Cold Fear

by Rick Mofina

  “David, I know this is a difficult time--”

  Cohen sniffed and checked his watch.

  “Listen. Hear me out. All I am asking, John, is for two hours to talk to my client. Then let me talk to the governor. I guarantee he will want to hear this before you kill Hood.”

  “I don’t know….”

  “Just hold off on anything for that long. Christ, John we’re still two days away. Please just hold off. No press releases yet. Not a word.”

  Jackson sighed. Cohen heard his chair squeak.

  “John, please. You have man’s life in your hands.”

  Jackson’s concern was for Cohen, not for Hood, the child killer. No one in the entire state was concerned for him, except the candle-holding protesters, but they were not abundant in Montana. Still, Jackson could not see what harm two hours would do. The state had all the power. He could stall the release for that long without much difficulty. Most people were distracted by the search for the little girl in Glacier. Seemed to have eclipsed Hood’s case.

  “I will see what I can do. You’ve got two hours.”

  ***

  Now with the sun setting, everything became clearer to Cohen as he sped his Neon along Lake Conley Road to the prison, going through the security ritual, the razor wire, the clanging doors, icy stares from the guards, to see Hood on death row.

  Hood’s reaction to the TV news reports on the search now made sense.

  He had a seizure. He recovered shortly after, but his nervous system short-circuited, sending him into a trance when he saw her.

  He knew right then it was her.

  Cohen was admitted to death row and was taken into the visitor’s room. The TV there was switched off.

  “Could you please turn that on, to one of the twenty-four news channels and leave the sound on low so we can hear it?”

  “You want to watch TV?” the guard said.

  “Yes.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Above the TV’s sound, he heard Hood’s chains approaching. Suddenly Cohen was drowning in anguish and doubt. What the hell was he doing? He could not pull this off. This is unethical. He had to face the truth. He lost.

  “…the ashes will be distributed…”

  The door handle turned. Oh God. Cohen swallowed.

  Hood stood before him, shackled in his orange prison coveralls. He sat down, his eyes shooting up to the TV, then to Cohen.

  “Supreme Court turned me down, right, David?”

  Cohen peered into Hood’s eyes, believing for the first time he was seeing into the soul of an innocent man. He could not find the words to tell him he was going to be lawfully executed.

  “I--I am so sorry, Isaiah.”

  Hood flattened his hands on the table.

  “Well, I guess that’s all she wrote, huh?” Hood attempted a smile. Then Hood stood, shuffled over, extended his handcuffed hands to shake Cohen’s, his chains chinking.

  “David, you did your best. You’re a fine man. Thank you.”

  Hood returned to his seat.

  Cohen sniffed. “Um, we still have an option.”

  “You don’t mean the Board? There’s no chance there.”

  “No.” Cohen sniffed again, unsnapping the locks of his briefcase to produce some files. “Your claim of innocence.”

  Hood unleashed a chilling con stare, his voice was damn near cold-blooded. “This some sort of fucking joke?”

  “No joke.” Cohen opened the file to the photograph of the girl whose testimony secured his death sentence. “Who is that in the old picture?”

  Hood stared at it. All those years ago. He did not think he ever saw that particular picture of the older one.

  “That’s the sister of the dead girl. The one who testified.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cohen turned, indicating the TV. “And who did you see up there earlier in the report of the missing child? It will come up again.”

  Hood looked at Cohen unsure if he was nuts…or his salvation.

  “It was her. Same one, only older and now her kid is lost in the mountains.”

  “That’s right but nobody knows it’s her, Isaiah. Her name is different. She changed it. Which is curious.”

  “So what. David, I know almost as much about the law as you. So her daughter is missing. So what?”

  “Look at it this way. Admittedly we presented nothing new in your Supreme Court petition, which was an attempt to create reasonable doubt, which I believe should have been a factor.”

  “Your point?

  “You told me you did not kill Rachel Ross. Her death was not murder and her sister is the only living person who knows the truth.”

  “That is right.”

  Cohen cleared his throat, swallowed anxiously, then dropped his voice.

  “Suppose it got out through the news in a story as big as the search story itself that your claim of innocence is directly linked to the disappearance of the Paige Baker, daughter of the only witness in your case?”

  Hood stared long and hard at his young Chicago lawyer.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The sun was dropping as Tom Reed pushed the accelerator to the mat. The rental was gliding south on Interstate 93. He was gambling with time.

  It was a calculated risk.

  Chester Murdon in Wisdom was convinced of something familiar about Emily Baker. He was quite certain he could find something in his collection of personal archives that would help Reed. He promised to wait up for him, no matter the hour, if he decided to come. A professional courtesy from one newsman to another.

  Before leaving the command center, Reed filed a news story encompassing the press conference given by Doug and Emily. He incorporated theories and probabilities and the fact “FBI sources had not ruled out the possibility of criminal intent.” It was a standard line. Police seldom rule out anything until they have an investigation under control.

  “The desk will advance your lead, Tom,” Wilson said from the San Francisco Star newsroom over Reed’s cell phone as his rental approached eighty miles an hour. “I’ll work in my stuff. So you think we should hold back on the psychological counseling? It is very strong.”

  “I know it is risky, Molly, but Chester is confident he can help us with more information. We can fill in the blanks about the family. Then put it all together. Let’s just hold it.”

  “Tom, I don’t know. The Chronicle could get it. I mean, I am sure I am the only one who reached the aunt, but somebody could nail it from other sources. It is very risky.”

  Reed entered a river valley. Traffic was light. All the RVs and campers were in for the night.

  “I trust what you have, Molly, but I just want to get more--”

  “Tom, you’re breaking up. Repeat that.”

  “I said I trust what you have. I just want to get the whole story. Look, we’ll have virtually another twenty-four hours to work on this. And what if they find the kid safe and sound and we put the shrink story out and then learn it had nothing to do with the kid?”

  Wilson knew Reed had point, and that he had become more cautious in the wake of his son’s abduction ordeal. It taught him some hard lessons about pushing so hard on a story that you fall into it.

  “OK, Tom. It will be our little secret to develop tomorrow, unless someone kicks our asses on it.”

  Reed passed key ranger, FBI and other vital cell phone numbers to Wilson. If the story broke wide open in his absence from Glacier National Park, Wilson would have to cover it from San Francisco. They were so close to final deadline now, the window of risk was minimal.

  Reed estimated he could be in Wisdom in just over three hours. For the latter portion of the 220-mile trip, Interstate 93 paralleled the Bitterroot River. It was spectacular scenery that rolled by the Columbia Cascade region and he regretted much of it was enveloped in darkness. Recently, hundreds of thousands of acres in the area were burned by forest fires, some near Wisdom, close to Murdon’s ranch.

  Reed sailed through the Bitterroot Valley and Lost Trail
Pass, passing Big Hole National Battlefield. Depending on your view of history, it was either the place where the U.S. Army upheld the law in 1877 over the Nez Perce Indians who did not want to be forcibly squeezed onto a reservation, or it was the scene of a genocidal massacre of men, women and children by American forces. Reed shook his head. Any way you cut it, there were a lot of ghosts out there.

  Some from his own life.

  His dream of being a reporter was nurtured here in Big Sky Country. He grew up in Great Falls where his father was a pressman at the Great Falls Tribune. He used to bring home a newspaper for Reed every day. Just before he turned twelve, Reed got his own paper route. From that point on, it seemed his life became a blur: high school, summer reporting at the Billings Gazette, graduation from J-School at the University of Missouri, a job at AP in San Francisco, getting married to Ann, his job at the San Francisco Star, having Zach. But during most of those years, Reed seldom visited or called home, disappointing his father who used to save his articles in a yellowing, dog-eared scrapbook, especially proud of his son’s wire stories that ran in the New York Times.

  Reed reached for his cell phone. He had to think, then pressed his parents’ number in Great Falls. It rang. He had no time to visit but at least he should tell them he was in the state. It rang six times. The machine clicked on. His father’s voice.

  “You’ve reached…”

  Reed hung up without leaving a message. He rubbed his tired eyes. Remembering his mother during their last conversation saying something about their plan to go to Arizona to visit her sister. He called San Francisco and talked with Ann and Zach until his connection was lost.

  Wisdom was a few miles east of Big Hole. One or two folksy restaurants, a general store, little else. Chester’s place was on ten acres of painted horse country, just a few miles north. Reed shook his head at the tragic irony of it all. Murdon, who cherished history, living on ten acres, and all those Nez Perce Indians dying because Washington had stolen their land and tried to imprison them on a reservation.

  Reed yawned. He was exhausted.

  Murdon never married. Lived in a pretty ranch house with an old golden Lab he called Sonny. A sprawling place. Murdon had two separate rooms for is records, which he loved to share.

  They greeted Reed at the porch after he eased his rental up to the house.

  Sonny yelped.

  “Settle down, Sonny.”

  “Chester, you look good. It’s been a long, long time.”

  “Good to see you, Tom. Can I get you something, a snack, a beer?”

  Murdon had a ruddy face, a brush cut and a neatly trimmed goatee. He was wearing dark jeans, a denim shirt with pens peeking from his breast pocket. He looked and moved pretty good for a man his age. He led Reed into his spacious house, to the ranch-style dining table covered with boxes, binders, files and envelopes spilling papers of all descriptions. He had already put in several hours of work on Reed’s request.

  “Much of this material is from my book. Now I’ve got the Montana Standard and the Missoulian stories on the ongoing search for Paige Baker.”

  Reed was impressed.

  “Your information was that Emily Baker was from Montana and undergoing counseling relating to the death of a child. Possibly in Montana.”

  “Right, Chester. I want to know if anything was written on that death. I know virtually nothing about it. I was hoping you might find something.”

  Murdon slipped on his glasses and stooped over the papers on the table. He had used Emily Baker’s age and had begun searching death cases statewide. “Well, Tom, I am sorry I found nothing with her name….”

  Reed’s heart sank. Maybe Wilson was right, they should have gone with what they had.

  “But as I told you on the phone, I could not help thinking that the poor mother, this Emily Baker looked so familiar to me. And the answer was staring right at me from the newspapers reporting on this death row fellow, Isaiah Hood.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it is her sister that Hood murdered twenty-two years ago. It’s in my book and staring from the papers.”

  Reed grabbed the Missoulian and scanned the story on Hood. Again, his heart sank. The old guy must be senile.

  “But, Chester, the names do not even match. The sister who died was Rachel Ross. We got Emily’s maiden name. It’s not even the same.”

  Murdon smiled.

  “Of course not, Tom. She changed her name years ago after she left Montana.”

  “You got paper on that?”

  “Sort of.” Murdon passed Reed an old file folder with a letter he had written to Montana’s archivist while researching his book. “See, I asked for their help to contact the sister for my book. Interesting response, don’t you think?”

  Reed read the one-page letter. It acknowledged records were damaged in a storage fire well over a decade ago, but that in reassembling the files in the homicide of Rachel Ross, there was an indication there were subsequent deaths in her family and members had moved out of state: “While this office is not offering confirmation, it did make inquiries on your behalf and as a result came to the understanding that the subject of your request underwent a name change making contact extremely difficult.”

  “Now, Tom,”-- Murdon produced a magnifying glass for Reed--“examine today’s newspaper pictures of Paige Baker, the missing child, and her mother and the old file of Rachel Ross, the child Hood murdered.”

  Reed studied them. Yes, there was a mother-daughter resemblance between Emily and Paige, and a striking resemblance to Rachel, the dead girl. He recalled seeing a similarity between the girls at breakfast.

  “Tom”-- Murdon’s finger tapped the photos--“Emily Baker is the sister of Rachel Ross, I am convinced of it.”

  Reed continued studying the pictures, assessing everything--Hood’s claim of innocence, Emily Baker’s counseling for the death of a child, her daughter, Paige, now missing in the same area where Rachel Ross was murdered. Doug’s injured hand. Police suspicions. They must know.

  Hood was going to be executed within forty-eight hours.

  “Christ, Chester.”

  The old newsman nodded. He knew what Reed was thinking.

  “Does not look good for the Bakers, does it, Tom?”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Amid the helicopters constantly landing and lifting off, the roaring Hercules C-130 rescue planes scraping the sky, the urgent non-stop radio chatter, the scores of arriving searchers, Doug Baker was alone at the command post.

  No one could reach him.

  He was at the edge of the campsite, watching the shadows blanket the vast alpine forest as the sun dropped behind the jagged peaks. Isolated and imprisoned by exhaustion and guilt, he had nothing to hold on to, except memories.

  One day several years ago, Emily had gone to Sacramento for a weekend job. Paige was just about three at the time. It was a beautiful, clear Sunday morning and he took Paige to the beach. They had each other to themselves all day. Paige played in the sand, searching for shells as the Pacific surged and rolled. Gulls cried in the salt air. He remembered squatting as Paige ran to him, full speed out of the sun, trotting, cheeks bouncing, eyes bright, into his open arms, crushing his neck.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  Would he ever be able to hold her again?

  Doug studied his wounded hand and the mountains.

  Forgive me, Paige.

  Emily. He should be comforting Emily.

  His attempts to have a private moment with her had been futile. All day long, since returning to the campsite from talking with the FBI at the command center, they had been separated. A couple of young FBI agents were near Doug. “To help you through this ordeal, sir.” And Emily had been inseparable from Bowman, the friendly female agent.

  Doug never had the chance to be alone with Emily, other than to hug and console her in the presence of others. He did not know what the FBI told her during her talk with them that morning, w
hether they had learned anything in their investigation about any strangers or that other family. The father gave Doug a bad feeling. The icy way he stared at him. But no one told them anything. They would show him maps of the sectors searched or being searched. But no one knew anything about the investigative aspects. “We are not aware, or informed, of any new developments, sir.” Still, Doug sensed something was bubbling beneath the dark glasses and poker faces the agents wore in his presence.

  It all made him feel sick to his stomach.

  Maybe Emily did not want to be near him? He understood if she blamed him for this. He was the one who chased Paige away. It was his fault. This all happened at such a critical point for them, when Emily was beginning to confront her problems. Revealing to him that she had a sister was a breakthrough. And how does he handle it? He blew up at her. Emily was doing it right. It was Doug who had blown it. If they could only get through this, maybe they could find Emily’s sister and learn how she’d coped with the deaths of their parents. Become a bigger, stronger family.

  Emily was sobbing again. It was tearing him up watching Bowman comfort his wife. He went to Emily. Bowman waved him off.

  “This isn’t a good time, Doug.”

  His heart crumbled. His family, his life, his existence, were disintegrating and there was not a damn thing he could do. Hope was evaporating. He had to do something. He rubbed his hands over his stubbled face. Something. Just go find her. You’re her father. You lost her. You find her. But the region held an infinity of possibilities. The search helicopters disappeared like ticks over the vast glacier valleys. Where would he start?

  He felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

  “Doug, we need your help again,” Agent Frank Zander said over an idling helicopter.

  Tears and desperation pooled in Doug’s eyes.

  “You find something?” Doug raised his voice over the chopper.

  “We’re not sure.”

  “Well, can you tell me what it is? I mean--”

  “Doug, would you come back to the command center with me so we can talk some more about it? It would be a big help.”