Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

She keyed in the information, hit Enter and within seconds a file was found. She opened it.

Goodness, this file’s huge, with numerous victims and details.

She went to the key fact evidence.

There was a necklace with a guardian angel charm.

And tire impressions.

The tire impressions were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E, the same as with Minnesota.

Bingo! Salvito clapped her hands. Gotcha!

The file had been submitted by Detective Ed Brennan, Rampart PD.

Salvito reached for her phone.

Rampart, New York

Driving home from the hospital in the morning, Ed saw his wife and son in the rearview mirror, asleep in the backseat.

Marie had her arm around Cody.

He’d had a seizure in the night, one that lasted fifteen minutes, which was normal for him. To be safe, they’d taken him to the emergency room. The episode was all part of Cody’s condition and had passed, the doctor said. He was fine. Take him home.

Stopped at a light, Brennan rubbed his tired eyes.

He hadn’t been sleeping. His frustration with the case had been keeping him up most nights because no matter how hard everyone was working, they had nothing new to help them find Carl Nelson.

Putting Nelson on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted had yielded tips from news reports, but none were concrete. And nothing had arisen in the search for the van.

The FBI’s Cyber Crime team had picked up what appeared to be a trail of Nelson’s old internet activity but it went cold. He was good at covering his tracks. The warrants they’d executed had not led anywhere. The information they’d developed from the victims they’d identified so far had not generated any hits with local, state, national and international crime databases.

The Mounties in Canada hadn’t uncovered any new, solid evidence tying the Tara Dawn Mae message they’d found carved in the barn’s ruins to the Alberta abduction. The necklace element was still circumstantial. Yes, there were theories but nothing harder than that, so far. It could have made its way to the crime scene any number of ways. Still, the Tara Dawn Mae message was troubling.

In town, nothing significant had emerged from interviewing Nelson’s neighbors and coworkers.

No new evidence had been discovered at the primary crime scene, although the forensic work there was far from finished. Thankfully, they hadn’t found any new graves.

They still had eight homicide victims they were trying to identify.

The conditions of the remains continued to make identifications difficult. Not every case offered distinguishable attributes, like fingerprints, usable dental charts, tattoos, medical implants, clothing or jewelry. And DNA extraction for comparison was also a time-consuming challenge. Confirming identities of the victims was critical to the investigation.

Any one of these cases could lead us to Nelson. We just need a break.

Marie pulled him from his thoughts to immediate matters.

“Stop at the store. We’re out of bread and milk.”

Millard’s Corner Store was four blocks from their house. Brennan went in, selected a quart of milk from the cooler then went to the bread aisle. As he reached for a loaf his cell phone rang. The number was blocked.

“Hello.”

“Detective Ed Brennan with Rampart PD?”

“Yes, who’s calling?”

“Carly Salvito with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in Quantico, Virginia.”

It took a moment for Brennan to focus on the significance.

“ViCAP?”

“Yes, sir. You recently submitted a case to us.” Salvito recited a twelve-character number.

“I don’t have the number with me, but we did submit to ViCAP.”

“Sir, we have a very strong case-to-case link concerning your homicides in Rampart, New York, and another jurisdiction.”

“What’s the other jurisdiction?”

“Minnesota. A recent homicide in Lost River State Forest.”

Brennan moved to set the milk down, wedged his phone to his ear with his shoulder, fished out his notebook and started writing.

“Can you tell me what the strong link is? How recent is this case?”

“That’s not our procedure. As you know we respect everyone’s key fact evidence. What I can do right now is give you the contact information for the investigator on the Lost River case so you can talk to each other. Let me know when you’re ready to copy.”

“I’m ready.”

Across the country in Rennerton, Minnesota, BCA agent Lester Pratt, an early riser, was alone in his kitchen making scrambled eggs when his cell phone went off for the second time that morning.

In consideration of his wife, who wouldn’t be up for another two hours, he’d kept his phone on vibrate.

“Pratt.”

“Lester Pratt with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension?”

“Yup.”

“Ed Brennan, Rampart PD, Rampart, New York. ViCAP in Quantico gave me your number.”

“They just alerted me to a hit saying I should expect a call.”

After talking for nearly twenty minutes the two investigators agreed that their cases were linked through the tire impressions and other aspects. The next step was to share more evidence to find common links that would lead them to the killer.

Less than an hour later, Brennan had showered, eaten a bagel and was at his desk in the Investigative Unit of the Rampart Police Department.

There was no sign of Dickson. Most of the detectives were out. Brennan glanced at the case status board, the faces of the victims, the facts and the numbers: a total of fifteen victims, eight of them still unidentified. They’d now pursued more than one hundred local tips.

But ViCAP had come through, he thought as he went to his lieutenant’s office and knocked on the door. Steve Kilborn was on his phone and held up a finger to Brennan before he ended his call.

“Something’s up, Ed, I see it in your face. This good or bad?”

“Good.”

After Brennan updated him, both men went to the captain’s office and briefed him. After listening, Kennedy cupped one hand over his mouth and thought for a moment.

“All right. We can’t lose time on this,” Kennedy said. “Ed, you and Dickson get on the next plane to Minnesota and start working with BCA. I’ll alert the Chief, the county, state and the FBI. We’ll expand the task force. None of this leaks out! We can’t let the suspect know we’re this close.”

After Brennan had collected his files onto a secure, encrypted USB key he went home to pack.

It was a huge break, but it came with a huge price.

Another unidentified victim.

Who is she? And will her death help us stop this monster?

Chicago

A lake-driven wind pressed dead leaves against the black granite headstone in New Jenny Park Cemetery.

Kate brushed them away and read the engraving:

Krasimira Anna Zurrn

Born June 29, 1945. Died October 12, 1998.

Beloved Mother of Sorin.

Tragedy upon tragedy, she thought. A drug-addicted prostitute takes her life because she believed her son had killed a schoolmate. That son is regarded by all who remember him as weird and creepy, a fact hammered home by what Kate saw in the crawl space of their basement last night.

“He built a wooden box in there, looked like a coffin,” Ritchie Lipinski, the landlord, had said. “I pulled it out, took it to the landfill. I don’t know what the hell that freak was into.”

Ritchie hadn’t given Kate any problems. In fact, he’d let her take photographs and had promised to find ones he’d taken of the box.

In her hotel room later, she was tormented by images of the crawl space, Sorin Zurrn’s history and her growing belief that it was all tied to Rampart.