Authors: Rick Mofina
7
Rampart, New York
T
he calm
clip-clop
of a passing Amish horse and buggy carried through the window of the Rampart Police Department, belying Kate Page’s unease.
After her plane had landed in Syracuse, she’d made the two-hour drive in a rented Chevrolet Cruze. Mile after mile her knuckles were white on the wheel, until she’d reached the edge of town where Rampart’s sign welcomed her to the Home of the Battle of the High School Bands.
Following the GPS, she went straight downtown to the limestone building housing police headquarters. A receptionist directed her to a creaky hardback bench where she waited for Detective Brennan. Still anxious from her trip, Kate checked local coverage on her tablet.
Mystery Surrounds Double Death. The headline in the
Rampart Examiner
stretched over a sweeping aerial photo of the crime scene. The charred blotch of the obliterated barn was branded on the lush woods like a wound.
Is this where my sister died?
For much of her life Kate had cleaved to the remote hope Vanessa was alive, and, now, to learn that she might’ve died here was overwhelming. But Kate held on to her composure by concentrating on news reports.
A new one posted on a radio station’s site said police still hadn’t identified the victims. However, sources had told the station that the male was believed to be Carl Nelson, an IT technician at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center. They described him as a shy, “near-reclusive” man, whose truck was found near the burial grounds, the site of the fire. Mystery continued to swirl around rumors that a note was left in the apparent murder-suicide. Police remained tight-lipped about the investigation, the report said.
Kate saved the story with others she’d collected.
As she wondered about Carl Nelson, she looked up when someone said her name.
Two men in sport jackets stood before her.
“I’m Ed Brennan, this is Paul Dickson. We appreciate you coming all this way. How was your trip?”
“It was all right.”
“Good. We’ll go in here to talk.”
They went into a windowless meeting room, where Brennan offered Kate something to drink.
“Thank you, water would be fine.”
“I understand you’re a reporter in New York with Newslead, the wire service.”
“Yes.”
A shadow of concern passed over Brennan’s face and Dickson shot him a subtle glance.
“But you’re not here to report on this case. This is a personal matter.”
“Yes.”
“What we discuss here must remain confidential, do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Brennan positioned a chair for Kate and gave her a bottle of water. She sipped some, reached into her bag for the angel necklace and put it on the table. Brennan looked at it then opened his notebook to a clean page.
“For our benefit, Kate, would you please give us an overview of your family’s background?”
Kate recounted the history of the necklace again.
“Would you be willing to volunteer your necklace for us to process for comparison?” Brennan asked.
“Of course. May I see the one you found?”
Brennan was silent for a moment.
“No, I’m sorry, that’s physical evidence. But we’ll show you this.”
He slid a file folder to Kate. She caught her breath at the crisp, enlarged color photograph of an angel necklace. It was battered; the engraving was illegible. It was blackened, set against a white backdrop, next to an evidence tag and photo-document ruler to show scale.
“They are similar,” Brennan said. “We’ll pass yours to the forensic unit.”
Absorbing the charred necklace in the picture, Kate’s thoughts rocketed to Vanessa, the barn fire, the agony she must’ve suffered.
“I just don’t understand,” Kate said.
“What?”
She lifted her head from the photo. “If this is my sister’s necklace, then how did it get from our accident in Canada to here?”
“If it’s hers, there’re a number of possibilities. It could’ve washed onto the shore. An animal could have carried it off. Someone may have found it. Then, over the years, it made its way through flea markets, yard sales and jewelry stores, pawn shops, who knows, back into the world, as it were. We have a lot of theories and questions.”
“So you’re discounting the possibility that my sister survived and somehow turned up here?”
“We haven’t confirmed anything, so we’re not discounting anything. In fact we’ve made some inquiries with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
“Into my sister’s case?”
“Listen, we’d rather not go into detail, but there are other aspects.”
“What aspects? I’d like to know.”
“I know how this sounds but we can’t discuss our investigation.”
“I read that there was a suicide note—what did it say?”
“We’d rather not discuss any other aspects.”
“Well, I’d like to see her, the woman who was killed.”
Brennan exchanged a look with Dickson and shifted in his chair.
“Given the condition, I don’t think it would be beneficial.”
Kate sat there not knowing what to think or say as a long silence passed.
“We’re doing everything we can to confirm identification,” Brennan finally said. “I hate to ask this, but is there any chance that you would still have your sister’s hairbrush or access to her dental records?”
Kate stared at him.
“No, I don’t.”
Kate looked away for a moment.
“Kate, would you be willing to volunteer a DNA sample?”
“Of course, if it helps.”
“It would,” he said. “We’ll get someone from the state forensic unit to do a cheek swab once we’re done.”
As the time passed, Brennan consulted his notes and asked Kate more about her family history, if she recalled any connection to Rampart, or Carl Nelson.
“No, there’s none. I’ve never been here until today.”
“Does this man register with you in any way, Kate?”
Brennan showed her an enlarged color photocopy taken from a New York State driver’s license. Icy eyes glared from the face of a fully bearded man, in his late forties, who evoked a cross between the Unabomber and Charles Manson. A chill climbed up Kate’s spine as she sensed something seething just beneath the surface.
Is this the last face Vanessa saw?
Kate memorized his address, 57 Knox Lane, Rampart.
“No, I’ve never seen him before. He’s not familiar to me in any way,” she said. “Is this the man who died in the fire?”
“We’re confident it is, but we’re awaiting positive confirmation from the pathologist.”
“What do you think the relationship was between Carl Nelson and my sis—the woman who died in the fire?”
“That’s under investigation.”
After the detectives ended the interview, they watched as a technician from the forensic unit used a cotton-tipped swab to scrape Kate’s inner cheek. Then Kate signed papers concerning her DNA sample and the necklace. Before leaving, she asked the detectives to direct her to the scene.
“It’s still being processed,” Brennan said.
“So?”
“We’d prefer you didn’t go there—you can’t see anything from the highway.”
“Can you take me out there?”
Kate looked both detectives in the eyes.
“We’re sorry, we can’t do that,” Brennan said.
“Why not? Haven’t I helped you?”
“We need to protect the integrity of the investigation and we ask that you keep our discussion confidential. We trust you understand.”
“Sure, I get it. You wanted me up here just to help you.”
“No, it’s not like that. We know how difficult this must be for you, but as a reporter you understand that we have to be careful with how things proceed.”
“I get it.” Kate gathered her bag and exchanged cards with Brennan and Dickson. “How long before you can confirm the identity of the woman?”
“There’s no telling,” Dickson said. “The challenge is the condition and the fact the pathologist’s office is backlogged with other cases.”
“Kate,” Brennan said. “Go home. We appreciate your help, and what you’re going through.”
“I don’t think you do, Ed. Either my sister died twenty years ago, or lived two decades without me knowing before she died two days ago. That’s what I’m going through.”
8
Rampart, New York
K
ate used the aerial news photo and the Chevy’s GPS to get her bearings for the burial grounds at the edge of town.
She
needed
to see the crime scene.
She’d deserved that much from Brennan and Dickson.
But she should never have expected it.
From her years of reporting Kate knew that detectives were fiercely protective of their investigations. They had to be so that cases didn’t fall apart when they got to court.
But this is my life.
Brennan could’ve taken her to the scene. She’d helped him and he could’ve done the same for her. She’d paid for the right to know what had happened to her sister—she’d paid for it the moment her hand had slipped from hers in that cold mountain river.
Screw Brennan.
Kate had endured too much and come too far not to find the truth, especially now when she was this close to it. She’d keep digging on her own, just like she’d done most of her life. She owed it to Vanessa and she owed it to herself. All Brennan and Dickson had wanted was for Kate to give them the necklace and her DNA, then go home.
She glanced at aerial crime scene photos on her tablet on the passenger seat.
We’d prefer you didn’t go there.
Just try and stop me.
She guided her rental along an empty stretch of highway that curved through dark, wooded countryside. After a few miles she came upon a New York State patrol car blocking the overgrown entrance to the burial grounds. A strip of yellow crime scene tape was extended across the gate.
Kate had an idea.
She parked nearby, got out and approached the lone trooper sitting at the wheel. He gave her a cool appraisal, watching her hands as she reached into her bag.
“Hi,” she said. “Kate Page, I’m a reporter with Newslead.” She showed him her plastic ID. “How’re you doing?”
“Just fine. Can I help you?”
“Can you show me where the press can access the crime scene?”
“This is as far as you go,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, the others were here this morning. You can get updates from Rampart PD. I can give you a number.”
“I need to take pictures of the scene—can I get closer?”
“This is as far as I can let you go. They’re still working on it. The scene hasn’t been released yet.”
Kate tapped her notebook against her leg. So much for that idea. There wasn’t much more she could do here. She was already on thin ice for using her job with Newslead the way she did and against Chuck’s caution.
“Okay, thanks.” Kate returned to her car.
She drove away feeling defeated.
How could she just leave? It was like she was losing Vanessa again. She had to do something.
What? What can I do?
As she struggled to find a solution, the answer came around the next curve in the shape of a roadside rest area. Kate pulled in and parked at the extreme edge, nearly out of sight. She checked her phone. There was still service here; the signal was good. She consulted her map, the aerial photo, then coordinated things with the compass app on her phone. The crime scene was less than a quarter of mile northeast through dense forest.
Kate locked her car, adjusted her bag so it rested on her back, found a straight branch to use as a hiking stick and set off into the woods. The terrain was treacherous. She was glad she was wearing flat shoes today. Thick underbrush concealed the uneven ground. Leafy low-lying branches tugged and pulled at her. She sought deadfall to cross a creek. Several times she was convinced she was going the wrong way but stayed true to the northeast direction of her compass.
Some thirty minutes after she’d set out, Kate heard distant voices carrying into the forest and spotted flashes of yellow and white through the woods. Then she reached the clearing and the blackened ruins of the barn. The scene was ringed with yellow tape. Technicians in white coveralls were probing it, sifting the debris.
A number of vehicles from Rampart PD, Rampart Fire and county and state police were parked at the far side. Keeping to the edge of the woods, Kate moved toward them, where she was able to get closer without anyone noticing her.
The air carried the smell of charcoal and the memory of death.
As the forensic people worked with funereal care the reality hit Kate full force.
Did Vanessa die here?
Anguish swelled in Kate’s throat as an image came to her:
Vanessa is young and they’re crossing the street. Kate’s taking her hand; the earth shakes as a huge rig thunders by. Fear rises on Vanessa’s little face, but she trusts her big sister, loves her, worships her, as her little fingers tighten around Kate’s.
Needing to be closer to the ruins, Kate reached into her bag for her compact digital camera. It had a high-quality lens and she zoomed in on the jagged black tangles of planks and trestles. With each picture Kate stepped closer, and with each photo her heart broke a little more. Moving in, she scoured the burned rubble, her camera offering more detail the nearer she got. She focused on a series of charred beams jutting from the aftermath. They were tagged, indicating they’d been processed. On patches of the wood that were not burned, Kate saw crude markings scratched into the surface. To see them better she needed to get closer—she needed to do the unthinkable.
Kate lifted the tape to step into the scene but hesitated.
She’d be breaking the law.
But this could be the last thing my sister touched.
Her heart raced.
She might never be this close again.
Kate stepped into the scene, taking more photos. Moving in deeper, she looked beyond the beams, noticing pockets within the devastation that appeared to be gridded, cleared and tagged. She concentrated on those areas, zooming in, taking—
“Hey!” Keys jingled as a uniformed officer trotted from one of the vehicles. “Step out of there now! You’re under arrest!”