Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

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.”

Rampart, New York

At 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.