Full Tilt

by Rick Mofina

  “Hey, Hugh, got a sec? I need your help.”

  He swiveled in his chair, crossed his arms.

  “Shoot, Kate. I got five minutes before I have to go talk to some Apple honchos.”

  “You’ve written about hackers and the best of the best out there.”

  “That’s correct. Nice that you’re familiar with my work.”

  “You’ve got contacts in hackerdom, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Correct.”

  “You know about my situation?”

  “Yes, I also read your work.”

  “Do you think you could put me in touch with some of your hacker friends? I want to write a deep bio on Carl Nelson.”

  Hugh touched one finger to his lips.

  “I do know of some entities in the cyber mists who’re remarkably skilled and would be up to the challenge.”

  Kate’s cell phone rang.

  “Great. I’ve got to take this, Hugh.”

  “I’ll put some feelers out there and get back to you.”

  Kate’s phone rang a second time.

  “Thanks, Hugh. Kate Page,” she said into her phone.

  “Hello. This is Will Goodsill in Denver. I got a call from a cousin who said you were trying to reach me.”

  “Yes, Will, thanks for calling. This concerns a story you wrote fifteen years ago for the Denver Star-Times, about a missing Canadian girl.”

  “So you said in your message. I looked you up and your current work. You’re looking for a connection to Alberta, Denver and New York?”

  “Exactly, yes.” Kate was impressed. “Can you help me?”

  “I’m a hoarder of files and notebooks, but we had some flooding a few years back, so I can’t say if I’ve still got everything from that time. I remember that story, and I did some digging on it myself. I’ll have to look to see if it survived and get back to you, Kate.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Rampart, New York

  Lori Koller, the woman on the phone from Utica, was uneasy.

  “You’re certain you sold your van to the man in the photograph, Carl Nelson?” asked Ed.

  “Yes. Only he said his name was John Feeney from Rochester. But I swear that’s him in the picture. Please don’t give out my name.”

  “No, ma’am. Now, you posted your van on a buy-and-sell site. He responded, paid cash, and this was four months ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he take the van away? Did he have a friend with him?”

  “No, he had a pickup truck pulling a trailer.”

  “Okay, good. Now, I’ve got your contact information. Someone’s going to be in touch with you real soon.”

  “Who?”

  “Likely someone from the Utica police, or state police or the FBI. They’ll take a statement from you and we’re going to need the VIN and—”

  “The VIN?”

  “It’s the Vehicle Identification Number. It’ll be on your papers. We’ll need your documents to verify the registration history for the vehicle. We’ll also want all your maintenance records, showing what kind of tires you had on the vehicle. Do you still have the records, or the name of the shop where you had your van serviced?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you have a recent photo of the van?”

  “The one I used on the site.”

  “Can you send it to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, someone will be in touch shortly.”

  “Please don’t give my name to the public. I’m a little scared.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  After hanging up, Brennan called Utica police, the state police, the FBI and then he alerted his lieutenant.

  “This one’s good,” Brennan told him before he began submitting details of the lead into the case data file.

  Since the news conference and public appeal, the investigators had received more than one hundred tips, but most of the callers were vague: “I think it’s my new neighbor. He’s creepy.” Or, “I met this guy at a bar, who said he knew a guy, who thinks he knows where Carl Nelson is, but I can’t remember the bar—I was pretty loaded.”

  The Utica lead was different. It was solid and could be supported by official records. It held the potential to be physical evidence that would stand up in court. It also fit with the theory that Nelson had used a second vehicle to leave the area. At the scene, they’d found tire impressions that didn’t come from his pickup truck or the car belonging to the teens who’d discovered the fire.

  It would be a major break if we could match the impressions with the Utica van. Once the information was verified, details about the van and its link to the case would be submitted to regional, state and national crime databases, like the National Crime Information Center and Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Bulletins for the van would go to every law enforcement agency in the country.

  An email arrived from Lori Koller containing photos of the van. Brennan was reviewing them when Dickson returned to the office after following up on the search warrants executed at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center.

  “Not much there. I talked to one coworker, Mark Rupp, who swears he saw Nelson online at work looking at real estate websites and taking notes. But the preliminary search of Nelson’s computer found nothing, so that one dead-ended.”

  The warrants also included Nelson’s personnel file, where Dickson had followed up.

  “We dug up his CV and it’s just what we figured,” he said. “Ten years ago when they hired him, the company’s background check determined Nelson was clean. Nelson said he was from Houston. Turns out he never lived at the address he gave and we now suspect the references he gave were bogus. He likely answered the checks himself. As for activity on his credit card, banking and phone records, we’ve still got nothing. Ed, this guy’s invisible.”

  “Maybe not for long—take a look. A woman in Utica just called. She’s certain she sold her van to Nelson a few months ago.”

  The detectives studied the photos on Brennan’s monitor. Several views of a silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van.

  “Bit by bit we’re gaining on him, Paul. Bit by bit.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Rampart, New York

  Magnified images of death reflected on Morten’s glasses.

  Staring into his twenty-four-inch monitor, the pathologist was thankful he’d persuaded the town and county to buy the scanning electron microscope. The unit took up one corner of his small lab across the hall from the cooler and the autopsy room at Rampart General. He was using it to search for microscopic clues into the cause and manner of death of the third victim whose remains were found at the scene.

  The deceased was a female.

  Her identity was still unknown, but since the case had gained a greater profile—Field of Screams, one New York City paper called it—Compton was confident that it was only a matter of time before they had confirmation, because now he had more help.

  Radiographs of the deceased’s teeth had been sent electronically to the chief forensic odontologist at the New York State Police lab in Albany. The FBI was also assisting in accelerating DNA analysis for comparison through its CODIS system with forensic DNA evidence from other criminal investigations across the country and around the world. The FBI was also comparing the deceased’s DNA with the sample provided by Kate Page.

  While awaiting word on identification, Compton continued his investigation with the scanning electron microscope. It was unusual for a small jurisdiction like Rampart to have such a piece of equipment. The price tag of a new Swiss-made model was $250,000, but Compton got a second-hand version for next to nothing through a contact at MIT.

  The green light to buy it was part of the agreement by the locals to convince Compton not to accept
a job offer in Arizona. He’d also taken a course on how to operate the equipment. And recently, he’d attended a conference in Chicago that included a workshop on how to use the technology to analyze markings of bones found at crime scenes.

  The unit’s magnification power was stunning. The image on the screen of bones looked otherworldly, but to Compton it was evidence. He’d already concluded that the deceased was approximately five feet four inches or five feet three inches in height. Twenty-three to thirty years of age. The cause, manner and time of death remained a challenge because of the condition of the remains.

  When the remains were removed, the forensic investigators working on the immediate scene sifted the soil and used metal detectors to determine if bullets were fired into the body, or if a knife, or identifying jewelry, or any other evidence was present.

  The body had been found in a makeshift grave in bramble, leaving much of it exposed to air, which had an impact on the rate of decomposition. Little skin was left, much of it like leather. Some of the bones were no longer enfleshed or connected by ligaments, which meant they’d been displaced. At first Compton theorized that a combination of decomposition and animal disturbance accounted for the displacement, but the scanning electron microscope pointed him to something chilling.

  Further analysis revealed that the body had, in fact, been dismembered, postmortem.

  He’d found marks left on the bones, marks indicating cutting.

  With the higher magnification he was able to study the striations formed by the cutting teeth of the saw. The marks were unique in the push and pull strokes. This could point to a specific saw used. Compton was making notes for the report he would send to the FBI for its Firearms/Toolmarks Unit (FTU). The Bureau’s analysts could compare the marks and use their expertise and tool databases to point to the model and make of the saw used.

  It would be a lead.

  Compton removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes and reflected on the case. The killer had dismembered the victim after death and placed the remains in a shallow grave like pieces of a puzzle awaiting assembly.

  Field of Screams is not that far off the mark.

  We’ve got something evil at work.

  Compton’s phone rang.

  “Morton, Colin Hawkley in Albany.”

  “Hey, Colin.”

  “Got an ID on your female deceased, are you ready to take it down?’

  As Compton reached for his pen he stared at his monitor. The magnified images were about to become more than bones. Soon they’d have a name; soon they’d be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife or someone’s sister.

  They’d be a life to be mourned.

  CHAPTER 30

  New York City

  A scream pierced the air.

  It was followed with squeals of delight rising from crowds at the Children’s Zoo in Central Park where Kate had taken Grace.

  This was one of their favorite places to go. Kate had even brought Grace here for her birthday a couple of months ago.

  Now, it was after school and Kate had finished at Newslead, but she was anxious to hear back from sources and checked her phone often. There was nothing new from Goodsill in Denver on a link to Alberta and nothing from Davidson on reaching out to hackers. Looming over everything was Kate’s agitation while awaiting identification of the third victim at Rampart.

  The fear that it could be Vanessa gnawed at her in ruthless juxtaposition to the park’s calming beauty, the trees arching over the sidewalk portrait sketchers, the vendors, and the young street artists creating huge iridescent soap bubbles. And there was Grace’s favorite, the musical clock tower with its animal band that circled while striking a classical tune every half hour.

  Sometimes the songs were seasonal, like “April Showers” in spring or “Jingle Bells” in December.

  “Look, Mom, they’re starting!” Grace pointed.

  The musicians began playing the nursery rhyme, “Three Blind Mice,” with the hippo on the fiddle leading the elephant, the goat and the others. As the animals danced and Grace sang along, Kate’s phone rang. She took the call while keeping her eyes on her daughter.

  “Kate, it’s Ed Brennan in Rampart.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve confirmed the identity of the third victim.”

  In the moment before Brennan said another word, Kate gripped her phone and held her breath. Her world moved in slow motion—the penguin banging the drum, the bear tapping the tambourine. All sound suddenly deadened as if she was underwater, again, struggling to breathe.

  “Kate? Did you hear me?” Brennan repeated. “It’s not your sister.”

  “Yes.” She took a breath, sat on the nearest bench, dug out her pen and pad, looking at Grace as the clock played on. “Yes, can you give me the name and details?”

  “We’re putting out a news release within the hour.”

  “Can’t you tell me anything now?”

  “We’re playing things pretty tight.”

  “Are you any closer to finding Nelson, any leads?”

  “Kate.”

  “But you’re still looking for more victims, right?”

  “I can’t discuss anything further. Watch for the release.”

  The call ended, leaving Kate stunned.

  Now, another family is going to be devastated. If it’s not Vanessa, then where is she? How many more bodies will they find?

  Kate sat there, wondering. And as the clock’s tune played she recalled its haunting words.

  They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife. Did you ever see such a sight in your life?

  Grace ran to her.

  “Mom, can I get a drink?”

  “Sure, then let’s go home.”

  * * *

  In the cab, Kate alerted Newslead that she’d have a story coming on the third victim. Less than a minute later, Reeka called.

  “We’re going to need something with an exclusive peg, Kate.”

  “I don’t even have a name yet, Reeka. I’ll do what I can.”

  Kate exhaled and shook her head slowly. When the cab got to their neighborhood, Kate and Grace picked up soup, salads and sandwiches from the corner deli for their supper. By the time they got home, the news release had been posted on the Rampart PD’s website. As they ate, Kate looked into the pretty, smiling face of the victim, then read the information.

  She was Mandy Marie Bryce, aged twenty-six, from Charlotte, North Carolina, a dental assistant who’d been missing for four years. She was last seen at Virginia Beach, Virginia, walking from a restaurant to her hotel where she’d been attending a conference.

  Rampart PD’s release provided few other details, so Kate went online, pulling older articles from the Virginia and Charlotte newspapers, gleaning data from them. She soon learned that Mandy had a little brother with Down syndrome and that she’d volunteered with many groups. She was engaged to a carpenter, who’d been cleared as a suspect, and had organized searches for Mandy in Virginia. To help their case, police had pinpointed Mandy’s last known whereabouts and released her last text to her boyfriend and his response.

  Probably my imagination, but I think I’m being followed.

  Go into the first store or bar and call a cab.

  Mandy had never answered and her boyfriend had called Virginia police.

  Investigators soon determined that Mandy’s hotel room key was never used after she’d texted her boyfriend. Records showed no activity on her phone, bank and credit cards at any point after her last text. Mandy had vanished. Until four years later, when her remains were found in a shallow grave near a barn in New York.

  She compared Mandy’s case to what had happened to the first victim, Bethany Ann Wynn, aged nineteen when she went missing. Bethany was last s
een leaving her part-time job at a mall. She was waiting for a bus to her home in suburban Hartford, Connecticut. Both cases were miles apart but seemed to fit a pattern: young women who’d vanished while alone in vulnerable places.

  Kate’s heart skipped a beat when she felt a hand on her lap.

  “Mom, can I have some cookies?”

  She smiled at Grace.

  “Just one. Then brush your teeth and reach back, like the dentist said.”

  Kate sighed, then resumed reading.

  It appeared that both Bethany and Mandy had been stalked. Was there a connection to their financial records and the data center where Nelson worked? What was his real name? Did he have a tie to Denver, or was everything circumstantial? Kate needed to do a lot more digging but it had to wait, because right now she had to pull a story together.

  In the older news articles she saw that from time to time, Mandy’s mother, Judy Bryce, had spoken to the Charlotte Observer.

  The keys on Kate’s keyboard clicked and within a minute she had a listing in Charlotte and called it, hoping that Brennan had notified the family. The line rang five times before a man answered.

  “Hello, my name’s Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead, the wire service in New York.”

  “Yes.” His tone was neutral.

  “Would it be possible to speak with a relative of Mandy Marie Bryce? It concerns the news release issued a short time ago by police in Rampart, New York. I take it you’re aware of it?”

  “Yes, we’re aware.”

  “Would you be a relative, sir?”

  “Me? No, you want Judy. I’m a friend of the family, hang on.”

  The sound of a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and muffled words about a reporter in New York.

  “I’m Judy Bryce, Mandy’s mother.”

  “My condolences for your loss, Mrs. Bryce,” Kate said, repeating her introduction and explanation for calling before requesting Mrs. Bryce reflect on her daughter for her news story.