Full Tilt. Rick Mofina
in full-bore reporter mode as she dialed the number, reasoning that since the press release was public, the family would surely be getting calls from reporters. As the line rang, Kate envisioned TV trucks rolling up to the Wynns’ suburban home.
She hated calling. It was part of her job she loathed, intruding on people at the worst times of their lives. Over the years people had cursed her, hung up or slammed doors on her. Still, the majority struggled to talk about their loss. In most cases, through choking sobs, they would pay tribute to the father, mother, daughter, son, husband, wife, sister, brother or friend. Or they’d send Kate a heart-wrenching email, or pass her a tearstained note. If she went to their home, they showed her the rooms of the dead and the last things they’d touched.
It tore her up each time and she hated it.
But it was part of the job.
She never took their reactions personally. In that situation people had every right to lash out. Kate strove to be the most professional, respectful, compassionate person she could be in each case.
The families deserved no less.
As the line clicked, Kate steeled herself.
A man answered. His voice was deep, but soft.
“Hello.”
“Is this the home of James and Rachel Wynn, Bethany’s parents?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies for calling at this time and my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, my name’s Kate Page and I’m a—” Kate stopped herself cold. She was on the brink of identifying herself as a reporter from Newslead, a reflexive act that was now a firing offense. She was not on the job right now. “I’m sorry. My name’s Kate Page and I’m calling with respect to the press release that Rampart police in New York just posted online about Bethany Ann Wynn’s case?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if I could speak to her mother or father. Are you her father?”
“No, Beth’s dad passed away last year. Cancer. I’m her uncle—Rachel’s my sister-in-law. She’s out right now, at the funeral home making arrangements. I’m here receiving people at the house until she gets back.”
“Oh, I see.”
“What did you need to talk about?”
Kate considered the propriety and her own anguish. The uncle seemed steady, receptive and kind, so she seized the opportunity.
“My little sister, Vanessa Page, has been missing for a long time and I’ve got reason to believe her case is somehow connected to Bethany’s. Is that name familiar to the family?”
“Vanessa Page? No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”
“Did Bethany ever own a necklace with a guardian angel charm?”
“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.”
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