by Rick Mofina
The word out of the morning meeting was that a bad one had emerged out of Region 3, the Midwest.
She logged onto her computer, then took in her unit, the soft murmur of conversations and the clicking of keyboards as some forty crime analysts worked at solving crimes. The program, known as ViCAP, maintained the largest investigative database of major violent crime cases in the US.
Salvito’s unit collected and analyzed information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons and unidentified human remains, searching for links among cases that were scattered across the country.
ViCAP was headquartered within Critical Incident Response Group—the CIRG building—at the FBI Academy about forty miles southwest of Washington, DC, nestled in an expanse of Virginia forest.
Salvito had come a long way from Queens, where she’d been a detective with the NYPD, before becoming an FBI crime analyst with ViCAP.
Like most CAs, she was devoted to the program and its ability to connect cases and catch criminals. Given her background, she was good at assuring detectives that the information they submitted, particularly their holdback information, which only they and their suspect knew, was zealously guarded by the FBI analysts.
“I know your holdback is your case. I’ve been there,” Salvito would tell them. “We follow your instructions to the letter. No other agency sees your holdback without your say-so.”
Before Salvito scrolled through her files, she opened her can of cold diet cola. She preferred cold soda in the morning to coffee. As she took a sip her computer pinged.
This is it. Here we go.
The new case came via Minnesota out of the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in Saint Paul. Salvito keyed in her security codes to the file. It had been submitted by BCA Agent Lester Pratt. She went first to the Details of Discovery section, showing the date that a homicide victim was found in Lost River State Forest, near the Canadian border.
She’d been buried alive.
The body belonged to an unidentified white female, five feet four inches, one hundred twenty pounds, age between twenty-four and twenty-eight. Her fingertips had been disfigured, likely with acid. Still, Minnesota had submitted them to the national fingerprint database.
Good, they were smart to do that. It could be a signature.
The victim also had a tattoo of a small heart with wings on the left upper neck. That was submitted to databases for missing persons. They’d also submitted a dental chart. DNA from the crime scene had been submitted to CODIS and other databanks. Given the backlog at CODIS, results might take a while, but sometimes people were lucky.
No evidence of sexual assault.
Salvito reflected for a moment before continuing. There was a lot of other detail to review but like most CAs, she then went right to the evidentiary mode, key fact evidence.
In this one, the critical piece of evidence was the tire impressions at the scene belonging to the suspect’s vehicle. No other tracks or impressions were detected at that scene, aside from foot impressions believed to belong to the victim and the suspect. In the case of the suspect, it was believed he wore a size-twelve boot.
The holdback was the belief the suspect recorded the crime, arising from impressions from a tripod that were found in soil in which conditions were consistent with the time frame for the tire and foot impressions.
Okay, we’ll just lock that away.
The tire impressions were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E. The file included photos of casts, enlarged to show tread wear and other characteristics.
This is good. This is pretty unique. It’s a solid identifier.
Salvito took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then, using the tire evidence, ran a comparison with other similar cases in the system for the region and states she was responsible for. She was in Region 1, and the states that fell to her were South Carolina, Maryland, New Jersey and New York.
Starting with South Carolina, she entered codes and information about the tires. In a few seconds the response was negative. Then she tried Maryland and found nothing. New Jersey yielded no response, as well.
Last one, New York.
She keyed in the information, hit Enter and within seconds a file was found. She opened it.
Goodness, this file’s huge, with numerous victims and details.
She went to the key fact evidence.
There was a necklace with a guardian angel charm.
And tire impressions.
The tire impressions were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E, the same as with Minnesota.
Bingo! Salvito clapped her hands. Gotcha!
The file had been submitted by Detective Ed Brennan, Rampart PD.
Salvito reached for her phone.
CHAPTER 50
Rampart, New York
Driving home from the hospital in the morning, Ed saw his wife and son in the rearview mirror, asleep in the backseat.
Marie had her arm around Cody.
He’d had a seizure in the night, one that lasted fifteen minutes, which was normal for him. To be safe, they’d taken him to the emergency room. The episode was all part of Cody’s condition and had passed, the doctor said. He was fine. Take him home.
Stopped at a light, Brennan rubbed his tired eyes.
He hadn’t been sleeping. His frustration with the case had been keeping him up most nights because no matter how hard everyone was working, they had nothing new to help them find Carl Nelson.
Putting Nelson on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted had yielded tips from news reports, but none were concrete. And nothing had arisen in the search for the van.
The FBI’s Cyber Crime team had picked up what appeared to be a trail of Nelson’s old internet activity but it went cold. He was good at covering his tracks. The warrants they’d executed had not led anywhere. The information they’d developed from the victims they’d identified so far had not generated any hits with local, state, national and international crime databases.
The Mounties in Canada hadn’t uncovered any new, solid evidence tying the Tara Dawn Mae message they’d found carved in the barn’s ruins to the Alberta abduction. The necklace element was still circumstantial. Yes, there were theories but nothing harder than that, so far. It could have made its way to the crime scene any number of ways. Still, the Tara Dawn Mae message was troubling.
In town, nothing significant had emerged from interviewing Nelson’s neighbors and coworkers.
No new evidence had been discovered at the primary crime scene, although the forensic work there was far from finished. Thankfully, they hadn’t found any new graves.
They still had eight homicide victims they were trying to identify.
The conditions of the remains continued to make identifications difficult. Not every case offered distinguishable attributes, like fingerprints, usable dental charts, tattoos, medical implants, clothing or jewelry. And DNA extraction for comparison was also a time-consuming challenge. Confirming identities of the victims was critical to the investigation.
Any one of these cases could lead us to Nelson. We just need a break.
Marie pulled him from his thoughts to immediate matters.
“Stop at the store. We’re out of bread and milk.”
Millard’s Corner Store was four blocks from their house. Brennan went in, selected a quart of milk from the cooler then went to the bread aisle. As he reached for a loaf his cell phone rang. The number was blocked.
“Hello.”
“Detective Ed Brennan with Rampart PD?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“Carly Salvito with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in Quantico, Virginia.”
It took a moment for Brennan to focus on the significance.
“ViCAP?”
> “Yes, sir. You recently submitted a case to us.” Salvito recited a twelve-character number.
“I don’t have the number with me, but we did submit to ViCAP.”
“Sir, we have a very strong case-to-case link concerning your homicides in Rampart, New York, and another jurisdiction.”
“What’s the other jurisdiction?”
“Minnesota. A recent homicide in Lost River State Forest.”
Brennan moved to set the milk down, wedged his phone to his ear with his shoulder, fished out his notebook and started writing.
“Can you tell me what the strong link is? How recent is this case?”
“That’s not our procedure. As you know we respect everyone’s key fact evidence. What I can do right now is give you the contact information for the investigator on the Lost River case so you can talk to each other. Let me know when you’re ready to copy.”
“I’m ready.”
* * *
Across the country in Rennerton, Minnesota, BCA agent Lester Pratt, an early riser, was alone in his kitchen making scrambled eggs when his cell phone went off for the second time that morning.
In consideration of his wife, who wouldn’t be up for another two hours, he’d kept his phone on vibrate.
“Pratt.”
“Lester Pratt with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension?”
“Yup.”
“Ed Brennan, Rampart PD, Rampart, New York. ViCAP in Quantico gave me your number.”
“They just alerted me to a hit saying I should expect a call.”
After talking for nearly twenty minutes the two investigators agreed that their cases were linked through the tire impressions and other aspects. The next step was to share more evidence to find common links that would lead them to the killer.
* * *
Less than an hour later, Brennan had showered, eaten a bagel and was at his desk in the Investigative Unit of the Rampart Police Department.
There was no sign of Dickson. Most of the detectives were out. Brennan glanced at the case status board, the faces of the victims, the facts and the numbers: a total of fifteen victims, eight of them still unidentified. They’d now pursued more than one hundred local tips.
But ViCAP had come through, he thought as he went to his lieutenant’s office and knocked on the door. Steve Kilborn was on his phone and held up a finger to Brennan before he ended his call.
“Something’s up, Ed, I see it in your face. This good or bad?”
“Good.”
After Brennan updated him, both men went to the captain’s office and briefed him. After listening, Kennedy cupped one hand over his mouth and thought for a moment.
“All right. We can’t lose time on this,” Kennedy said. “Ed, you and Dickson get on the next plane to Minnesota and start working with BCA. I’ll alert the Chief, the county, state and the FBI. We’ll expand the task force. None of this leaks out! We can’t let the suspect know we’re this close.”
After Brennan had collected his files onto a secure, encrypted USB key he went home to pack.
It was a huge break, but it came with a huge price.
Another unidentified victim.
Who is she? And will her death help us stop this monster?
CHAPTER 51
Chicago
A lake-driven wind pressed dead leaves against the black granite headstone in New Jenny Park Cemetery.
Kate brushed them away and read the engraving:
Krasimira Anna Zurrn
Born June 29, 1945. Died October 12, 1998.
Beloved Mother of Sorin.
Tragedy upon tragedy, she thought. A drug-addicted prostitute takes her life because she believed her son had killed a schoolmate. That son is regarded by all who remember him as weird and creepy, a fact hammered home by what Kate saw in the crawl space of their basement last night.
“He built a wooden box in there, looked like a coffin,” Ritchie Lipinski, the landlord, had said. “I pulled it out, took it to the landfill. I don’t know what the hell that freak was into.”
Ritchie hadn’t given Kate any problems. In fact, he’d let her take photographs and had promised to find ones he’d taken of the box.
In her hotel room later, she was tormented by images of the crawl space, Sorin Zurrn’s history and her growing belief that it was all tied to Rampart.
And Vanessa.
Kate was getting closer to the truth about Carl Nelson. She could feel it in her gut, but she needed more than a feeling.
Earlier that morning, her phone had rung with a call from an administrator with the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church who’d agreed to meet her. Since the cemetery was on the way, Kate stopped to see Krasimira Zurrn’s grave site and take photos.
She checked her phone. It was time to go.
The church wasn’t far. Its twin tower facade soared over the neighborhood. It was more than a century old, built in the Romanesque style with beautiful stained glass windows. After parking, Kate went by the ornate wooden doors, taking the sidewalk leading to the office in the rear, as instructed, and pushed the button for the bell.
A short woman came to the door. She had Cleopatra bangs and large black-framed glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
“Kate Page, here to see Joan DiPaulo.”
“Yes, I’m Joan. Come in.”
The smaller woman took Kate down a hallway smelling of candle wax, linen and incense. They came to an austere office. A crucifix on the plain white wall looked down on the desk, computer, phone and file cabinet. The woman indicated a wooden chair for Kate.
“Now, my apologies for not getting back to you,” Joan said. “We don’t have regular hours at this office.”
“That’s fine, I understand.”
“In your call you said you’re doing some genealogical work?”
“I’m looking into the history of a family.”
“Your family?”
“No.”
“Oh, are you with an estate lawyer? Do you have a letter?”
“No.” Kate put her Newslead identification on the table.
The woman slid on her glasses and studied it.
“A reporter?” The warmth in her voice evaporated. “You shouldn’t have misrepresented yourself to me on the phone.”
“I didn’t. I said I wanted to research a family history. And here I’ve identified myself to you.”
“I’m sorry.” She handed the ID back to Kate. “I can’t help you. Church policy forbids me from disclosing the private information of parishioners.”
“I understand, but please let me explain the background.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I’m unable to help you.”
Kate didn’t move.
Something had triggered a sense of injustice—an eruption of internal anger at how the church bureaucracy that had gone out of its way to protect criminal priests was now stopping her cold in trying to find a murderer and the truth about her sister.
“I’m a Catholic, Joan.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe I’m not a good Catholic, but our parents had us baptized.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with this. Now, as I’ve said—”
“Please, let me put all my cards on the table and tell you why I need your help.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have the time.”
“This is extremely important. It’s information you should know.”
Joan sighed.
“Please, ma’am.”
“Be brief.”
Kate began with her own tragedy, her lifelong search for the truth about Vanessa, then fast-forwarding to the discovery of her necklace at Rampart, the horrors there, the message and links to the Alberta abduct
ion, the Denver suspect, which brought her to Chicago and her work on the Zurrns. Kate unfolded a photocopy of Krasimira Zurrn’s obituary from the newspaper. “I need any information you could help me with on this family.”
Joan read the clipping, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”
Kate struggled to keep control.
“Does your computer have access to the internet?”
“Yes, but I see no reason to continue this.”
“Please, one more thing. Then I’ll leave. Go to this website.” Kate jotted an address on her notebook and turned it to her.
“Please. Go to this site. It’s important and it won’t take long. Please.”
Joan went to the site. Soon her breathing quickened as she clicked on stories about the Rampart case. The faces of the victims who’d been identified stared back at her.
“I’d like you to remember those faces,” Kate said, “because in not helping me you’re helping the man who murdered these women. So later tonight when you lay your head on your pillow, just consider who we really protect and who we hurt when we serve bureaucracy without question. I’m sure a new face will emerge soon and when it does, I’ll send you her picture. We know the killer will be especially grateful to the church, which could have done something to stop him but chose not to. Thanks for your time, Joan.”
Kate stood to leave.
“Wait.”
Kate turned.
“I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a champion of evil.”
“It was directed at the institution. I’m sorry, but I have an emotional connection to all of this and—I’m—”
“Kate, tell me what you’re looking for.”
“I’m just trying to locate family members and thought the church might have records.”
“We’ll keep this confidential?”
“Like the seal of the confessional.”
Joan thought a bit longer, consulted the obituary before typing on her keyboard. Within seconds it beeped. Kate was unable to see what she was reading on her monitor. A long moment, heavy with anticipation, passed before Joan typed another command and the printer came to life. She reached for the single sheet, read it, then turned it facedown.
