Full Tilt (9 page)

19

Rampart, New York

F
aces of the dead and missing.

Enlarged photographs of Carl Nelson, John Charles Pollard, Bethany Ann Wynn and Tara Dawn Mae stared from the corkboard at the men and women who’d gathered at Rampart police headquarters.

Investigators from the Riverview County Sheriff’s Office, the New York State Police and the FBI were now helping on the case.

In all, two dozen law enforcement people were seated around the board table studying the three-page summary Ed had prepared.

He tested his remote control for his laptop, which was connected to the large screen at the end of the room, and took a hit of coffee.

“Okay, let’s get started.” Brennan cleared his throat. “The purpose of this meeting is to bring you up to speed on what we know, what we’ve done, what we’re doing and what we need to do. Then we’ll take your feedback.”

While displaying images of the key players, the crime scene and evidence, Brennan said that the investigation adhered to the following scenario: that Carl Nelson, of Rampart, a man with no prior record, abducted and held Bethany Ann Wynn, of Hartford, Connecticut, captive in an abandoned barn for three years. After that time, he intended to kill her and stage his own suicide in a ruse that involved burning the barn after murdering former sergeant John Charles Pollard, whom he lured or abducted to the site from a Buffalo homeless shelter.

Given the severity of fire damage to Pollard’s body, autopsy results were inconclusive but showed a 9mm round was recovered from Pollard’s skull. Ballistics confirmed it was fired from a Glock 17, registered to Nelson and recovered at the scene. However, the autopsy also found a significant skull fracture from blunt trauma.

“We believe that Nelson killed Pollard then set fire to the barn intending to kill Bethany Ann Wynn, who was bound with rope in a confinement area. We believe the fire loosened her bindings, allowing her to escape at the final moment.”

Brennan explained that Nelson left a note in a Ford F-150 pickup truck, registered to him and found near the scene. “The note was printed on a laser printer, consistent with one recovered this morning at Nelson’s residence. Search warrants were executed earlier this morning for Nelson’s residence and place of employment as a senior systems technician at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center.

“Nelson had called in sick two days before the fire, prior to a weekend, which would have given him ample time to prepare.” Brennan clicked to a picture of Bethany Ann Wynn smiling. “Prior to her death from her injuries, Bethany Ann Wynn indicated that there were ‘others.’” Brennan clicked back to the barn’s charred ruins. “Troop B’s forensic unit continues processing the site as we speak, but has indicated evidence in the barn shows the crude construction of confinement rooms, the installation of a generator and a sophisticated use of a coil to steal small amounts of electricity undetected from power lines running nearby. This way Nelson kept a small part of the structure heated in winter.”

Brennan felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Ignoring the call, he clicked on a photograph of Tara Dawn Mae and gave a summary of her fifteen-year-old case out of Brooks, Alberta, Canada.

“Among the evidence at the scene—this message carved into a wooden beam.” Brennan clicked on an enlargement of the carving. “And this item.” He clicked on the necklace. “A couple of things. One, the necklace has been submitted for analysis. We understand that there may have been a million of these charms sold some years ago. We’re working with the FBI and the manufacturer to determine more information on an identity of the owner. It was found at the scene, damaged in the fire. We may have a lead, but the engraving is illegible.”

Brennan continued.

“Two, we’re also working with the RCMP on this aspect of the investigation. If Nelson abducted Tara Dawn Mae, it means he may have held her captive for over fifteen years. Other case histories show that perpetrators have kept their victims for even longer periods, so we don’t know what we’re dealing with here, but what’s emerging is chilling.”

Investigators had a lot of work ahead of them, including processing the scene and looking deeper into Carl Nelson’s background.

“After executing the warrants, we’re combing through Nelson’s credit cards, bank, phone, internet and every other record. No leads have surfaced so far,” Brennan said. “Now, we’ll open this up to questions and feedback.”

“Sounds to me, Ed—” Vern Schilling, a veteran New York State Police investigator, legendary for having one of the NYSP’s highest clearance rates and being a prick to other detectives, adjusted his glasses “—that given Nelson’s professional expertise, he’s a guy who could outsmart you and disappear.”

“Except that we know what he did and I don’t think that was his intention.”

“What do Nelson’s friends and neighbors have to say about him?”

“Not much. We talked to his employer. We know Nelson’s lived in the community for some ten years and that he was quiet, practically socially isolated.”

“Hard to do that in a small town,” Schilling said. “Somebody’s got to know more about him. You need to push harder.”

Brennan caught a look of unease from his lieutenant.

“Did you look into the history of the burial grounds and the old insane asylum?” one of the Riverview County deputies asked. “Maybe Nelson has a connection to it?”

“That’s on our list.”

“What about online, maybe Nelson’s part of a porn production network?”

“The FBI’s helping with that.”

“Ed, why wouldn’t he just shoot the girl, Bethany? Why would he risk her getting free to disclose his activities?” a Rampart detective asked.

“Maybe he did and missed, maybe he was confident the fire would kill her? We don’t know the answer to that one.”

Brennan’s cell phone vibrated again, and again he ignored it, taking more questions before Vern Schilling looked up from his notes.

“Tell me something,” Schilling said. “If Nelson set this up, then vanished, how did he get in and out? Did he have another vehicle? Did he have help, because this is a long way to walk?”

“It’s a good question. We’re checking for other access points and for evidence of other vehicles.”

Brennan went around the table for final questions.

“Your summary here mentions a public appeal for information, as in news conference. When are you planning to do that?” Wade Banner, the FBI agent from Plattsburgh asked.

“Within the next day or so,” Brennan said. “Okay, thank you, everyone.”

“Hold on,” Schilling said. “I’m curious why you didn’t obtain warrants sooner on Nelson’s residence and job?”

“We needed to confirm the male victim’s identification.”

“You’re kidding. With all the circumstantial evidence—his truck, the note and ballistics confirm his gun used. Come on, Ed. With that much time lost, you allowed for the potential of people going in and out of Nelson’s residence, possibly removing or destroying evidence.”

“We had a patrol sitting on the house, Vern.”

“Like you did at the scene? I heard about a woman walking all over it and taking pictures.”

“That was very brief. We addressed it and believe no harm was done to the scene.”

“Let’s go back to Nelson. If he’s a technician at MRKT DataFlow and had access to accounts, isn’t it possible that he selected the victim through her account?”

“That’s possible, but she didn’t have an account that they processed.”

“Well, on another angle, given his access, he could easily have stolen identities, right?”

“That’s under investigation.”

“And, with his expertise, there’s a strong chance he’d have the skill to destroy evidence remotely. Did you think of that?”

“Vern.” Brennan inhaled, let out a long, slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “We thought of that. But let me say with the greatest respect—no one knows better than you—that each case has challenges. Second-guessing doesn’t help.”

“Whoa.” Vern held up his palms. “I’m only offering my feedback, as requested.”

Brennan caught his captain’s reaction as he subtly telegraphed to Brennan to let it go. He did.

“Thank you, Vern.”

At that moment, Beverly, the office manager for the investigative unit, knocked on the door as the meeting broke up.

“Ed, I am so sorry to interrupt, but Mitch Komerick has been trying to reach you. He’s at the scene and says it’s important.”

“Thanks, Bev.” Brennan took his phone from his pocket and saw several missed calls from Komerick. He called back without listening to the messages.

“Mitch, this is Brennan. Sorry, I’ve been in a meeting. What’s up?”

“Ed, we’ve found something,” Komerick’s voice conveyed a sense of urgency. “You’d better come out.”

20

Rampart, New York

A
t the crime scene, New York State Police trooper Dan Larco watched his canine partner, Sheba, sniffing the ground far off in the distance.

During the time they’d been assigned to help find human remains in the ruins of the barn, Larco had been thorough.

After Sheba had probed the burned wreckage, Larco had her search the fields and brush of the surrounding area in a widening grid pattern. They’d started north, moved west, then south, then east. Now, Sheba was in the northeast sector, some seventy to eighty yards away.

If there’s anything out there, she’ll find it.

Sheba could smell a small tooth in a football stadium, which was pretty good for a dog that started life fated to be put down.

She’d been abandoned, found eating garbage in alleys in Queens, put in the pound, then rescued by an animal welfare charity and offered to the state police canine team to train at Cooperstown. Now, the three-year-old was one of the best cadaver detection dogs in the state. She’d also played a key role in finding people in several search-and-rescue operations.

So far, at this site, she’d found only the deceased male in the barn.

A few of the other scene investigators had quietly indicated they were ready to sign off. But Larco was confident that if more human remains were here, Sheba would locate them.

The dog was able to detect human scent at any stage of decomposition, even if the remains were buried several feet under the surface. The scent radiated and weather conditions, like wind, humidity and temperature affected it. Sheba was trained to alert Larco whenever she detected any type of human decomposition by sitting down at the site. She was also trained not to dig up a site, so as not to disturb the evidence.

But Larco knew how her eager-to-please personality got the best of her sometimes. He watched her in the distance, snout to the ground, poking and probing, tail wagging, getting herself all worked up.

She ended searching abruptly, immediately sat and barked.

Had she found something?

Larco didn’t think so for, at times, sitting also meant a false alert—Sheba’s way of saying she was frustrated.

Pissed off
, might be the truth.

She barked again, insistent this time.

“All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Larco was about twenty-five yards out when Sheba ceased waiting and began pawing at the earth under some bramble.

“Hey there!”

Larco chided her because she knew not to do that.

What’s got her so excited?

At first he thought she was pulling branches and sticks in order to get at whatever had her excited. Then she came at him, as if to prove that what was clamped in her jaws was not brush.

It was a leg bone with a decomposing human foot attached to it.

“Damn!”

Larco reached for his radio.

21

Banff, Alberta

D
riving west through Banff National Park amid the grandeur of the towering snow-crowned Rockies filled Kate with an overwhelming ache.

She missed her daughter.

She pulled over at a rest stop and called home.

Service in the mountains was spotty, but the line rang through to Nancy’s voice mail. Kate left a message for Grace, then sought consolation in her daughter’s picture on her screen.

Taking in the majestic landscape as she got back on the road, Kate realized that she’d been climbing mountains all her life in search of the truth. How fitting her search would lead her back to the same highway she’d traveled twenty years ago when everything changed, leaving her the lone survivor of her family, haunted by not knowing what had really happened to her sister.

The new information she’d unearthed these past few days was so startling she’d started doubting it herself. Yet a voice, an unyielding emotional force deep inside, impelled her to hold on to the faint hope that Vanessa had actually been alive all these years.

Don’t let go of it. You can’t let go.

She passed Lake Louise, then entered British Columbia. The thick sweeping forests and jade rivers pulled her back through her life and the memories rushed by her.

Kate’s mother was a supermarket cashier and Kate’s father worked in a factory that made military truck parts. She remembered how her mother smelled like roses, how she felt safe in her father’s big strong hands whenever he lifted her up and said,
How’s my Katie?
She remembered how Vanessa’s eyes twinkled when she laughed and how happy they were in their little house near Washington, DC.

Then came the night when Kate and Vanessa were home together with their babysitter, Mrs. Kawolski, and police came to the door. Kate’s parents had been at a wedding in Boston. Fear had clouded Mrs. Kawolski’s face as the officers filled the kitchen, their utility belts making leathery squeaks as they cleared their throats, the policewoman giving Kate and Vanessa little stuffed bears to hold. “There was a terrible fire at the hotel. I’m so very sorry, your mommy and daddy won’t be coming home. They’re with the angels now.”

Kate was seven and Vanessa was four.

In the month before her death, Kate’s mother had given her and Vanessa each a tiny guardian angel necklace with their names engraved. Vanessa wanted to trade them so she wore the one with her big sister’s name on it and Kate had the angel bearing Vanessa’s name.

They cherished those necklaces.

After their parents died, Kate and Vanessa pinballed through a succession of homes belonging to increasingly distant relatives. Ultimately, they lived with strangers. All Kate remembered from that time was how they were forever moving, city to city, state to state, but lucky to stay together. They were with new foster parents from Chicago when the crash happened.

Not many miles from here.

Kate glanced at her GPS, then at the map folded on the seat, and adjusted her grip on the wheel as the images loomed...
the car sinking...everything moving in slow motion... They never found Vanessa’s body...

No.

She couldn’t think about it now.

After the accident, Kate lived in a never-ending chain of foster homes. Some were good, some weren’t. As soon as she was old enough, she ran away and survived on the streets. She panhandled, lied about her age and took any job she could, but she never stole, used drugs or got drunk. She never prostituted herself.

Somehow Kate managed to follow an internal moral compass, which she believed—no, knew—she’d inherited from her parents.

During that time, Kate couldn’t help dreaming that Vanessa might be alive somewhere. She kept reading news stories about people finding long-lost relatives after enduring years of pain. Those stories and the reporters who wrote them gave Kate hope, gave her direction.

She would become a journalist. She would search for the truth.

At age seventeen, Kate was living in a Chicago group home and taking night classes. She wrote an essay about her yearning to know what really happened,
to be forgiven for
, the night Vanessa’s little hand slipped from hers. Her teacher showed it to an editor friend at the
Chicago Tribune
. Impressed, the editor gave her a part-time news job. From there, Kate went to community college, then on to reporter jobs across the country.

All the while she was quietly searching for Vanessa. She’d sent age-progressed photos to missing persons groups and chased down Jane Doe cases, always in vain.

She was working at the
San Francisco Star
when she fell in love with a cop. After she got pregnant she learned that he’d been lying about his divorce and was married and had two sons. She left California for a job with the
Repository
in Canton, Ohio, where she had Grace at age twenty-three.

Kate thrived at the paper where, through relentless digging, she’d tracked down a fugitive killer. While her work was shut out for a Pulitzer, she won a state award for excellence. But after several years she’d fallen victim to downsizing and was laid off. Things got dire. Kate was juggling bills when she landed a spot on a short but paid job competition at the Dallas bureau of Newslead, the worldwide wire service. She’d helped cover a devastating tornado and broke a national story about a missing baby boy. The competition had been ferocious but it led Chuck Laneer, a senior editor, to hire her last year as a national reporter at Newslead’s world headquarters in Manhattan. Since then, she’d often led on coverage of major crimes and disasters across the country or around the world.

Throughout everything Kate had accepted that her life was an ongoing search for the truth about her sister and forgiveness.

A highway distance sign flashed by.

Kate was now less than forty-five minutes from the crash site.

She let out a long breath and pulled into a gas station in the tiny town of Field, British Columbia. She got fuel, used the restroom, bought a bouquet of fresh flowers and returned to the highway.

As she got closer to the site, her memories of that day twenty years ago grew stronger and...singing voices echoed.

Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O...

Kate and Vanessa were in the backseat. They were both wearing their necklaces. It was a happy time. Their foster father, Ned, a bus driver, was at the wheel, beside him, Norma, his wife, a secretary. They were on vacation, singing and marveling at how the mountains were so close to the road you could almost touch them as they formed sheer rock walls shooting straight up so far you couldn’t see the top.

It got darker and cooler in the shadows of the mountains. Kate remembered Norma telling Ned to slow down each time they’d passed a road sign warning of falling rocks. She remembered that when they came to a great valley the car started making a noise, Ned saying how they’d stop in the next town so he could take a look at it.

They were about ten miles east of Golden, British Columbia, where the Kicking Horse River intertwines with the Trans-Canada Highway.

And on his farm he had a duck...

Suddenly Ned’s swearing, turning the wheel...
bang
...Norma’s screaming...they’re flying—how could that be—flying, spinning...off the road...the world is rolling upside down...the car’s crashing into the river...sinking...everything’s in slow motion...the windows breaking open...cold water rushing in...holding her breath...Ned and Norma screaming, struggling underwater...dark...the dome light’s glow...the car’s upside down...roof banging against the rocky riverbed...the strong current pushing the car...Kate unbuckles her seatbelt...unbuckles Vanessa’s...grabbing Vanessa’s hand...lungs bursting...pulling her out...they’re out of the car swimming...nearing the surface...the current’s sweeping them downriver...numbing her...her fingers loosening...Vanessa’s slipping away...her hand rising from the water, then disappearing... VANESSA!

It all happened here, right here.

Kate had stopped her rental on the shoulder, stood next to it and stared at the river, listening to its rush. It was here. She checked the photographs in the timeworn newspaper clippings, checked the highway’s curve, the rock formations near the river—Three American Tourists Killed When Car Crashed Into River...

Kate didn’t remember much of the aftermath. Images blurred by police, rescuers, flying back to Chicago with a young social worker who cried with her, the memorial services for Ned, Norma and Vanessa, a grief counselor and more foster homes.

And the nightmares.

Vanessa’s hand.

They dragged the river where they could. They used divers and dog teams, search groups and a helicopter, to scour the banks but found nothing after five days of searching. Vanessa’s body may have been wedged in the rocks, they said. It may have been washed up and dragged into the wild by wolves, cougars or a bear. All were possibilities.

Kate was the lone survivor.

Why did I survive? Why me?

She squeezed the flower stems tight as she carefully made her way to the river’s edge. One by one she dropped flowers into the flowing water, watching each of them twirl downstream.

Please forgive me, Vanessa. I’m so sorry I let you slip away. Why couldn’t they find you? I have to know what happened. I can’t go on like this. Are you dead? Are you here, somewhere? Or did you somehow survive? Where are you Vanessa? What happened?

Kate studied the river and scanned the vast forests and glorious mountains. She sat on the bank. It was beautiful, peaceful and spiritual. She didn’t know how long she’d been there when her phone rang.

Surprised that she had service here, she looked at it, thinking it might be Nancy with Grace returning her call.

The number was for Newslead in Manhattan. She answered.

“Kate, Reeka at the office. Can you talk?”

“What is it?”

“The Associated Press has just moved a story out of Rampart, citing unnamed sources, saying that additional human remains have been found in what police suspect are multiple murders at a remote barn site. Kate, why didn’t you alert us to this?”

“What?”

Kate’s mind raced.
Reeka’s nerve! More victims! Was Vanessa one?

“Why didn’t you advise me of this, Kate, given your involvement?”

“You wanted me fired for my
involvement
, Reeka.”

“You’re still a Newslead employee.”

“But you wanted me fired. You said there was no story there.”

“Obviously things have changed.”

“What do you want from me?”

“This is poised to become a huge story and we can’t let our competition beat us on it. I want you to tell me all you know so I can pass it to our bureau people in Rochester and Syracuse.”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

Kate hung up and stared at the river.