Full Tilt (15 page)

33

Rampart, New York

A
large dry-erase board stood at one end of the Investigative Unit of the Rampart Police Department.

Ed studied it over the rim of his mug as he took another hit of black coffee. His concentration shifted to Carl Nelson’s photo.

Inch by inch, we’re getting closer to you.

Tire impressions found at the scene were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E. The same tires were on the silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van that Carl Nelson bought in Utica.
We can place that van at the scene.
Now we have to locate that van.

So far, nothing had surfaced from the alerts.

Brennan rubbed his eyes. He’d been up much of the night, padding through the house, watching over his wife and son, contending with the weight of the case.

What’re we missing?

He took another hit of coffee while reviewing the board. He stood among the half-dozen empty desks. All the unit’s detectives had been assigned to the case.

They were out following leads.

Rampart headed the task force, supported by Riverview County, the state police, the FBI and other agencies. The case was divided into several parts. Rampart and the county had most local aspects arising from Carl Nelson. The FBI had the fugitive element. State and the FBI had the crime scene, which was still being processed. Other components crossed jurisdictions, depending on expertise and resources.

There was an update on the necklace from the manufacturer via the FBI. The model in question was no longer made and sold. During the period it was marketed, 600,000 units were sold in the US and another 700,000 units were sold globally. The maker said engraving names on the charms was common and examination of the damaged piece and the comparison piece, obtained from Kate Page, showed that both were made by the company. But insofar as to the two pieces being the exact two pieces Kate’s mother had bought, the finding was inconclusive.

Brennan continued to survey the board.

All work to date was up there: the pictures, names of the victims, case numbers, color arrows and the latest notes showing if warrants had been issued. There were summaries of areas canvassed, neighbors to be reinterviewed and security cameras to be checked or rechecked.

So far, eighty-three tips had been followed, prioritized or closed.

And nothing ever came of that coworker who claims he saw Carl online looking at real estate and taking notes. That one’s eating at me.

The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit was developing a profile of the suspect, looking at motivation, methodology and the psychology of his actions and personality.

Brennan turned from the board. Dickson had just ended a call with the FBI.

“Well, it’s official,” Dickson said. “That was the FBI’s Cyber Crime team. They’ve been working with the Secret Service and two forensic teams at the DataFlow Call Center.”

“Did Nelson compromise their system?”

“Big-time. He devised and installed some type of software that allowed him to siphon everything from the company’s payment processing network. He stole Social Security numbers, PINs, addresses, telephone numbers, bank and credit card information.”

“How many people are we talking?”

“Forty million.”

Brennan ran his hand over his face.

“The company’s working with the FBI to issue a news release,” Dickson said. “All retailers and all cardholders will be alerted. Customers will be advised to destroy their cards, retailers will issue new ones.”

“Small comfort knowing Nelson has everything.”

“He’s one smart prick, Ed.”

“Maybe, but sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”

Brennan’s phone rang.

“Ed, it’s Mitch, you’d better come out to the scene.”

* * *

As they drove to the old burial grounds Brennan grappled with his frustrations. That these crimes had been going on for years in his backyard sickened him and he sought assurance in a mantra for investigators.

The suspect has to be lucky at every turn. We need to get lucky once.

So far, Nelson’s victims were helping with their killer’s undoing. Look at Pollard, who’d kept his dog tags in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got assaulted. That thwarted Nelson’s attempt to stage a murder-suicide. Then the message left by Tara Dawn Mae, and there was the angel charm necklace and its inconclusive link to Kate Page. Everyone on the task force was going all out on this case.

We just need a lead, a solid lead.
Entrance to the site through the old cemetery road remained sealed and more Riverview deputies had been posted at other points of the expanded perimeter. The increased magnitude of the case was made manifest by the police encampment that had arisen next to the ruins of the barn.

A mobile double-wide trailer, which served as the command post, had been hauled in on a flatbed and placed near the edge of the property among lines of trucks. An array of equipment, lights, generators, tents and canopies dotted the vast property.

Exhaustive ground searches had been conducted. More dogs were used, along with infrared technology. More aerial photographs were taken. Vapor detectors were brought in. A tube connected to the device was inserted into the ground to detect gasses from decomposition.

The entire scene was gridded and sectioned off with string and flags, like an archaeological dig. Forensic archaeologists from universities in Rochester and Syracuse had been requested to join the FBI and state police forensic experts to help.

Section by section, teams undertook the slow, systematic process of removing segments of soil in four-to six-inch layers. Meticulously they sifted it through screens to search for evidence of human remains.

Brennan and Dickson met Mitch Komerick inside the command post. He pulled off the hood on his white coveralls, slipped off his face mask and bent over a large table with unfurled maps.

“What’ve we got, Mitch?” Brennan leaned over the map with him.

Komerick took a pencil and used the eraser end to tap the primary map of the scene.

“More remains.”

“One more victim?”

“Not one. Twelve.”

Brennan’s stomach tensed.

“Twelve?”

Komerick tapped several neatly penciled squares on the map.

“We’ve confirmed human remains, here, here, here and here. We’re just getting started. Ed, this could be one of the biggest cases we’ve ever seen.”

34

New York City

K
ate made her way through the crush at Penn Station.

She’d become accustomed to the subway, the urine-scented platforms, the whoosh of foul, inbound air, crowds jostling at the doors, the smells of perfume and the body odor. She was relieved to find a seat. Within seconds, her car was crammed to capacity.

As her train thundered from the station she took out her phone and read stories on Rampart by the Associated Press, Reuters and Bloomberg. Then she read the story she’d filed and was satisfied that Newslead’s reporting was strongest.

We’re still ahead of the competition.

When Kate finished reading, she gazed out her window into the rolling darkness. As tunnel lights flashed by and her car rocked, she grappled with the turmoil broiling inside her.

Twelve more victims.

She could no longer fend off the facts and fears that crept from the darkest fringes to crush her.

Twelve more victims. Surely, Vanessa’s among the dead.

It’s over. Carl Nelson, or whoever he was, had won. The rhythmic clacking of the train hammered it home. Her hope, if it ever really lived, was dead. Her dream of seeing her sister again had slipped away...the way Vanessa’s hand had slipped from hers twenty years ago in the icy mountain river.

Kate shut her eyes.

Tears rolled down her face as the train’s steel wheels grinded against steel tracks creating a high-pitched scream.

* * *

On the way to her building, Kate picked up a pizza, then collected Grace from Nancy’s apartment.

“I saw the latest news.” Nancy had lowered her voice to Kate when Grace was down the hall, out of earshot. “It’s terrible. How much worse can it get?”

Kate shrugged.

At home Grace bit into her pizza and, between chews, told Kate about a new boy at school who was annoying all the girls. But Kate’s attention had drifted. Being with her daughter, Kate felt spears of sunshine piercing her battle-weary heart and tried desperately to hang on to the moment.

“Mom, are you listening?”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

“I said his name is Devon and all he wants to do is kiss you. Yech!”

After their supper Kate went through the motions of their evening routine, cleaning up, then homework for Grace before any computer or TV time. All the while Kate was unable to emerge from the numbness that had filled her. Once she got Grace to bed, she dimmed the lights, opened a bottle of wine and tuned her TV to news channels.

As she listened to commentators and watched footage of the Rampart scene over and over, she became enveloped with loss and the bitter realization that she’d been a fool to dream she’d find Vanessa. For a time she’d convinced herself that she was not only on the trail to the truth about what had happened to Vanessa, but closer to finding her alive and well.

I believed with all my heart I’d have my sister back.
Kate continued to watch the white-suited forensic experts conducting their work on what was a killing field.

Twelve more victims.

Her phone rang.

“Kate, it’s Nancy.”

“Hey.”

“I’ve been watching the news coverage and I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

“No, to be honest, not really.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Maybe it was her nursing background but upon arriving, Nancy seemed to know what to do. She turned Kate’s TV off, turned the lights up, put away the wine and made tea.

“All the fight’s gone out of you, Kate.”

She struggled to explain to Nancy how she’d felt defeated in the face of the cruel reality that the monster she was pursuing had killed fifteen people.

“It’s like the earth shifted under my feet.”

Nancy thought for a moment before she took Kate’s hands in hers.

“You listen to me.” Nancy stared hard into her eyes. “You’re not going to curl into a ball and give up. You’re going to pull through this. I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it?”

“Look back on your life. You’ve faced every hardship I can think of and you’ve endured. You have a right to the truth and there’s no way you’re going to let this creep stop you. It’s not in your DNA, Kate. Do you hear me?”

Nancy squeezed Kate’s hands hard.

“Do you hear me?”

Before she realized it Kate was nodding slowly and her concentration went to a file folder on the table nearby and a photo of Nelson.

“You know I’m right, Kate.”

Kate continued nodding, bigger nods with more confidence.
Yes, Nancy is right.
Kate’s eyes were welded to Carl Nelson’s.
No way are you going to get away with this, you evil son of a bitch. If my sister’s dead, or I can’t find her, then I’ll find you.

35

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

T
here it is!

Deep within the thick woods of tamarack and black spruce there were flashes of gray throat and gray breast, of yellow belly.

Careful.

Dan Whitmore was a patient bird-watcher who knew not to be in a hurry to raise the binoculars to his eyes, or to page through the guidebook to identify his subject.

It could vanish on you.

Experience had taught him to focus on the bird, study its shape, its bill, its colors and markings. If the situation allowed, he’d lift his binoculars in a smooth, practiced motion while never losing sight of the bird. Then, when it winged away, he’d consult the book to identify it.

Dan watched for several minutes before finally looking through his binoculars. He was rewarded with a long, gorgeous view before the bird took flight.

“That was a Great Crested Flycatcher.” Dan turned to his partner, Vivian Chambers, who’d flipped through the guide and nodded.

“Yes, it had beautiful primaries.”

“That’s six more today, Viv.”

Dan noted the sighting, confident he’d hit five hundred on his life list by the time their trip ended.

“Let’s go over there,” Vivian said, “near the edge of that bog. It looks like a great spot for owls.”

Dan, a doctor, had retired from his family practice in Omaha fifteen years ago. He and Vivian, a retired elementary school principal, lived alone in the same condo complex. Each had lost a spouse and after meeting through one of Omaha’s birder clubs they’d become partners.

They’d gone out on many group outings but for the past five years, upon discovering how much they’d enjoyed each other’s company, they’d traveled alone together to different parts of the country to look at birds. Birding had given them a sense of order, and their relationship had helped them survive some of the hardest times of their lives. Their mutual understanding and respect for what they’d both endured had grown into a nurturing, healing kind of love. They counted their blessings and birds as they journeyed along the back roads together.

This section of the park bordered Manitoba and was the most isolated. It was dense with white cedar, jack pine and aspen trees. There were thickets of willow and alder. The hiking trails were rugged, but Dan and Vivian often ventured wherever the birds led them. As they neared the fringes of the peat bog, Vivian grabbed Dan’s arm and stopped.

“Listen,” she said.

Birdsong filtered through the distant trees.

“Tzeet. Kip. Tzeet kip.”

It repeated in a harsh, sputtering series.

“That’s a kingbird. I recognize that from my CDs,” Dan said.

“Eastern or Western?”

“Could be either, given our location.”

Dan scanned the forest for any telltale signs but saw nothing. After giving it a full five minutes, he tried again, this time with the binoculars, zeroing in on the area most likely to be the bird’s location.

“Anything?” Vivian said from behind her binoculars.

“Nothing.” As he lowered his glasses he glimpsed a low pale flash but lost it. “Wait,” he repositioned his binoculars.

“Something?”

“I think.” Dan hesitated, unable to find it again. “Actually, I think we’ve got company. I think I saw someone waving to us. I lost them.”

“Let’s get closer, say hello and compare lists.”

Stepping carefully through the thick woodland, they forged their way closer to the beginnings of the bog and to what Dan had reasoned was the spot where he’d last seen the person waving.

“There’s nothing here. Let’s take a break.”

A large fallen alder tree served as a natural bench seat big enough for both of them. He reached for his water bottle and Vivian pulled a small towel from her backpack. She was using it to pad her face when she froze.

Dan followed her gaze, which was locked on a sight in a clearing some twenty feet away.

At first he thought that what they were seeing was a trick of light and shadow.

Dan couldn’t believe it—it couldn’t be real.

Without realizing it, he stood.

He’d closed his eyes but the image burned before him, refusing to leave until Vivian started screaming.