Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

Major, thanks for calling.” Compton reached for a pen.

      “We can confirm that the chart you sent for comparison is the chart of Sergeant John Charles Pollard formerly of the US Army Special Forces. He toured Iraq and Afghanistan and was honorably discharged seven years ago.”

      “You’re positive on the chart?”

      “Yes, sir. It’s clear regarding the patterns and wear of several large amalgams.”

      “This is one hell of a game changer.”

      “We’ve arranged to expedite written confirmation and can provide you with scanned and physical copies of Sergeant Pollard’s full military records and photographs to assist your investigation.”

      “Thank you, Major Ellis.”

      Compton hung up.

      His breathing had quickened.

      He stared at his computer’s monitor and the charred, twisted dog tag that belonged to the former US Army sergeant. Before Compton made another note, before he called Brennan, he absorbed the new information.

       If the body is Pollard, then where is Carl Nelson?

      And why would Nelson leave a suicide note seeking forgiveness for what he’d done?

       What the hell have we got here?

15

      Buffalo, New York

      Yellowing tape held meal schedules to the walls of the dining hall of the mission in downtown Buffalo.

      The rules were up there, too: “No weapons, no drugs, no booze and no fighting. We offer: Love, respect, understanding and healing.” After reading them Dickson shook his head.

      “It sickens me that any veteran, after sacrificing everything for our country, comes home to this.”

      Ed flipped through his notes. The two Rampart detectives were at a table waiting for the mission crew to finish up with breakfast so they could interview people about former Sergeant John Charles Pollard.

      That Pollard, not Carl Nelson, had been identified as the male victim took this thing to a whole new level. They needed to determine his connection to Nelson, to Bethany Ann Wynn, to any aspect of the case.

      After the pathologist had alerted them yesterday to Pollard’s ID, Brennan and Dickson pored over his military records, made calls and tracked his last known location to Buffalo.

      Pollard, aged thirty-nine, was from Toledo, Ohio, and had enlisted as an artillery man in the US Army in 1998. He was assigned to the 3rd Battalion, 319th Airborne Field Artillery Regiment and had several deployments to Iraq and then Afghanistan. By 2009, he was with the US Special Forces in Kandahar’s Zhari District. Later, at a Forward Operating Base in Paktia province, his unit was pinned down in a firefight that lasted a week. Pollard witnessed the deaths of most of his squad members.

      He came home to Toledo, suffering post-traumatic stress and became addicted to alcohol and other drugs. He lost his job as a truck driver, his wife left him. He fell into debt, then drifted across the country, ending up on the streets and finally in this homeless shelter.

      Brennan was grateful to Buffalo PD, which had made initial inquiries with local shelters. It cleared the way for him to get up at four this morning and make the four-hour drive to Buffalo with Dickson to continue their investigation. They hadn’t released Pollard’s name yet. They were working with the military to locate his family.

      “Doesn’t it make you sick that vets end up homeless when they should be treated like heroes?”

      “It’s a disgrace.” Brennan sipped his coffee and over the rim saw Tim Scott, the shelter’s director, wiping his hands with a towel as he approached them.

      “Thanks for waiting.” Scott joined them at the table, then waved to staff members behind the counter. “Sure we can’t get you fellas something to eat after your long drive?”

      “We’re good with the coffee. Thanks,” Brennan said. “What can you tell us about John Charles Pollard?”

      “I can’t believe he’s dead. In a fire...maybe he took shelter in the barn?”

      “Maybe.”

      “It always hurts when we lose a client.” Scott shook his head. “People come to us broken. We give them a meal, a bed and hope in the way of counseling and services. J.C. had been with us for five months and was showing promise. He’d gotten clean and sober. He’d gotten his license again and was ready to apply for driving jobs.”

      “So things were looking up?”

      “Yes, despite all he’d faced, he was slowly getting back on his feet. But some guys have their setbacks and they disappear. That’s what I thought might’ve happened.”

      “That he’d had a setback?”

      “That’s what I was thinking. The other guys who knew him best had been asking about him because he hadn’t been around for a week or so. Reggie and Delmar. They bunked with him for a time and were probably the closest he had to friends. They’re right here.”

      The first man was in his thirties. His clothes hung loose on his skinny frame. His face bore fresh scrapes, as if he’d collided with the sidewalk.

      “Is it true? J.C.’s dead?” The man called Reggie sniffed and sat down.

      “I’m afraid so. My condolences.”

      Reggie nodded sadly.

      “May I ask what happened?” Brennan indicated the man’s cuts.

      “Was drunk, fell on the street.”

      “Reggie, may I get your last name, date of birth and could you show me your Social Security card? It’s routine.”

      Brennan cleared a page in his notebook, took down Reggie’s information then did the same for Delmar, the taller of the two. Delmar had a full, scraggly Moses beard dotted with crumbs.

      Brennan thanked them and said, “We ask that you keep our inquiries confidential. It’s critical to our investigation.”

      “So he got killed in a fire in Rampart?” Delmar looked around the table.

      “Something like that. Guys, can you recall if John—”

      “Oh, we call him J.C., nobody called him John,” Reggie said.

      “Sorry. Can you recall if J.C. had any connection to Rampart?”

      The three men shook their heads.

      “Ohio, mostly, that’s where he came from,” Reggie said.

      “Do the names Carl Nelson or Bethany Ann Wynn mean anything to you in relation to J.C.?”

      “Don’t think so.” Delmar looked to the others, who agreed.

      “What about Canada? Did he ever talk about it?”

      More shaking of heads.

      Dickson cued up photos on his tablet.

      “Do you recognize anything in these pictures, any connection at all?”

      The first were several photos of Bethany Ann Wynn.

      None of the photos registered with the men.

      Next were photos of Tara Dawn Mae, from her missing persons file from Alberta.

      Again, nothing.

      Then they showed them enlarged photos of the necklace with the guardian angel charm.

      Nothing.

      “What’s this really about?” Scott was clearly troubled. “I get the feeling there’s something more serious going on. Do you think J.C. had something