Full Tilt

51

Chicago

A lake-driven wind pressed dead leaves against the black granite headstone in New Jenny Park Cemetery.

Kate brushed them away and read the engraving:

Krasimira Anna Zurrn

Born June 29, 1945. Died October 12, 1998.

Beloved Mother of Sorin.

Tragedy upon tragedy, she thought. A drug-addicted prostitute takes her life because she believed her son had killed a schoolmate. That son is regarded by all who remember him as weird and creepy, a fact hammered home by what Kate saw in the crawl space of their basement last night.

“He built a wooden box in there, looked like a coffin,” Ritchie Lipinski, the landlord, had said. “I pulled it out, took it to the landfill. I don’t know what the hell that freak was into.”

Ritchie hadn’t given Kate any problems. In fact, he’d let her take photographs and had promised to find ones he’d taken of the box.

In her hotel room later, she was tormented by images of the crawl space, Sorin Zurrn’s history and her growing belief that it was all tied to Rampart.

And Vanessa.

Kate was getting closer to the truth about Carl Nelson. She could feel it in her gut, but she needed more than a feeling.

Earlier that morning, her phone had rung with a call from an administrator with the Glorious Martyrs and Saints Church who’d agreed to meet her. Since the cemetery was on the way, Kate stopped to see Krasimira Zurrn’s grave site and take photos.

She checked her phone. It was time to go.

The church wasn’t far. Its twin tower facade soared over the neighborhood. It was more than a century old, built in the Romanesque style with beautiful stained glass windows. After parking, Kate went by the ornate wooden doors, taking the sidewalk leading to the office in the rear, as instructed, and pushed the button for the bell.

A short woman came to the door. She had Cleopatra bangs and large black-framed glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Kate Page, here to see Joan DiPaulo.”

“Yes, I’m Joan. Come in.”

The smaller woman took Kate down a hallway smelling of candle wax, linen and incense. They came to an austere office. A crucifix on the plain white wall looked down on the desk, computer, phone and file cabinet. The woman indicated a wooden chair for Kate.

“Now, my apologies for not getting back to you,” Joan said. “We don’t have regular hours at this office.”

“That’s fine, I understand.”

“In your call you said you’re doing some genealogical work?”

“I’m looking into the history of a family.”

“Your family?”

“No.”

“Oh, are you with an estate lawyer? Do you have a letter?”

“No.” Kate put her Newslead identification on the table.

The woman slid on her glasses and studied it.

“A reporter?” The warmth in her voice evaporated. “You shouldn’t have misrepresented yourself to me on the phone.”

“I didn’t. I said I wanted to research a family history. And here I’ve identified myself to you.”

“I’m sorry.” She handed the ID back to Kate. “I can’t help you. Church policy forbids me from disclosing the private information of parishioners.”

“I understand, but please let me explain the background.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I’m unable to help you.”

Kate didn’t move.

Something had triggered a sense of injustice-an eruption of internal anger at how the church bureaucracy that had gone out of its way to protect criminal priests was now stopping her cold in trying to find a murderer and the truth about her sister.

“I’m a Catholic, Joan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe I’m not a good Catholic, but our parents had us baptized.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with this. Now, as I’ve said-”

“Please, let me put all my cards on the table and tell you why I need your help.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have the time.”

“This is extremely important. It’s information you should know.”

Joan sighed.

“Please, ma’am.”

“Be brief.”

Kate began with her own tragedy, her lifelong search for the truth about Vanessa, then fast-forwarding to the discovery of her necklace at Rampart, the horrors there, the message and links to the Alberta abduction, the Denver suspect, which brought her to Chicago and her work on the Zurrns. Kate unfolded a photocopy of Krasimira Zurrn’s obituary from the newspaper. “I need any information you could help me with on this family.”

Joan read the clipping, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.”

Kate struggled to keep control.

“Does your computer have access to the internet?”

“Yes, but I see no reason to continue this.”

“Please, one more thing. Then I’ll leave. Go to this website.” Kate jotted an address on her notebook and turned it to her.

“Please. Go to this site. It’s important and it won’t take long. Please.”

Joan went to the site. Soon her breathing quickened as she clicked on stories about the Rampart case. The faces of the victims who’d been identified stared back at her.

“I’d like you to remember those faces,” Kate said, “because in not helping me you’re helping the man who murdered these women. So later tonight when you lay your head on your pillow, just consider who we really protect and who we hurt when we serve bureaucracy without question. I’m sure a new face will emerge soon and when it does, I’ll send you her picture. We know the killer will be especially grateful to the church, which could have done something to stop him but chose not to. Thanks for your time, Joan.”

Kate stood to leave.

“Wait.”

Kate turned.

“I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a champion of evil.”

“It was directed at the institution. I’m sorry, but I have an emotional connection to all of this and-I’m-”

“Kate, tell me what you’re looking for.”

“I’m just trying to locate family members and thought the church might have records.”

“We’ll keep this confidential?”

“Like the seal of the confessional.”

Joan thought a bit longer, consulted the obituary before typing on her keyboard. Within seconds it beeped. Kate was unable to see what she was reading on her monitor. A long moment, heavy with anticipation, passed before Joan typed another command and the printer came to life. She reached for the single sheet, read it, then turned it facedown.

“Krasimira Zurrn was a member of this parish and her card shows that she’d listed her son, Sorin, as next of kin. At the time of her death it appears we had him listed at this address.”

She slid the page to Kate, whose heart sank as she read “1388 Vista Verde, San Diego.”

“Is that the only address you have for him? There’s a notation.”

Joan DiPaulo took the page back, drew it to her face and lifted her glasses to study it. “Yes, so there is.” Joan then typed. Again the printer came to life with another sheet.

“Here you go. It appears Krasimira Zurrn had updated the information. This was the address we had for her son. We have no other information.”

A sudden pulse of victory thudded in Kate’s chest.

The address: 2909 Falstaff Street, Denver, Colorado.

Kate had a vague memory of shaking Joan DiPaulo’s hand and thanking her before she was standing in the parking lot, fumbling through her bag for her phone.

She had a plane to catch.

She texted Chuck to call her, then drove to the hotel to check out. Before heading to O’Hare she tried calling him but got his voice mail. Her heart raced as she wove through traffic along the Kennedy Expressway. After returning the rental, she got in line for a check-in kiosk to get her boarding pass. While waiting she scrolled the dozens of photos on her phone while growing anxious that she hadn’t heard from Chuck.

She was contemplating calling Reeka when her phone rang.

“Kate Page.”

“It’s Chuck-”

“Good, Chuck, listen I’m at O’Hare heading home. I can put big pieces of the puzzle together. Huge creepy pieces, I think our guy killed a fifteen-year-old girl when they were in school together-”

“Kate-”

“Chuck, listen, his mother committed suicide believing he was a murderer. I can confirm Jerome Fell, a key suspect in the Alberta abduction was Sorin Zurrn. We just need to confirm Fell is Carl Nelson-I know we can-”

“Kate-”

“In his teens he built a confinement room and kept a coffin in it-”

“Kate, he’s in Minnesota.”

“What?”

“Don’t fly back. I want you to get on the next plane to Minneapolis and get up north to a place called Pine Mills near the Lost River State Forest. We’ll get a photog to meet up with you. I want you to write up your Chicago stuff on the flight and help with our coverage in Minnesota.”

“I don’t understand, what’s happening?”

“Our Minneapolis bureau got a tip that some bird-watchers found the body of a white female in the forest and that investigators have evidence tying the murder to Rampart. We hear they’re planning a major press conference up there with Rampart cops, FBI. The story’s getting bigger.”

Kate froze.

“Excuse me, miss, are you using that machine?”

Kate turned to an older man with a ball cap, then stepped away, keeping her phone to her ear and swallowing.

She thought of Vanessa.

“Chuck, did they identify the victim?”

“No, nothing like that so far. Sorry. Kate, can you handle this?”

“I’ll get on the next plane to Minneapolis.”