Authors: Rick Mofina
68
Newark, New Jersey
W
hen Kate arrived at Viola Memorial Hospital, they wouldn’t let her see Vanessa.
“She’s been sedated,” the doctor told her in the emergency reception area. “She’s asleep.”
“How is she?”
“In some shock, malnourished, dehydrated, but her signs are good—she needs rest.” He uncollared his stethoscope. “She asked about you.”
Kate’s heart lifted.
“I have to be at her side. I don’t want to leave her alone.”
The doctor’s focus shifted to survey the people who’d gathered behind Kate—the FBI agents, state police, senior hospital administration.
“We have an active investigation,” one of the agents said. “We’re attempting to locate a dangerous fugitive. Your patient is our witness and we need to talk to her.”
“Yes, I respect that, but I think in this case allowing a family member to be in the room may prove beneficial to her recovery,” the doctor said.
“As long as one of our people remains present at all times,” the agent said. “And, a police officer remains posted outside the door.”
First, they took Kate to an office where she signed papers for Vanessa. Then she called home.
“You found her! Thank heaven! It’s wonderful news!” Nancy said through tears as Kate told her that she’d be spending the night at the hospital and asked her to get Grace off to school in the morning. Nancy said that with two NYPD officers in the building and more on the street, she felt safe, “even with that monster on the loose!”
Kate then contacted Chuck to give him an update and a quote for Newslead’s story. News outlets were requesting interviews, he said. Kate gave him a statement thanking everyone while pleading for privacy and time so that she and her sister could reconcile their lives.
* * *
A nurse took Kate to an elevator.
When it stopped, the nurse’s soft-soled shoes squeaked as they walked along the polished floor. Kate noticed the antiseptic smell in the hallway, then saw the Newark police officer in a chair outside Vanessa’s room.
The officer nodded.
“You may go in if you like.” The nurse smiled, pushing the door open.
Kate froze.
Is it really over? Twenty lost years compressed into this moment. The sister I’ve carried alive in my heart for two decades is now a few feet from me!
She took a deep breath and entered, absorbing the soft, calming light, the hum and tick of the room’s air system. The FBI agent in a chair at the foot of the bed indicated the empty chair next to Vanessa.
Kate studied her sister as if gazing upon a miracle.
An IV was attached to one arm. An air tube looped under her nose. There were small bloodied scratches on her cheeks and forehead, and her long hair shot out on the pillow in an unkempt panic. Underneath it all, Kate saw a dignified, enduring beauty in the woman she had become.
And as she looked at her, anger bubbled in her gut at all that Zurrn had stolen from Vanessa—her milestones, the things she’d missed. Her first kiss, high school, her first boyfriend, her prom, college, birthdays, Christmas, her sense of family.
Family.
Suddenly memories blazed before Kate like a shooting star, brilliant images of them together as children, up until the horrible crash that tore them apart. She gasped, exploding in heaving sobs she fought to subdue as she reached for her sister’s hand, slowly, painstakingly entwining her fingers with hers, and held tight.
Kate fell asleep in the chair holding on to Vanessa.
* * *
In the morning sunlight filled the room.
Kate woke and saw the FBI agent at the door talking quietly with the police officer. Vanessa was awake staring at the ceiling.
“Hi.” Kate smiled.
Vanessa turned to her and said nothing.
“I’m your big sister, Kate. Kate Page.”
Vanessa swallowed and stared blankly at her, as if afraid. Then her eyes went round the room and her face congested with confusion.
“It’s okay. You’re in a hospital in Newark, New Jersey. You’re free and you’re safe. Police are here watching over you. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Vanessa’s eyes came back to Kate’s and searched them, across oceans of pain to a distant time.
“You’re Vanessa Page,” Kate said. “Our mother’s name was Judy. Our dad was Raymond, but everyone called him Ray.”
Vanessa said nothing but listened.
“We were a happy family. We lived in a house in a nice neighborhood near Washington, DC. We had dolls. You called yours Molly the Dolly. We had a yard and a tire swing where we played. You liked blowing soap bubbles, remember?”
Vanessa blinked a few times.
“Then Mom and Dad died and we were so sad. We had to live with relatives, then we lived in foster homes all over the country.” Kate reached for a tissue. “Then we were on a vacation driving in the mountains in Canada when our car crashed and went upside down into the river. Our foster parents were killed. I had your hand and tried to pull you out, but you slipped away and ever since that moment I’ve searched for you everywhere. Do you remember these parts of your life, Vanessa?”
A long moment went by before she slowly began nodding.
“Mostly I remember you,” Vanessa said.
“Oh...” Kate’s voice broke and as she slid her arms around Vanessa, she felt her sister’s arms around her, holding her with all of her strength. In that moment Kate’s heart flooded with a bittersweet sensation of mourning what they’d lost and celebrating what they’d found. Then Kate noticed the agent and two nurses watching from the door and she started telling Vanessa what was going to happen.
“The people here are going to help you heal. You’re with people who love you and will care for you. I’ll be here every second I can.”
Vanessa nodded.
“The police need to talk to you about Sorin Zurrn, the man who held you. We know he had lots of names, but that’s his real name. The police need to know things, like how he hurt you and the others, who he knew, and if he talked about where he might be going, anything to help them find him.”
“Find him?”
Fear rose in her eyes.
“It’s okay, Vanessa, you’re safe. Police are here.” Kate looked at her and repeated, “I know this is hard to understand, but you’re safe. You’re with me now.”
Vanessa blinked several times then Kate reached for her phone.
“I have a little girl, Grace. You’re her aunt.”
Kate showed her a picture.
“She looks like you,” Vanessa said.
“That’s funny because I think she looks like you.”
Kate smiled, glanced at the FBI agent and continued. “Okay, Vanessa, police will need you to help them. They’ll need you to remember everything and to be strong, just like you were when you helped that girl get away.”
* * *
Kate went home but spent most of the next several days at the hospital.
In that time, Vanessa talked privately in her room with FBI agents from the task force, telling them everything she could about her time in captivity.
For her part, Kate, in a press conference held at the FBI’s Field Office in Manhattan, continued offering condolences to the families of Zurrn’s victims, her thanks for the avalanche of messages supporting her sister and a plea for the public to help find Zurrn. And at Reeka’s insistence, Kate also spoke with Newslead reporters for an exclusive feature on the rescue.
The hunt for Zurrn, the “most wanted man in America,” remained one of the nation’s leading news stories. Across the country and in Canada, the press dug deep at the tentacles of the case that reached into their communities.
Speculation on Zurrn’s whereabouts, his life, his crimes and motive, fueled debate, theories and rumors on national network discussion panels. Zurrn’s evocation of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping case, his near-successful attempt to broadcast a murder-in-progress live online, was chilling. His ability to outsmart detectives while being, what one pundit called, “an invisible chameleon,” made Sorin Zurrn one of the most intelligent and dangerous killers of the past century, according to a strident expert on one cable news talk show.
The FBI, state police in New Jersey and New York, Newark police and the NYPD, continued taking every precaution. They’d mounted an ongoing police presence at Kate’s building, and Kate was routinely driven by law enforcement from Manhattan to her hospital visits.
Newslead, the State of New Jersey and the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance, insured that Vanessa was given the best medical care at the hospital. She received treatment from a psychiatrist expert in helping people with their recovery after being long-term hostages or prisoners.
In the first days, Vanessa’s sessions had gone well. The doctor had insisted that she not see or read news reports of her case, so that she could process the enormity of her experience at her own pace without creating additional stress. The psychiatrist saw Kate as a therapeutic source of comfort for Vanessa and encouraged her hospital visits. Kate brought photos of their early life together and they soon began talking about how they would build Vanessa’s new life.
Little by little the healing had begun.
Over those days, Kate received a message from Erich—
Happy you got your sister back.
But she thought it odd that she hadn’t heard from Ed Brennan.
Then on the seventh day after Vanessa’s rescue, Kate was at home helping Grace with her homework when her phone rang.
“Kate, this is Brennan.”
“Ed, I was wondering why I haven’t heard from you.”
“We’ve been working and we’ve got something.”
“What is it?”
“Nobody outside the task force knows what I’m going to tell you, but after all you and your sister have been through, I owe you.”
“Tell me.”
“You can’t breathe a word to anyone. We put in a lot of hard work on this.”
“I swear.”
“We’ve got him.”
“What, when, where?”
“The other side of the country, we’re locked on to him. It’ll be all over and you’ll be hearing about it real soon.”
69
Near Miles City, Montana
T
he wind rolled in waves over the vast grasslands, tumbling into the coulees and raking the cottonwood grove where Brennan lay hidden from view.
Face clenched behind mounted, high-powered binoculars, he studied the ranch house and outbuildings rising from the plain over a mile away.
This is where Sorin Zurrn’s going to be today.
Through his earpiece Brennan listened to whispered spurts of encrypted transmissions over walkie-talkies.
No movement or activity.
The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team controlled the inner perimeter.
They’d set up lookout posts while sharpshooters and assault team members were concealed in spots surrounding the house. They were backed up by an FBI unit from Salt Lake City and tactical teams from across Montana. They held positions at the outer perimeter, where Brennan and other task force members waited.
Flying above them, silent and unseen, a small remotely controlled surveillance drone sent live images of the isolated region to the FBI’s command post four miles away in a building where the Montana Department of Transportation kept snowplows.
Brennan had been at his perimeter position for ten hours now, confident that the investigation was solid.
This is Zurrn’s property. He’ll be here. Everything fits.
They’d connected all the dots going back to Carl Nelson’s coworker Mark Rupp, who’d glimpsed Nelson looking at a real estate page and making notes more than a year ago. It turned out Nelson had used an absent coworker’s computer, which had been sold later as surplus with other equipment to an out-of-state office supply warehouse.
It was a challenge, but the FBI moved fast and located the unit in Beltsville, Maryland. Examining it, they recovered and extracted the information, like browser history, that led to a real estate sale in Custer County, Montana. Executing warrants, the FBI determined that Zurrn had used a network of aliases and numbered companies to purchase the property under the name Wallace Cordell. When the FBI showed Zurrn’s photos to the agent on the deal she was incredulous. “Yes, that sort of looks like him! But Wallace Cordell had red hair and thick sideburns. My Lord! You’re telling me this is the man on the news?”
The agent said the deal had closed a few months ago and all that was left was for Cordell/Zurrn to take possession very soon. In fact, she’d already left the keys for him in a lockbox. The agent gave the FBI the date Cordell was to arrive to take possession.
“He assured me he’d be there at any time on that date. I was going to drop by after he called me to congratulate him and pick up the lockbox.”
The sprawling property was in a windswept region of farms and ranches. It had been owned by a doomsday cult. Records and plans obtained by the FBI showed that the group had constructed a well-maintained underground bunker, “with a large number of sealable, dorm-like chambers,” to prepare for a predicted Armageddon in 2012. But when the prophesy failed, followers left and the ranch was put up for sale.
It was ideal for Zurrn.
In the days before Zurrn’s possession date, the FBI executed warrants to search it and confirm it was empty, that no victims or prisoners were being held there. They also checked it for hidden cameras or security measures Zurrn may have surreptitiously installed.
Then the FBI questioned Hub Arness, who owned the neighboring property. Hub, who’d always kept an eye on the place, said there’d been no recent activity. But a couple years back there was some regular trouble. “These ex-cult types still trekked out there and sometimes vandalized the property,” Hub said.
Zurrn’s return date and the task force’s swift investigation led to the execution of more warrants and their arrest strategy. The Hostage Rescue Team flew from Quantico, Virginia, and, so not to attract attention, landed about 165 miles away at the Gillette-Campbell County Airport in Gillette, Wyoming.
Then, in an undisclosed location in Montana, the team and equipment were transferred to state and county service trucks. Under cover of night, they embedded at key points on the property while other tactical units, including members of the task force, took up positions in the outer perimeter where they’d been waiting since the predawn hours.
Now, as sunset neared, the radio crackled with a dispatch from the command post.
“Head’s up. Eyes in the sky have activity.”
Brennan tensed.
“We’ve got a van approaching from the east.”
Dust clouds rose in the distance as a lone vehicle rolled along the dirt road to the property. It was headed to the ranch house.
“Hold your positions.”
Brennan dragged the back of his hand across his mouth as he watched through his binoculars.
“Hold.”
The van slowed, then braked. Nothing happened. From what Brennan could see, there was only the driver in the front. Judging from the shadow silhouette, the driver was doing something behind the wheel.
“Maintain positions.”
The driver’s door opened and a male got out and began walking to the rear of the van.
“Go! Go! Go! Go!”
Heavily armed tactical members rushed from their covers with weapons drawn on the driver, instantly putting him facedown on the dirt.
“What the—don’t kill me!”
As the driver was handcuffed a tactical team member fished through his pants for a wallet and ID. According to his Montana driver’s license, the man was Marshall Chang, aged thirty-two from Billings, where he worked for Big Sky Rapid Courier.
“What’re you doing here, Mr. Chang?” an agent asked.
“I’m delivering to Wallace Cordell. This is my last one of the day.”
“Did you speak with Cordell today?”
“No.”
“Do you know his whereabouts?”
“No. I don’t know the guy. This is my first time to this place.”
“What sort of delivery are you making?”
“I don’t know, it says ‘parts.’”
“Parts for what?” The agent turned to another. “Let’s take a look.”
Weapons at the ready, team members opened the van’s rear doors to a large wooden crate. They pried off the lid to find it lined with heavy plastic. The first agent pulled at the plastic, then suddenly recoiled.
“Whoa!”
The agent backed into the second agent, who moved forward to look.
“What the hell?”
Others crowded, peered inside to a mass of severed arms, legs, torsos and heads with sinewy tendons. One agent grabbed the lid and read the shipping label, which was stamped “Urgent Express.”
“Look at this.” He pointed to the shipper’s address. “Studio Quality Body Parts Discount Movie Props, Burbank, California—they’re fake! This is for us! He expected us to find this place and be waiting today!”