by Lis Wiehl
Cassidy looked up, remembering. “Shrewd. Intelligent. Street-smart as well as book smart. Some of his fans called him The Great One. He pretended not to like it. Jim’s charming when he wants to be, cranky when he doesn’t. Like pretty much anyone who works in the media, he can be a gossip. He likes—liked—power. Liked getting people to do things for him.” Cassidy’s description bounced back and forth between past and present tense as Jim became alive for her again. “Fastidious. He liked everything tidy. At the same time, Jim’s macho. That is one man who would never back down. Never.”
Allison looked at Nicole as Cassidy finished. They were sharing the same thought—Cassidy knew Jim a lot better than she had admitted.
“But why would someone kill him?” Allison asked. “We need to figure out if it was personal or some kind of domestic terrorism. The anthrax attacks targeted the media and the government, so there’s a precedent.”
“I don’t even really think of people like Jim Fate as members of the press,” Nicole said. “It’s not like they report the news. They report their opinions.”
“In the anthrax case, the first person to die was a photo editor at a supermarket tabloid,” Allison pointed out, “not a Tom Brokaw type. It was only later that they sent anthrax to ABC, CBS, and NBC. Cassidy, Jim told you he was being threatened. I talked to him, Nicole and I had set up a meeting for the day after he died, but he wouldn’t give me any details. We need to know what he told you.”
They stopped talking for a minute as the waitress brought their food: New York steak for Cassidy, king salmon for Allison, and arctic char for Nicole.
After the waitress left, Cassidy said, “He never said who he thought they were from, or even what was in them. He just said he was getting threats and asked for your phone numbers.”
“Do you know how they were delivered?” Nicole asked. “Through the mail, dropped off at the station, phone . . .?”
“E-mail, I think. And in the mail. But mostly e-mail.” Cassidy cut a piece from her steak. She had ordered it rare, and Allison averted her gaze from the juices collecting on the plate. Some days she craved red meat; on others the very thought repulsed her.
Nicole said, “Did Jim try to find out what IP address they were sent from?”
“An IP address?” Cassidy took the last piece of bread from the basket and used it to mop up the juices from her steak. “That shows what computer you’re using, right?”
“IP addresses are how we caught all those sick pervs who chatted me up when I was working Innocent Images,” Nicole said.
Innocent Images was the FBI’s cyber crime squad’s effort to take down online predators. Nicole had spent hours pretending to be thirteen. Not surprisingly, Nicole’s work on Innocent Images did not seem to have improved her view of men. Allison didn’t know what had happened in the years since high school, but Nicole was now wary, even dismissive, of nearly all men. Only Leif had seemed to crack that hard shell.
“Each time you go to a Web site, your computer’s IP address is recorded on its servers,” Nicole said.
Cassidy said, “So once you have the address, then you know who sent something, right?”
“For most of the guys we tracked on Innocent Images, yes. They weren’t that sophisticated. But sometimes it’s not that simple. Say a computer is at a business. That business might share a handful of IP addresses, making it hard to link an e-mail to a single person. Or you can go to a library or Internet café, and send your e-mails from there. And if you really want to get tricky, there are programs called anonymous proxy servers that can hide your address.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Cassidy asked, raising one eyebrow.
“No, it’s not. Unfortunately.” Nicole took a sip of wine. “But with a subpoena, we can get the information from the proxy server. Usually.”
The waitress came over to their table just as Allison was taking her last bite of buttery salmon. “Is anyone going to want a dessert?”
“Of course,” Allison answered with a smile. “We need your famous chocolate mousse. With three spoons.”
After the waitress dropped off their dessert, Cassidy said, “All I know about the threats is that when Jim talked about them, he looked scared. And if you knew Jim—he was never scared. Nothing could rattle his cage.”
“We found some threats at his home and office,” Nicole said.
Cassidy bit her lip. “Are any of them related to Brooke Gardner?”
CHAPTER 22
McCormick & Schmick’s Harborside Restaurant
By the way her friends straightened up at the mention of Brooke’s name, Cassidy knew she had hit pay dirt. She took advantage of their distraction to sneak an extra spoonful of mousse.
“Why?” Nicole asked. “Did he say anything about Brooke Gardner to you?”
Cassidy swallowed and then said, “He told me the family was angry at him. He felt bad about what had happened, sure, but at the time anyone would have put money on the idea that she had killed her own child. I mean, how many times have we seen that scenario? Kid disappears, and then the too-young mom says the babysitter took her, or she just turned around and the baby was gone. Only it always turns out that the story doesn’t add up.”
“Except that this time it did,” Nicole said dryly.
Just looking at her made Cassidy feel guilty. “We both covered that case. Everybody did. The parents even called me right after Brooke killed herself.” She remembered how sick she had felt, listening to their message. “They left me a voice mail calling me a jackal.”
Allison picked up her pen and made a note. “Did you save it?”
“No. But I do have transcripts of the story Jim did on her.” She pulled her tote onto her lap and found the copies she had made earlier for each of them.
FATE: Now, a mother’s worst nightmare. She tucks her 18-month-old into his crib, settles onto the sofa in the very next room for a video. When she returns to check on him, the baby is gone. Today, the search is on for 18-month-old Brandon Gardner-Tippets.
HANAWA: That’s right, Jim. Police are telling us that Brooke Gardner put Brandon into his crib around 7 p.m., and when she went to check on him an hour later, he was gone and the window was open.
FATE: Joining us right now is Vince Rudolph, a private investigator, to give us his thoughts on the case. Vince, what say you?
VINCE RUDOLPH, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR: First, Jim, let me say that The Hand of Fate is doing a huge service to this baby boy by putting this information out there. People need to go to your Web site and look at Brandon’s picture and forward it to their friends. The facts need to be turned over and over, and people need to think back to that day. What do they remember? Did they see anything out of the ordinary? Or did they see this baby, maybe with someone else? Your show provides a huge service by focusing on those things.
FATE: Whatever help we can provide, we are glad to do so. Also joining us today are two very special guests, the mother and father of missing 18-month-old Brandon Gardner-Tippets. On the line with us we have Jason Tippets, Brandon’s father. Welcome, Jason. You just told us that you cooperated with police, and they checked everything out and cleared where you were that night. Now, do you think it’s possible someone could have leaned in the window and taken your baby, and he just slept through it?
JASON TIPPETS, MISSING BOY’S FATHER: I find that one hard to believe, because Brandon is a very, very light sleeper. I mean, if you move him while he is asleep, he automatically wakes up.
FATE: Interesting. With us also is a special guest, Brooke Gardner, Brandon’s mom, who is divorced from Jason Tippets. This is a mother who is simply watching TV in the next room, she goes in to check on her son, and he’s gone. Brooke, thank you for being with us. Now, Brooke, where is the crib in relation to the window?
BROOKE GARDNER, MISSING BOY’S MOTHER: The crib is directly underneath the window. As soon as I saw Brandon was not in the crib, I looked through the room and in the closet. I didn’t know what to think. I thought maybe he h
ad climbed out of his crib. He had done that once before.
HANAWA: Was he sleepy that night? Was he ready to go to bed, or did he want to stay up?
GARDNER: He was very tired. We had had a long day. And my son is not a light sleeper whatsoever. You can move him from room to room, and he’ll still be asleep. And on top of that, he is very friendly and outgoing. He can walk into a room full of strangers and make friends with people.
HANAWA: Now, Brooke, what did you do first after you opened the door to his room?
GARDNER: Like I said, I looked all around his room, I looked in the closet, and then I checked the bathroom and my room, which are right down the hall, which he could have gotten to without me seeing him. And after that, I looked in his room again and realized the window was wide-open. It wasn’t obvious at first because there are curtains in front of it.
FATE: Brooke, the window—you said that when you put him to bed, the window was up about three inches. What position was the window in when you saw it again?
GARDNER: At that point, it was all the way open.
HANAWA: Is there any way Brandon could have climbed out that window?
GARDNER: Even if he stood on tippy toes, he couldn’t have reached the edge.
FATE: I’m struggling with how somebody gets into a room, takes a little baby, and somehow struggles out the window with that baby. It seems kind of inconceivable.
GARDNER: When the investigators came in to do the visuals and everything, when they leaned in through the window, they could reach the crib. God forbid if Brandon was up or something like that. Nobody would need to crawl in the window.
FATE: Brandon’s father, Jason Tippets, you’re on the air. Have you taken a polygraph?
TIPPETS: Yes, sir.
FATE: You pass it?
TIPPETS: They don’t say whether you pass or fail, but they said the response was favorable.
HANAWA: What questions did they ask you on the polygraph?
TIPPETS: Like if I knew where Brandon was, if I had anything to do with it, just the kind of questions that they would ask in a case like this.
FATE: Let’s ask Brooke Gardner, Brandon’s mom. Brooke, have you taken a polygraph?
GARDNER: I’ve spoken to the investigators, and as far as the investigative techniques are concerned, you know, polygraph, stress test, physical searches, interviews, etc., my family and I have fully cooperated with local law enforcement and—
FATE: Have you taken a polygraph?
GARDNER: Locally, they don’t have enough necessary experience, and that’s why the FBI was called in to begin with. I’ve been instructed to only speak with them, with their unit, and anything that they release to the media or public is up to them. Now, as far as—
FATE: Have you taken a polygraph?
GARDNER: Like I said, I mean, anything that I do is in cooperation with them. I’m doing everything they want me to. But as far as details and everything, I’m leaving everything up to them.
FATE: Right. Have you taken a polygraph?
GARDNER: I’ve done everything they’ve asked me to.
FATE: I want to go out to Vince Rudolph again. Vince, what do you think about this case?
RUDOLPH: Don’t forget, there are 50 sex offenders within 5 miles of this house. They’re interviewing them, reinterviewing them. The authorities don’t have tunnel vision. But I’m telling you, Jim, one and one is not adding up to two on this case.
FATE: What do you mean by that?
RUDOLPH: Time of day, between 7 and 8 o’clock, and you have his mom in the next room, watching TV. What happened when this baby saw a strange person? Why didn’t the baby scream? I’ll give you one possibility that I know the police are looking at. What if that baby wasn’t in the crib to start with? So if I’m the lead investigator, I’m going to interview everybody. Father, mother, relatives, I want to know if there is any drug use, I want to know everything that’s going on, on both sides. I understand this was a bitter, nasty divorce, but these people need to get on the same page. Father says the child is a light sleeper that would cry and scream. Mother says the baby’s a heavy sleeper that wouldn’t put up a fuss. You have to answer a lot of questions for me if I’m the investigator on this.
FATE: Explain, Brooke. I’m sure you have an answer. Brooke Gardner, Brandon’s mom.
GARDNER: Jason doesn’t even live with us anymore, so what does he know about how Brandon sleeps? I’m his mother. I know how Brandon would react.
FATE: What about those people who say that you are not being emotional enough about this, that you should be crying and in hysterics? That you are not acting the way a mother who has lost a child should?
GARDNER: Well, they aren’t in my shoes, are they? If I spend time crying my eyes out, then I can’t find Brandon.
FATE: Most people would be emotional about this—the abduction and possible murder of their child. Yet there is not a quiver in your voice.
GARDNER: I cry when I’m alone. I cry when I go to bed. I don’t sleep.
RUDOLPH: People need to think back to that day. What did they see? Did they see a strange car outside? Did they see a parent taking the baby away? Did they see the baby get taken by someone, or did they see the baby in another location? Jim, thanks to the attention The Hand of Fate show is bringing to this case, it’s going to be really hard for facts that don’t line up—kind of like we’re hearing in this case—to not be spotlighted. And when we can focus in on those things, they just might give us a clue to where this little guy is.
As Cassidy read Jim’s words again, and the stark accusations behind them, she felt sick. Her own coverage of the story had been scarcely better, although a transcript wouldn’t have been as damning. She had conveyed her doubt of Brooke’s story with a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic emphasis on certain words. “Brooke Gardner says . . .” She hadn’t been the young woman’s chief accuser, but she had certainly joined in the chorus. There were times her job felt like that of a vulture, waiting for something to die so she could swoop in and pick over its bones. And maybe if it wasn’t quite dead yet, she could help it along. As had been the case for Brooke, who had killed herself rather than face continued accusations that she had murdered her son.
Allison was the first to look up. “Did Jim ever say how he felt when he learned the truth?”
“Jim?” Cassidy shook her head. “Jim’s philosophy was that the past was past. That you couldn’t change the past, so you just had to move on.” Cassidy thought of something they might not know. “Jim used to be a news reader. It was kind of an accident that he ended up as a radio talk show host. He used to say it was his fate. His little idea of a joke.” She wished she could get used to the idea that he was dead.
“Do you believe in that?” Nicole asked. “That people have a certain fate, no matter what they do?”
“You mean, is everything predestined? Like Jim would have died yesterday no matter what he did? Sometimes I think that. Maybe.” Then Cassidy thought of how hard she worked. What would be the point if no matter what she did, the same fate would befall her? “But I guess I hope it’s not.”
“Henry Miller said, ‘We create our fate every day we live,’” Nicole said.
Both women looked at her in surprise.
“Hey,” she said shrugging, trying to hide a smile. “I was an English major, remember?”
“I know another quote about fate.” Allison finally looked like she had shaken off all the cares of the last few days. “Although I don’t know who said it.”
“What is it?” Cassidy asked.
“‘Fate chooses our relatives, but we choose our friends.’” Raising her glass, Allison looked at each of them in turn. “To friends.”
“Present—and absent,” Cassidy said, as she tapped her glass against the others.
CHAPTER 23
KNWS Radio
Thursday, February 9
The plan was to interview Jim’s coworkers one by one on their own turf, where they would be more comfortable and forthc
oming. None of these people was a suspect. Yet.
But Nic had a feeling that by the end of the day they would be looking at one or more of them more closely. Jim Fate was a polarizing figure. For every person who loved him, there were probably ten others who loathed him.
And some of those people might work at KNWS.
First up was Chris Sorenson, the call screener. Allison opened the door and waved him in. Chris was about five foot nine, with medium-brown hair and a face that was neither fat nor thin. Only his large, green eyes, fringed with dark lashes, saved him from being completely unremarkable.
The color hit Nic like a fist to the gut. She drew in a sharp breath, reminded herself that the past was past. Only this man’s eyes were the same color—nothing else.
“Are you the one who sits in that little room next to Jim’s?” she asked, trying to drag her mind back to the here and now. When he nodded, she said, “Do you think you could show us how the whole setup works?”
He nodded again, and the three of them walked down the hall. A few employees watched curiously as Nic took down the yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape. She let Chris and Allison in before taping it back in place, ducking under, and closing the door. Someone had picked up the clutter of medical supplies, but everything else looked much the same as it had the day before.
In the control room next to the studio where Jim had died, a man gave them one look through the glass before going back to adjusting his dials and gauges. “That’s Greg,” Chris said. “He runs the board, you know, adjusts audio levels, takes network feed and traffic reports. We have two other studios, so he’s working with someone down the hall.”
“Can he hear us?” Allison asked.
“Not unless we want him to.”
“And you sit here?” Nic pointed at a small desk that held two computer screens and a telephone with multiple lines. It sat underneath a square window that looked into the radio studio. “And Jim was—where?”
Chris slowly walked into the radio studio until he had his back against the wall, facing the window. “Right here. A host always needs to see his call screener.” With a faint shiver, he stepped out of Jim’s spot. He moved around the table. “This is where Victoria sits. She has her back to me.”
