Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

the hours he waited, he’d gotten used to the room’s smell. They had no ID for her. There was no chance of fingerprints and no indication she’d had any clothing or jewelry. If so, it had been burned away. They’d have to review local, state and national missing persons cases.

      The most disturbing aspect was the ropes.

      Again, Brennan looked at the pictures on his phone that Martin had sent from the scene.

      Again, he winced.

      Then he concentrated on the charred ropes.

      She appeared to have been be bound by ropes.

       The fire could’ve allowed her to escape from the building.

       Escape from what and from whom?

      Once they doused the fire and things cooled off they needed to get the forensic people in there.

      “Detective?” the nurse said.

      The charred remnants of what was once the woman’s right hand moved.

      The nurse pressed a button above the bed and the doctor arrived, checked the monitor and bent over the woman.

      “She’s regaining consciousness,” the doctor said. “We’ll remove the airway so she can talk, but remember, her throat and lungs are damaged.”

      Brennan understood.

      This may be his only shot.

      Once the tube was removed, the monitor started beeping as the woman gasped. They took a moment to tend to her and the beeping slowed. Then the doctor nodded to Brennan, who stepped close and prepared to make a video recording with his phone.

      “Ma’am, I’m Detective Ed Brennan. Can you tell me your name?”

      A long moment of silence passed punctuated with a gurgle.

      Brennan took a breath and looked at the doctor before he continued.

      “Ma’am, can you tell me a name, or tell me where you live?”

      A rasping sigh sounded, then nothing.

      “Ma’am, is there anything you can tell me?’

      A liquidy, coarse utterance began to form a word.

      “Share— R...”

      “I’m sorry, ma’am. Try again.”

      “There...are...”

      Brennan glanced at the doctor and nurse, blinking to concentrate as the woman tried to raise her blackened hand as if she wanted to pull Brennan to her.

      “There are...there are others...”

      The woman lowered her arm.

      The monitors sounded alerts and the tracking lines flattened.

3

      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