Page 82 of Evil Bones
“I doubt that approach will prove productive.”
“What are you, my dialogue coach?”
“I’m sure these people view themselves as colleagues. They’ve probably known each other for years,” I added, drawing on my own experience as a member of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and my annual attendance at the AAFS conference.
“I could just badge ’em.”
“Sure. The hard Johnny Law come-on always loosens tongues.”
After some discussion, we decided to divide and conquer. Skinny would work the men while I interviewed the women. At my suggestion, we came up with a set of questions that, hopefully, would seem nonthreatening and yield cooperation.
I decided to start with the quartet bickering over the pamphlet. Quickly closing the gap between us, I called out in my friendliest voice.
“Having a good conference, ladies?” An inane question asked endlessly at AAFS meetings.
Four faces swiveled my way, their expressions varying. One seemed surprised, one annoyed. Two looked totally neutral.
“We are,” one of the neutral pair responded, a woman with a bad red dye job wearing the entire line sold by some Target cosmetics counter. “And you?”
“I am.”
“Excellent.” Red Dye’s badge gave her name as Cheri-Lynn Dirkus, her business as The Hunter’s Friend Taxidermy in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.
“Have you spotted any interesting sessions on the program?” I posed another standard small-talk meeting query.
The four exchanged glances far too mischievous for adult women. When Dirkus, who seemed to be the group’s spokesperson, leaned toward me, I detected the sweet aroma of bourbon.
“This info is not for public consumption, but we’re here because our employers paid to send us,” Dirkus said. “We’ve become friends overthe years, and we’re less interested in the latest taxi methods than we are in spending time together.”
“In the bar!” Chirped a woman with tight gray curls and a lopsided smile resembling the slash on an Amazon box.
“And meeting men!” Added another, younger woman with freckles covering every inch of her face. She was large but not fat, just thick-necked and broad chested.
“Any luck on that score?” I asked, glancing at her badge. Her name was obscured, but I could see that the employer was Sammy’s Taxidermy and Tannery in Saluda, North Carolina.
“So far all clunkers, no keepers,” Freckle Face said with a laugh.
“May I ask an odd question?” I kept my tone light.
All four nodded.
“Do any of you know a man named Hugh Norwitz?”
As before, the women’s eyes met. This time the shared message seemed revulsion, not mischief.
“Is Norwitz a buddy of yours?” Dirkus asked.
“Not at all.”
“Did he hit on you?”
“No.”
“Why are you interested in him?”
Seeing no reason to hold back, I laid out the bare essentials of the situation involving Bear and the other animal displays. I did not name the main players: Crawford Joye, Bear’s owner; Eleanor Godric, the corpse stolen from a cemetery; Adina Kumar, the psychologist who’d profiled the doer and predicted an escalation in behavior; Ralph Balodis, the retired veterinarian; Jordan Allen Bright, the sex offender turned vet tech. The man and dog hanging in Cordelia Park.
I concluded by saying that Hugh Norwitz’s name had come up in a few interviews. I made no mention of Norwitz’s old conviction for child pornography.
