Cold Fear

by Rick Mofina

  Wilson had a few interviews to deal with, some reader phone-in reaction to the story. Psychics wanted to help. Church groups were going to pray. The usual. Nothing grabbed her. Some of the students and football players from Beecher Lowe, the school where Doug Baker taught, were planning to fly to Montana to help with the search. That wasn’t bad. Tugged at the heart. They could go with that and--

  She caught the BREAKING NEWS caption of CNBC off one of the large newsroom TVs. The Bakers were live with a news conference at Glacier National Park in Montana. Wilson snatched her Sony cassette recorder and her notebook. She trotted to the set, increasing the volume. Other newsroom staff had collected around it.

  “…We will not go home without her….” Reed better have this. Wilson was taking notes. Studying Doug and Emily, curious about the secret police work she knew was going on behind the scenes. “…It’s serious. We are well aware this is a life and death situation for our daughter, but we are praying….” Doug was a good-looking guy. Emily was beautiful. Paige was a pretty child. If the FBI determined anything criminal, the story would rock the country…. “Yes, we’re aware of that possibility also and we understand they are examining every potential aspect, but primarily the thinking is Paige wandered from us and became lost ….”

  Primarily.

  Now that’s the pivotal word. Someone shouted Wilson’s name.

  “Molly, phone call!”

  “Take a message.”

  Emily weeping. In pain. “…She is all we have in this world….”

  “It’s Huck Meyers in Canada. You said it was urgent.”

  “Hold him!”

  Wilson raced back to her desk, bracelets clinking. She connected her recorder to the phone and took the call.

  “Hello. This is Huck Meyers. We received an urgent message to call Molly Wilson at the San Francisco Star?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” Wilson was relieved her red recording light was blinking. She cleared a fresh page in her notebook and began.

  “You know Emily Baker, Mr. Meyers?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Emily Baker? You know her?”

  “Well, yes. She’s my niece. Willa’s sister’s girl. How can we help you? I got Willa right here. You said it was urgent. Is anything wrong?”

  He had a kind, soft voice that was filled with trust. But Wilson was a skilled miner of information.

  “Well I am not exactly sure, sir. We’re trying to learn more.” Wilson spoke fast to deflect Huck’s defenses and ingratiate herself. “You know, Emily did some work for the Star?”

  “Oh yes. She’s a photographer. Very good.”

  “Well, I am trying to learn a little more about her, her family history.”

  “Well, did you call her? They live in the Richmond. They’re in the phone book.”

  “They are out of town. I thought you knew they were out of town.”

  “No. We left California several weeks ago, been out of touch….”

  Huck was bewildered and hesitant. Wilson could not allow long silences. They obviously do not know about Paige.

  “I am just trying to learn a little more about her family history. She did some work for us and I understand she grew up in Montana. My colleague is from there. Is that where she learned photography? Maybe I could talk to Willa?”

  “Is everything all right?” Huck asked.

  Wilson threw him a fast question. “Does Willa know how long Emily lived in Montana?”

  “Just a moment please.”

  The phone was muffled. Wilson strained to listen, picking up “Something for the newspaper…they’re out of town.” Then Willa came on.

  “Hello, this is Willa Meyers.”

  Wilson apologized and immediately spun some quick lines, engaging Willa, drawing her into the innocuous beginnings of a conversation.

  “Yes, she is a very good photographer, did some work for Newsweek and People, too,” Willa boasted. “That’s how she met Doug.”

  “At People?”

  “Newsweek. He was a marine at Camp Pendleton. She did a story on his outfit or something. They fell in love. He’s such a nice man.”

  Wilson nudged Willa along, practically portraying the Star as an extension of Emily’s family because of some freelance work she did about the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “Tell me about her time in Montana, her life there.”

  “This is for the paper?”

  “Yes, we’re writing something about her in relation to some other news events and need to learn about her background. Tell me about her childhood in Montana and how she became such a good photographer.”

  Wilson could hear Willa thinking.

  “Just a little biographical stuff,” Wilson said. “Then I have to get going myself.”

  Willa Meyers began telling Wilson about Emily’s childhood, about how her father taught her about photography, and then about his death. Willa said his death devastated her mother, Willa’s sister, forcing her to take Emily and leave their Montana home and come to San Francisco. Emily’s mom could not cope and began drinking. She left Emily with her, then died.

  “Such tragedy, but she came through OK?” Wilson said.

  Willa hesitated.

  “There were also some other things related to her time in Montana but it was so long ago. Emily was a child.”

  “What sort of things?” Wilson was losing her in the silence. “I’m sorry Willa, I don’t understand. What sort of things?”

  “It had something to do with the death of a child years ago. Very sad. She was getting counseling. I shouldn’t be--”

  Death of a child.

  Wilson’s pulse and breath stopped.

  “What do you mean? What were the circumstances?”

  Silence. Wilson could hear some talking in the background at Willa’s end.

  “Willa, what do you mean? A crib death? Willa?” Wilson said. “Did this happen years ago in Montana?”

  A long silence passed.

  “Yes, it happened in Montana. But…I think I’ve told you enough.”

  The line went dead in Wilson’s ear.

  She clicked off her tape recorder.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Lieutenant Leo Gonzales, head of the SFPD Homicide Detail, craved another coffee. He set down a file from early this morning, reading as he unwrapped an imported cigar. That’s as far as he got when his line rang.

  “Homicide. Gonzales.”

  “It’s Web, Leo. What the latest here on our missing girl?”

  “The mom was getting some sort of counseling, ‘heard voices’ linked to people who died years ago. That’s how the kid put it to two of our people who took the domestic call to the house a while back.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We’re still waiting to contact a relative.”

  “Sheila Walton called me. Wants us to talk to her daughter. Seems Doug Baker is her English teacher.”

  “That so?”

  “Kid claims he had an angry outburst and slapped her a few days before taking off to the mountains.”

  “We’re talking about the daughter of Sheila Walton, the police commissioner?”

  “Camille Rebecca Walton. Age fourteen. So take care of it right away. Here’s her number.”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  Gonzales contemplated his cigar, which he was forbidden from enjoying within the environs of a municipal government office. Sheila Walton. Life used to be so simple. He shook his head and grimaced, then punched the extension for Inspector Linda Turgeon.

  In less than forty-five minutes, Turgeon and Inspector Melody Hicks from General Works stood on the porch of Walton’s home in Presidio Heights.

  Lupe let them to the living room and Walton joined them. She wore a dark skirt and cream silk blouse; small pearl earrings accented her raven hair. The lady was elegant and attractive, exuding authority and intelligence.

  After quick introductions, Walton offered tea, but they asked for coffee.

  “You may use my
study. I’ll get Cammi.”

  The large study was dark and soothing, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, Boston ferns in the corners, an exquisite Chinese vase--looked like Ming Dynasty--on one shelf. Lupe left the tray of coffee and cookies on the desk. The two detectives helped themselves.

  Cammi was about five feet two inches, slender figure, short dyed red hair and a stud in her left ear. She wore Capri pants and a powder blue top. No make-up today, Turgeon figured. Her eyes were reddened.

  “Sit over here, Cammi,” Hicks indicated the large leather chair facing the matching sofa, where she and Turgeon sat down.

  “I’m Melody Hicks and this is Linda Turgeon, we’re with--”

  “San Francisco Police, I know. Mom told me.”

  Hicks set her coffee on an end table and produced a tape recorder.

  “Look, Cammi. We have to record our chat. Those are the rules.”

  “I guess I’m OK with that.”

  “Good.”

  Hicks set her recorder on the table next to Cammi. She stated the date, place, and who was present.

  “Any questions, Cammi, before we begin?”

  “I don’t know why Sheila called you here. She seems to think this is a big deal. I don’t. Do you think this is a big deal?”

  “That is what we’re going to try to determine,” Turgeon smiled at the girl.

  “I don’t think it is a police thing. I just think maybe my dad should know.”

  Turgeon exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Hicks.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  “It was after class, the term was ending and I stayed behind to tell Mr. Baker how much I liked Lord of the Flies. I told him I thought it was a good book. He told me he thought so, too.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “Yes. So we’re talking about the book and how it showed how people can lose control when they’re isolated, or something; then he starts mumbling.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, something about his wife. I didn’t really understand. So I ask him, like, what’s wrong. And all of a sudden, he got angry, telling me I had no right to ask about his personal life. Then he just slapped me.”

  “Show me exactly how.”

  Cammi gestured a slapping motion to her face.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “It stung.”

  “How were you positioned during this conversation?”

  “I was against the wall looking up to him.”

  “So he was very close?”

  “Yes. It scared me. He called me stupid; then he slapped me. I think he was sorry the minute he realized what he did. But I ran away. Just got out of there. I didn’t know what to do about it. So I went to my principal. I don’t think it’s that a big a deal, do you? I mean, are you going to tell my dad that my teacher slapped me?”

  “Your parents are not together?”

  Cammi shook her head.

  “Divorced three years ago. My dad writes movies in L.A. He has a girlfriend and they’re getting married in a few weeks.”

  “You all right with that?”

  Cammi shrugged. “Sure. We never see him anyway.”

  “How do you get on with your mother?”

  “Sheila and I get along fine.” Cammi stood. “So are we all done then?”

  Turgeon had a thought.

  “Cammi, what do you think of Doug Baker’s daughter lost in the mountains now?”

  “It’s terrible. What do you think?”

  “Yes, it’s terrible.”

  “I guess I do not want to see him get into trouble over this thing with me. I think he was sorry for it. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Well, leave it with us for now, okay?” Turgeon smiled.

  On their way out, the two detectives spoke privately with Walton about keeping her apprised of their investigation.

  “Thank you. I’d like to get to the bottom of this as soon as it is possible,” Walton said, passing them both cards with her cell phone number.

  During the drive back to the Hall of Justice both women shook their heads in the wake of Cammi Walton’s strange account.

  “Doug Baker’s looking real bad in my book right now,” Hicks said.

  Turgeon could not figure it out. Doug Baker was either some kind of ticking time bomb, or Cammi’s version of events was a little out of focus.

  “None of this makes sense,” Turgeon said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  After Molly Wilson’s call, Tom Reed tossed his cell phone into the tangle of maps, newspapers and take-out wrappers covering his passenger seat.

  Emily Baker was undergoing counseling for the death of a child.

  Wilson had succeeded with some impressive digging. It was up to him to see what he could do with the data.

  He resumed writing today’s story on Doug and Emily. His laptop computer was balanced against his stomach and the steering wheel. In between composing paragraphs, he was keeping an eye on the command center.

  Activity was picking up. Agents were trotting back and forth between the building and the FBI’s rented SUVs. Choppers were landing and taking off with more frequency. Something thudded on the roof of his car.

  “Hey, Reed, what do you figure it is?” A friend with the Philadelphia Inquirer bent down to the driver’s window.

  “Beats me.”

  “Rumor is they found something out there.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Nobody knows. Nobody’s talking. But the FBI guys are jumping around as if they were going to make a full-court press.”

  “If they found the girl safe, we’d hear.”

  “Yeah. I’m going to poke around. See ya.”

  Moments later, Reed left his car to get a handle on whatever was happening. The area surrounding the command center had become a virtual media village with dozens of ensconced news crews largely corralled by the Montana Highway Patrol to one area. Lawn chairs, sunglasses, satellite dishes and cell phones--that scene blended with the scores of police, park, emergency, rescue vehicles and personnel at the other side of the center. This was an intense midway vigil that had overwhelmed the small lot and surrounding roads.

  Reed noticed that the paramedics at the ground ambulances and medi-vac helicopter were stationary and calm. OK, if they had found the kid alive, those guys would be activated. And if they found her body? Reed walked on, coming to the roadway’s checkpoint and its two Montana Highway Patrol officers. One had a clipboard tally of the vehicles.

  “Excuse me,” Reed said, “can you tell me where the county coroner is parked? I missed the vehicle’s arrival.”

  “Coroner? The coroner is not here.”

  “I was told they just arrived.”

  The officer with the clipboard flipped through sheets. “No sir. Just a minute.” The officer made a radio inquiry about the coroner. His radio responded with some static the officer understood. “Negative, sir.”

  “Sorry,” Reed apologized. “I was misinformed.”

  No coroner. No paramedics. What could it be? On his return walk, Reed noticed two agents with the FBI’s Evidence Team nearly out of sight between two vans, talking on their radios. He strolled over to the far side of the paneled van, pricking up his ears, catching fragments of their low-key transmissions: “Soon as they’re done photographing the scene, it will be choppered to Kalispell. They’re holding a Northwest commercial. Sorensen’s delivering it to the lab in Seattle….”

  The information was like found money, a recovered fumble. Reed scooped it and tucked it away.

  This thing was going to bust open soon. He scanned the area for either Sydowski or a familiar FBI agent, someone he could pump. No one around.

  Back at the car, he closed his eyes for three seconds. This and Wilson’s stuff could add up. He considered it along with Wilson’s angle.

  Emily Baker was from Montana. She was undergoing counseling for the death of a child.

  He called the Associated Press Bureau in
Helena. He had friends there.

  “AP, Larry Dancy.”

  “Hey, Dance. Tom Reed.”

  “How you doing, you old beach bum?”

  “Older but no wiser. Yourself?”

  “Can’t complain. We’re expecting our third next month.”

  “Congratulations, Dad.”

  “Thanks. So what’re you up to? Still the big gun in San Francisco?”

  “Sure, a really big gun. Say, Dance, I am out here in Glacier on this missing girl story and I thought I’d give old Chester a call, say hi. You know how I can reach him quick?”

  “406-555-3312. Got a beautiful little place in Wisdom. He still does some anniversary pieces for us.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chester Murdon was a living legend who had put in forty-two years as a reporter with the Associated Press in Montana. He knew every inch of the state and its history because he had reported on much of it. He was a walking encyclopedia on Montana. Librarians for the state and universities throughout the country often consulted him. Chester retired several years ago but continued his series of state history books. Reed recalled when he was a summer cub reporter at the Great Falls Tribune. People in the Montana press were talking about Chester researching a book on summarizing every murder in the state’s history, A History of Murder Under the Big Sky.

  If Emily Baker’s counseling was for a child’s death related to a murder in this state, Chester would know. Reed heard his line ringing clearly. Finally, it was answered.

  “Hello?

  “Chester Murdon?”

  “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  THIRTY

  In his Deer Lodge motel room next to the Four Bs Restaurant on Sam Beck Road, David Cohen flipped through the nightstand Bible while contemplating the lonely diesel whine and rush of air brakes of rigs negotiating Interstate 90, a quarter mile away.

  An hour earlier, the clerk of the United States Supreme Court had alerted him to standby for a response to Isaiah Hood’s petition to the appeal of his death sentence. Not a hint of the decision in the call.

  Cohen accepted the insurmountable odds of a favorable decision, but he could not restrain his human nature to search for hope.