Full Tilt

53

Pine Mills, Minnesota

After landing in Minneapolis, Kate got on a regional flight to Grand Forks, North Dakota.

Ninety minutes later, when she arrived in the Grand Forks terminal she saw a tall man with white hair and a friendly face holding a piece of cardboard with “Kate Page” scrawled in black marker.

She went to him.

“I’m Kate Page.”

“Hi, Kate. Lund Sanner, freelance with Newslead. All set? We’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of us.”

Along the way Kate worked on her Chicago story. After she’d sent it to New York she called home to Nancy and then spoke with Grace for fifteen minutes before she had to go.

“I’ll be back in a few days. I miss you like crazy, sweetie,” Kate said.

Kate then bombarded Rampart Detective Ed Brennan again with calls, texts and emails. Again, she received no response. She tried his partner, Paul Dickson. Nothing. It was futile, leaving her frustrated and uneasy.

Something’s happened with this murder. Maybe they got a break?

The sun was setting when they got to Pine Mills, which was at the edge of Lost River State Forest near the Canadian border. Sanner had had the foresight to reserve two rooms at the Timberline Motel.

“You’re lucky,” the clerk said. “Everybody around here’s booked up, mostly with newspeople from all over. Folks say it’s got something to do with that murder. Do you guys know anything?”

“There’s a press conference in the morning in the community hall. We’ll all know more after that,” Sanner said.

Kate was exhausted but agreed to have dinner with Sanner at Greta’s Homestyle Restaurant across the street. Over club sandwiches Sanner told Kate he’d retired from the Pioneer Press after thirty years as a news photographer. He had a cabin near Thief River Falls, not far from here. Kate told him a bit about herself, then Sanner spoke up.

“Kate, when I got the call for this assignment I did some reading on the New York case,” he said. “You’ve got a connection to all of this.”

Kate nodded and told him the story.

“I saw that you were pretty intense during the drive,” he said. “And I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“I’m sorry, Lund, that was rude of me.”

“No, no apologies. I understand. That was work. I hope things go well for you tomorrow, Kate, all things considered.”

Alone in her room, Kate switched off the lights, stood at her window and stared into the night and at the stars.

What am I doing? My life is moving at a thousand miles an hour. I should be home holding Grace. But I’m so close, so close I can feel it.

She got into bed and as sleep came, she thought of the victim in Lost River.

Up here, amid the isolation rolling with fields, lakes, rivers and forests.

Such a lonely place to die.

Then she thought of Vanessa and cried.

The Pine Mills Community Hall was a sturdy stone-and-wood structure built by volunteers in the 1930s.

Police vehicles and scores of news vans, some from Minneapolis and Winnipeg, jammed the parking lot. Satellite trucks from the major networks had their antennae extended. Radio news cars lined the street in front of the hall. A deputy at the entrance checked and recorded press IDs.

Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the main room before a long table, with TV monitors on stands posted at each end and a large board, covered with large sheets of paper. A heap of recorders and microphones with station flags rose at the center of the table as reporters settled into spots while taking calls from their desks. Kate estimated upward of seventy news types were there.

Metal clanked as TV crews erected tripods, called for cables and batteries to be ferried from satellite trucks. Harried cell phone calls were made to editors, patched through to booths and networks. Data about birds, dishes, coordinates, feeds, airtime and sound tests were exchanged. Overgroomed TV reporters checked their hair, teeth, earpieces, mikes and helped with white balances by holding notebooks before cameras.

“Right, so how many known homicide victims? Sixteen now?” a TV reporter, his hand cupped to one ear, repeated into his camera. “Right. Fifteen in New York. One here, right. Sixteen and we’re going live through New York.”

As Sanner caught up and reminisced with other news photographers, Kate searched the men in suits and jackets lining the walls near the side and back, hoping to see Brennan or Dickson or at least some official she knew from Rampart.

She felt a tap on her shoulder before hearing her name.

She turned to see Brennan.

“Ed, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“Come with me.”

“But-” She indicated the news conference was about to start.

“You won’t miss anything. Come with me.”

Kate left a trail of “Who’s that?” and “What’s that about?” and “She looks familiar…” from the few reporters who’d noticed she was being pulled aside in advance of a national press conference.

Brennan took her to a small office at the rear, crowded with several other FBI, state and county investigators. She looked at the grim faces watching her.

“What’s going on, Ed?”

“Kate, please sit down.”

Pierced by the sudden fear that it was over, she caught her breath.

“Kate, we’re going to identify two victims arising from the forest scene.”

“But you only found one?”

“The homicide victim has been identified and we’ll release that name momentarily. The identity of a second person has also been confirmed. In both cases we used expedited DNA analysis.”

Kate stared at him.

“Kate, one is your sister, Vanessa. There is no doubt. We’ve confirmed it by using the DNA you provided through analysis with the biological material found at the scene.”

“What?”

“It’s true.”

“Are you saying-” Kate swallowed “-my sister’s dead?”

“No, we’re confirming that she was at the scene. We don’t know her whereabouts. We don’t know if she’s still alive or has been hurt, but, until very recently, she was alive and at that scene.”

Kate cupped her hands over her mouth as she absorbed the news, her mind reeling, her thoughts rocketing through the years of pain.

“Both names will be released with pictures and information,” Brennan said. “Kate, are you hearing me?”

She nodded.

“Kate, Emmett Lang with the FBI. We met in Rampart.”

Kate had a vague memory.

“We know this is a lot to take in,” Lang said. “The evidence strongly points to a live prisoner situation, although we can’t rule out an accomplice. We expect our suspect will be watching the news. We walk a fine line between public safety and protecting an investigation. We’re criticized no matter what we do. In this case, given a safety concern, we’re going to release a lot of information as part of a public appeal. We have other solid information that we can’t disclose but we’re pursuing. We believe we’re very close to Carl Nelson.”

As Kate stared at Lang, at Brennan, at the others, something deep inside detonated a lifetime of pent-up anguish and anger. Kate did all she could to control it, to use it as a weapon, for she realized now more than ever, she was now truly in a battle for Vanessa’s life.

And they were losing time.

“His name’s Sorin Zurrn. He grew up in Chicago. His mother committed suicide because she believed he murdered a classmate.”

The investigators exchanged glances of disbelief.

“Kate, where did you learn this?” Brennan asked.

As she quickly related the results of her trip to Chicago and the links of Zurrn to Jerome Fell in Denver, Fell’s link to the Tara Dawn Mae abduction in Alberta with its ties to Vanessa and Rampart through a message in the ruins and the necklace, FBI agents took notes.

“Everything about Zurrn will be in the story I’m filing today. That will be my statement to you.”

Some of the investigators huddled and in hushed tones compared Kate’s information to their own confidential aspects of the case. A few had started making calls, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Excuse me, but the networks want to start, something about satellite time and going live.”

Kate returned to her seat in the hall.

The press conference was led by George Varden, the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge of Minnesota, who introduced state, local officials and those from New York.

As it began, Kate slipped into a surreal state, struggling to do her job while the painful truth about her little sister was unveiled before her.

Enlarged photos of Carl Nelson, age-progressed images of Vanessa and photos of a white woman in her twenties appeared alongside locator maps and timelines as Varden summarized the Minnesota aspect of the investigation, then its link to Rampart, New York. He outlined key points of the case, how bird-watchers had discovered the scene a few miles from here in Lost River State Forest. He reviewed matters chronologically with dates and locations but would not discuss vital, key fact aspects.

He acknowledged that the case now had sixteen homicide victims, many of whom had yet to be identified.

“Evidence leads us to believe that the individual known as Carl Nelson is our leading suspect in these crimes. Let me stress that this investigation is ongoing, and we continue to pursue a number of leads,” Varden said before identifying the Lost River victim.

“Brittany Ellen Sykes, aged twenty-four, who was reported missing while walking to her home in Tulsa, Oklahoma, nine years ago, has been identified as yet another homicide victim in this case.

“We also found evidence that Vanessa Page, believed to be a kidnap victim of Carl Nelson, was also present at the scene and may be a prisoner in a hostage situation. Because of our concern for her safety, we’ll be releasing more information in our effort to locate her and Carl Nelson.”

As Varden outlined Vanessa’s case, whispers rippled among the reporters. Cell phones began vibrating. Some reporters took hushed calls while shooting glances to Kate.

Then the monitors came to life with footage of a van at Bishop’s General Store and Gas.

“The van is a silver Chevy 2013 Class B camper van. We’ve provided photos to you. We’re looking for that van.”

The driver, owing to glare and angles of light, was in silhouette behind the wheel.

“We believe the driver is Carl Nelson. We’ll provide this video along with other pictures to you. The scene has been released. We’ll have people there and we ask that you be respectful of it. Now, we’re asking anyone with any information about this case to contact us. We’ll take your questions.”

For the next fifty minutes Varden and other investigators took a rapid succession of questions that covered nearly every element of the case. During that time, Kate was passed notes and received messages requesting interviews, including those from the major news networks.

She didn’t respond to them. She had her own work to do first.

When the conference ended Kate and Lund hurried to his SUV and they drove to the scene.

“How are you holding up, Kate?” Sanner asked.

“I don’t know. I’m numb. I just need to focus on my story, update it and get it filed after we get to the scene.”

It was a half-hour drive to the state forest gate. From there it took another thirty minutes, following the trail marked by fluorescent tags conservation officers had put up to guide the press.

“Much of this area’s inaccessible,” Sanner said as they cut through the thick forest and stretches of fields, peat bog, streams, thickets and wetland. “A birder’s paradise.”

A number of news trucks had already arrived at the scene before them. Klassen County deputies were directing press to the site, which was accessible by foot.

The sounds of breezes fingering through trees carrying birdsong gave the site a funereal air. The scene was small, with a clean, hollowed-out hole in the earth. The excavated and sifted soil was piled neatly next to it. Other news crews worked quietly, respectfully around the scene, recording it from different angles.

Sanner took a number of shots as Kate made notes.

No one spoke. There was little to say, until Sanner took Kate aside.

“I’m going up in a charter with a Minneapolis TV station to get aerial shots. I can drop you at the motel, or leave you here to get a ride back.”

“Leave me, Lund. I’ll write my story here and catch up with you at the motel.”

Before Sanner left, he showed Kate a shot he had taken of her. It was a head and shoulders of her at the press conference, a beautiful crisp shot that captured the anguish written in her face as she studied the enlarged photo of Vanessa.

“You’re part of the story, Kate. New York was watching the live coverage and asked me to get that shot. Sorry.”

Kate understood.

After Sanner left she walked farther into the woods, found a private spot on lush grass in the shade of a tree and took out her laptop. Her fingers were shaking as she held them over the keypad. She bit back on her emotions and forced herself into her zone to write fast, clean copy.

After proofing, then filing her story to New York, she sat motionless, listening to the birds, trying hard not to think, for if she thought about it all, she knew she’d crack and break. She didn’t know how much time had passed before her phone rang.

“How are you doing, Kate?” asked Chuck.

“The best I can,” she responded.

“I can’t imagine how hard this must be. We’re all praying for your sister.”

“Thank you, Chuck.”

“Outstanding work. Every Newslead subscriber wants your story. Every competitor wants to interview you. You’re cleared by HQ to grant interviews, if you’re up to it.”

“Not yet, I’m still a bit shaky.”

“Whatever you want to do on that front is fine, especially if you think it will help find your sister. We’ve got the Tulsa bureau talking to the family of Brittany Ellen Sykes. I’ve told them to ask about links to your sister, but you know from your experience what the chances are.”

“Yes, thanks, Chuck.”

“Our thoughts are with you. I hope like hell they catch the bastard soon. Safe travels home.”

Kate got to her feet and walked back to the scene.

With each step she embraced the fact her sister was here. Across time, across the continent, against all hope, Vanessa had survived and was here! And she was alive!

The realization jolted her back to the icy mountain river, feeling Vanessa’s little hand as it slipped from hers. Now, by the grace of God, Kate felt it inching closer, inching back, giving her a second chance to seize Vanessa and never let go.