Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

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.”

Rampart, New York

Magnified images of death reflected on Morten’s glasses.

Staring into his twenty-four-inch monitor, the pathologist was thankful he’d persuaded the town and county to buy the scanning electron microscope. The unit took up one corner of his small lab across the hall from the cooler and the autopsy room at Rampart General. He was using it to search for microscopic clues into the cause and manner of death of the third victim whose remains were found at the scene.

The deceased was a female.

Her identity was still unknown, but since the case had gained a greater profile-Field of Screams, one New York City paper called it-Compton was confident that it was only a matter of time before they had confirmation, because now he had more help.

Radiographs of the deceased’s teeth had been sent electronically to the chief forensic odontologist at the New York State Police lab in Albany. The FBI was also assisting in accelerating DNA analysis for comparison through its CODIS system with forensic DNA evidence from other criminal investigations across the country and around the world. The FBI was also comparing the deceased’s DNA with the sample provided by Kate Page.

While awaiting word on identification, Compton continued his investigation with the scanning electron microscope. It was unusual for a small jurisdiction like Rampart to have such a piece of equipment. The price tag of a new Swiss-made model was $250,000, but Compton got a second-hand version for next to nothing through a contact at MIT.

The green light to buy it was part of the agreement by the locals to convince Compton not to accept a job offer in Arizona. He’d also taken a course on how to operate the equipment. And recently, he’d attended a conference in Chicago that included a workshop on how to use the technology to analyze markings of bones found at crime scenes.

The unit’s magnification power was stunning. The image on the screen of bones looked otherworldly, but to Compton it was evidence. He’d already concluded that the deceased was approximately five feet four inches or five feet three inches in height. Twenty-three to thirty years of age. The cause, manner and time of death remained a challenge because of the condition of the remains.

When the remains were removed, the forensic investigators working on the immediate scene sifted the soil and used metal detectors to determine if bullets were fired into the body, or if a knife, or identifying jewelry, or any other evidence was present.

The body had been found in a makeshift grave in bramble, leaving much of it exposed to air, which had an impact on the rate of decomposition. Little skin was left, much of it like leather. Some of the bones were no longer enfleshed or connected by ligaments, which meant they’d been displaced. At first Compton theorized that a combination of decomposition and animal disturbance accounted for the displacement, but the scanning electron microscope pointed him to something chilling.

Further analysis revealed that the body had, in fact, been dismembered, postmortem.

He’d found marks left on the bones, marks indicating cutting.

With the higher magnification he was able to study the striations formed by the cutting teeth of the saw. The marks were unique in the push and pull strokes. This could point to a specific saw used. Compton was making notes for the report he would send to the FBI for its Firearms/Toolmarks Unit (FTU). The Bureau’s analysts could compare the marks and use their expertise and tool databases to point to the model and make of the saw used.

It would be a lead.

Compton removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes and reflected on the case. The killer had dismembered the victim after death and placed the remains in a shallow grave like pieces of a puzzle awaiting assembly.

Field of Screams is not that far off the mark.

We’ve got something evil at work.

Compton’s phone rang.

“Morton, Colin Hawkley in Albany.”

“Hey, Colin.”

“Got an ID on your female deceased, are you ready to take it down?’

As Compton reached for his pen he stared at his monitor. The magnified images were about to become more than bones. Soon they’d have a name; soon they’d be someone’s daughter or someone’s wife or someone’s sister.

They’d be a life to be mourned.

New York City

A scream pierced the air.

It was followed with squeals of delight rising from crowds at the Children’s Zoo in Central Park where Kate had taken Grace.

This was one of their favorite places to go. Kate had even brought Grace here for her birthday a couple of months ago.

Now, it was after school and Kate had finished at Newslead, but she was anxious to hear back from sources and checked her phone often. There was nothing new from Goodsill in Denver on a link to Alberta and nothing from Davidson on reaching out to hackers. Looming over everything was Kate’s agitation while awaiting identification of the third victim at Rampart.

The fear that it could be Vanessa gnawed at her in ruthless juxtaposition to the park’s calming beauty, the trees arching over the sidewalk portrait sketchers, the vendors, and the young street artists creating huge iridescent soap bubbles. And there was Grace’s favorite, the musical clock tower with its animal band that circled while striking a classical tune every half hour.

Sometimes the songs were seasonal, like “April Showers” in spring or “Jingle Bells” in December.

“Look, Mom, they’re starting!” Grace pointed.

The musicians began playing the nursery rhyme, “Three Blind Mice,” with the hippo on the fiddle leading the elephant, the goat and the others. As the animals danced and Grace sang along, Kate’s phone rang. She took the call while keeping her eyes on her daughter.

“Kate, it’s Ed Brennan in Rampart.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve confirmed the identity of the third victim.”

In the moment before Brennan said another word, Kate gripped her phone and held her breath. Her world moved in slow motion-the penguin banging the drum, the bear tapping the tambourine. All sound suddenly deadened as if she was underwater, again, struggling to breathe .

“Kate? Did you hear me?” Brennan repeated. “It’s not your sister.”

“Yes.” She took a breath, sat on the nearest bench, dug out her pen and pad, looking at Grace as the clock played on. “Yes, can you give me the name and details?”