Full Tilt (2 page)

2

Rampart, New York

O
xygen flowed in a soft, calibrated rhythm through the ventilator tube connected to the burn victim in the intensive-care unit of Rampart General.

The small screen above her bed monitored her heart, her blood pressure and her other vital signs.

An IV pole with a drip stood beside her bed.

She was wrapped from her head to her ankles in gauze and was heavily sedated to alleviate the excruciating pain of third-degree burns to over 85 percent of her body.

She’d lost her hair, ears, face, nearly all of her skin.

Her feet were charred stumps, her hands charred claws.

Her injuries were fatal. She would not live through the night, the doctor had told Detective Ed Brennan of Rampart Police Department.

Since then Brennan had waited with the ICU nurse by the woman’s bedside, never leaving it.

He’d been home when he got the call.

His wife had put their son to bed. He’d made popcorn and they were watching the end of
The Searchers
, when his cell phone rang.

“White female, mid-twenties,” Officer Martin had told him over blaring sirens. “Found her near the old burial grounds. Burned bad. They’re taking her to the General—they don’t think she’ll make it. Looks like she was tied up, Ed.”

Brennan rushed to the hospital in the hopes of obtaining a dying declaration from the victim.

The doctor took Brennan aside after emergency staff had done what they could for her.

“There’s no guarantee she’ll regain consciousness.”

Brennan needed her to help him solve what would soon be her murder.

In the hours he waited, he’d gotten used to the room’s smell. They had no ID for her. There was no chance of fingerprints and no indication she’d had any clothing or jewelry. If so, it had been burned away. They’d have to review local, state and national missing persons cases.

The most disturbing aspect was the ropes.

Again, Brennan looked at the pictures on his phone that Martin had sent from the scene.

Again, he winced.

Then he concentrated on the charred ropes.

She appeared to have been be bound by ropes.

The fire could’ve allowed her to escape from the building.

Escape from what and from whom?

Once they doused the fire and things cooled off they needed to get the forensic people in there.

“Detective?” the nurse said.

The charred remnants of what was once the woman’s right hand moved.

The nurse pressed a button above the bed and the doctor arrived, checked the monitor and bent over the woman.

“She’s regaining consciousness,” the doctor said. “We’ll remove the airway so she can talk, but remember, her throat and lungs are damaged.”

Brennan understood.

This may be his only shot.

Once the tube was removed, the monitor started beeping as the woman gasped. They took a moment to tend to her and the beeping slowed. Then the doctor nodded to Brennan, who stepped close and prepared to make a video recording with his phone.

“Ma’am, I’m Detective Ed Brennan. Can you tell me your name?”

A long moment of silence passed punctuated with a gurgle.

Brennan took a breath and looked at the doctor before he continued.

“Ma’am, can you tell me a name, or tell me where you live?”

A rasping sigh sounded, then nothing.

“Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me?’

A liquidy, coarse utterance began to form a word.

“Share— R...”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Try again.”

“There...are...”

Brennan glanced at the doctor and nurse, blinking to concentrate as the woman tried to raise her blackened hand as if she wanted to pull Brennan to her.

“There are...there are others...”

The woman lowered her arm.

The monitors sounded alerts and the tracking lines flattened.

3

Rampart, New York

B
rennan whirled his unmarked Impala out of the McDonald’s drive-through and headed for the scene.

He gulped his black coffee but only managed a small bite of the blueberry muffin. His stomach was still tense from the hospital, the victim and her dying words:
There are others.

What’re we facing here?

He’d alerted his sergeant and lieutenant. They definitely had a suspicious death. Confirming the victim’s ID would be critical. A forensic odontologist from Syracuse was en route to make the victim’s dental chart. They’d submit and compare everything—height, weight, approximate age, X-rays, DNA—with all the regional and state databases, missing persons cases, and check her teeth with dental associations and with the New York State Police.

Sooner or later we’ll get an ID on her. Then I’ll have to tell her family the worst news they’re ever going to hear.

He hated that part of the job.

As Brennan drove along the highway he focused on his case. They’d need to pull in Rampart’s other detectives to help. The sun was climbing, which was good because they had to scour that scene. He figured the state police Forensic Identification Unit would be there by now.

Rampart PD often drew on the resources of the New York State Police or the FBI because, as a small jurisdiction, Rampart didn’t get many homicides, maybe five or six a year.

You need challenging cases to make you a better detective.
Brennan considered the forest rolling by.
Like my life.

He was thirty-four and had been with the department for ten years, the past five as a detective with the investigative unit.

At times he yearned to be with the FBI, the DEA or Homeland, something bigger. But his wife, Marie, a teacher, loved their small-town life, saying it was good for Cody. Their son was five and prone to seizures if he got a fever or was overly stressed.

It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was frightening.

The other day when they were all shopping together at Walmart, Brennan realized that what he had here was good. But when he considered that his last major case was bingo fraud, small-town life got to him. Especially after the weekend call from his high school buddy who was with the Secret Service.

How’s it going there, Ed? I’m protecting the vice president in Paris next week. Are you still chasing the Amish in Ram Town?

Brennan knew that Cody needed the quiet of a small town, but that call had left him reflective.

A cluster of local media vehicles had gathered at the entrance to the burial grounds, which was blocked by a state patrol car. Recognizing Brennan, the trooper waved him through. Brennan ignored questions reporters tossed at his window.

His Chevy rolled alongside the cemetery, then dipped and swayed when he cut into the forest on the old path, which had widened from the increasing traffic. As he reached the scene, the air smelled of burned wood. Smoke curled from the ruins, floating over the clearing in clouds that pulsed with emergency lights from the fire and police units at the site. Brennan parked and went to Paul Dickson, a Rampart detective, and Rob Martin, the first officer to respond. They were huddled with the state guys and firefighters. Brennan, who had the lead on this case, knew most of them and did a round of handshakes.

“Hey, Ed,” Dickson said. “We heard she didn’t make it.”

“No,” Brennan said before shifting to work. “What do we have so far?”

Consulting their notes, Dickson and Martin brought him up to speed. The fire had cooled enough for the forensic guys to suit up. At the same time, Brennan heard a yip and saw the cadaver dog, and its handler in white coveralls and shoe covers, head carefully into the destruction while, overhead, a small plane circled. The state police were taking aerial photos of the scene and mapping it.

“The teens who found her are asleep in my car, waiting to talk to you,” Martin told Brennan.

“Okay, I’ll get to them in a bit for formal statements.”

The barn was state property built in 1901 as part of the farm that grew food for the asylum before it was shut down in 1975 and abandoned.

Brennan took in the piles of rubble, the stone foundation and watched Trooper Dan Larco with Sheba, a German shepherd, probing the scene. As she poked her snout here and there in the blackened debris, her tail wagged in happy juxtaposition to the grim task.

Sheba barked and disappeared into a tangle of wood at one corner. Larco moved after her, lowering himself to inspect her discovery.

“Hey, Ed!” he called. “We got something! Better take a look!”

Brennan pulled on coveralls and shoe covers, then waded cautiously into the wreckage.

The charred victim was positioned on its back beneath a web of burned timber. Most of the skin and clothing were gone. The arms were drawn up in the “pugilistic attitude.” The face was burned off, exposing teeth in a death’s head grin. From the remnants of jeans and boots on the lower body, it appeared the victim was male.

Brennan made notes, sketched the scene and took pictures. The forensic unit would process everything more thoroughly. Maybe they’d yield a lead on identification. In any event, there would be another autopsy.

Now we have two deaths. Is this what the first victim meant when she’d said, “There are others”?

Larco’s radio crackled with a transmission from the spotter in the plane.

“There’s a vehicle in the bush about fifty to sixty yards northeast of the site. A pickup truck, you guys got that?”

A quick round of checks determined that no one on the ground was aware of the vehicle. Two state patrol cars moved to block it. Brennan, Dickson, Martin and some of the troopers approached the vehicle. They took up positions around it with weapons drawn and called out for anyone inside to exit with hands raised.

There was no response.

They ran the plate. The pickup was a late-model Ford F-150, registered to Carl Nelson of Rampart. There were no warrants, or wants for him. A quick, cautious check confirmed the truck was empty. Brennan noticed the rear window bore a parking decal for the MRKT DataFlow Call Center.

He pulled on latex gloves and tried the driver’s door.

It opened.

A folded single sheet of paper waited on the seat.

Brennan read it:

I only wanted someone to love in my life.

It’s better to end everyone’s pain.

God forgive me for what I’ve done.

Carl Nelson

4

Rampart, New York

“Y
eah, that’s Carl’s truck. What’s wrong?”

Robert Vander’s eyes flicked up from the pictures Brennan showed him on his phone and he snapped his gum.

“Carl’s been off sick, why’re you asking about him?”

Vander glanced quickly at his computer monitor, a reflex to the pinging of new messages. He was the IT chief at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center, which handled millions of accounts for several credit card companies. With five hundred people on the payroll, it was Rampart’s largest employer.

Vander was Carl Nelson’s supervisor.

“What’s this about?” Vander looked at Brennan, who sat across from his desk, then at Paul Dickson, who was beside Brennan, taking notes.

“We’re checking on his welfare,” Brennan said.

Vander halted his gum chewing.

“His welfare? He called in sick two days ago, said he had some kind of bug. What’s going on?”

Brennan let a few moments pass without answering.

“Mr. Vander, can you tell us about Mr. Nelson? What he does here, his character?”

“His character? You’re making me nervous.”

“Can you help us?”

“Carl’s been with MRKT about ten years. He’s a senior systems technician, a genius with computers. He helped design the upgrade for our security programs. He’s an excellent employee, very quiet and keeps to himself. I got nothing but good things to say about him. I’m getting a little worried.”

“Has he been under any stress lately?”

“No, nothing beyond the usual workload demands.”

“What’s his relationship status? Married, divorced, girlfriend, boyfriend?”

“He’s not married. I don’t think he has a girlfriend, or partner, whatever.”

Vander repositioned himself in his chair.

“Do you know if he has any outstanding debts?”

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

“Does he gamble? Use drugs or have any addictions?”

“No. I don’t think— You know, I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Would you volunteer a copy of his file to us?”

“Not before I check with our human resources and legal people.” Vander’s mouse clicked. “I think you need a warrant.”

“That’s fine. Thank you for your help.”

Brennan and Dickson got up to leave.

“Wait,” Vander stood, his face whitened. “Would this have something to do with that story about the fire killing two people at the old cemetery?”

Brennan let a moment pass.

“Mr. Vander, we can’t confirm anything and we strongly urge you to keep our inquiries confidential.”

* * *

Later, as Dickson drove them from the center, he was frustrated at where things stood in the thirty-six hours since the fire was discovered.

They’d talked to Robbie and Chrissie, the two teens who’d called it in, and got repetitions of what they already knew.

“We’ve still got nothing on our Jane Doe. Nothing more on our John Doe—slash Carl Nelson. We’ve got his note, his truck. There’s no activity at his residence and he’s not at work. We know it’s him. This is a clear murder-suicide, Ed. When’re we going to get warrants and search his place for something to help identify the woman and clear this one?”

Brennan was checking his phone for messages.

“We’ll get warrants once we confirm his identity. Let’s go to the hospital. Morten wants to see us, maybe he’s got something.”

* * *

Morten Compton, Rampart’s pathologist, was a large man with a Vandyke who was partial to suspenders and bow ties.

He was pulling on his jacket when Brennan and Dickson arrived. His basement office in the hospital smelled of antiseptic and formaldehyde.

“Sorry, fellas, I got to get to Ogdensburg.” Compton tossed files into his briefcase. “I’m assisting the county with the triple bar shooting there and I got the double fatal with the church van and the semi in Potsdam.”

“So why call us over, Mort?” Brennan asked. “Have you made any progress with either victim in my case?”

“Some, but first you have to appreciate that confirming positive IDs will take time, given the condition of the bodies and the backlog my office is facing. My assistant is in Vermont attending a funeral. I’m arranging for help from Watertown.”

“So where are we on my double?”

“We’ve submitted dental charts for the female and male to local and regional dentists and dental associations. Toxicology has gone to Syracuse and we’ve submitted DNA to the FBI’s databank.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I don’t think the male died in the fire.”

“That’s new. What’s the cause for him?”

“Possibly a gunshot wound to the head. I just recovered a round, looks like a nine millimeter. You need to find a gun at the scene, Ed.”

* * *

As they drove to the scene, Dickson raised more questions.

“So how does a dead man start a fire, Ed?”

“Maybe he didn’t start it. Or, maybe he tied her up, started it, then shot himself in front of her, leaving her to burn to death.”

“If he wanted to end things, like the note suggests, why not shoot the woman first? Make sure she’s dead?”

“Maybe he did and missed and we haven’t recovered the rounds yet. My gut tells me we’re just scratching the surface here, Paul.”

As Dickson shook his head in puzzlement, Brennan returned to the woman’s dying words.

There are others.

* * *

The bright yellow plastic tape surrounding the blackened remnants of the barn bounced in the midday breeze. Techs from Troop B’s forensic unit, clad in white-hooded coveralls and facial masks, continued their painstaking processing of the ruins.

Mitch Komerick, the senior investigator who headed the squad, brushed ash from his cheek as he pulled down his mask to meet Brennan and Dickson at the southwest corner of the line.

“Got your message on the update, Ed,” Komerick said.

“Find a gun?”

Komerick wiped the sweaty soot streaks from his face, then shook his head.

“No weapon and no rounds, or casings, so far.”

Brennan nodded and looked off in frustration.

“There are deep fissures where we found the male,” Komerick said, “big enough to easily swallow a gun. My money says that’s where it is. We’re going to put a drainpipe camera down there. We’re far from done.”

“All right.”

“My people have gridded the scene, and we’ll sift through every square inch of the property. We’ve sent the pickup down to the lab in Ray Brook for processing. The arson team says an accelerant, probably unleaded fuel, was used, so the fire was intentional.”

“Okay.”

“But we’ve got something to show you, something disturbing. Suit up.”

After Brennan pulled on coveralls, he followed Komerick and his instructions on where to step as he led him into the destruction. The smell of charred lumber and scorched earth was heavy. Some of the singed beams had been removed and stacked neatly to the side, revealing sections that had been processed. There was a heap of small machinery, now charred metal. Komerick pointed to the wreckage. “Look, these were livestock stalls that someone converted to small rooms, confinement cells.”

“How can you tell? It’s such a mess.”

“We found heavy doors with locks, metal shackles and hardware anchored in the walls and floors, remains of mattresses, at least half-a-dozen cells so far. Somebody was definitely using the place, possibly for porno movies, for bondage, for torture. God only knows, Ed.”

Brennan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

“Mitch, over here!”

One of the forensic technicians was on his knees delicately brushing the ground with the care of an archaeologist. Another technician was recording it.

“Look,” the technician said while clearing the small object, “we can run this through missing persons databases and ViCAP.”

Rising from the grave of sooty earth and ash was a fine chain and a stylized charm of a guardian angel.