Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“He’s kind of a ghost,” Hugh said. “After his friend’s suicide, he used his skill to track her rapist. Turned out the bad guy was a computer expert, contracted with the NSA. Viper broke several laws infiltrating supposedly impenetrable systems to secure damning evidence against the guy.”

“Then what?”

“Viper alerted the FBI, provided them with everything. When they went to arrest the man, he led them on a wild high-speed chase through Virginia that ended with his car wrapped around a tree and his death.”

“Wow.”

“Later the CIA and the NSA reached out to Viper to work for them.”

“He’s that good?”

“He’s that good. Did he agree to help you?”

“Yes.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

Back at her desk Kate’s coffee was kicking in.

Having Viper on her side had spurred her to continue her own investigation on Nelson. She returned to the Alberta-Colorado angle, reexamining all the old documents that Goodsill had sent her from his trash grab fifteen years ago. The circumstances concerning the initial Denver suspect, Jerome Fell, niggled at her. The one document that seemed to be a misdirected notice regarding a burial site in Chicago of Krasimira Zurrn puzzled her. The page in the attachment was torn, creased and stained from the trash.

She couldn’t find an address on it for anyone in Colorado.

Kate began flipping through her notes but was interrupted by the ping of a message from Reeka.

Reuters just moved this. How did we miss it? I’m at the airport heading to Atlanta. Get on it and keep us posted.

Kate, are you OK to get on it? asked Chuck, whom Reeka had copied on the message.

Reuters had an exclusive, short breaking-news item that said Rampart police had confirmed the identities of four of the twelve recently discovered victims and were poised to release their names.

Kate’s stomach twisted as her sister’s face blurred before her eyes.

Vanessa could be one of them. It could all end here.

Her fingers shook over her keyboard as she moved to respond. She stopped, took a breath, regained her composure, then typed her answer to Reeka and Chuck.

I can handle it. I’m on it.

Before she knew it, she was on the phone to Brennan in Rampart, pushing aside the betrayal of his promise to keep her updated on identities.

“Brennan,” he answered.

“Kate Page. Reuters says you’ve identified four more victims.”

A long silence followed until Kate broke it.

“Ed, is my sister one of them?” Her voice quivered.

“No. She’s not.”

“You tell me right now. I deserve to know.”

“She’s not, Kate.”

“You’re certain.”

“We have your DNA. Remember, you volunteered it?”

Kate swallowed hard, briefly relieved. But her heart broke for the families of the dead.

“Okay.” She collected herself. “Are there any new developments in the case?”

“No. Work continues on the investigation.”

“I want the four new names for a story.”

“Give me twenty minutes. We’re wrapping up notifying the families.”

Half an hour later Brennan emailed Kate a news release that was going out in fifteen minutes. It was succinct, with few details, identifying the four victims as: Camila Castillo, twenty-four, missing from Mesa, Arizona, for six years. Kathy Shepherd, nineteen, disappeared from Greensboro, North Carolina, three years ago. Tiffany Osborn, twenty-five, vanished after going to a movie in Lexington, Kentucky, five years ago. Valerie Stride, twenty, had been missing from her suburban home in Orlando, Florida, for three years.

Kate looked into their young faces in the accompanying photographs, their bright smiles and eyes filled with hope. Her heart ached for them, for the horrors they must’ve suffered. The magnitude of evil was crushing.

Four more victims identified.

Eight more to go. Eight more chances for Vanessa to be one.

Who knows how many more victims they’ll unearth?

A chill shot through her as she concentrated on her story. The desk wanted her copy ASAP. She set out working with the news library assembling and detailing the circumstances of each case. Once she felt she had enough information, she sought numbers for relatives of the women, then steeled herself for the anguish of calling the four families in mourning.

The next hour passed with a quick succession of heart-wrenching interviews. Most of the families wanted to talk, wanted to share their grief, starting with Tiffany Osborn’s father in Kentucky. “You know, Tiff came to me in a dream last week and said, ‘Everything’s going to be okay, Dad.’” Kate then reached Kathy Shepherd’s mother in North Carolina. “It’s just not real,” she told Kate. “It never was. I still expect my little girl to walk through the door.”

Camila Castillo’s brother was a trucker and Kate reached him on the road near Tulsa. “I’m flying to New York in the morning. We’re going to bring Cammy home, to rest in peace where she grew up. I hope they catch the guy who did this so he can rot in hell.” The last person Kate reached was Valerie Stride’s dad, a retired marine in Orlando. “Who would do this kind of thing? Can anyone tell me?”

In each case, Kate had asked relatives if they knew of any connection between their loved one and Carl Nelson, or Rampart, or Tara Dawn Mae, or Canada, or Denver, or Vanessa’s necklace. In each case, the answer was no.

The calls were anguishing and Kate carried the pain of the families as she wrote. After she filed her story she went to the restroom and splashed water on her face as the words of Valerie Stride’s father echoed.

Who would do this kind of thing?

His question resonated with her as she went back to her desk and stared at Carl Nelson’s Wanted poster on the FBI’s website.

You. You did this.

Kate resumed her research with renewed fervor. Again she scrutinized the material from Colorado, focusing on the notice from Chicago dealing with the burial site for Krasimira Zurrn. Kate dug into Newslead’s databases, making notes as she searched public records for Illinois, Cook County and Chicago. There has to be something here. She collected her files and headed for Chuck’s office, tapping on the door frame.

“Come in,” he said. “Just read your story. Nice work.”

“Can we talk?”

Kate opened her file folder and began explaining her gut feeling about Krasimira Zurrn and the link to Jerome Fell in Denver.

“Just hear me out, Chuck. Let me connect the dots.”

They knew that Nelson was an obvious name changer who’d faked his death. Investigators admitted to not knowing his true identity. In Rampart she’d found a neighbor who made reference to Nelson’s familiarity with Denver. The Alberta abduction of Tara Dawn Mae, with its ties to her sister, had a potential Denver link through a license plate to Jerome Fell. One Denver detective considered Fell a possible suspect in the abduction. Fell admitted he’d been in Canada at the time Tara vanished.

“Now. Look. Fell bears a resemblance to Nelson,” Kate showed Chuck the photo she had. “And, like Nelson, Fell was a computer expert who lived alone. However, according to neighbor interviews and documents Goodsill obtained at the time, there are unsubstantiated indications that Fell may have had a girl on his property whose age would fit with Tara’s.”

Then she explained the record for Krasimira Zurrn.

“Where’re you going with this, Kate?”

“Chicago.”

Saint Paul, Minnesota

The state’s main crime lab was housed in the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension’s headquarters, a three-story brick-and-glass building on Maryland Avenue. Displayed in the atrium was a large steel-and-stained-glass sculpture known as “Exquisite Corpse.”