Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

Brennan’s card, braced for what was to come.

      Reddick’s inquiries to his dispatcher had launched a train of trouble. Calls were made to Newslead to alert her editors. Brennan was called and was en route. He’d insisted on questioning her, as it was his scene. Reddick meantime had waved over one of the forensic technicians to examine Kate’s camera and phone to review the pictures Kate had taken.

      Kate’s heart was racing. So far, Reddick hadn’t patted her down.

      She’d taken precautions to save her photos. The instant Reddick had discovered her inside the crime scene, she immediately removed her camera’s stamp-sized memory card, slid it into her sock, then, moving as fast as she could, installed a new card and resumed taking more photos. If the police didn’t find her hidden card, she could look at the images later.

      At that moment, Reddick’s cell phone rang.

      “Your people in New York.”

      Kate raised her cuffed hands and Reddick passed his phone to her. He stepped out of the car to show the technician Kate’s phone, allowing her some privacy.

      “It’s Reeka. What’s happened?”

      Kate’s stomach tensed.

      “I think I should talk to Chuck, Reeka.”

      “He had to go to an emergency meeting in Chicago. I’m your supervisor, talk to me.”

      “Didn’t Chuck tell you why I’m here?”

      “He told me nothing. You should’ve advised me if you were assigned something on your day off. Why are you under arrest in Rampart?”

      Kate explained everything to Reeka, exposing the fact she’d gone over her head to Chuck.

      “So, from what the police just told me,” the temperature of Reeka’s voice plummeted to a prosecutorial level, “and from what you’re telling me, you go up there on your time for personal reasons, then present yourself as a Newslead reporter to try to gain access to a crime scene, are refused, then you later breach the scene and are now facing charges.”

      Kate admitted that was correct.

      “You’re aware of Newslead’s policy on how our reporters are to represent the organization and conduct themselves, especially at crime scenes? You’re aware of that, Kate?”

      “Of course.”

      “Yet, you’ve clearly violated it.”

      Kate said nothing.

      “I’ll be discussing your situation with senior management. Until then, I suggest you get yourself an attorney.”

      The call ended.

      This was Kate’s fault and she chastised herself when she thought of Grace. What would happen to her if she was jailed? Would social services be called?

       Why didn’t I think this through?

      She scanned the scene again, unable to deny its emotional pull. Decades of guilt, of being haunted by Vanessa’s ghost, had clouded her judgment.

      Brennan had arrived and was near the car with Reddick and the technician, huddled over Kate’s camera and phone, while Reddick continued searching the contents of her bag. Occasionally Reddick pointed to the scene, with the technician nodding, before Brennan approached the car and helped Kate out.

      “I asked you not to come here, Kate. You know full well we have to protect this scene. Anything and everything is considered evidence.” He shook his head. “You misrepresented yourself to the state trooper, you breached our scene and tromped though it, contaminating it, or, possibly planting evidence. You’re facing possible interference and criminal trespass charges. I can’t understand why you did this.”

      “Why?” Adrenaline and fury coursed through her and she let go. “I can’t believe you have to ask me that! You found my sister’s necklace out there in that—that killing ground and she’s—”

      “We haven’t confirmed it’s hers yet.”

      “You know and I know it’s hers!”

      “No, we don’t. Kate, everything we have to this point is circumstantial. Nothing’s conclusive.”

      “You found her necklace out there! My God, she was supposed to have drowned twenty years ago in Canada! So you tell me how did it get there?”

      “We don’t know and we don’t know that it’s your sister’s. You of all people should understand the huge emotional and legal consequences of making assumptions that result in misidentification.”

      “Then tell me why you have contacted Canadian police.”

      “I’m not discussing this case with you.”

      “Yeah. Remember, Ed, you called me to help you! That’s why I’m here. I’ve lived with this for twenty years! I deserve to know the truth! That’s why I did what I did!”

      A few tense seconds passed.

      “Did you take, touch or leave anything, Kate?”

      “No, all I took were some pictures with my camera. That’s all.”

      Brennan returned to the others for another long discussion, then returned with her things and Reddick, who removed her handcuffs.

      “The technician found no pictures on your phone, so we’re returning it.”

      “I told you, I didn’t take any pictures with my phone.”

      “We’re keeping the memory card from your camera and the additional memory cards we found in your bag. The technician tells me that your camera had wireless connectivity but that you didn’t send any images anywhere.”

      “I didn’t. Are we done? Or are you going to go full-bore cop and strip-search me?”

      Brennan let her comment pass.

      “No. I don’t have a female officer on duty, for one. I’m going to make a judgment call here, but I think we’ve covered this given the circumstances and the situation.”

      “So I can go?”

      “Not yet. Now, you’re going to show us your path into the scene so we can mark it,” Brennan said. “Then we’re going to need impressions of your shoes and take your fingerprints. When we’re done, Officer Reddick will drive you to your car.”

      “Am I being charged?”

      “No, but if you interfere again, we’ll bring the charges back. Understood?”

      Kate met Brennan’s stare and she nodded.

      “I appreciate your help,” he said, “and what you’re going through. Go home, Kate, and let us do our job.”

10

      Rampart, New York

      The grill of Reddick’s patrol car filled Kate’s rearview mirror for several miles after she’d left the rest stop.

      Driving to town, she bit back on her tears and her anger at Rampart police but mostly at herself. She was churning with rage and an underlying ache, because she’d never been this close to Vanessa.

       I’ve got to think clearly.

      Kate looked at the time.

      Even with the drive to Syracuse she had a few hours before her early evening return flight. Enough time to check into the other part of the case.

       Carl Nelson.

      She’d become so consumed by the necklace that she’d overlooked his role. She knew nothing about him, the man the local press had named as the second fatality in the fire, the reclusive computer expert. Remembering his long hair and beard from the