugly pickup truck held together with Bondo tape parked illegally in a spot marked ‘Handicapped.’”
“Okay.”
“Plus Sampson’s is the crappiest bar in the neighborhood, which makes it his official stomping ground. Everything else around here is your basic fig and fern bar.”
“I think fig and fern bars went out in the early nineties,” Afton said.
“What do they call them now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe craft beer bistros or wine bars. Something like that.”
“Still,” Max said. “It’s the same old bullshit.”
“Of course it is.”