What we have here is a partial DNA match. But it’s strong enough to confirm identity. One person in the Minnesota case and a person in the Rampart case are in the same family.
Constance would swear on it under oath in court if she had to.
She began writing her preliminary report for her supervisor to send to the investigators in Rampart and Minnesota.
CHAPTER 53
Pine Mills, Minnesota
After landing in Minneapolis, Kate got on a regional flight to Grand Forks, North Dakota.
Ninety minutes later, when she arrived in the Grand Forks terminal she saw a tall man with white hair and a friendly face holding a piece of cardboard with “Kate Page” scrawled in black marker.
She went to him.
“I’m Kate Page.”
“Hi, Kate. Lund Sanner, freelance with Newslead. All set? We’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of us.”
Along the way Kate worked on her Chicago story. After she’d sent it to New York she called home to Nancy and then spoke with Grace for fifteen minutes before she had to go.
“I’ll be back in a few days. I miss you like crazy, sweetie,” Kate said.
Kate then bombarded Rampart Detective Ed Brennan again with calls, texts and emails. Again, she received no response. She tried his partner, Paul Dickson. Nothing. It was futile, leaving her frustrated and uneasy.
Something’s happened with this murder. Maybe they got a break?
The sun was setting when they got to Pine Mills, which was at the edge of Lost River State Forest near the Canadian border. Sanner had had the foresight to reserve two rooms at the Timberline Motel.
“You’re lucky,” the clerk said. “Everybody around here’s booked up, mostly with newspeople from all over. Folks say it’s got something to do with that murder. Do you guys know anything?”
“There’s a press conference in the morning in the community hall. We’ll all know more after that,” Sanner said.
Kate was exhausted but agreed to have dinner with Sanner at Greta’s Homestyle Restaurant across the street. Over club sandwiches Sanner told Kate he’d retired from the Pioneer Press after thirty years as a news photographer. He had a cabin near Thief River Falls, not far from here. Kate told him a bit about herself, then Sanner spoke up.
“Kate, when I got the call for this assignment I did some reading on the New York case,” he said. “You’ve got a connection to all of this.”
Kate nodded and told him the story.
“I saw that you were pretty intense during the drive,” he said. “And I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“I’m sorry, Lund, that was rude of me.”
“No, no apologies. I understand. That was work. I hope things go well for you tomorrow, Kate, all things considered.”
* * *
Alone in her room, Kate switched off the lights, stood at her window and stared into the night and at the stars.
What am I doing? My life is moving at a thousand miles an hour. I should be home holding Grace. But I’m so close, so close I can feel it.
She got into bed and as sleep came, she thought of the victim in Lost River.
Up here, amid the isolation rolling with fields, lakes, rivers and forests.
Such a lonely place to die.
Then she thought of Vanessa and cried.
* * *
The Pine Mills Community Hall was a sturdy stone-and-wood structure built by volunteers in the 1930s.
Police vehicles and scores of news vans, some from Minneapolis and Winnipeg, jammed the parking lot. Satellite trucks from the major networks had their antennae extended. Radio news cars lined the street in front of the hall. A deputy at the entrance checked and recorded press IDs.
Rows of folding chairs had been set up in the main room before a long table, with TV monitors on stands posted at each end and a large board, covered with large sheets of paper. A heap of recorders and microphones with station flags rose at the center of the table as reporters settled into spots while taking calls from their desks. Kate estimated upward of seventy news types were there.
Metal clanked as TV crews erected tripods, called for cables and batteries to be ferried from satellite trucks. Harried cell phone calls were made to editors, patched through to booths and networks. Data about birds, dishes, coordinates, feeds, airtime and sound tests were exchanged. Overgroomed TV reporters checked their hair, teeth, earpieces, mikes and helped with white balances by holding notebooks before cameras.
“Right, so how many known homicide victims? Sixteen now?” a TV reporter, his hand cupped to one ear, repeated into his camera. “Right. Fifteen in New York. One here, right. Sixteen and we’re going live through New York.”
As Sanner caught up and reminisced with other news photographers, Kate searched the men in suits and jackets lining the walls near the side and back, hoping to see Brennan or Dickson or at least some official she knew from Rampart.
She felt a tap on her shoulder before hearing her name.
She turned to see Brennan.
“Ed, I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Come with me.”
“But—” She indicated the news conference was about to start.
“You won’t miss anything. Come with me.”
Kate left a trail of “Who’s that?” and “What’s that about?” and “She looks familiar…” from the few reporters who’d noticed she was being pulled aside in advance of a national press conference.
Brennan took her to a small office at the rear, crowded with several other FBI, state and county investigators. She looked at the grim faces watching her.
“What’s going on, Ed?”
“Kate, please sit down.”
Pierced by the sudden fear that it was over, she caught her breath.
“Kate, we’re going to identify two victims arising from the forest scene.”
“But you only found one?”
“The homicide victim has been identified and we’ll release that name momentarily. The identity of a second person has also been confirmed. In both cases we used expedited DNA analysis.”
Kate stared at him.
“Kate, one is your sister, Vanessa. There is
