did Bethany come to be at that barn, Ed?”
“I’m not going to answer that or speculate.”
“And how did my sister’s necklace get to the scene?”
“We still haven’t confirmed if the necklace belonged to your sister.”
“Come on.”
“It’s being processed. Look, we still have a lot of work to do.”
“Well, who’s Carl Nelson?”
“We still haven’t confirmed the identity of the deceased male.”
“What do you think went on at that barn?”
“Kate.”
“What about the cause of the fire? Was it intentional?”
“Kate, I’m not getting into any of this. I’ve told you, respectfully, to back off and let us do our job. Because you’ve helped us, I’ll update you on a need-to-know basis, that’s it. I have to go.”
Kate sat on the corner of her bed.
Her eyes went around her room as she processed the development. She was saddened by the news, heartbroken for the victim’s family, but what had happened only raised more questions.
Who was Bethany Ann Wynn and how did she get from Hartford, Connecticut, to Upstate New York? Moreover, who was Carl Nelson?
The best thing she could do now was get to work.
Kate switched on her tablet, went to the Rampart PD site for the press release. It was brief and she latched on to the key facts about Bethany.
At the age of nineteen, she was reported missing from the Tumbling Hills Mall in the Hartford suburb of Upper North Meadows, after completing her evening shift as a part-time manager at The New England Cookie Emporium. At the time of her disappearance she was last seen leaving the mall to take a bus home.
Kate collected those facts, then, like a prospector, she mined the internet for more information on Bethany’s background.
Scrutinizing older news stories and anniversary features, Bethany Ann’s short life emerged. She was the daughter of James and Rachel Wynn. James was the owner of a tow-truck company. Rachel was a school nurse. Bethany was a junior at Albert River College, studying veterinarian medicine. She had a younger sister, Polly, and at the time of her disappearance, a German shepherd named Tex.
Bethany had had a happy, stable life with a loving family. No indication of depression, drug use, bullying, boyfriend trouble, or any other reason to run off. No mention of Carl Nelson or a connection to Rampart. There was speculation of abduction, although security cameras at the stop Bethany took were not working and no witnesses had stepped forward.
Photos of Bethany showed a pretty girl with a bright smile and hope in her eyes. Kate scrutinized each picture for any jewelry she wore but found nothing resembling the angel necklace.
Kate thought for a moment, then found a home telephone number for the Wynn family.
Maybe Rampart or the local police had told the Wynns something about the case? Maybe they knew something about Carl Nelson, the necklace, her sister? Kate reached for her phone. She was in full-bore reporter mode as she dialed the number, reasoning that since the press release was public, the family would surely be getting calls from reporters. As the line rang, Kate envisioned TV trucks rolling up to the Wynns’ suburban home.
She hated calling. It was part of her job she loathed, intruding on people at the worst times of their lives. Over the years people had cursed her, hung up or slammed doors on her. Still, the majority struggled to talk about their loss. In most cases, through choking sobs, they would pay tribute to the father, mother, daughter, son, husband, wife, sister, brother or friend. Or they’d send Kate a heart-wrenching email, or pass her a tearstained note. If she went to their home, they showed her the rooms of the dead and the last things they’d touched.
It tore her up each time and she hated it.
But it was part of the job.
She never took their reactions personally. In that situation people had every right to lash out. Kate strove to be the most professional, respectful, compassionate person she could be in each case.
The families deserved no less.
As the line clicked, Kate steeled herself.
A man answered. His voice was deep, but soft.
“Hello.”
“Is this the home of James and Rachel Wynn, Bethany’s parents?”
“Yes.”
“My apologies for calling at this time and my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, my name’s Kate Page and I’m a—” Kate stopped herself cold. She was on the brink of identifying herself as a reporter from Newslead, a reflexive act that was now a firing offense. She was not on the job right now. “I’m sorry. My name’s Kate Page and I’m calling with respect to the press release that Rampart police in New York just posted online about Bethany Ann Wynn’s case?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering if I could speak to her mother or father. Are you her father?”
“No, Beth’s dad passed away last year. Cancer. I’m her uncle—Rachel’s my sister-in-law. She’s out right now, at the funeral home making arrangements. I’m here receiving people at the house until she gets back.”
“Oh, I see.”
“What did you need to talk about?”
Kate considered the propriety and her own anguish. The uncle seemed steady, receptive and kind, so she seized the opportunity.
“My little sister, Vanessa Page, has been missing for a long time and I’ve got reason to believe her case is somehow connected to Bethany’s. Is that name familiar to the family?”
“Vanessa Page? No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”
“Did Bethany ever own a necklace with a guardian angel charm?”
“Goodness, I wouldn’t know. Her mother would know that.”
“Sorry to ask so many questions.”
“It’s all right.”
“I was just wondering if Bethany’s family knew much more about what happened in Rampart.”
“All we’d heard from police here was that this Carl Nelson was some kind of computer expert and a reclusive nut and that he left a note...that maybe it was a murder-suicide. We figured he must’ve been the one who took Beth three years ago, kept her prisoner before he—”
“Did the police tell you much more?”
“No,
