Full Tilt (21 page)

48

Edina, Minnesota

O
MG
, this is totally stupid!

Ashley Ostermelle slammed her bedroom door and fell onto her bed. She hated book reports—
loathed and despised them! They should be banned from the universe!

Ashley swiped the stupid textbooks from her bed and they thudded to the floor.

“We can do without the drama up there, young lady!”

There should be some sort of United Nations law about what cruel punishment it is to make fourteen-year-old girls do reports on stupid books written by dead old English guys!

Why was her mother being so unreasonable?

Would someone please tell her why?

To order her to redo her essay or she wouldn’t be allowed to go to Courtney’s party was
just plain mean
. She’d worked hard on this thing. Still, her mother said that she’d missed the point, that she hadn’t addressed the questions about the book’s characters, about themes, about applying them to life today.

You can’t be serious, Mother! I did my best! It’s Charles Dickens! He’s been dead, like for a million years, so why should I care about
Great Expectations
?

Great expectations.

That must be code for what parents have for their children.

Her mother was a nurse. Her father was a carpenter who built houses. They were both perfectionists and Ashley felt they wanted her to be perfect, too.

The perfect child with the perfect grades to get into the perfect school and have the perfect life.

Well, guess what, Mother? I’m not perfect. Maybe I’ll end up being a crazy old lady like that Miss Havisham, living like a ghost in my gross bug-filled old house with my rotting wedding dress. Miss Havisham was dumb. You don’t let your life stop after a big disappointment. You have to keep going or you end up like a dead thing stuck in the past.

Wait a minute.

That’s it, that’s a theme about a character you can apply to your life.

No. No. It won’t work. How do I write that so it sounds all scholarly? I don’t know. This is so hard!

“You stay off your phone and get to work, Ashley!”

“I am working on it! Stop torturing me!”

Ashley’s phone chirped with a message, then another, then another.

Something was going on. It started with Breen. She had news about “an incident” she’d witnessed at school today. Nick Patterson, the boy Ashley was secretly in love with had just asked Shawna Cano for a date.

No! No! No! My life’s over!

Breen was telling everyone that it happened after school while they were waiting for the bus and Nick just walked up alone to a group where Shawna and Breen were and asked Shawna if she wanted to maybe go to McDonald’s or something sometime with him or whatever, and if not, he was cool with that, and how Shawna, who really liked him, said sure that would be fun and how Nick walked away smiling his dreamy smile. Everyone was now saying how that had to be the most romantic, bravest thing for Nick to do, right out there in front of everybody.

Ashley stuffed her face in her pillow.

Her life had been reduced to crap.

How did this happen?

It had to have been that day Nick had walked near her when she was at her locker with Madison and Madison was saying “Don’t move,” because Nick was standing three feet behind her talking to Brendan. Ashley wanted Madison to take a picture of him that close to her, he was so hot. Then Ashley thought of that horrible pimple she had on her forehead and began rummaging through her bag for her makeup. That’s when her books and stuff splashed on the floor and when she got down to pick stuff up, Nick just backed away still talking to Brendan.

Like I didn’t even exist!

Oh, my God. My life is ruined. I’m going to die. I need help. I need guidance.
Still gripping her phone, Ashley texted Jenn.

OMFG where are you I need you!

It’d been several days since she last heard from her older and wiser friend from Milwaukee. And now she could really use help from an experienced woman of the world.

Like an answered prayer, Ashley’s phone chirped.

Sorry, been mega busy with stuff. I’m here, I’m here, what’s up?

In a series of desperate texts, Ashley told Jenn everything.

Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I’ll get you through this.

Thanks, I needed to hear that.

BTW. Remember how my parents want to visit the Mall of America?

Yes.

I think it’s going to happen really soon. We should meet.

Definitely!!! Yes I soooo want to meet you!!!

It’ll be awesome, just me and you!

AH I can’t wait!

Me neither ahh!!

49

Quantico, Virginia

C
arly Salvito settled into her desk at the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and got ready for the new case coming her way.

The word out of the morning meeting was that a bad one had emerged out of Region 3, the Midwest.

She logged onto her computer, then took in her unit, the soft murmur of conversations and the clicking of keyboards as some forty crime analysts worked at solving crimes. The program, known as ViCAP, maintained the largest investigative database of major violent crime cases in the US.

Salvito’s unit collected and analyzed information about homicides, sexual assaults, missing persons and unidentified human remains, searching for links among cases that were scattered across the country.

ViCAP was headquartered within Critical Incident Response Group—the CIRG building—at the FBI Academy about forty miles southwest of Washington, DC, nestled in an expanse of Virginia forest.

Salvito had come a long way from Queens, where she’d been a detective with the NYPD, before becoming an FBI crime analyst with ViCAP.

Like most CAs, she was devoted to the program and its ability to connect cases and catch criminals. Given her background, she was good at assuring detectives that the information they submitted, particularly their holdback information, which only they and their suspect knew, was zealously guarded by the FBI analysts.

“I know your holdback is your case. I’ve been there,” Salvito would tell them. “We follow your instructions to the letter. No other agency sees your holdback without your say-so.”

Before Salvito scrolled through her files, she opened her can of cold diet cola. She preferred cold soda in the morning to coffee. As she took a sip her computer pinged.

This is it. Here we go.

The new case came via Minnesota out of the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in Saint Paul. Salvito keyed in her security codes to the file. It had been submitted by BCA Agent Lester Pratt. She went first to the
Details of Discovery section, showing the date that a homicide victim was found in Lost River State Forest, near the Canadian border.

She’d been buried alive.

The body belonged to an unidentified white female, five feet four inches, one hundred twenty pounds, age between twenty-four and twenty-eight. Her fingertips had been disfigured, likely with acid. Still, Minnesota had submitted them to the national fingerprint database.

Good, they were smart to do that. It could be a signature.

The victim also had a tattoo of a small heart with wings on the left upper neck. That was submitted to databases for missing persons. They’d also submitted a dental chart. DNA from the crime scene had been submitted to CODIS and other databanks. Given the backlog at CODIS, results might take a while, but sometimes people were lucky.

No evidence of sexual assault.

Salvito reflected for a moment before continuing. There was a lot of other detail to review but like most CAs, she then went right to the evidentiary mode, key fact evidence.

In this one, the critical piece of evidence was the tire impressions at the scene belonging to the suspect’s vehicle. No other tracks or impressions were detected at that scene, aside from foot impressions believed to belong to the victim and the suspect. In the case of the suspect, it was believed he wore a size-twelve boot.

The holdback was the belief the suspect recorded the crime, arising from impressions from a tripod that were found in soil in which conditions were consistent with the time frame for the tire and foot impressions.

Okay, we’ll just lock that away.

The tire impressions were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E. The file included photos of casts, enlarged to show tread wear and other characteristics.

This is good. This is pretty unique. It’s a solid identifier.

Salvito took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then, using the tire evidence, ran a comparison with other similar cases in the system for the region and states she was responsible for. She was in Region 1, and the states that fell to her were South Carolina, Maryland, New Jersey and New York.

Starting with South Carolina, she entered codes and information about the tires. In a few seconds the response was negative. Then she tried Maryland and found nothing. New Jersey yielded no response, as well.

Last one, New York.

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.

50

Rampart, New York

D
riving 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?