Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

There was an update on the necklace from the manufacturer via the FBI. The model in question was no longer made and sold. During the period it was marketed, 600,000 units were sold in the US and another 700,000 units were sold globally. The maker said engraving names on the charms was common and examination of the damaged piece and the comparison piece, obtained from Kate Page, showed that both were made by the company. But insofar as to the two pieces being the exact two pieces Kate’s mother had bought, the finding was inconclusive.

Brennan continued to survey the board.

All work to date was up there: the pictures, names of the victims, case numbers, color arrows and the latest notes showing if warrants had been issued. There were summaries of areas canvassed, neighbors to be reinterviewed and security cameras to be checked or rechecked.

So far, eighty-three tips had been followed, prioritized or closed.

And nothing ever came of that coworker who claims he saw Carl online looking at real estate and taking notes. That one’s eating at me.

The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit was developing a profile of the suspect, looking at motivation, methodology and the psychology of his actions and personality.

Brennan turned from the board. Dickson had just ended a call with the FBI.

“Well, it’s official,” Dickson said. “That was the FBI’s Cyber Crime team. They’ve been working with the Secret Service and two forensic teams at the DataFlow Call Center.”

“Did Nelson compromise their system?”

“Big-time. He devised and installed some type of software that allowed him to siphon everything from the company’s payment processing network. He stole Social Security numbers, PINs, addresses, telephone numbers, bank and credit card information.”

“How many people are we talking?”

“Forty million.”

Brennan ran his hand over his face.

“The company’s working with the FBI to issue a news release,” Dickson said. “All retailers and all cardholders will be alerted. Customers will be advised to destroy their cards, retailers will issue new ones.”

“Small comfort knowing Nelson has everything.”

“He’s one smart prick, Ed.”

“Maybe, but sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”

Brennan’s phone rang.

“Ed, it’s Mitch, you’d better come out to the scene.”

As they drove to the old burial grounds Brennan grappled with his frustrations. That these crimes had been going on for years in his backyard sickened him and he sought assurance in a mantra for investigators.

The suspect has to be lucky at every turn. We need to get lucky once.

So far, Nelson’s victims were helping with their killer’s undoing. Look at Pollard, who’d kept his dog tags in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got assaulted. That thwarted Nelson’s attempt to stage a murder-suicide. Then the message left by Tara Dawn Mae, and there was the angel charm necklace and its inconclusive link to Kate Page. Everyone on the task force was going all out on this case.

We just need a lead, a solid lead. Entrance to the site through the old cemetery road remained sealed and more Riverview deputies had been posted at other points of the expanded perimeter. The increased magnitude of the case was made manifest by the police encampment that had arisen next to the ruins of the barn.

A mobile double-wide trailer, which served as the command post, had been hauled in on a flatbed and placed near the edge of the property among lines of trucks. An array of equipment, lights, generators, tents and canopies dotted the vast property.

Exhaustive ground searches had been conducted. More dogs were used, along with infrared technology. More aerial photographs were taken. Vapor detectors were brought in. A tube connected to the device was inserted into the ground to detect gasses from decomposition.

The entire scene was gridded and sectioned off with string and flags, like an archaeological dig. Forensic archaeologists from universities in Rochester and Syracuse had been requested to join the FBI and state police forensic experts to help.

Section by section, teams undertook the slow, systematic process of removing segments of soil in four-to six-inch layers. Meticulously they sifted it through screens to search for evidence of human remains.

Brennan and Dickson met Mitch Komerick inside the command post. He pulled off the hood on his white coveralls, slipped off his face mask and bent over a large table with unfurled maps.

“What’ve we got, Mitch?” Brennan leaned over the map with him.

Komerick took a pencil and used the eraser end to tap the primary map of the scene.

“More remains.”

“One more victim?”

“Not one. Twelve.”

Brennan’s stomach tensed.

“Twelve?”

Komerick tapped several neatly penciled squares on the map.

“We’ve confirmed human remains, here, here, here and here. We’re just getting started. Ed, this could be one of the biggest cases we’ve ever seen.”

New York City

Kate made her way through the crush at Penn Station.

She’d become accustomed to the subway, the urine-scented platforms, the whoosh of foul, inbound air, crowds jostling at the doors, the smells of perfume and the body odor. She was relieved to find a seat. Within seconds, her car was crammed to capacity.

As her train thundered from the station she took out her phone and read stories on Rampart by the Associated Press, Reuters and Bloomberg. Then she read the story she’d filed and was satisfied that Newslead’s reporting was strongest.

We’re still ahead of the competition.

When Kate finished reading, she gazed out her window into the rolling darkness. As tunnel lights flashed by and her car rocked, she grappled with the turmoil broiling inside her.

Twelve more victims.

She could no longer fend off the facts and fears that crept from the darkest fringes to crush her.

Twelve more victims. Surely, Vanessa’s among the dead.

It’s over. Carl Nelson, or whoever he was, had won. The rhythmic clacking of the train hammered it home. Her hope, if it ever really lived, was dead. Her dream of seeing her sister again had slipped away…the way Vanessa’s hand had slipped from hers twenty years ago in the icy mountain river.

Kate shut her eyes.

Tears rolled down her face as the train’s steel wheels grinded against steel tracks creating a high-pitched scream.

On the way to her building, Kate picked up a pizza, then collected Grace from Nancy’s apartment.

“I saw the latest news.” Nancy had lowered her voice to Kate when Grace was down the hall, out of earshot. “It’s terrible. How much worse can it get?”

Kate shrugged.

At home Grace bit into her pizza and, between chews, told Kate about a new boy at school who was annoying all the girls. But Kate’s attention had drifted. Being with her daughter, Kate felt spears of sunshine piercing her battle-weary heart and tried desperately to hang on to the moment.

“Mom, are you listening?”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

“I said his name is Devon and all he wants to do is kiss you. Yech!”

After their supper Kate went through the motions of their evening routine, cleaning up, then homework for Grace before any computer or TV time. All the while Kate was unable to emerge from the numbness that had filled her. Once she got Grace to bed, she dimmed the lights, opened a bottle of wine and tuned her TV to news channels.

As she listened to commentators and watched footage of the Rampart scene over and over, she became enveloped with loss and the bitter realization that she’d been a fool to dream she’d find Vanessa. For a time she’d convinced herself that she was not only on the trail to the truth about what had happened to Vanessa, but closer to finding her alive and well.