Chapter 18
Early the next day, Slidell and I set out to mingle with taxidermists.
Clemmons, a suburb of Winston-Salem, claims a population of twenty-two thousand residents and boasts more than five hundred holes available to golfers.
The town’s main point of pride is its proximity to Tanglewood Park, a recreational area offering tennis, horseback riding, gardens, campgrounds, and, of course, golf.
We spent a moment assessing the setup. Saw a red-roofed overhang shielding a glass-walled lobby accessed via double glass doors. A low-rise wing shooting off to the left. The entrance to a place called The Crosby, presumably a bar, lit by neon signage halfway down the wing.
Wordlessly, Slidell and I got out and went in through the main entrance.
Inside, the place looked like every other convention hotel I’ve ever visited. Gleaming tile on the lobby floor. Globe pendants overhead. Patterned faux-wool carpeting on corridors leading to rooms in which marriages were celebrated, proms danced, business strategies hammered out.
I assumed meetings were in session, since the large open space was mostly deserted. A placard on a tripod listed options: educational seminars covering topics such as stitching and air brushing; a trade show with exhibitor demonstrations; a mounting competition.
A man and woman stood to the right of the reception desk, shoulders touching, but not talking. Both appeared to be well past sixty. Their red plaid shirts looked like variations on a theme.
Four women huddled in a scrum, discussing a pamphlet held by the tallest of the group. Raised voices and agitated gestures suggested sharp disagreement.
A priest sat in one of the upholstered armchairs, hands resting on the handle of a carved wooden cane. As with everyone that I’d encountered since arriving at the Inn, staff excepted, he wore a plastic-encased badge on a lanyard looping his neck.
“Yeah, baby.”
The utterance brought my attention back to Slidell. The big man was already on the move, striding toward a beverage cart being rolled into position against the far wall.
Equally desperate for caffeine, I followed.
Wiggling free a Styrofoam cup, Slidell helped himself by thumbing the lever on the industrial-sized coffee maker. After adding three packets of sugar and the cream-like contents of two tiny plastic containers, he stirred, sipped, then winced.
“Jesus Christ, that’s freakin’ scalding.” Touching a finger to his upper lip.
I pointed to a sign beside the urn. Hot Coffee.
“Yeah, but they don’t gotta make the stuff like it’s lava.”
I said nothing.
Blowing across the offending liquid, Slidell started to share his take on the crowd.
“These yahoos look like they fell off a slow boat—”
“What is it you hope to accomplish here?” I asked curtly. I’d overdosed on Skinnyisms during the one-hour drive from Charlotte.
“I’m hoping someone knows something about the dickhead nailing corpses up on my turf. The dickhead now adding humans to his sick little game.”
“Have you thought about what to say?”
Slidell swiveled to face me, brows V-ing down above the bridge of his nose.
“I’m thinking I’ll open with something like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, any chance you know a sick fuck gets his jollies nailing up dead animals or robbing graves?’ ”
“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 over the 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 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.
Three of the women listened attentively. The fourth might have. It was hard to tell since she made no eye contact but continuously scanned the lobby in the way convention-goers do, searching for more interesting or more prestigious conversation ops.
When I’d finished, Dirkus asked, “What’s your role in all this?”
I explained my part in the investigation.
“And the oaf over there?” she asked, chin-cocking Slidell, who was bully-questioning a man with a salt-and-pepper beard reaching almost to his enormous belt buckle.
“He’s a detective.” I left it at that.
Again, Dirkus looked to her companions.
Again, they nodded in unison, like a trio of puppets worked with a single string.
“The four of us have been coming to these meetings for years,” Dirkus said. “So has Hugh Norwitz. But I doubt any of us would claim to know him.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“The guy’s not exactly social,” Freckle Face said.
“Let’s be honest,” the tall woman said. She was Larkie Oddle with Benny’s Wild Game Taxidermy and Butcher Shop in Chapel Hill. “Norwitz is a creep.”
“I’m down with that,” Freckle Face agreed.
“A creep how?” I asked.
Freckle Face shrugged one polyester leopard-skin-clad shoulder. “Arrogant. Overbearing. Self-important.”
“He’s a bully used to getting his way,” Dirkus added.
“Bingo.” Oddle jabbed a finger of agreement at her companion.
“Do you think Norwitz is capable of committing the atrocities I just described?” Sweeping my gaze over four pairs of eyes.
“Do I think he could kill and behead a dog?” Oddle asked.
“Yes.”
“Without missing a heartbeat.”
The other three did their synchronized nodding thing.
A second to digest that, then I asked, “Does anyone else come to mind who might fit the profile?”
They gave that some thought. Or pretended to in order to make me happy. Then each shook her head.
A follow-up question was forming on my tongue when motion in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Turning, I noted that the lobby had grown significantly more crowded.
Through the press of bodies, I could see Slidell thumb-jabbing at me, then at the corridor through which we’d entered. The not-so-subtle gesture meant he was ready to move on.
I thanked Dirkus, Oddle, and the other two for their cooperation and assured them their comments would remain confidential.
“If you think of anything else, please give me a call,” I encouraged, handing out my cards.
“Of course,” Dirkus said.
I wove my way toward the hall to join Slidell. We didn’t speak until we’d moved far enough away to be able to hear.
“Christ almighty, I feel like one of those fish packed asshole to armpit in a can.”
“Sardines don’t have arms.”
“Always the know-it-all.” Slidell’s face was glossy, his cheeks flushed from the proximity of so much warm flesh. “You score anything useful?”
“Hugh Norwitz is a creep and an arrogant bully,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“That was the take among the ladies.”
“Well, ain’t that a pisser. The guys I questioned thought he was the salt of the earth.”
“Seriously?”
“One old geezer described him as courtly, whatever the hell that means.” Slidell checked his watch. “I need grub.”
The Crosby wasn’t open for lunch. And Slidell had a “hankering” for pizza. So, we trudged through the heat to the SUV and drove a short distance to a place called Spaghetti Park. Seemed a reasonable choice given Skinny’s craving.
Skinny ordered a build-your-own Sicilian pizzetta. I listened with dismay to the long list of toppings he wanted, including doubles on onions and garlic. Wondered if I should buy a full-face respirator mask for the trip home.
I chose the wild mushroom ravioli. Which turned out to be excellent.
Slidell and I spent the rest of the day interacting with conference attendees, making the same queries again and again. Many of those we questioned had met Norwitz, but none knew the man well enough to offer insight into his character.
When we asked if any other NCTA member might fit our doer’s profile, one name came up twice. Ozmand “Ozzie” Key.
The last presentations concluded at five. Then the venues and corridors slowly emptied as people headed to their cars, to their rooms, or to The Crosby for drinks.
Slidell and I made one quick swing through the pub. Eyes focused on their Pinots and Manhattans, or on the parquet floor, the badge-wearing patrons were now cool to our presence. Realizing we were accomplishing nothing, we decided to call it a day.
Skinny drove like a madman, saying he was eager to run the name Ozmand Key. With his typical tunnel vision, he was certain the guy would come up on a sex offender list.
Though I suspected the lovely Ms. Lyric was the impetus for Skinny’s lead foot, I said nothing. Buckled up, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and thought about my upcoming visit with Ryan.
Eager to distance myself from all things taxidermic.