by Rick Mofina
“Goodness, I wouldn’t know. Her mother would know that.”
“Sorry to ask so many questions.”
“It’s all right.”
“I was just wondering if Bethany’s family knew much more about what happened in Rampart.”
“All we’d heard from police here was that this Carl Nelson was some kind of computer expert and a reclusive nut and that he left a note…that maybe it was a murder-suicide. We figured he must’ve been the one who took Beth three years ago, kept her prisoner before he—”
“Did the police tell you much more?”
“No, I’m sorry. It all happened pretty fast. I think it was the other day, a detective here told Rachel the police in New York were checking Beth’s dental records. It gave us hope that maybe they found her and—” His voice broke. “And that somehow maybe she was alive. But, deep down, we knew. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking too clearly. It’s been real hard on all of us. God, I remember holding her when she was a baby. I’m her godfather. This family’s seen a lot of pain these past few years, a lot of pain.”
“Sir, I’m so sorry to intrude. I’ll let you take care of things.”
“Wait, there’s something. I do remember Rachel saying that one of our detectives here who’d been working on Beth’s case said the guys in Rampart were fearful there may be other victims.”
“Other victims?”
“Yes, and that maybe they just hadn’t found them all yet.”
CHAPTER 13
New York City
Kate stood in her kitchen feeling horrible for having intruded on Bethany’s grieving family.
But she’d had to make that call. So much was at stake.
As tendrils of steam rose from her kettle she searched them for answers. Bethany’s uncle—Lord, I never got his name—had been kind to her and she weighed what he’d revealed about the case.
There may be other victims…they just hadn’t found them all yet.
Other victims.
It changed everything.
Kate had thought there was only one female victim. This helped explain why Brennan was so guarded. His case was more than a murder-suicide.
What really happened at that barn by the cemetery? Who was Carl Nelson?
The kettle’s whistle pierced the air like a scream.
Kate made raspberry tea, returned to her desk and her online digging, intent on finding more on Nelson. She regretted that she’d missed the chance to talk to people in Rampart about him and considered going back.
Maybe she’d do some phone work?
First she’d check Rampart news sites for any updates. The Rampart Examiner’s latest item was short, naming Bethany Ann Wynn as the female victim but offering no confirmation of the deceased male. The investigation was continuing. The region’s TV news and radio stations were reporting the same, as were news sites in Hartford.
Kate then checked her email.
She’d set up an alert for anything posted online on the case to be sent to her. She’d received more stories from Rampart and Hartford, but they contained nothing she didn’t already know.
I’m forgetting something—what is it? Wait—it’s the pictures!
Suddenly she’d remembered how she’d slid the tiny memory card with photos from the Rampart crime scene into her sock. Kate rushed to the hamper in the bathroom, rifled through the clothes, finding the socks she’d worn, shaking them until the little square fell to the floor.
How did I forget this?
Kate returned to the kitchen, inserted the card in her camera then connected the cable to her computer, downloaded the images and opened them. They showed the jumble of charred lumber, an array of protruding trestles and beams. On sections that were not burned she noticed markings, like messages cut into the wood.
Kate enlarged the image but the area was blurred. She opened another photo, one that was crisper. As she zoomed in, carved words swam into focus and she read “I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—”
It ended there.
What is that?
After studying the words for several moments, she wrote them down in her notebook. Had they been scratched in the wood earlier, prior to the deaths by somebody joking around, like some sort of graffiti? But it was not the usual obscenity or put-down.
Was it evidence?
It had been tagged for processing by the forensic cops.
I am Tara Dawn Mae. My name used to be—
Was this an unfinished message from one of the victims?
Kate immediately searched the name online.
In seconds, the results matching her query appeared, offering pages of headlines and excerpts that stunned her:
Canada’s Cold Case files…
Tara Dawn Mae was last seen at a truck stop…never seen again…
Royal Canadian Mounted Police—MISSING…
Tara Dawn Mae was 10 years old when she vanished from…
Brooks Prairie Journal—Mystery Disappearance Haunts…
It has been twelve years since the disappearance of Tara Dawn Mae, and neighbors in the tiny farming community try to remember…
FIND THE MISSING KIDS
Tara Dawn Mae. Age at time of disappearance: 10. Eyes: Brown…
Kate continued searching, finding a police summary of the case.
Tara Dawn MAE Cold Case Files
Location: Brooks, Alberta, Canada
On July 7, 2000, Tara Dawn MAE was ten years of age and living with her parents, Barton Mae and Fiona Mae, on their farm near Brooks, Alberta. After shopping for groceries in Brooks, the family stopped at the Grand Horizon Plaza, a large and busy truck stop along the Trans-Canada Highway.
While Barton purchased gas for the family pickup truck, Fiona and Tara entered the facility to use the restroom. While browsing the food court and gift shop, Tara got separated from her mother and was never seen again.
An exhaustive investigation has failed to yield any leads as to Tara Dawn MAE’s location or details as to her disappearance.
Kate then found a webpage showing several photographs of Tara. There she was smiling in a full-face shot. Next, a formal head-and-shoulders school portrait, and then Tara with a puppy and laughing.
Tara looks so much like Vanessa.
Deep in a corner of Kate’s heart, something cracked, a thin ray of hope emerged and she blinked back her tears. She needed to know more about this case and how it was connected to Rampart.
Kate reached for her phone and called Anne Kelly, with the New York office of the Children’s Searchlight Network. Anne alerted Fred Byfield, one of the group’s investigators.
“I’ll get in touch with our sister networks in Canada,” Fred said after listening to Kate. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Kate continued researching. Again and again she came back to the pictures, haunted by the little girl’s sweet, shy smile, her dark eyes, shining like falling stars.
Could this be Vanessa?
Kate used maps and made some calculations. Their accident happened about ten miles east of Golden, British Columbia, when their car left the highway and crashed into the Kicking Horse River. That was some 270 miles west of Brooks, Alberta, a five-hour drive across the prairie and through the Rocky Mountains.
Vanessa would have been twenty-six now. If Tara Dawn Mae is still alive, as the message in Rampart suggests, she’d be around twenty-five or twenty-six now, as well.
Was it all coincidence?
Kate went back to the crime scene photos.
My name used to be—
What was her other name?
Was Tara Dawn the Maes’ biological child or an adopted child? Kate couldn’t find any divorce records on public sites. Maybe Tara Dawn was a street kid who’d run
away and changed her name? It was not uncommon. Kate knew that, from her time on the street. Kids were always running from something.
As she continued working throughout the day she came across an in-depth article done on the third anniversary of the case that stopped her cold. It said that Barton and Fiona Mae had adopted Tara Dawn about three or four years before her disappearance.
Adopted?
Kate’s mind raced.
She tried searching for court records, knowing that they weren’t usually made public, a fact confirmed when she called the clerk’s office for Alberta’s family courts in Edmonton, the capital. Kate was thinking of hiring a Canadian private investigator to help her dig deeper into the case when she realized the time.
She had to pick up Grace from school.
* * *
They’d passed the remainder of the afternoon with Grace coloring a project about the world’s oceans and chatting about her day while Kate got supper ready. Whenever she could, Kate thought about the case. That evening while they were watching The Wizard of Oz, Fred Byfield called.
“Kate, I talked with our people in Calgary affiliated with our network and I don’t have a lot more to add.”
“I’ll take anything, even advice.”
Kate patted Grace’s leg and left the sofa to take the call in the kitchen.
“Canadian police still have it listed as a cold case.”
“Yes.”
“No real leads, nothing at all, and both of the parents have since passed away.”
“I didn’t know that about the parents. How’d they die?”
“Accidents, maybe, we’re not sure but did you know that Tara Dawn was adopted?”
“Yeah, I found a magazine piece that mentioned it. Any details on that?”
“I don’t know, and our source in Calgary didn’t know.”
Kate considered the information.
“So what do you make of these factors? Is it Vanessa, Fred?”
“When you add them up—the necklace at the scene, the carved message from Tara Dawn Mae, the dates, ages and the fact they never found Vanessa’s body—they do present a compelling argument that your sister was at the Rampart crime scene.”
“But? I detect a ‘but’ in your tone.”
“But, you know as well as anyone, real life is not like mystery books and thriller movies where it all ties together nicely. Real life is complicated and missing persons cases can be complex. Simple factors that appear to be connected often have explanations proving there is no link whatsoever.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And there’s no DNA from Tara Dawn’s case to compare to yours, at least none that we know of. And we don’t know what Rampart police know, or what they may be telling the RCMP in Alberta about their case. Now you’ve got to decide what you’re going to do next. I think this warrants further investigation and we’ll help you as much as we can.”
“Thanks, Fred.”
Kate returned to the movie, sitting next to Grace. As Dorothy followed the yellow brick road in her quest to get back to Kansas, Kate searched for the right path she needed to take.
“You were talking about Aunt Vanessa on the phone,” Grace said. “I could hear you say her name.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Is that why you went away the other day, to look for her again?”
Kate looked at her and smiled. Grace was a smart little girl. Last year when she’d turned six, the same age as Vanessa at the time she went missing, Kate had told Grace about the crash, how she’d lost her hold of Vanessa’s hand, how they’d never found her and how she still looked for her everywhere. Grace understood, or seemed to, and Kate was okay talking about it with her.
“Yes, honey, that’s why I went away the other day.”
After the movie, as Kate got her into bed, Grace asked her a question.
“Are you going to go away again to look for Aunt Vanessa, Mom?”
“I’m not sure. I have some time off from work right now, so I’m not sure.”
“Maybe one day you’ll find her, Mom, just like Dorothy found her way back home to Kansas.”
Kate smiled.
“Maybe.”
Later that night, as Kate continued researching, she couldn’t help but think how her pursuit of the truth about Vanessa had turned into her own yellow brick road of doubt and defeat by dead-end leads. Kate was a reporter and, like a cop, needed facts. What she had now were puzzle pieces, and what she needed to do was keep digging for more to see if they all fit. Kate found herself on airline sites checking flights to Calgary.
Kate called Nancy.
After telling her everything, after explaining her situation, Kate was still unsure about leaving Grace, about the whole idea of going to Canada, with her job situation and everything else.
“There’s no question you have to go,” Nancy said. “This is part of the fabric of your life, of who you are. How would you live with yourself if, after all that’s happened, you never did all you could to find the truth about your sister because you’d left a big stone unturned? Go. I’ll take care of Grace.”
Five minutes later Kate booked a flight to Calgary.
CHAPTER 14
Rampart, New York
Pathologist Morten Compton sat at his desk in his basement office at Rampart General and reviewed his notes on the two deaths at the old burial grounds.
We’ve got to nail down the ID on the male. And the cause of death.
It was late and as Compton worked he started wheezing again. His wife had warned him to cut back on the meatball sub lunches at Sally’s Diner and to drop a few pounds. The job stress didn’t help.
Compton’s temporary assistant, Marsha Fisher, who’d gone for the day, had left him a summary.
Detective Brennan’s extremely anxious for updates.
As you know Dr. Hunt made dental charts, which we’ve circulated with no results so far. If the male victim had a dentist, it appears he didn’t visit one recently or locally.
One potentially positive new aspect: the forensic unit at the scene recovered a military dog tag in the vicinity of where the male was found. I’ve attached a photo of it. I’ve submitted it to the military’s National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis with an urgent request for comparison of our dental chart with the dog tag info. You should be hearing back anytime now.
Compton clicked on the image.
The dog tag was charred and twisted metal, but the information was clear to read. The name was: Pollard, J.C., blood type was O positive, followed by the Social Security number, and other information.
Compton stroked his Vandyke.
Were there more victims?
The blood type was the same as the presumed victim, Carl Nelson, but O positive was very common. The dog tag could have already been at the site and have no bearing on the victim. Then again, it could be a key piece of evidence.
Identifying a body this severely burned was always challenging. The face was gone, so identification by a relative or friend would not be possible. The hands were gone, so fingerprints were not possible.
Clothing was destroyed. No distinctive jewelry for the male had been recovered.
Compton had taken X-rays of the remains, hoping to find any medical implants or screws for a broken leg and such. He’d circulated them with doctors in the region. So far to no avail. And as far as the DNA went, he was unsure if, given the extensive damage to the body, the tissue sample he’d submitted to various databases, including CODIS, the FBI’s national DNA database, was viable.
That brought him to the cause, which had all the indications of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The entrance was the right temple. The wound track was right to left and slightly forward to the left temple, where he’d recovered the 9mm round, b
ut there was also a significant skull fracture from blunt trauma. The injury could’ve been a result of being struck by debris, such as a large beam, falling from the burning building. The problem for Compton was that given the severity of the damage to the body, he couldn’t conclusively determine the order of events. He was leaning to concluding that death was the result of a self-inflicted gunshot wound, and the skull fracture was postmortem, given the other supporting factors of Carl Nelson’s suicide note, his vehicle and his absence from his job.
The phone rang.
“Pathologist, Compton.”
“Dr. Compton, this is Major Robert Ellis with the office of the chief of dental services with the United States Army. I’m calling in response to your request, concerning the dental records of Sergeant Pollard.”
“Yes, Major, thanks for calling.” Compton reached for a pen.
“We can confirm that the chart you sent for comparison is the chart of Sergeant John Charles Pollard formerly of the US Army Special Forces. He toured Iraq and Afghanistan and was honorably discharged seven years ago.”
“You’re positive on the chart?”
“Yes, sir. It’s clear regarding the patterns and wear of several large amalgams.”
“This is one hell of a game changer.”
“We’ve arranged to expedite written confirmation and can provide you with scanned and physical copies of Sergeant Pollard’s full military records and photographs to assist your investigation.”
“Thank you, Major Ellis.”
Compton hung up.
His breathing had quickened.
He stared at his computer’s monitor and the charred, twisted dog tag that belonged to the former US Army sergeant. Before Compton made another note, before he called Brennan, he absorbed the new information.
If the body is Pollard, then where is Carl Nelson?
And why would Nelson leave a suicide note seeking forgiveness for what he’d done?