Rampart, New York
Brennan 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
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