Chapter 4 - Caleb Voss
Caleb Jonathan Voss was thirty eight years old.
One year older than the age Mark claimed.
Born in Reno, Nevada.
Mother:
Eleanor Marie Voss.
Later Eleanor Hale.
Father:
Jonathan Voss.
That was how I learned my husband had not lied about Eleanor being his mother.
He had lied about which son he was.
Detective Quinn showed me only public and legally obtained records.
Caleb Voss had a criminal history.
At twenty five, he pleaded guilty to felony identity related financial fraud involving stolen checks and false loan applications.
He served fourteen months in custody followed by supervision.
There were civil judgments too.
Unpaid contractor disputes.
A failed debt relief company.
Then, nine years earlier, Caleb Voss appeared to vanish.
No death certificate.
No passport activity found yet.
No legitimate employment under that name.
At almost the same time, a man calling himself Mark Anthony Hale began appearing in Pennsylvania.
Driver’s license.
Employment records.
Bank accounts.
Eventually me.
I stared at Eleanor’s family information.
“Who was Mark Hale?”
Angela answered.
“Her younger son.”
My throat closed.
“Mark had a brother?”
Caleb had told me he was an only child.
Detective Quinn slid a death certificate across the table.
Mark Anthony Hale.
Born April 3, 1989.
Died September 18, 2017.
Age twenty eight.
Colorado.
Accidental climbing fall.
Mother:
Eleanor Hale.
Father:
Thomas Hale.
Caleb and Mark were half brothers.
Same mother.
Different fathers.
“Was the death real?”
“Yes.”
“Was Caleb involved?”
“No evidence.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as the investigation currently allows. Mark died while Caleb was in Nevada. Multiple witnesses were present. His death was investigated as accident.”
Good.
No murder hiding beneath every fact.
Then how had Caleb used Mark’s identity?
That investigation moved to federal and state financial crime specialists.
High level, the answer was ugly but not magical.
After Mark’s death, Eleanor retained old personal records and some documents from settling his affairs.
Caleb had physical resemblance to his younger half brother.
Same mother.
Similar build.
He obtained counterfeit identification using Mark’s biographical information combined with altered numbers and began building a clean identity.
Not perfectly.
The mismatches were exactly what finally exposed him.
Why had government systems not stopped him instantly?
Because identity systems are fragmented.
He did not use one perfectly stolen Social Security profile everywhere.
He used variations.
Some accounts under a fraudulent number.
Some under Mark’s name.
Some under Caleb linked entities.
Each lie created another seam.
Tonight, the seams had aligned.
The hospital chart.
The bank application.
Fingerprints.
Voss Recovery Services.
I pressed my hands against blanket.
“Did Eleanor know?”
Angela gave me a look.
The trust payments answered.
But criminal proof needed more.
Detective Quinn said:
“We are investigating.”
Then she asked:
“When did you meet Mark?”
“Five years and eight months ago.”
“Where?”
“A design industry fundraiser in Harrisburg.”
“Did Eleanor introduce you?”
I thought.
“No.”
Then memory.
Eleanor had been there.
Not beside him initially.
She approached later.
She said:
“Oh, you met my son.”
I had never questioned how coincidental.
Detective wrote.
“What did Caleb say he did?”
“Commercial property consulting.”
“Under what company?”
“Hale Asset Solutions.”
Angela opened her laptop.
“That business was incorporated four months before you met.”
By whom?
Mark Hale.
Fake identity.
Then:
“Emily, did he know you owned Rowan and Grove before you met?”
“Probably. It was fundraiser for historic design preservation.”
My company name was on sponsorship banner.
My grandmother’s portrait had been displayed because she had helped restore the venue.
Then another memory.
Caleb’s first question to me:
“You’re Ruth Rowan’s granddaughter, right?”
At the time it felt flattering.
Now it felt researched.
I whispered:
“He knew.”
Angela said nothing.
Then Detective Quinn received a message.
She read.
Looked at Angela.
Then me.
“Search of Eleanor’s office found a folder.”
“What folder?”
“Your maiden name.”
I had been Emily Rowan before marriage.
The tab read:
ROWAN.
Inside were financial articles about my grandmother’s company.
Property records.
A copy of my grandmother’s obituary.
And a photograph from the fundraiser where I met Caleb.
Dated three weeks before we supposedly met.
Someone had circled me in blue ink.
May you like
My marriage had not begun with chance.
Someone had selected me before I ever knew his name.
