Full Tilt. Rick Mofina

appeared the victim was male.

      Brennan made notes, sketched the scene and took pictures. The forensic unit would process everything more thoroughly. Maybe they’d yield a lead on identification. In any event, there would be another autopsy.

       Now we have two deaths. Is this what the first victim meant when she’d said, “There are others”?

      Larco’s radio crackled with a transmission from the spotter in the plane.

      “There’s a vehicle in the bush about fifty to sixty yards northeast of the site. A pickup truck, you guys got that?”

      A quick round of checks determined that no one on the ground was aware of the vehicle. Two state patrol cars moved to block it. Brennan, Dickson, Martin and some of the troopers approached the vehicle. They took up positions around it with weapons drawn and called out for anyone inside to exit with hands raised.

      There was no response.

      They ran the plate. The pickup was a late-model Ford F-150, registered to Carl Nelson of Rampart. There were no warrants, or wants for him. A quick, cautious check confirmed the truck was empty. Brennan noticed the rear window bore a parking decal for the MRKT DataFlow Call Center.

      He pulled on latex gloves and tried the driver’s door.

      It opened.

      A folded single sheet of paper waited on the seat.

      Brennan read it:

      I only wanted someone to love in my life.

      It’s better to end everyone’s pain.

      God forgive me for what I’ve done.

      Carl Nelson

4

      Rampart, New York

      “Yeah, that’s Carl’s truck. What’s wrong?”

      Robert Vander’s eyes flicked up from the pictures Brennan showed him on his phone and he snapped his gum.

      “Carl’s been off sick, why’re you asking about him?”

      Vander glanced quickly at his computer monitor, a reflex to the pinging of new messages. He was the IT chief at the MRKT DataFlow Call Center, which handled millions of accounts for several credit card companies. With five hundred people on the payroll, it was Rampart’s largest employer.

      Vander was Carl Nelson’s supervisor.

      “What’s this about?” Vander looked at Brennan, who sat across from his desk, then at Paul Dickson, who was beside Brennan, taking notes.

      “We’re checking on his welfare,” Brennan said.

      Vander halted his gum chewing.

      “His welfare? He called in sick two days ago, said he had some kind of bug. What’s going on?”

      Brennan let a few moments pass without answering.

      “Mr. Vander, can you tell us about Mr. Nelson? What he does here, his character?”

      “His character? You’re making me nervous.”

      “Can you help us?”

      “Carl’s been with MRKT about ten years. He’s a senior systems technician, a genius with computers. He helped design the upgrade for our security programs. He’s an excellent employee, very quiet and keeps to himself. I got nothing but good things to say about him. I’m getting a little worried.”

      “Has he been under any stress lately?”

      “No, nothing beyond the usual workload demands.”

      “What’s his relationship status? Married, divorced, girlfriend, boyfriend?”

      “He’s not married. I don’t think he has a girlfriend, or partner, whatever.”

      Vander repositioned himself in his chair.

      “Do you know if he has any outstanding debts?”

      “No, I wouldn’t know.”

      “Does he gamble? Use drugs or have any addictions?”

      “No. I don’t think— You know, I’m not comfortable with this.”

      “Would you volunteer a copy of his file to us?”

      “Not before I check with our human resources and legal people.” Vander’s mouse clicked. “I think you need a warrant.”

      “That’s fine. Thank you for your help.”

      Brennan and Dickson got up to leave.

      “Wait,” Vander stood, his face whitened. “Would this have something to do with that story about the fire killing two people at the old cemetery?”

      Brennan let a moment pass.

      “Mr. Vander, we can’t confirm anything and we strongly urge you to keep our inquiries confidential.”

      * * *

      Later, as Dickson drove them from the center, he was frustrated at where things stood in the thirty-six hours since the fire was discovered.

      They’d talked to Robbie and Chrissie, the two teens who’d called it in, and got repetitions of what they already knew.

      “We’ve still got nothing on our Jane Doe. Nothing more on our John Doe—slash Carl Nelson. We’ve got his note, his truck. There’s no activity at his residence and he’s not at work. We know it’s him. This is a clear murder-suicide, Ed. When’re we going to get warrants and search his place for something to help identify the woman and clear this one?”

      Brennan was checking his phone for messages.

      “We’ll get warrants once we confirm his identity. Let’s go to the hospital. Morten wants to see us, maybe he’s got something.”

      * * *

      Morten Compton, Rampart’s pathologist, was a large man with a Vandyke who was partial to suspenders and bow ties.

      He was pulling on his jacket when Brennan and Dickson arrived. His basement office in the hospital smelled of antiseptic and formaldehyde.

      “Sorry, fellas, I got to get to Ogdensburg.” Compton tossed files into his briefcase. “I’m assisting the county with the triple bar shooting there and I got the double fatal with the church van and the semi in Potsdam.”

      “So why call us over, Mort?” Brennan asked. “Have you made any progress with either victim in my case?”

      “Some, but first you have to appreciate that confirming positive IDs will take time, given the condition of the bodies and the backlog my office is facing. My assistant is in Vermont attending a funeral. I’m arranging for help from Watertown.”

      “So where are we on my double?”

      “We’ve submitted dental charts for the female and male to local and regional dentists and dental associations. Toxicology has gone to Syracuse and we’ve submitted DNA to the FBI’s databank.”

      “That’s it?”

      “Well, I don’t think the male died in the fire.”

      “That’s new. What’s the cause for him?”

      “Possibly a gunshot wound to the head. I just recovered a round, looks like a nine millimeter. You need to find a gun at the scene, Ed.”

      * * *

      As they drove to the scene, Dickson raised more questions.

      “So how does a dead man start a fire, Ed?”

      “Maybe he didn’t start it. Or, maybe he tied her up, started it, then shot himself in front of her, leaving her to burn to