“I’m saying that skeleton belongs to the girl they’ve been looking for. Jessica Bergsten. And I know that because…I did it. I did it, Augie, okay? I confess! I snapped and I attacked her. I raped her. I murdered her. Then I drove a couple hours and dumped her body in the desert.”
Augie is dumbstruck. What Mark is saying is so awful, so outrageous, it can’t possibly be true. Can it?
“I betrayed everything and everyone I love!” Mark moans. “But most of all, I betrayed Christ. Don’t you see? I’m a pretender just like Judas—only worse!”
“Oh, Mark!” Augie exclaims, wrapping his friend in a tight embrace. “Christ still loves you. I still love you. I’m here for you, now and always. Let’s go to the police, tell them what happened—”
“The police? No way. They’ll lock me up forever!”
“Mark, you have to turn yourself in. It’s the only way. But forever on earth will be over in the blink of an eye. The only judge you need to worry about is God.”
Mark slumps back on the couch, soaking in Augie’s words. As he does, a faint train whistle echoes nearby: Augie lives just a few blocks from the tracks.
Suddenly, Mark blurts out, “I can’t do this!”
He leaps to his feet, turns, and bolts out of Augie’s apartment.
This catches Augie completely by surprise. He calls after Mark, but to no avail. So, despite wearing only boxers and a T-shirt and no shoes or socks, Augie shoots to his feet and chases after Mark.
Outside, Augie sees his friend sprinting down the block toward the tracks. The railroad crossing bell is ringing. The lights are flashing. The gate is down.
The train is barreling in their direction.
“Mark! No!”
But Mark doesn’t slow. So Augie increases his speed. He’s gaining on Mark. He’s getting closer. Closer.
Finally, just a few yards before the crossing, Augie pounces on Mark, tackling him to the concrete. Mark flails wildly, trying to free himself, but Augie holds tight.
Once the train passes, Augie releases Mark. Both men are shaken, panting. “What were you thinking?!” Augie cries.
Mark hangs his head in shame. “You’re right,” he says. “Maybe…maybe I should go to the cops.”
“Amen!” Augie answers. “The truth, Mark, will always set you free. Always.”
Chapter 25
May 7, 1991
Every cop has a stress reliever of one kind or another. It’s practically a job requirement. Some drink. Some smoke. Some gamble.
Carlsbad police detective Richard Castaneda, a heavyset man with close-cropped black hair and aviator-style eyeglasses, likes to whittle.
He keeps a small pocketknife on him at all times, and the glove box of his unmarked sedan is filled with small wooden carvings in progress. He’s found that keeping his hands busy is the perfect way to pass time, especially when he’s staking out a suspect or person of interest.
As he’s doing right now, parked outside a sports bar near Tamarack Beach.
After weeks of working the Jessica Bergsten case, chasing down possible leads—all of which were dead ends—Castaneda has recently received a promising new tip. A cocktail server noticed one of the flyers Jessica’s father wallpapered the city with, and she thinks the victim might have stopped in her bar on the night she went missing.
Castaneda is carefully shaping a wooden hummingbird’s wing when he sees a young woman he believes to be the waitress in question approach the bar’s entrance. The detective puts away his carving, approaches the possible witness, smooths out his tie, and flashes his badge.
“Excuse me. Are you Wendy? I’m Detective Castaneda. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes. Right. Thanks for meeting me. I really hope I can help.”
She can’t.
After they chat for a few minutes at a booth inside the bar, it becomes clear to the veteran investigator that the waitress remembers virtually no helpful details at all about her possible interaction with Jessica. Which is completely understandable. The victim was one of a hundred customers Wendy served on an otherwise uneventful Wednesday night almost two months ago.
Castaneda grows even more discouraged when he shows the waitress additional photographs of Jessica, which were provided to the police by the victim’s family. He hoped they would jog her memory. Instead they only cause her to doubt her recollection even more. The bar was dark, the waitress explains. Packed with thin blond women, as always. Maybe, she says apologetically, she didn’t see Jessica Bergsten after all?
Castaneda gets back into his vehicle, weary and frustrated.
Missing person cases are always challenging—and, sadly, are rarely solved if they stretch on for more than a few days. Castaneda knows, statistically, that at this point Jessica is unlikely to be found alive, if at all. But he’s a professional. He isn’t giving up, and he never will. For her family’s sake, for justice’s sake…
His car radio crackles. Castaneda’s ears prick up when he unexpectedly hears his unit number: “One Lincoln seven, ten ninety-five. Code two central. Over.”
The dispatcher is informing Castaneda that a subject has been placed into custody, and the detective is ordered to return to headquarters immediately. It’s a highly unusual request, and not one Castaneda was expecting. He picks up his radio and responds, “One Lincoln seven, ten four. I’m on my way.”
Walking into the station bullpen some fifteen minutes later, Castaneda is intercepted by Detective Don De Tar, who has also been working the Bergsten case.
“So what’s the big news, Donny? Did we catch the Zodiac Killer or something?”
De Tar, dry and no-nonsense, steers Castaneda down a hall toward the station’s interrogation room.
“Not unless he started murdering folks when he was a baby. We got a twenty-four-year-old white male who walked in the front door about two o’clock. Gave his name as Mark Anthony, but his ID says Rogowski. Apparently, he’s some kind of retired pro skateboarder. Showed up with a guy he calls his ‘spiritual adviser.’”
“Is that a cute way of saying a lawyer?”
“If it is, the kid needs a better one. He waived his Miranda rights. Said he wanted to talk about Jessica Bergsten. He’s claiming he raped and killed her. And those unidentified remains they found in Imperial County last month? He says that’s her.”
The news literally takes Castaneda’s breath away.
Could this really be the break in the case they’ve been working toward for so long?
Or, with both stories in the news lately, could this guy be just some wacko yanking their chain, a troublemaker hoping for a little free publicity?
“Do you believe him?” Castaneda asks warily. “Or do you think he’s full of it?”
He and De Tar arrive at the interrogation room door.
“Let’s find out.”
Chapter 26
Mark Rogowski sits up straighter when two detectives enter the chilly, austere little room he’s been put into. He spoke to one of them earlier; he doesn’t recognize the other.
“Mr. Rogowski? I’m Detective Castaneda. You’ve already met my colleague, Detective De Tar. I’d like to remind you: You still have the right to remain silent. Anything you say to us can and will—”
“I’m done staying quiet, dude,” Mark interrupts. “I want to confess.”
“All right. Just remember: You can change your mind at any time. You also have the right to have an attorney present. If you can’t afford one—”
“Nope. I don’t need one. I answer to a higher power. Not an earthly one.”
The detectives seem to accept that with a shrug. They take seats at the metal table across from Mark, start rolling a tape recorder, and begin their questioning.
“Why don’t you take us through what happened from the beginning?”
And so he does. In eerily calm, detached, painstaking detail, Mark tells the detectives everything.
How Jessica called him one day in March to get lunch and explore the city.
> How they went back to his place later to drink wine and watch movies.
How he’d been feeling such jealousy and anger toward his ex-girlfriend, Brandi McClain.
How he’d driven to Brandi’s house the previous week with thoughts of killing her.
How Jessica, truly through no fault of her own, became a stand-in for his ex-girlfriend that night, simply because the two women happened to bear a resemblance to each other and have some shared history.
How he lost control, attacked Jessica with the Club, and then shackled and raped her for hours.
How he stuffed her into a surfboard bag and strangled her to keep her quiet.
How he drove for two hours with her body in his trunk, tossing evidence out the window, and then buried her in a shallow grave in a desert ravine in Shell Canyon.
Through all his recounting, Castaneda and De Tar keep relatively straight faces. But this last bit of info Mark shares gets the biggest reaction from them.
“You said…Shell Canyon?” asks De Tar. “Can you be more specific?”
“Yeah. I was going east on Interstate 8. I pulled over, dragged the body south, like, a few hundred yards over the sand. That’s when I saw some kinda dried riverbed or something. It looked like a pretty hidden spot, so I buried her next to that.”
The two detectives share a look.
“What?” Mark asks. “Did I say something wrong?”
“That’s one hell of an understatement,” says De Tar under his breath.
Castaneda leans forward. “You did great, Mark. You told us details that were deliberately withheld from the press about where an unidentified body was discovered. You knew things only the real killer could possibly know.”
“Now I’m going to go make some calls to our colleagues in Imperial County,” De Tar says. “Let them know what’s going on.”
Castaneda adds, “They’ll probably try to confirm whether the Jane Doe they got is Jessica. Then they may have some additional questions for you. Would that be okay with you?”
Mark nods. “I’ll do anything I can that’s helpful.”
Castaneda rises. “In that case, please stand, face the wall, and put your hands behind your back.”
Dutifully, Mark obeys.
“Mark Anthony Rogowski, you are under arrest for the rape and murder of Jessica Kay Bergsten.”
Chapter 27
Turning onto palm tree–lined Garfield Street, a caravan of Carlsbad Police Department vehicles comes to a stop in front of a row of two-story, putty-gray beachside condominiums.
As numerous uniformed officers position their squad cars to block access to the road and other officers begin stringing yellow police tape around the area, Detective Don De Tar leads a team of investigators and crime scene techs onto the property.
“Police department! Search warrant!” he hollers, banging on the front door of Mark Rogowski’s condo.
He’s well aware that suspect Rogowski is, at present, in custody at a county jail some ten miles away. In theory, the apartment should be empty. But rules are rules, and the department’s knock-and-announce policy applies to the execution of virtually all search warrants.
After waiting a few seconds and getting no response, he signals to an officer, who uses a crowbar to wrench open the door.
De Tar and his team stream inside.
Based on the lurid, gory details Rogowski shared during his interrogation about his assault on Jessica Bergsten, his apartment must have looked like a slaughterhouse when it was over.
But today, seven weeks later, the place is spotless. There doesn’t seem to be a single shred of evidence anywhere. The carpets, the walls, the furniture—everything looks orderly and pristine.
At least to the naked eye.
De Tar has been in situations like this before. And he has a few tricks up his sleeve to make even the most immaculately bleached crime scene give up its secrets. If Bergsten was beaten and murdered here as Rogowski claims, there will be forensic evidence to prove it.
And damned if De Tar and his team aren’t going to find it.
He directs the CSI techs—identifiable by their white full-body jumpsuits and face masks—to spread out and begin their evidentiary collection process.
For the next three hours, they meticulously swab for fluids. Dust for prints. Comb for fibers and hairs.
Once this initial stage has been completed—and proves fruitless—they move on to phase two, which involves some very clever chemistry.
The techs use handheld spray bottles to douse almost every inch of the apartment with diluted luminol. This pale-yellow crystalline substance is known to react with even trace amounts of certain proteins in human blood that are otherwise invisible to the human eye, and which would require professional, heavy-duty, laboratory-grade chemicals to fully wash away.
Once all the surfaces have been evenly wet, the techs draw the blinds, set up a special slow-exposure camera, and shine a high-powered black light.
“Sweet Jesus,” De Tar whispers, appalled.
The apartment glows brighter than a planetarium.
The living room carpet, the stairs, the bedroom carpet, and the mattress are all covered with giant fluorescent-blue stains and Jackson Pollock–esque splatters.
When techs later pull up the carpet for a closer look, they see that the victim lost so much blood that it actually soaked through to the padding and wood floors underneath.
There’s no other way of describing it.
This is one of the most gruesome crime scenes De Tar has ever seen in his entire career. Even some of the clinical, normally unflappable techs seem unnerved.
De Tar feels an even greater sympathy for Jessica Bergsten than he did before.
And an even stronger desire to see Mark Rogowski pay.
Chapter 28
Slipping on an old pair of running shoes, Brandi McClain steps out of her house and starts jogging along the hilly private road she still lives on with her mother and stepfather. It’s a hot and humid May afternoon. Hardly the perfect running weather. But Brandi is desperate to try anything that might help her clear her head.
She’s still bothered by the unexpected phone call she received a few weeks ago from Jessica Bergsten’s dad.
Near tears, Mr. Bergsten told Brandi that Jessica had recently moved to San Diego, but had been missing for over a month. He asked if Brandi had any idea where Jessica might be, which Brandi didn’t, but she promised to let him know right away if she heard or thought of anything at all that might help the police find her.
The call left Brandi gutted for many reasons. She was horrified to hear that her old friend had disappeared and might be in serious danger, and heartbroken to learn that Jessica had moved to San Diego—largely to follow in her footsteps, it sounded like—yet hadn’t reached out.
And she was all the more upset to realize that was probably because of just how far apart the two had drifted over the last few years.
Back in Arizona, Jessica and Brandi were best friends, as close as sisters, with years of shared history. Jessica was there with Brandi on the fateful night she met Mark Rogowski at a skater party in Phoenix, and she was there for her through the turbulent years of the relationship that followed.
But like many friendships, especially long-distance ones, theirs gradually began to fade. It was neither woman’s fault; they never had a falling-out. It just happened.
Still, Brandi can’t help but feel god-awful about her missing friend.
And in a weird, indescribable way, slightly responsible for it, too.
So while she’s not a religious person by any means—as Mark frequently reminded her—Brandi has been praying ardently for Jessica’s safe return.
After barely ten minutes of jogging, Brandi stops, turns around, and heads home. Huffing and puffing through the foothills of Canyon Lake hasn’t been relaxing at all.
Back in her parents’ kitchen, Brandi pours herself a glass of orange juice and wipes her sweaty face with a towel. She’s about to
hop in the shower when the phone rings.
“Brandi? Hey, girl. It’s George.”
George is an aspiring young fashion designer Brandi met at a photo shoot about a year ago. The two have since become close. He’s normally bubbly and exuberant, but right now he sounds subdued.
“Hi, George. What’s up? Is everything all right?”
“I’m so sorry, Brandi. I’m just so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
Brandi is silent, confused. Is he talking about Jessica’s disappearance? The missing woman has been so much on Brandi’s mind, but she hasn’t talked to George about her—how would he know that she and Jessica were once such close friends? Brandi asks, “For what? What are you sorry for?”
“Oh, God. Please…no…I’m not the first one to tell you, am I? You don’t know?”
Now Brandi’s concern is growing. “Know what?”
George lets out a long, pained breath. “It’s Mark. In today’s paper. You didn’t see?”
Brandi is alarmed, but whatever news story her friend is talking about, she hasn’t seen it yet. “No, George. I didn’t. What are you talking about? Just spit it out.”
“Apparently, Mark has confessed to…to…murder! The cops say he was with this girl and just went crazy. He knocked her out. He raped her. Then he killed her! She was a model from Arizona, like you. Same age and everything. It’s just awful.”
Brandi feels her whole body begin to grow cold and weak. As if every drop of blood were slowly draining away.
No way, she thinks. No! It can’t be. Impossible.
“What…What was the girl’s name, George?” she asks, unsteadily.
Brandi hears a rustling on the other end: George fumbling with the newspaper.
“Her name…was Jessica. Jessica Bergsten.”
Brandi lets out a long, loud, guttural howl.
She drops the phone—and her glass of orange juice, which shatters.
She leans against the kitchen wall—and slowly slides down until her legs are splayed on the tile.
Till Murder Do Us Part Page 19
