Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“It’s funny,” she said. “I’m nearly fired for using my position for what you deem ‘personal gain,’ when Newslead is leaning on me to use my position for its corporate gain. Do you see the irony in that?”

“The fact is, Kate,” Reeka said, “the police could bring those charges back on you at any time.”

Kate shut her eyes and felt Vanessa’s hand slip from hers, saw it shooting up from the river, saw it disappearing.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m guilty of trespassing on a crime scene and taking pictures, but I’ll give you some context. For twenty years I’ve lived with the guilt of my sister’s death. For twenty years I’ve lived with the fact that her body was never found. Then Rampart police call me, telling me they’ve found a necklace at a crime scene identical to one my sister had. Can you imagine for one second what goes through your mind? Yes, I was overwhelmed, yes, I broke the law. I’m human and that was my mistake, but keeping me off this story, especially now, will be your mistake, because no one is going to give more to it than me. I’ll go full tilt for you. So you can keep me off the story, you can fire me for insubordination. I’ll go to AP, Bloomberg and Reuters. Maybe they’ll be interested in what I’ve found out on my own up here. Being journalists, I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

Now it was the editors who went silent for a long moment.

“Stay near your phone,” Chuck said. “We’ll get back to you.”

Kate hung up, cupped her hands to her face, then got busy. She went online and sent Grace an email of a picture of bighorn sheep she’d seen in the mountains. She checked flights again. After she’d started packing, her room phone rang.

It was Chuck.

“You’re on the story. Get to Syracuse tonight and touch base with the bureau and go with our bureau photographer to Rampart in the morning for the news conference.”

“Okay.”

“What can you give us that’s exclusive?”

“That it appears that my sister may have survived her crash and was abducted from Canada to become a victim in Rampart. I have elements that point to that scenario.”

Chuck took a second to absorb that.

“All right, I want you to file a setup piece that includes that exclusive angle.”

“Do you want it first person?”

“No, write it news style and we’ll attach a disclosure disclaimer to your piece, clearly stating your relationship. We’ll do it with anything you write that’s relevant to the case.”

“All right.”

“I want it by 5:00 p.m., New York time, today. Looks like you can fly from Calgary to Chicago with a connection to Syracuse. You can write on the plane and file from O’Hare, if you don’t have Wi-Fi in the air. We’ll cover all costs as you now are officially on assignment.”

“Thank you, Chuck.”

“If you screw up, Kate, it’s your job.”

“I know.”

“And mine.”

Rampart, New York

“I just finished reading your story, Kate. It’s incredible.”

Jay Raney, Newslead’s chief photographer at the Syracuse bureau, pocketed his phone and introduced himself to Kate in her motel lobby. He was a soft-spoken man in his late thirties with a few-days-growth beard. As he helped her with her bags and led her to his Ford Escape, she contended with her overriding fear about her sister.

Were the newly discovered human remains Vanessa’s?

Was today the day she’d find the truth?

They headed north on Interstate 81 for Rampart and that morning’s news conference. After some small talk-they’d discovered they had mutual news friends in Ohio and California-things fell quiet and Kate worked as the miles rushed under them.

Her flight back had been smooth. She’d slept well and was energized after talking with Grace on the phone earlier, before Raney arrived. Now, with farmland flashing by her window, Kate concentrated on her laptop, starting with a message from Chuck.

Pickup of your story was very strong, he had said. Keep us out front.

Scrolling through the rest of her messages, Kate came to a new one from Elliott Searle, the retired Mountie.

With regard to the partial plate, look for an article in one of the Denver papers, within a month of TDM’s disappearance. It mentions the plate.

Kate began searching the databases for the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News . The Rocky had folded in 2009, but its stories were archived. Each paper had small wire items about Tara Dawn Mae and the search for a missing Canadian girl, but none mentioned the plate.

She responded to Searle. Can’t find it. Maybe you’re unclear. If you have the article, why not just give it to me?

At the time, the information in the article was leaked by US law enforcement and ruffled some feathers up here. The story’s there. Keep looking. You have to find it.

It was frustrating that some cops were so weird that way. Kate knew they didn’t want to be accused of giving out anything contained in case files but would point you to public information. She continued searching before asking Newslead’s news library for help, just as her phone chimed with a text from Reeka. We’ll need to see your story within an hour of the news conference ending. The sooner the better.

Kate rolled her eyes, replying with, Okay. Thank you.

After they’d arrived in Rampart, Raney drove them to the town hall where the news conference was to be held.

They got there twenty minutes before things were to start. The parking lot and street were filled with TV trucks and news cars from Watertown, Rochester and Syracuse; radio stations from Plattsburgh and Potsdam; newspapers from Ogdensburg and Massena.

“I bet AP, Reuters and Bloomberg have people here, maybe even the Post and Daily News , too.” Raney grabbed his gear from the back.

Inside, they showed their credentials to a man at the reception area. He slid a clipboard to them.

“Sign in, then go to the right, end of the hall.”

About two dozen news people, along with a dozen or so police types were in a large meeting room. TV cameras on tripods lined the back like a firing squad as operators made adjustments. Local reporters in folding chairs gossiped; others talked on phones or were making notes.

At the front of the room, four solemn-faced men took their places at a table heaped with recorders and microphones with station flags. To the right was a tack board bearing enlarged photographs of Carl Nelson, John Charles Pollard, Bethany Ann Wynn and Tara Dawn Mae, from the time she’d vanished.

Staring into Tara Dawn’s face jolted Kate.

That’s Vanessa up there. Now, after what I’ve learned, I believe in my heart that’s her. All these years…stop…you don’t know that she died here…

As Kate grappled with her anguish and anger she spotted Detective Ed Brennan standing against the wall with his partner. Brennan gave her a slight nod and she tightened her hold on her pen.

“Is everybody ready?” One of the men at the table spoke, allowing for several reporters to approach them and switch on their recorders.

“Thank you for coming, especially those from out of town. I’m Captain Dan Kennedy, with the Rampart PD. We lead this investigation and we’re supported by a number of agencies, some of which are here. To my far right, Lorne Baker, Riverview County Sheriff’s Office, Max Insley, the New York State Police and to my left, Emmett Lang, with the FBI out of Syracuse. I’ll read you a summary of the case, then we’ll take a few questions.”

“At this time, our investigation into the deaths at the state property known as the old burial grounds leads us to conclude that the individual known as Carl Nelson did not die in the fire at an abandoned barn, as first suspected. We believe that Nelson murdered Bethany Ann Wynn, after keeping her in captivity for three years. Nelson also murdered John Charles Pollard and staged the scene to make it appear as though he had taken his own life.