Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

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СКАЧАТЬ 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

      “Yeah, 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 СКАЧАТЬ