Full Tilt (13 page)

29

Rampart, New York

M
agnified 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.

30

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?”

“We’re putting out a news release within the hour.”

“Can’t you tell me anything now?”

“We’re playing things pretty tight.”

“Are you any closer to finding Nelson, any leads?”

“Kate.”

“But you’re still looking for more victims, right?”

“I can’t discuss anything further. Watch for the release.”

The call ended, leaving Kate stunned.

Now, another family is going to be devastated. If it’s not Vanessa, then where is she? How many more bodies will they find?

Kate sat there, wondering. And as the clock’s tune played she recalled its haunting words.

They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife. Did you ever see such a sight in your life?

Grace ran to her.

“Mom, can I get a drink?”

“Sure, then let’s go home.”

* * *

In the cab, Kate alerted Newslead that she’d have a story coming on the third victim. Less than a minute later, Reeka called.

“We’re going to need something with an exclusive peg, Kate.”

“I don’t even have a name yet, Reeka. I’ll do what I can.”

Kate exhaled and shook her head slowly. When the cab got to their neighborhood, Kate and Grace picked up soup, salads and sandwiches from the corner deli for their supper. By the time they got home, the news release had been posted on the Rampart PD’s website. As they ate, Kate looked into the pretty, smiling face of the victim, then read the information.

She was Mandy Marie Bryce, aged twenty-six, from Charlotte, North Carolina, a dental assistant who’d been missing for four years. She was last seen at Virginia Beach, Virginia, walking from a restaurant to her hotel where she’d been attending a conference.

Rampart PD’s release provided few other details, so Kate went online, pulling older articles from the Virginia and Charlotte newspapers, gleaning data from them. She soon learned that Mandy had a little brother with Down syndrome and that she’d volunteered with many groups. She was engaged to a carpenter, who’d been cleared as a suspect, and had organized searches for Mandy in Virginia. To help their case, police had pinpointed Mandy’s last known whereabouts and released her last text to her boyfriend and his response.

Probably my imagination, but I think I’m being followed.

Go into the first store or bar and call a cab.

Mandy had never answered and her boyfriend had called Virginia police.

Investigators soon determined that Mandy’s hotel room key was never used after she’d texted her boyfriend. Records showed no activity on her phone, bank and credit cards at any point after her last text. Mandy had vanished.
Until four years later, when her remains were found in a shallow grave near a barn in New York.

She compared Mandy’s case to what had happened to the first victim, Bethany Ann Wynn, aged nineteen when she went missing. Bethany was last seen leaving her part-time job at a mall. She was waiting for a bus to her home in suburban Hartford, Connecticut. Both cases were miles apart but seemed to fit a pattern: young women who’d vanished while alone in vulnerable places.

Kate’s heart skipped a beat when she felt a hand on her lap.

“Mom, can I have some cookies?”

She smiled at Grace.

“Just one. Then brush your teeth and reach back, like the dentist said.”

Kate sighed, then resumed reading.

It appeared that both Bethany and Mandy had been stalked. Was there a connection to their financial records and the data center where Nelson worked? What was his real name? Did he have a tie to Denver, or was everything circumstantial? Kate needed to do a lot more digging but it had to wait, because right now she had to pull a story together.

In the older news articles she saw that from time to time, Mandy’s mother, Judy Bryce, had spoken to the
Charlotte Observer
.

The keys on Kate’s keyboard clicked and within a minute she had a listing in Charlotte and called it, hoping that Brennan had notified the family. The line rang five times before a man answered.

“Hello, my name’s Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead, the wire service in New York.”

“Yes.” His tone was neutral.

“Would it be possible to speak with a relative of Mandy Marie Bryce? It concerns the news release issued a short time ago by police in Rampart, New York. I take it you’re aware of it?”

“Yes, we’re aware.”

“Would you be a relative, sir?”

“Me? No, you want Judy. I’m a friend of the family, hang on.”

The sound of a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and muffled words about a reporter in New York.

“I’m Judy Bryce, Mandy’s mother.”

“My condolences for your loss, Mrs. Bryce,” Kate said, repeating her introduction and explanation for calling before requesting Mrs. Bryce reflect on her daughter for her news story.

“My Mandy was a selfless angel who always put everyone’s needs before hers.”

Kate underlined those words in her notes. As she continued talking with Judy, the older woman said her devotion to her faith had helped her deal with her daughter’s tragedy.

“It may sound funny, even cold, but when she first went missing, I knew in my heart that I’d never see her again.”

“How did you know?”

“I can’t explain it, but a mother just knows, or maybe God let me know. When Mandy was ten, she took a bad fall down the stairs. In the hospital, seeing her in the bed, I had this powerful, crystalline feeling that I was going to outlive her. I just knew it. I—I—I’m sorry.” Judy stopped to choke back a sob. Kate overheard her say something to the man at her end that she was okay to go on. Then she came back to Kate. “Deep in my heart I just knew that when Mandy disappeared, I’d lost her forever. The pain will never go away, but I’m at peace with it now. We’re making arrangements to bring her home.”

Struggling with her own emotions, Kate opened up to Judy about her personal connection to the story, about Vanessa and how she couldn’t give up her feeling that she was somehow still alive. After listening, Judy gave Kate advice.

“Trust your heart. It’s telling you there’s hope. Hang on to that.”

The woman’s unexpected compassion for Kate, when she was the one who’d intruded on her pain, was somehow therapeutic. Kate then asked if Mandy had any ties to Bethany Ann Wynn in Hartford, or Carl Nelson or Vanessa, or Alberta or Denver?

There were no links, Judy said.

After hanging up Kate sat alone in the kitchen with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands, as if to stem the emotion draining from her. Calls to the bereaved were never easy. They always cost Kate a piece of her soul.

Get to work.

Kate marshaled all of her concentration and threw herself into writing her story as fast as she could. She didn’t think there was much of an exclusive angle to it but didn’t care. It brought Mandy Marie Bryce to life, letting readers know what the world had lost. Kate looked at Mandy’s picture and, for a moment, smiled back at her.

She pressed Send and filed her story.

Then Kate joined Grace, who was on the sofa watching a movie about puppies. She put her arm around her and for a moment tried not to think about missing women, shallow graves and monsters.

“Ouch, Mom, you’re scrunching me too tight!”

“Sorry, honey.”

As Kate’s mind raced back to...
the mountains, the river, Vanessa’s hand—letting go
...her cell phone vibrated. Thinking it was likely Reeka with some problem with her story, she was inclined to ignore it. But the area code was for Colorado and she answered.

“Hi, Kate, Will Goodsill in Denver.”

“Yes, hi, Will.”

“I found something in my notes that may help you.”