Authors: Rick Mofina
26
Utica, New York
L
ori Koller, an assistant at Essential Office Supply, set her fresh cup of orange tea on her desk and looked at her calendar.
Day by day.
She sighed.
Ever since her husband, Luke, had died ten months ago, she’d struggled to carry on with their two little girls, the way he would’ve wanted. He was devoted to his family.
She glanced out the window of her building on Genesee Street.
Luke had been a construction worker. He was killed after falling ten stories at the site of a new apartment complex. But Lori hadn’t received much in the way of compensation, because the investigation found that Luke routinely unhitched his safety harness. It complicated everything. Luke’s life insurance policy was small. They had been planning to increase their coverage before he died.
After the funeral costs and the loss of Luke’s income, debts started piling up. Friends helped by holding a small memorial banquet but in grappling with her grief, caring for the girls, who cried for their daddy, Lori had had a rough time. She got counseling for her and her daughters, sold their SUV, their van, Luke’s tools, his boat and trailer, got a smaller car and paid down some bills.
Things were not easy and the hurting never went away, but day by day they were getting better, Lori thought, sipping her tea. She had gotten busy updating the monthly reports when her phone rang.
“Hey, it’s me. Did you see today’s
OD
?”
Her younger brother, Dylan, was a city bus driver, and, judging from the background noise, he was calling from the yard. Why would he ask if she’d read today’s
Observer-Dispatch
?
“No. Why?”
“Go online now and look for the story about Rampart.”
“I’m kinda busy.”
“You have to do it, right now.”
“Dylan.”
“Right now, it’ll only take a moment. I’ll stay on the line to be sure you find it.”
“All right.” Her keyboard clicked. “You are such a pain.” She went online to the newspaper’s website, found the story and started reading.
“Did you find it?” Her brother was anxious.
“Shh!”
Lori read fast, and her attention shifted from the text to the images, particularly the photo of Carl Nelson.
“See the picture of the guy they’re looking for?”
“Oh, my God!”
“It’s him! That’s the guy who bought your van.”
“But he said he was from Cleveland and I don’t think that’s his name. I’d have to check the sales papers.”
“Lori. I was there with you. That’s him! You have to call the police line and tell them.”
“I don’t know, Dylan, this is all scary. It’s all too much.”
“You have to, Lori. Do it right now!”
After Dylan hung up, she looked at the article. At the bottom was the toll-free number of the police tip line. Lori took a few breaths then reread the story. What happened in Rampart was such a horrible thing. Then it occurred to her that she wouldn’t want police to think she was somehow involved. Okay, okay, she’d do what any good citizen should do. Before she realized it, she’d dialed the number.
As the line rang in her ear she stared at the article and the photos, the search for human remains, then into the eyes of the man who had bought her family van.
27
New York City
K
ate scrolled through news stories on her phone while sitting in the upholstered chair in the reception room of her daughter’s dentist.
Still no confirmation out of Rampart on the ID of the remains.
Kate bit her lip to push away the fear.
It had been a day since she’d returned and in that time, between pursuing leads, she’d reconnected with her home life. While she’d only been away a couple of nights, it felt longer. Getting Grace to today’s appointment gave her a sense of being a mom again.
Holding Grace’s jacket in her lap, she traced the little hearts that were on the cuffs, thinking how lucky she was to have her. Grace was her rock, her anchor. She’d kept Kate sane through the years, just by being a kid.
Grace was practically the same age that Vanessa was when the accident happened. She even looked a little like her. Kate smiled and lifted her face to the opposite wall, which was plastered with snapshots of children showing mostly gap-toothed grins.
The display was called “Smiling Angels,” and it propelled Kate back to:
her mother setting down a tray of fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies, the kitchen smelling so yummy. “You can each have one, girls. I don’t want you getting cavities.” She and Vanessa each took one but split a second cookie when Mom wasn’t looking...Vanessa laughing so hard.
Kate suddenly thought of dental records and human remains.
“Hi, Mom!” Grace appeared, clutching her new free toothbrush, floss and toothpaste. “No cavities!”
“That’s great, sweetie!”
“Mom, were you crying?” Grace tugged on her jacket as Kate helped.
“No, just a little tired from the plane.” She blinked. “Let’s get you back to school.”
* * *
After taking Grace to school and signing her in, Kate got on the subway to Penn Station, then walked to Newslead. At her desk she again scanned the latest stories out of Rampart, checking to see if her competition had broken anything on Carl Nelson.
Nothing had surfaced.
The first message she checked was from Chuck.
Find something today to advance the story, keep us out front.
I’m working on it, Chuck.
Kate was still checking her messages when a new one arrived from Reeka.
Could you please come to my office?
Reeka had her face in her phone, texting, when Kate tapped softly on her open door. She’d noticed how small Reeka seemed behind her desk, as if it, or her position, was oversize for her.
“Please sit down.” Reeka kept her face in her phone. Kate saw that the flat-screen TV in the corner was frozen on footage of the Rampart case. “So...” Reeka exhaled and put the phone down. “How’d things go for you?”
“Okay.” Kate was guarded. “Considering everything.”
“And how’re you holding up, considering everything?”
“I’m okay.”
“Your stories are solid.”
“Thanks.” Kate remained wary, the way a mongoose is wary of a cobra.
“But you do have the inside track.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to show you something.” Reeka played the footage of Kate being interviewed at Rampart, then froze it. “You’re aware of Newslead policy about reporters giving interviews to other press?”
“Yes.”
“Reporters don’t comment on the news without prior permission from a supervising editor. It’s decided on a case-by-case basis. You needed prior permission.”
“Reeka, what is this? You do know what this story’s about? You’re aware of what was agreed to in my covering the case with Chuck, Morris and Ben Sussman? You were part of it. I’ve been digging my ass off. You’re aware of what I’m going through here, and how my ‘inside track,’ as you call it, my personal anguish, is being exploited by Newslead?”
“Of course. And I couldn’t begin to imagine the heartache you’re enduring, but I have to keep in mind what happened in London. That situation eroded our credibility and our integrity. I have to insure we do things by the book, Kate.”
“This is not the same thing as what happened in London, Reeka, and you know that.”
A knock sounded at the door and both women turned to see Sussman standing at it.
“There you are, Kate. I just wanted to say pickup rates on this story are sky-high. We understand how hard this must be personally for you, Kate. We’re all praying for you, so whatever you need, you let us know.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
“Be assured, Newslead’s behind you. By the way, I’ve heard through the grapevine
Good Morning America
and the
Today
show, are showing interest in having you on soon. So let’s see how things go.”
After Sussman left, Kate turned to Reeka.
“I’d like to get back to work.”
* * *
Kate detoured to the restroom to check her face and contend with the corporate hypocrisy.
We’re all praying for you. A few days ago they all wanted me fired. If I didn’t love the job here—if Chuck didn’t have my back I’d—calm down. Just calm down and stop thinking about yourself.
Back in the newsroom, Kate was struck with an idea.
She went to the business section and the desk of Hugh Davidson, who reported on computer technology. Hugh was otherwise known as Newslead’s Emperor Nerd. He was partial to bow ties and pastel shirts.
“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.”
28
Rampart, New York
L
ori 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.”