Full Tilt (22 page)

51

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.

And Vanessa.

Kate was getting closer to the truth about Carl Nelson. She could feel it in her gut, but she needed more than a feeling.

Earlier that morning, her phone had rung with a call from an administrator with the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church who’d agreed to meet her. Since the cemetery was on the way, Kate stopped to see Krasimira Zurrn’s grave site and take photos.

She checked her phone. It was time to go.

The church wasn’t far. Its twin tower facade soared over the neighborhood. It was more than a century old, built in the Romanesque style with beautiful stained glass windows. After parking, Kate went by the ornate wooden doors, taking the sidewalk leading to the office in the rear, as instructed, and pushed the button for the bell.

A short woman came to the door. She had Cleopatra bangs and large black-framed glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Kate Page, here to see Joan DiPaulo.”

“Yes, I’m Joan. Come in.”

The smaller woman took Kate down a hallway smelling of candle wax, linen and incense. They came to an austere office. A crucifix on the plain white wall looked down on the desk, computer, phone and file cabinet. The woman indicated a wooden chair for Kate.

“Now, my apologies for not getting back to you,” Joan said. “We don’t have regular hours at this office.”

“That’s fine, I understand.”

“In your call you said you’re doing some genealogical work?”

“I’m looking into the history of a family.”

“Your family?”

“No.”

“Oh, are you with an estate lawyer? Do you have a letter?”

“No.” Kate put her Newslead identification on the table.

The woman slid on her glasses and studied it.

“A reporter?” The warmth in her voice evaporated. “You shouldn’t have misrepresented yourself to me on the phone.”

“I didn’t. I said I wanted to research a family history. And here I’ve identified myself to you.”

“I’m sorry.” She handed the ID back to Kate. “I can’t help you. Church policy forbids me from disclosing the private information of parishioners.”

“I understand, but please let me explain the background.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I’m unable to help you.”

Kate didn’t move.

Something had triggered a sense of injustice—an eruption of internal anger at how the church bureaucracy that had gone out of its way to protect criminal priests was now stopping her cold in trying to find a murderer and the truth about her sister.

“I’m a Catholic, Joan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe I’m not a good Catholic, but our parents had us baptized.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with this. Now, as I’ve said—”

“Please, let me put all my cards on the table and tell you why I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have the time.”

“This is extremely important. It’s information you should know.”

Joan sighed.

“Please, ma’am.”

“Be brief.”

Kate began with her own tragedy, her lifelong search for the truth about Vanessa, then fast-forwarding to the discovery of her necklace at Rampart, the horrors there, the message and links to the Alberta abduction, the Denver suspect, which brought her to Chicago and her work on the Zurrns. Kate unfolded a photocopy of Krasimira Zurrn’s obituary from the newspaper. “I need any information you could help me with on this family.”

Joan read the clipping, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”

Kate struggled to keep control.

“Does your computer have access to the internet?”

“Yes, but I see no reason to continue this.”

“Please, one more thing. Then I’ll leave. Go to this website.” Kate jotted an address on her notebook and turned it to her.

“Please. Go to this site. It’s important and it won’t take long. Please.”

Joan went to the site. Soon her breathing quickened as she clicked on stories about the Rampart case. The faces of the victims who’d been identified stared back at her.

“I’d like you to remember those faces,” Kate said, “because in not helping me you’re helping the man who murdered these women. So later tonight when you lay your head on your pillow, just consider who we really protect and who we hurt when we serve bureaucracy without question. I’m sure a new face will emerge soon and when it does, I’ll send you her picture. We know the killer will be especially grateful to the church, which could have done something to stop him but chose not to. Thanks for your time, Joan.”

Kate stood to leave.

“Wait.”

Kate turned.

“I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a champion of evil.”

“It was directed at the institution. I’m sorry, but I have an emotional connection to all of this and—I’m—”

“Kate, tell me what you’re looking for.”

“I’m just trying to locate family members and thought the church might have records.”

“We’ll keep this confidential?”

“Like the seal of the confessional.”

Joan thought a bit longer, consulted the obituary before typing on her keyboard. Within seconds it beeped. Kate was unable to see what she was reading on her monitor. A long moment, heavy with anticipation, passed before Joan typed another command and the printer came to life. She reached for the single sheet, read it, then turned it facedown.

“Krasimira Zurrn was a member of this parish and her card shows that she’d listed her son, Sorin, as next of kin. At the time of her death it appears we had him listed at this address.”

She slid the page to Kate, whose heart sank as she read “1388 Vista Verde, San Diego.”

“Is that the only address you have for him? There’s a notation.”

Joan DiPaulo took the page back, drew it to her face and lifted her glasses to study it. “Yes, so there is.” Joan then typed. Again the printer came to life with another sheet.

“Here you go. It appears Krasimira Zurrn had updated the information. This was the address we had for her son. We have no other information.”

A sudden pulse of victory thudded in Kate’s chest.

The address:
2909 Falstaff Street, Denver, Colorado
.

* * *

Kate had a vague memory of shaking Joan DiPaulo’s hand and thanking her before she was standing in the parking lot, fumbling through her bag for her phone.

She had a plane to catch.

She texted Chuck to call her, then drove to the hotel to check out. Before heading to O’Hare she tried calling him but got his voice mail. Her heart raced as she wove through traffic along the Kennedy Expressway. After returning the rental, she got in line for a check-in kiosk to get her boarding pass. While waiting she scrolled the dozens of photos on her phone while growing anxious that she hadn’t heard from Chuck.

She was contemplating calling Reeka when her phone rang.

“Kate Page.”

“It’s Chuck—”

“Good, Chuck, listen I’m at O’Hare heading home. I can put big pieces of the puzzle together. Huge creepy pieces, I think our guy killed a fifteen-year-old girl when they were in school together—”

“Kate—”

“Chuck, listen, his mother committed suicide believing he was a murderer. I can confirm Jerome Fell, a key suspect in the Alberta abduction was Sorin Zurrn. We just need to confirm Fell is Carl Nelson—I know we can—”

“Kate—”

“In his teens he built a confinement room and kept a coffin in it—”

“Kate, he’s in Minnesota.”

“What?”

“Don’t fly back. I want you to get on the next plane to Minneapolis and get up north to a place called Pine Mills near the Lost River State Forest. We’ll get a photog to meet up with you. I want you to write up your Chicago stuff on the flight and help with our coverage in Minnesota.”

“I don’t understand, what’s happening?”

“Our Minneapolis bureau got a tip that some bird-watchers found the body of a white female in the forest and that investigators have evidence tying the murder to Rampart. We hear they’re planning a major press conference up there with Rampart cops, FBI. The story’s getting bigger.”

Kate froze.

“Excuse me, miss, are you using that machine?”

Kate turned to an older man with a ball cap, then stepped away, keeping her phone to her ear and swallowing.

She thought of Vanessa.

“Chuck, did they identify the victim?”

“No, nothing like that so far. Sorry. Kate, can you handle this?”

“I’ll get on the next plane to Minneapolis.”

52

Albany, New York

A
ll right, here we go again.

Constance Baylick set out on another day of searching the regional, state and national data banks holding DNA profiles to determine if any new ones added to the system matched hers.

Maybe this time.

She’d been assigned to lead on DNA analysis of profiles collected thus far from the Rampart investigation to help with identification or links to other crimes.

Constance was a new hire of the New York State Police Forensic Investigation Center, part of the state police crime lab in Albany. She’d graduated among the top in her class at University of California, Davis, where she’d studied molecular cell biology. She was still working on her PhD. She knew her stuff.

Constance slipped on her headphones to listen to “Born This Way.” Mother Monster helped her concentrate as she set out to work.

She had full authority to access CODIS, all affiliated databases and networks. She received all the newsletters, alerts and bulletins and was well aware of the backlogs.

Sometimes you pray and sometimes you get lucky.

She started by running her routine checks, locally, then with the New York State DNA Databank, then the regional systems.

Then she went into the National DNA Index System, known as NDIS, which held profiles of convicted criminals, people arrested or detained, unidentified human remains, missing persons and the relatives of missing persons. It was common for police agencies across the country to regularly search their profiles against new ones added to the system.

As expected, nothing new so far.

Constance continued clicking through the system. The song had nearly ended when Constance froze.

Ping. Ping.
Two hits.
Holy cow!

Constance yanked off her headphones, the music ticking at her neck as she checked the identifier number of the submitting agency: Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. She entered her security code and downloaded the profiles.

These were two distinct forensic hits that the system had identified as possible matches with profiles she’d submitted from the Rampart case.

Constance immediately began working to verify that the two Minnesota profiles matched two from Rampart. She scrutinized and tested the genetic markers—alleles—comparing them to the first one until she had it.

Okay. Looks like a definite match here.

She went to the second.

It was trickier. It drifted into pedigree and familial searches that required all alleles to match. But Constance knew that the target and candidate profiles could contain a different number of alleles, as was the case here.

What we have here is a partial DNA match. But it’s strong enough to confirm identity. One person in the Minnesota case and a person in the Rampart case are in the same family.

Constance would swear on it under oath in court if she had to.

She began writing her preliminary report for her supervisor to send to the investigators in Rampart and Minnesota.

53

Pine Mills, Minnesota

A
fter landing in Minneapolis, Kate got on a regional flight to Grand Forks, North Dakota.

Ninety minutes later, when she arrived in the Grand Forks terminal she saw a tall man with white hair and a friendly face holding a piece of cardboard with “Kate Page” scrawled in black marker.

She went to him.

“I’m Kate Page.”

“Hi, Kate. Lund Sanner, freelance with Newslead. All set? We’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of us.”

Along the way Kate worked on her Chicago story. After she’d sent it to New York she called home to Nancy and then spoke with Grace for fifteen minutes before she had to go.

“I’ll be back in a few days. I miss you like crazy, sweetie,” Kate said.

Kate then bombarded Rampart Detective Ed Brennan again with calls, texts and emails. Again, she received no response. She tried his partner, Paul Dickson. Nothing. It was futile, leaving her frustrated and uneasy.

Something’s happened with this murder. Maybe they got a break?

The sun was setting when they got to Pine Mills, which was at the edge of Lost River State Forest near the Canadian border. Sanner had had the foresight to reserve two rooms at the Timberline Motel.

“You’re lucky,” the clerk said. “Everybody around here’s booked up, mostly with newspeople from all over. Folks say it’s got something to do with that murder. Do you guys know anything?”

“There’s a press conference in the morning in the community hall. We’ll all know more after that,” Sanner said.

Kate was exhausted but agreed to have dinner with Sanner at Greta’s Homestyle Restaurant across the street. Over club sandwiches Sanner told Kate he’d retired from the
Pioneer Press
after thirty years as a news photographer. He had a cabin near Thief River Falls, not far from here. Kate told him a bit about herself, then Sanner spoke up.

“Kate, when I got the call for this assignment I did some reading on the New York case,” he said. “You’ve got a connection to all of this.”

Kate nodded and told him the story.

“I saw that you were pretty intense during the drive,” he said. “And I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“I’m sorry, Lund, that was rude of me.”

“No, no apologies. I understand. That was work. I hope things go well for you tomorrow, Kate, all things considered.”

* * *

Alone in her room, Kate switched off the lights, stood at her window and stared into the night and at the stars.

What am I doing? My life is moving at a thousand miles an hour. I should be home holding Grace. But I’m so close, so close I can feel it.

She got into bed and as sleep came, she thought of the victim in Lost River.

Up here, amid the isolation rolling with fields, lakes, rivers and forests.

Such a lonely place to die.

Then she thought of Vanessa and cried.

* * *

The Pine Mills Community Hall was a sturdy stone-and-wood structure built by volunteers in the 1930s.

Police vehicles and scores of news vans, some from Minneapolis and Winnipeg, jammed the parking lot. Satellite trucks from the major networks had their antennae extended. Radio news cars lined the street in front of the hall. A deputy at the entrance checked and recorded press IDs.

Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the main room before a long table, with TV monitors on stands posted at each end and a large board, covered with large sheets of paper. A heap of recorders and microphones with station flags rose at the center of the table as reporters settled into spots while taking calls from their desks. Kate estimated upward of seventy news types were there.

Metal clanked as TV crews erected tripods, called for cables and batteries to be ferried from satellite trucks. Harried cell phone calls were made to editors, patched through to booths and networks. Data about birds, dishes, coordinates, feeds, airtime and sound tests were exchanged. Overgroomed TV reporters checked their hair, teeth, earpieces, mikes and helped with white balances by holding notebooks before cameras.

“Right, so how many known homicide victims? Sixteen now?” a TV reporter, his hand cupped to one ear, repeated into his camera. “Right. Fifteen in New York. One here, right. Sixteen and we’re going live through New York.”

As Sanner caught up and reminisced with other news photographers, Kate searched the men in suits and jackets lining the walls near the side and back, hoping to see Brennan or Dickson or at least some official she knew from Rampart.

She felt a tap on her shoulder before hearing her name.

She turned to see Brennan.

“Ed, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Come with me.”

“But—” She indicated the news conference was about to start.

“You won’t miss anything. Come with me.”

Kate left a trail of “Who’s that?” and “What’s that about?” and “She looks familiar...” from the few reporters who’d noticed she was being pulled aside in advance of a national press conference.

Brennan took her to a small office at the rear, crowded with several other FBI, state and county investigators. She looked at the grim faces watching her.

“What’s going on, Ed?”

“Kate, please sit down.”

Pierced by the sudden fear that it was over, she caught her breath.

“Kate, we’re going to identify two victims arising from the forest scene.”

“But you only found one?”

“The homicide victim has been identified and we’ll release that name momentarily. The identity of a second person has also been confirmed. In both cases we used expedited DNA analysis.”

Kate stared at him.

“Kate, one is your sister, Vanessa. There is no doubt. We’ve confirmed it by using the DNA you provided through analysis with the biological material found at the scene.”

“What?”

“It’s true.”

“Are you saying—” Kate swallowed “—my sister’s dead?”

“No, we’re confirming that she was at the scene. We don’t know her whereabouts. We don’t know if she’s still alive or has been hurt, but, until very recently, she was alive and at that scene.”

Kate cupped her hands over her mouth as she absorbed the news, her mind reeling, her thoughts rocketing through the years of pain.

“Both names will be released with pictures and information,” Brennan said. “Kate, are you hearing me?”

She nodded.

“Kate, Emmett Lang with the FBI. We met in Rampart.”

Kate had a vague memory.

“We know this is a lot to take in,” Lang said. “The evidence strongly points to a live prisoner situation, although we can’t rule out an accomplice. We expect our suspect will be watching the news. We walk a fine line between public safety and protecting an investigation. We’re criticized no matter what we do. In this case, given a safety concern, we’re going to release a lot of information as part of a public appeal. We have other solid information that we can’t disclose but we’re pursuing. We believe we’re very close to Carl Nelson.”

As Kate stared at Lang, at Brennan, at the others, something deep inside detonated a lifetime of pent-up anguish and anger. Kate did all she could to control it, to use it as a weapon, for she realized now more than ever, she was now truly in a battle for Vanessa’s life.

And they were losing time.

“His name’s Sorin Zurrn. He grew up in Chicago. His mother committed suicide because she believed he murdered a classmate.”

The investigators exchanged glances of disbelief.

“Kate, where did you learn this?” Brennan asked.

As she quickly related the results of her trip to Chicago and the links of Zurrn to Jerome Fell in Denver, Fell’s link to the Tara Dawn Mae abduction in Alberta with its ties to Vanessa and Rampart through a message in the ruins and the necklace, FBI agents took notes.

“Everything about Zurrn will be in the story I’m filing today. That will be my statement to you.”

Some of the investigators huddled and in hushed tones compared Kate’s information to their own confidential aspects of the case. A few had started making calls, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Excuse me, but the networks want to start, something about satellite time and going live.”

* * *

Kate returned to her seat in the hall.

The press conference was led by George Varden, the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge of Minnesota, who introduced state, local officials and those from New York.

As it began, Kate slipped into a surreal state, struggling to do her job while the painful truth about her little sister was unveiled before her.

Enlarged photos of Carl Nelson, age-progressed images of Vanessa and photos of a white woman in her twenties appeared alongside locator maps and timelines as Varden summarized the Minnesota aspect of the investigation, then its link to Rampart, New York. He outlined key points of the case, how bird-watchers had discovered the scene a few miles from here in Lost River State Forest. He reviewed matters chronologically with dates and locations but would not discuss vital, key fact aspects.

He acknowledged that the case now had sixteen homicide victims, many of whom had yet to be identified.

“Evidence leads us to believe that the individual known as Carl Nelson is our leading suspect in these crimes. Let me stress that this investigation is ongoing, and we continue to pursue a number of leads,” Varden said before identifying the Lost River victim.

“Brittany Ellen Sykes, aged twenty-four, who was reported missing while walking to her home in Tulsa, Oklahoma, nine years ago, has been identified as yet another homicide victim in this case.

“We also found evidence that Vanessa Page, believed to be a kidnap victim of Carl Nelson, was also present at the scene and may be a prisoner in a hostage situation. Because of our concern for her safety, we’ll be releasing more information in our effort to locate her and Carl Nelson.”

As Varden outlined Vanessa’s case, whispers rippled among the reporters. Cell phones began vibrating. Some reporters took hushed calls while shooting glances to Kate.

Then the monitors came to life with footage of a van at Bishop’s General Store and Gas.

“The van is a silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van. We’ve provided photos to you. We’re looking for that van.”

The driver, owing to glare and angles of light, was in silhouette behind the wheel.

“We believe the driver is Carl Nelson. We’ll provide this video along with other pictures to you. The scene has been released. We’ll have people there and we ask that you be respectful of it. Now, we’re asking anyone with any information about this case to contact us. We’ll take your questions.”

For the next fifty minutes Varden and other investigators took a rapid succession of questions that covered nearly every element of the case. During that time, Kate was passed notes and received messages requesting interviews, including those from the major news networks.

She didn’t respond to them. She had her own work to do first.

When the conference ended Kate and Lund hurried to his SUV and they drove to the scene.

“How are you holding up, Kate?” Sanner asked.

“I don’t know. I’m numb. I just need to focus on my story, update it and get it filed after we get to the scene.”

It was a half-hour drive to the state forest gate. From there it took another thirty minutes, following the trail marked by fluorescent tags conservation officers had put up to guide the press.

“Much of this area’s inaccessible,” Sanner said as they cut through the thick forest and stretches of fields, peat bog, streams, thickets and wetland. “A birder’s paradise.”

A number of news trucks had already arrived at the scene before them. Klassen County deputies were directing press to the site, which was accessible by foot.

The sounds of breezes fingering through trees carrying birdsong gave the site a funereal air. The scene was small, with a clean, hollowed-out hole in the earth. The excavated and sifted soil was piled neatly next to it. Other news crews worked quietly, respectfully around the scene, recording it from different angles.

Sanner took a number of shots as Kate made notes.

No one spoke. There was little to say, until Sanner took Kate aside.

“I’m going up in a charter with a Minneapolis TV station to get aerial shots. I can drop you at the motel, or leave you here to get a ride back.”

“Leave me, Lund. I’ll write my story here and catch up with you at the motel.”

Before Sanner left, he showed Kate a shot he had taken of her. It was a head and shoulders of her at the press conference, a beautiful crisp shot that captured the anguish written in her face as she studied the enlarged photo of Vanessa.

“You’re part of the story, Kate. New York was watching the live coverage and asked me to get that shot. Sorry.”

Kate understood.

After Sanner left she walked farther into the woods, found a private spot on lush grass in the shade of a tree and took out her laptop. Her fingers were shaking as she held them over the keypad. She bit back on her emotions and forced herself into her zone to write fast, clean copy.

After proofing, then filing her story to New York, she sat motionless, listening to the birds, trying hard not to think, for if she thought about it all, she knew she’d crack and break. She didn’t know how much time had passed before her phone rang.

“How are you doing, Kate?” asked Chuck.

“The best I can,” she responded.

“I can’t imagine how hard this must be. We’re all praying for your sister.”

“Thank you, Chuck.”

“Outstanding work. Every Newslead subscriber wants your story. Every competitor wants to interview you. You’re cleared by HQ to grant interviews, if you’re up to it.”

“Not yet, I’m still a bit shaky.”

“Whatever you want to do on that front is fine, especially if you think it will help find your sister. We’ve got the Tulsa bureau talking to the family of Brittany Ellen Sykes. I’ve told them to ask about links to your sister, but you know from your experience what the chances are.”

“Yes, thanks, Chuck.”

“Our thoughts are with you. I hope like hell they catch the bastard soon. Safe travels home.”