Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

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      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.

5

      New York City

      Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead, the global news service, blinked back tears as she consoled the anguished father, who she’d reached on his phone in Oregon.

      The man on the line was Sam Rutlidge. His eleven-year-old son, Jordan, had vanished six years ago while walking to the corner store, two blocks from his home in Eugene, Oregon. Kate was writing a feature on missing СКАЧАТЬ