Class dismissed — smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.Thanks to the Sullivans, Vanessa and I were eyeballing an Independence med school dropout the very next day. The one Cyrus said, “Spends quiet, but spends large.”Douglas Mulvaney, age 31. Bachelor, living with his brother. And his brother’s wife. That arrangement could work out with some people, not a lot of them though. He’s balding, showing the hint of a pot. Slumped posture.Dougie is a taxidermist. Owns his own shop. Reports income of around $30,000 a year. Not ready for the soup kitchen, but his income hardly qualifies him for dropping significant shekels.His shop is off Independence Square, a semi-bustling neighborhood. Mulvaney’s one-man business has foot traffic. Quite a bit for a taxidermist. Not that I’d ever contracted with one. But how many bears can one town shoot?It took me only two afternoons to puzzle out the scam. Mulvaney’s Custom Taxidermy is next door to Phister’s Pharmacy. Alliteration. Mulvaney left through his back door. Pale as a china doll. Tossed out with the rest of the trash.I gazed down fretfully at the black, snow-capped bags inside. It looked dark and earthy, like a pit. Like a tomb. My head flashed to that article in the paper—the poor girl they’d fished from the ice floes—frozen solid. I shuddered, my entire body quaking. My vision blurred. Tears brimmed along my lashes. I wiped them away, glaring down at the foreboding black bags. From the top of one, I saw a faint glint in the orange glow of the streetlamp. I knelt down to look closer.No fucking way... I rubbed my eyes.There, sticking out of the rubbish like Excalibur from the stone, was the old brass fire iron the girl across the hall had tossed out. I dropped to my belly, muttering one of the longest, most virtuosic strands of obscenities I’d ever incanted, and shook it free from the bag.I think at that point I was in a kind of trance. I clambered to my feet, so cold, so tired, so hungry and scared, it didn’t occur to me in the least.
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