by Rick Mofina
Tilden and Varner let a moment pass. They knew there was more.
“What’s the truth, here?” Tilden asked.
McGarridge’s hands started shaking.
“Nothing happened after that with Bazerinni, so I thought everything was okay. All water under the bridge.” His chin trembled. “But the truth? The truth was I was due to be reviewed for a bonus, and this case would’ve ruined that. And now—now after what’s happened... If Dan and his family are... This could all be my fault! I’m—they’ve got a nine-year-old son... Please, you have to find them! Please.”
21
Jamaica, Queens, New York
Meredith DeSalvo had braced for what was coming.
Wearing a lab coat, white latex gloves and a hair and face covering, she was hunched over her microscope in the Latent Print Development Unit of the NYPD crime lab.
The lab was in a drab, five-story complex that was once part of the City University of New York. Meredith, a Level 2 criminalist with the unit, was setting aside her analysis on a cold rape case, clearing her workload.
Earlier that morning she’d been alerted to an ongoing hostage-abduction situation involving a bank manager and his family. Meredith was assigned to lead the small team that would process the evidence for prints. The material would also be examined by the hair-and-fiber unit.
This case was the NYPD’s top priority—beyond urgent.
Investigators needed evidence to point them to the people behind the crime and they needed it now.
“Heads up, here it is,” said Rita Chow, Meredith’s manager.
Rita was accompanied by two Crime Scene Unit detectives carrying several brown paper bags containing evidence collected from Dan and Lori Fulton’s home. They’d placed the bags on Meredith’s workbench. After everyone signed off on chain-of-evidence documentation, Meredith and the other criminalists in the unit began processing the material. If a suspect had left something behind at the scene, Meredith’s team would find it.
They opened the bags and logged and recorded the items inside, which included towels, swatches collected from sofa cushions, armrests, soda cans, pizza boxes, used napkins, used forks, spoons, knives, balled-up duct tape, crystal figurines and take-out containers for Chinese food.
Meredith and her team began by making visual inspections of the items under high-powered magnifying lamps.
They searched for patent prints, those that are visible when fingers touch a clean surface after they’d been contaminated with substances like blood, dirt, ink, paint, grease, powders or oils.
Next, they collected possible DNA by using moistened cotton swabs to rub the items over the areas where the suspect would have touched them, particularly around the lid of soda cans. The swabs were documented and shipped immediately to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for DNA analysis.
The criminalists then switched off the lab’s lights to examine the material under ultraviolet and infrared lights for naturally fluorescent prints.
Once that was done, they moved into a process known as superglue fuming. They placed items in the chamber with a volume of superglue, watching as the fumes that vaporized from the glue adhered to residue left from the prints, leaving a white coating that could be photographed.
After twenty minutes they used a plastic bottle of fluorescent water-based dye and submerged the evidence with it. Then let it dry for another twenty minutes.
Meredith was pleased.
So far her team had collected a number of clear prints.
But her highest hope was with the duct tape.
She knew the probability of getting usable prints from the tape was high, since criminals often bound their victims with it. She also knew that in most cases the tape was impossible to manipulate while wearing gloves. At some point, a suspect would leave a print—either on the smooth side or the sticky side.
The challenge was in unbinding the tape so as not to damage any prints captured on it. First, a liquid release agent was applied where two pieces of tape met. Meredith and a coworker did this stage together, using tweezers to separate the tape sections while generously applying the release agent. Once that was done, they flattened the salvaged pieces.
It used to require twenty-four hours before they could move on to the next stage, but scientists in Japan had developed a new, rapid adhesive-side developer to apply to the sticky side of the duct tape. After letting it dry for several minutes, they rinsed off the powder, and prints emerged.
“Fantastic,” Meredith said.
She photographed them, protected them with clear tape. Then she viewed them on her computer monitor, along with the other prints her team had collected. After entering all the appropriate evidentiary data, Meredith submitted the prints with a few clicks to fingerprint detectives, who were standing by at One Police Plaza to identify them.
Staring hard at the images on her screen, Meredith was convinced.
One of these has to belong to a suspect.
22
New York City
“It’s always something in this town.”
Kate couldn’t tell if her taxicab driver—Nazir, according to the license displayed over the back of the front seat—was complaining to her or himself.
The cab had come to a gently sloping segment of the Long Island Expressway where westbound traffic had slowed near the Midtown Tunnel.
“See?” Exasperated, Nazir lifted his hands from the wheel. “It’s backed up more than normal. It’s always something.”
Kate looked out at the apartment buildings, warehouses, factories and billboards. Taking stock of the Empire State and Manhattan’s skyline rising above the clogged lanes, Kate surmised that the delay might be linked to the robbery and hostage situation.
They must’ve issued lookouts, maybe set up a dragnet at toll plazas and bridges by now.
As Kate’s mind raced with thoughts of Lori, Billy, Dan and the horror they must be experiencing, she looked at the screen of her phone, at the image of Grace and Vanessa.
They’d faced terrible events, too, but they’d prevailed.
Kate traced her finger lightly over Grace’s and Vanessa’s smiles. At this very moment, Grace would be at school, happy and playing with her friends. Vanessa would be working at the diner, rebuilding her life, getting stronger every day.
Both of them were safe.
Kate then called up the pictures she’d taken of Dan Fulton’s bank in Roseoak.
What happened? Who forced Dan to rob his own bank?
Kate tapped her screen, scrolling to photos of the Fultons’ house on Forest Trail Drive.
What went on in that home? Who would strap a bomb on a nine-year-old boy?
Kate suddenly realized Billy Fulton was only one year older than her daughter, Grace, and her heart went out to their family once again.
When she lifted her head, the cab was approaching the toll plaza at the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. Emergency lights flashed on the NYPD patrol cars that lined the shoulders. Uniformed officers stood at the traffic cones leading to the toll gates, halting traffic, eyeballing each vehicle and driver.
Kate dropped her window and told her driver to slow down when they were next to one of the cops.
“Excuse me, Officer!” Kate called. “Is this related to the robbery situation in Roseoak, Queens?”
“Yes, do you have information?”
“No. I’m a reporter, just checking. Thanks.”
“Move it along.”
The cab rolled through the toll gate, the tunnel gleaming in brilliant orange-and-yellow light as it curved under the East River to Manhattan.
As traffic rushed along, Kate resumed thinking of the Fultons.
They’ve got to be somewhere in this city.
23
Elmhurst, New York
With sirens wailing and lights flashing, NYPD units from the 115th Precinct blocked the north, south and east entrances to Bazerinni Trucking on Astoria Boulevard.
The depot stood at the edge of a commercial strip lined with tired-looking one-and two-story buildings just beyond. The company was not far from La Guardia Airport and other busy freight and cargo operations. But today, Bazerinni’s business had ground to a halt as heavily armed officers, a K-9 unit and a group of detectives descended on the yard.
“What the hell’s this?” A man rushed out from the garage, angry and perplexed, searching amid the loading bays and grind of diesel engines for someone to provide an answer. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was loosened. He gripped a tablet in one hand.
“We’re looking for Luca Bazerinni,” said one of the suited men.
“I’m Luca. Mind telling me who you are and what you’re doing on my property?”
“I’m Detective Tilden, NYPD, and this is Agent Varner, FBI. We’re investigating the robbery of a SkyNational Trust branch in Roseoak Park.”
“What about it?”
“You’re aware of it?”
“Yeah, heard it on the news.”
“You have business dealings with the branch.”
“A loan, sure. So what? I didn’t rob the freakin’ place.” The yelp of the German shepherd diverted Bazerinni, who took quick inventory of the armed officers and detectives searching his property. “What the hell’s this? Do you have a warrant?”
“We do, Mr. Bazerinni,” Varner said. “It authorizes us to search the premises and all records relevant to our investigation.”
The stress lines on Bazerinni’s face deepened and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I want my lawyer here.” He scrolled through his contact numbers.
“That’s your right,” Tilden said, “but you’re not under arrest and things would go quicker for us to clear you if you’d cooperate by answering a few questions.”
“Clear me? Clear me from what?”
“Let’s talk over there.” Varner nodded to a rest area with lockers and wooden tables and chairs.
Bazerinni hesitated, taking another look around before returning his phone to his pocket and leading the two men to the tables.
Tilden and Varner took out notebooks.
“You acknowledge your company took out a loan for the amount of eight hundred thousand dollars with Branch 487 for SkyNational Trust Banking Corp.?”
“That’s what this is about?”
“Just answer the question,” Tilden said.
“If you know the amount, then you know it’s true.”
“But you took issue with the terms of that loan and some five or six months ago went to the branch to discuss it.”
“I sure as hell did. Back then we were facing a helluva time. We were getting squeezed on all fronts, contracts were low. We weren’t getting paid on time and we had issues with insurance, suppliers and subcontractors.”
“So you went to the bank to seek relief on the terms of the loan?”
“Exactly. We were told when we negotiated the loan that it was geared to income and that we had the option to relax the payments, should we face hard times. The rates and terms were good. That’s why we went out to Roseoak. They gave us a good deal.”
“Tell us what happened when you visited the branch to discuss those terms.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what happened. The loan officer there started singing a different tune, said we couldn’t modify the original terms. He said I’d misunderstood what he’d told me before, that it was all clear in the fine print. I was pissed off and I left.”
“You were pissed off?”
“You’re damned right. That prick, Green, lied to me.”
“Did you tell him, and I quote, ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? You mothers better watch your back ’cause one day you’re gonna regret this!’”
Bazerinni shrugged. “Sounds right.”
“You understand that’s considered a threat, Mr. Bazerinni.”
“Give me a freakin’ break. This is Queens! I run a trucking operation, and the asshole in the suit lied to me. I wanted to beat him to a pulp. I was losing sleep, going crazy with worry over my company. What do you think I’m gonna say to that prick—thanks and have a nice day?”
“In light of what’s happened at the bank today, you understand why we’re forced to see your comment in a different light,” Varner said.
“A different light?”
“Luca—” Tilden looked him in the eye “—are you involved in any way with the robbery of Branch 487 for SkyNational Trust Banking Corp., and the disappearance of Dan Fulton, Lori Fulton and their son, Billy?”
“Are you crazy? No, no way!”
The investigators let his response hang in the air amid the idling diesels and ongoing search of his property.
Bazerinni sat forward, pointing his finger at Tilden.
“Let me tell you something. Me and my dad started this company with a beat-up Ford F-150 pickup twenty years ago. Now we got a fleet of twenty units and fifty people on the payroll. We cooperate with every vehicle inspection, every driver inspection, every license and bond review, every audit. We pay our bills and our taxes. On time! I had to sell some equipment to deal with our rough patch six months ago but we never missed a payment. We’re back on solid ground now. We’re strong and we’re clean. There’s no reason for us to be involved in this robbery—and there never would be.”
“Luca!” A woman held up her hands as she shouted down from the railing outside the office on the second level.
Bazerinni saw detectives carrying out computers. He turned to Varner and Tilden. “What the hell’re you doing?”
“Unfortunately, we’re going to have to shut you down for a while before we can clear you,” Tilden said. “We’ve got to review all your records, including your computers, phones and employee files.”
Bazerinni dragged both hands over his face.
“All because I shot off my mouth to that lying prick at the bank.”
Varner nudged Tilden, then nodded toward a few rolls of duct tape stacked on a nearby bench, along with a few other packing supplies. Varner knew the techs would need to collect a sample for comparison with the tape used at the Fulton home.
24
Manhattan, New York
The headlines streaked along the news ribbon that wrapped around the old New York Times building in Times Square.
... Manager Robs Own Bank... Vanishes with Wife and Son...
The Fulton story was heating up.
As Kate’s cab threaded through Midtown traffic, her focus returned to the question of Varner and Tilden’s ultrasensitivity over this case. It was a red flag and suggested there might be more to the story than what she knew so far.
Did Fulton have secret drug or gambling debts? What about the supposed tragedy the family had had when they lived in the West?
As the cab got closer to Newslead, Kate received another text from Reeka Beck.
Everybody’s all over the story. What’s your ETA?
Fifteen minutes.
We’ve got a problem to discuss.
What problem?
Tell you when you get here.
By the time her cab halted in front of the Newslead building, tension had knotted in Kate’s neck and shoulders. In the lobby she checked coverage online. Her story was out there, it had been issued about an hour ago, shortly after she’d filed it. She’d met her deadline. In the elevator she searched and scanned stories by the Associated Press, Reuters and the others. They were all similar straight-up accounts—but nobody had what she had—the exact amount Dan Fulton had taken from the bank.
Kate had broken the fact that it wa
s a quarter-million-dollar heist, making it a Newslead exclusive.
Hold on. What’s this?
She came upon an item by the new Signal Point Newswire. Citing an unnamed source, they had reported that the amount taken was two million dollars, and that Fulton had left note, “warning employees that a bomb had been placed in the bank.”
What? No. That’s dead wrong.
The doors opened on the fortieth floor and Kate stepped into the newsroom.
She glanced at one of the TV monitors and caught the end of a report on the heist in Queens. Then she looked to the glass walls of the editors’ offices. Reeka was on her phone, texting. Her door was open, so Kate tapped on it. Reeka nodded for her to sit in the chair in front of her desk. When Reeka finished, she put her phone down and let out a long breath.
“You have an error in your story.”
“An error?”
“The amount taken in the robbery. Signal Point’s reporting that it’s two million—our story says a quarter million.”
“Signal Point has the error. Not us.”
“There’s also the aspect of Fulton’s note. Signal Point says—”
“I know what their story says and it’s wrong on both counts, Reeka.”
“You need to verify your facts.”
“Verify my facts? What do you think I’ve been doing in Queens?”
Reeka shot Kate an icy look.
“I want you to check your facts. And, if we need to, we’ll issue a correction with the next story update.”
Kate didn’t move.
She burned at Reeka’s insulting regard for her work. All morning she’d pinballed across Queens, talking to the Fultons’ neighbors, coworkers and confronting investigators.
Reeka had no concept of street-level journalism. She’d never covered a murder, a fire or a disaster, never stared into the eyes of an inconsolable parent and asked for a picture of their dead child. She was young, pretty and had degrees from Harvard and Yale. They were up there on the wall. And she’d been on the desk at Newslead’s Boston bureau at a time when the entire staff’s collective work on a breaking story was a Pulitzer finalist. Reeka’s uncle, a legend in the news business, sat on Newslead’s board of directors. Word was he’d pushed for his niece to be moved to headquarters in Manhattan.
