Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“What did she want?”

“It was about two in the morning. She was drunk or high. She was nearly incoherent, but she starts telling us that she’s been haunted by her fear that her son, Sorin, pushed Tonya down the stairs that day at the park.”

“What?”

“We didn’t know what to do with her. There she was on our kitchen floor in a heap of self-pity going on about missing her boy, who had grown and was long gone. She was going on about her wasted life and that she needed to go back to her homeland, wherever that was.”

“What did you think about her fear that Sorin killed Tonya?”

“We didn’t put any stock in her drunken mutterings. Later I talked to a cop about it. He said without evidence, witnesses or a verifiable admission of guilt, there was nothing we could do. It wouldn’t bring Tonya back. Then a few weeks later the Zurrn woman killed herself.”

Chicago

Kate drove away from the Plesivsky home excited and depleted.

The new information she’d picked up on Sorin Zurrn had alarmed her.

But can I put any credence in the ramblings of a drunken, suicidal drug addict who accuses her fifteen-year-old son of murder?

These thoughts, along with those of Sorin’s upbringing, his intelligence, his strangeness, the bullying, along with the invoice dealing with Krasimira Zurrn’s burial site, spun in Kate’s head as she stopped at a red light.

It had been a long, exhausting day. She’d forgotten about the time difference, had missed lunch and was getting hungry. She had to get a room, recharge, assess things and plan her next steps. The closest hotels looked sketchy to her. She kept driving until she came to a Days Inn suggested by her GPS.

After checking in, she took a hot shower then called home, talked to Grace and heard about her day.

“That new boy, Devon, asked me if he could kiss me.”

“Oh, my. What did you tell him?”

“I said no way! That’s gross! I could get his germs on me!”

Kate laughed. The sound of her daughter’s voice was comforting. After the call Kate walked to the Burger King across the street to get supper. Fast food, cheap hotels, pressure, deadlines and only the fear of failure to keep you company. Such is the life of a national reporter.

After eating in her room, Kate set up her tablet and worked, first checking for any new stories out of Rampart. Her stomach began to tighten a little in anticipation of what she might find. There were a few news features, but nothing new had surfaced.

No new identifications.

Kate took a hit of her bottled water and continued. She saw Davidson’s message saying that he’d reached out to Viper through his sources with a request that he contact Kate.

Nothing, so far.

While Kate had gained some momentum from what she’d uncovered about Sorin Zurrn, admittedly, it was a tenuous thread linking the Zurrns to the document found in Jerome Fell’s Denver garbage to the Alberta abduction, Vanessa and Carl Nelson.

Kate sent a message to Chuck and Reeka.

“I’ve found new, disturbing information on Sorin Zurrn. I believe we’re on the right track, but I need to keep digging, to tie it all together.”

After sending the message she made notes on what she still needed to do: ask Chicago police for the reports on the deaths of Tonya Plesivsky and Krasimira Zurrn; check for coroner’s reports; check the Cook County Clerk of the Circuit Court in case Krasimira Zurrn had a will. Above all, she needed to follow the burial site document, so she’d check to see if another company assumed the business of the original funeral home. She’d also go to the cemetery administration office and keep trying the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church, pressing on all fronts for more help.

Kate was tired and decided to rest her eyes.

Sooner or later I’ll shake something loose, she thought while growing drowsy. Doubt crept up on her again as she considered what she was trying to do, connect Carl Nelson to Alberta, Denver and Chicago. It was like the rhyme about the lady who swallowed the fly, then the spider to catch the fly, then the bird to catch the spider, then the cat…how did it end?

She dies in the end.

Kate jolted awake when her cell phone rang.

In her torpor she saw the hotel room, rain streaking across the window in the night before remembering where she was and fumbling for her phone.

“Is this Kate Page, the reporter with Newslead?”

“Yes.” She sat up rubbing her temple.

“This is Ritchie Lipinski. You left your card in the door of my house on Craddick Street requesting I call you. What’s this about?”

“I’m doing some biographical research for a story on a person who lived there long ago.”

“What kind of story?”

“A news story. We’re trying to locate a former resident, actually.”

“The name?”

“Zurrn, Sorin Zurrn.”

A moment passed. Kate knew landlords, knew that Lipinski was weighing the pros and cons of talking to her.

“The story would have no reflection on the property,” Kate assured him.

“Would you mention that it’s a nice place and that my father and I are trying to rent it?”

“That’s possible. By the way, is your father Tabor?”

“Yes, he retired, I’m his son and I manage our properties.”

“Do you recall the Zurrns?”

“Most definitely.”

“Would you talk to me about them?”

“I’m at the house now. If you could be here in the next half hour, I’ll talk to you.”

Chicago

The hotel parking lot was not well lit as Kate, bent against the rain, hurried to her car.

How long did I sleep?

Wiping water from her face, she keyed 6168 Craddick Street into her GPS. As she wheeled out, the thought crossed her mind to contact Newslead’s Chicago bureau to request a photographer meet her there.

No, there’s no time.

Kate put her wipers on high speed. Lightning flashed and thunder grumbled as she navigated across New Jenny Park to the address. This could be the house of a killer, the place where his mother committed suicide, she thought.

And I’m going there alone to meet a stranger on a night like this.

Kate repositioned her grip on the wheel.

Maybe it’s a risk-but I can’t lose this chance to get inside the house.

She could handle herself. She’d taken firearms courses, although she detested guns and never carried one. She’d taken self-defense courses. She had a can of pepper spray and a personal alarm in her bag.

She always took precautions.

She arrived at the house to see a late-model Cadillac parked in the driveway.

Kate eased up behind it, then took a photo of the car with her phone, then another, zooming in on the license plate. Then she sent them to Chuck and Reeka along with a message.

Going to meet Ritchie Lipinski, owner of the Zurrns’ house on 6168 Craddick Street. This is his car and plate. FYI, going alone. If I don’t send you an OK within one hour call Chicago PD.

She pulled up the hood of her jacket, hurried to the door and knocked. Lights were on inside. Thunder rolled then there was movement inside and the door opened.

“You must be Kate. I’m Ritchie.”

The man extended his hand. As Kate shook it, hers disappeared in his. He held it firmly for half a second longer than she liked. He was in his fifties, about six-two, with an expensive suit, tie loosened. His long blondish hair was slicked back accentuating his clean-shaven pockmarked face. A scar meandered from the right side of his lower lip, disappearing under his chin, which moved with his rapid gum-chewing as his intense eyes took a walk all over Kate.