by Rick Mofina
“Yes. Ned had said that before he visited Fell he already knew from US border people that Fell had been to Canada around the time of the abduction and that he’d returned through Eastport, Idaho. But Fell was never detained at the border and never searched.”
“Why?”
“Border people claimed that they never had any alerts about a van and partial plate, at that time. That’s something the Canadians disputed.”
“But Ned met with Fell?”
“Yes.”
“And had a bad vibe about him, yet he still ruled him out? Why?”
“When Ned questioned Fell cold, about his whereabouts for that time period, Fell acknowledged right off that he’d been to Canada on vacation. He said he’d been in British Columbia but not Alberta and even showed Ned motel receipts to prove it.”
“So then what?”
“Ned cleared him, but something about Fell niggled at him. Ned told me later that Fell seemed unusually well prepared, almost as if he were expecting to account for his travels for that period. Still, Ned’s supervisors, citing the partial-plate business, were satisfied and pulled Ned away to other investigations.”
“Was that the end of it?”
“Not quite. Ned was still bothered by Fell and not long after that suggested I do some quiet digging on him.”
“What’d you do?”
“I never talked to Fell. I didn’t want him to get suspicious. I talked to his neighbors, kept an eye on his place. I learned that he was a computer expert, a contractor, that he lived alone, kept to himself and kept up his property. See the pictures. He had a tidy little bungalow with a garage.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much, but I figured that if this guy had kidnapped a Canadian girl and was living in Denver, this would be a huge story, so before letting it go, I decided to do a trash hit.”
“You stole his garbage from the curb?”
“Yup, I think I did it about six times under cover of night. You ever do that, Kate?”
“A few times.”
“Dirty, messy work, but the Supreme Court says it’s not an invasion of privacy once it’s on the street,” Goodsill said. “You can find out a lot by going through people’s garbage. At first, there was nothing that stood out in Fell’s trash.”
“Did you find anything suggesting that Jerome Fell was an alias?”
“No.”
“You’ve seen the pictures of Carl Nelson. Do you think Nelson and Fell are the same person?”
“Well, fifteen years is a long time, but I thought about that when I saw the stories out of New York and I got to thinking that it sure is possible.”
“Did you find anything with the name Carl Nelson, or anything linking him to Rampart? I don’t see it in the samples you sent me, in the ones I’ve opened so far.”
“I’m afraid not. A lot of junk food wrappers, empty take-out containers, pizza boxes, some bills for cable, for utilities, all to Jerome Fell, or J. Fell. A few items of mail for neighbors sent to his address. I saw that he was not kind. Instead of giving them to his neighbors he opened them and tossed them. It’s all there. I’ve got more coming your way, maybe forty in all.”
“I’m not surprised you didn’t find anything. I know it’s possible he could’ve missed something. But I think he would’ve been careful not to miss anything. You think he would’ve used a shredder.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Maybe he shredded stuff, maybe he burned stuff, but all in all, I found nothing unusual and dropped it. Then my wife noticed something, I’d missed—a couple things actually.”
“What?”
“See attachment number sixteen, the stained receipt for a bracelet kit, a Spirograph set, a bead art kit and a colored pencil set?”
“My wife thought those are items or toys you’d buy for a young girl, especially one who might be bored.”
Kate’s concentration sharpened on that point and she agreed.
“Then my wife noticed another one. That’s number twenty-two, a small ripped receipt from a drugstore for sanitary napkins and whatnot, excuse me, but see?”
Kate moved her mouse to number twenty-two and opened it.
“Yes.”
“Now, I looked into this and most American girls get their period when they turn twelve or so, and this Canadian girl, who could’ve been your sister, was about ten when she was abducted, right?”
“Actually, my sister would’ve been closer to eleven and a half.”
“Those two factors were kind of disturbing, but I said to my wife, Fell could’ve had a girlfriend, who had a daughter, you know? There could be explanations. Besides there are privacy issues and I was thinking, how do I challenge him? So I gave it some thought over the next few weeks, thinking the best thing to do was talk to Ned.”
“What happened?”
“Ned suffered a heart attack and stroke. That was a big scare for my family and it took me away from things for a while. By the time I went back to check on Fell a month or so later, he’d moved away. I couldn’t get a new address for him.”
“What about the Realtors, neighbors, his employer, the post office?”
“I tried them all, Kate, and got nothing. It was like he’d vanished.”
Kate sat there staring at the items on her monitor. Several moments of silence passed before she thanked Goodsill and hung up.
For the next hour or so, Kate clicked on every attachment, examining each one for clues, anything Goodsill missed. But he’d been thorough. He’d done everything that she would’ve done and as she clicked from item to item, she considered herself lucky he’d helped her.
When Kate came to pictures of Jerome Fell’s house, her thoughts darkened.
Was Vanessa held captive here? Was Fell actually Carl Nelson? Or was she chasing another mirage?
Kate pulled up the FBI photo of a Nelson Wanted poster and positioned it next to the Jerome Fell’s Colorado driver’s license. There was about fifteen years of time between the two images. Kate placed her notebook against her monitor so that only the eyes and top of the head of each photo were visible.
Are his eyes the same?
In both cases they had the icy veneer of a deep-seated resentment. Definitely a guy who wouldn’t return your misdirected mail, Kate thought before looking at the miscellaneous attachments again, the invoices, the bills and what appeared to be a misdirected invoice or note.
What’s this?
Something from Chicago about a burial site of Krasimira Zurrn.
What could that be? Who is Krasimira Zurrn?
She’d check that out later. It was 3:45 a.m. She had to get to bed.
CHAPTER 33
Rampart, New York
A large dry-erase board stood at one end of the Investigative Unit of the Rampart Police Department.
Ed studied it over the rim of his mug as he took another hit of black coffee. His concentration shifted to Carl Nelson’s photo.
Inch by inch, we’re getting closer to you.
Tire impressions found at the scene were made by 10-ply radials, LT245/75R16, load range E. The same tires were on the silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van that Carl Nelson bought in Utica. We can place that van at the scene. Now we have to locate that van.
So far, nothing had surfaced from the alerts.
Brennan rubbed his eyes. He’d been up much of the night, padding through the house, watching over his wife and son, contending with the weight of the case.
What’re we missing?
He took another hit of coffee while reviewing the board. He stood among the half-dozen empty desks. All the unit’s detectives had been assigned to the case.
They were out following leads.
Rampart headed the task force, supported by Riverview
County, the state police, the FBI and other agencies. The case was divided into several parts. Rampart and the county had most local aspects arising from Carl Nelson. The FBI had the fugitive element. State and the FBI had the crime scene, which was still being processed. Other components crossed jurisdictions, depending on expertise and resources.
There was an update on the necklace from the manufacturer via the FBI. The model in question was no longer made and sold. During the period it was marketed, 600,000 units were sold in the US and another 700,000 units were sold globally. The maker said engraving names on the charms was common and examination of the damaged piece and the comparison piece, obtained from Kate Page, showed that both were made by the company. But insofar as to the two pieces being the exact two pieces Kate’s mother had bought, the finding was inconclusive.
Brennan continued to survey the board.
All work to date was up there: the pictures, names of the victims, case numbers, color arrows and the latest notes showing if warrants had been issued. There were summaries of areas canvassed, neighbors to be reinterviewed and security cameras to be checked or rechecked.
So far, eighty-three tips had been followed, prioritized or closed.
And nothing ever came of that coworker who claims he saw Carl online looking at real estate and taking notes. That one’s eating at me.
The FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit was developing a profile of the suspect, looking at motivation, methodology and the psychology of his actions and personality.
Brennan turned from the board. Dickson had just ended a call with the FBI.
“Well, it’s official,” Dickson said. “That was the FBI’s Cyber Crime team. They’ve been working with the Secret Service and two forensic teams at the DataFlow Call Center.”
“Did Nelson compromise their system?”
“Big-time. He devised and installed some type of software that allowed him to siphon everything from the company’s payment processing network. He stole Social Security numbers, PINs, addresses, telephone numbers, bank and credit card information.”
“How many people are we talking?”
“Forty million.”
Brennan ran his hand over his face.
“The company’s working with the FBI to issue a news release,” Dickson said. “All retailers and all cardholders will be alerted. Customers will be advised to destroy their cards, retailers will issue new ones.”
“Small comfort knowing Nelson has everything.”
“He’s one smart prick, Ed.”
“Maybe, but sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”
Brennan’s phone rang.
“Ed, it’s Mitch, you’d better come out to the scene.”
* * *
As they drove to the old burial grounds Brennan grappled with his frustrations. That these crimes had been going on for years in his backyard sickened him and he sought assurance in a mantra for investigators.
The suspect has to be lucky at every turn. We need to get lucky once.
So far, Nelson’s victims were helping with their killer’s undoing. Look at Pollard, who’d kept his dog tags in his boot so no one would yank them from his neck if he got assaulted. That thwarted Nelson’s attempt to stage a murder-suicide. Then the message left by Tara Dawn Mae, and there was the angel charm necklace and its inconclusive link to Kate Page. Everyone on the task force was going all out on this case.
We just need a lead, a solid lead. Entrance to the site through the old cemetery road remained sealed and more Riverview deputies had been posted at other points of the expanded perimeter. The increased magnitude of the case was made manifest by the police encampment that had arisen next to the ruins of the barn.
A mobile double-wide trailer, which served as the command post, had been hauled in on a flatbed and placed near the edge of the property among lines of trucks. An array of equipment, lights, generators, tents and canopies dotted the vast property.
Exhaustive ground searches had been conducted. More dogs were used, along with infrared technology. More aerial photographs were taken. Vapor detectors were brought in. A tube connected to the device was inserted into the ground to detect gasses from decomposition.
The entire scene was gridded and sectioned off with string and flags, like an archaeological dig. Forensic archaeologists from universities in Rochester and Syracuse had been requested to join the FBI and state police forensic experts to help.
Section by section, teams undertook the slow, systematic process of removing segments of soil in four-to six-inch layers. Meticulously they sifted it through screens to search for evidence of human remains.
Brennan and Dickson met Mitch Komerick inside the command post. He pulled off the hood on his white coveralls, slipped off his face mask and bent over a large table with unfurled maps.
“What’ve we got, Mitch?” Brennan leaned over the map with him.
Komerick took a pencil and used the eraser end to tap the primary map of the scene.
“More remains.”
“One more victim?”
“Not one. Twelve.”
Brennan’s stomach tensed.
“Twelve?”
Komerick tapped several neatly penciled squares on the map.
“We’ve confirmed human remains, here, here, here and here. We’re just getting started. Ed, this could be one of the biggest cases we’ve ever seen.”
CHAPTER 34
New York City
Kate made her way through the crush at Penn Station.
She’d become accustomed to the subway, the urine-scented platforms, the whoosh of foul, inbound air, crowds jostling at the doors, the smells of perfume and the body odor. She was relieved to find a seat. Within seconds, her car was crammed to capacity.
As her train thundered from the station she took out her phone and read stories on Rampart by the Associated Press, Reuters and Bloomberg. Then she read the story she’d filed and was satisfied that Newslead’s reporting was strongest.
We’re still ahead of the competition.
When Kate finished reading, she gazed out her window into the rolling darkness. As tunnel lights flashed by and her car rocked, she grappled with the turmoil broiling inside her.
Twelve more victims.
She could no longer fend off the facts and fears that crept from the darkest fringes to crush her.
Twelve more victims. Surely, Vanessa’s among the dead.
It’s over. Carl Nelson, or whoever he was, had won. The rhythmic clacking of the train hammered it home. Her hope, if it ever really lived, was dead. Her dream of seeing her sister again had slipped away…the way Vanessa’s hand had slipped from hers twenty years ago in the icy mountain river.
Kate shut her eyes.
Tears rolled down her face as the train’s steel wheels grinded against steel tracks creating a high-pitched scream.
* * *
On the way to her building, Kate picked up a pizza, then collected Grace from Nancy’s apartment.
“I saw the latest news.” Nancy had lowered her voice to Kate when Grace was down the hall, out of earshot. “It’s terrible. How much worse can it get?”
Kate shrugged.
At home Grace bit into her pizza and, between chews, told Kate about a new boy at school who was annoying all the girls. But Kate’s attention had drifted. Being with her daughter, Kate felt spears of sunshine piercing her battle-weary heart and tried desperately to hang on to the moment.
“Mom, are you listening?”
“Sorry, sweetie.”
“I said his name is Devon and all he wants to do is kiss you. Yech!”
After their supper Kate went through the motions of their evening routine, cleaning up, then homework for Grace before any computer or TV time. All the while Kate was unable to emerg
e from the numbness that had filled her. Once she got Grace to bed, she dimmed the lights, opened a bottle of wine and tuned her TV to news channels.
As she listened to commentators and watched footage of the Rampart scene over and over, she became enveloped with loss and the bitter realization that she’d been a fool to dream she’d find Vanessa. For a time she’d convinced herself that she was not only on the trail to the truth about what had happened to Vanessa, but closer to finding her alive and well.
I believed with all my heart I’d have my sister back. Kate continued to watch the white-suited forensic experts conducting their work on what was a killing field.
Twelve more victims.
Her phone rang.
“Kate, it’s Nancy.”
“Hey.”
“I’ve been watching the news coverage and I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”
“No, to be honest, not really.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Maybe it was her nursing background but upon arriving, Nancy seemed to know what to do. She turned Kate’s TV off, turned the lights up, put away the wine and made tea.
“All the fight’s gone out of you, Kate.”
She struggled to explain to Nancy how she’d felt defeated in the face of the cruel reality that the monster she was pursuing had killed fifteen people.
“It’s like the earth shifted under my feet.”
Nancy thought for a moment before she took Kate’s hands in hers.
“You listen to me.” Nancy stared hard into her eyes. “You’re not going to curl into a ball and give up. You’re going to pull through this. I guarantee it.”
“You guarantee it?”
“Look back on your life. You’ve faced every hardship I can think of and you’ve endured. You have a right to the truth and there’s no way you’re going to let this creep stop you. It’s not in your DNA, Kate. Do you hear me?”