by Rick Mofina
Emily nodded.
So did Doug, but secretly he was uneasy.
“…take you in separately…”
Doug did not like this. Did not like sensing that something more was happening. He could not see it in Zander’s or Bowman’s eyes but felt they were concealing knowledge about Paige’s disappearance. He had no idea what it could be. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was nothing. He was exhausted. He had not slept. He was sick with worry. Not thinking clearly. He was glad for the FBI’s presence. Yet something gnawed at him. Doug thought about that other family. How strange they seemed, spying on his family’s argument.
“…it’s a big park…”
What if someone had been stalking them, had taken Paige?
Is that it? The FBI suspected a crime?
Jesus.
Doug ran his hands over his face, not realizing that Emily was telling him something as the helicopter’s rotors began slicing the air. “Doug, I’ll go with Frank and Tracy now.” Then kissing his cheek. Watching her turn to wave before crouching, boarding the idling chopper. The noise and wind as it lifted off, disappearing
…vanishing like Paige…
Doug sat down, thrusting his head into his hands. Overwhelmed, looking into the mountains, he begged them to return his daughter.
THIRTEEN
The phone jangled. Reed’s 5:15 a.m. wake-up call. He lifted, then replaced the handset. His body was locked on 4:15 Pacific Time. He nestled into his warm bed. Disoriented. Automatically he reached for Ann, feeling nothing, forcing his drowsy brain to focus.
In Montana. Lost girl. Story. Deadlines. Coffee. Food. Work. Let’s go.
Reed’s body felt like lead as he started the room’s coffeemaker, then went to the bathroom and began rubbing his electric razor over his face. Montana. Come home to Big Sky Country. He had not spent time here since the Freemen stand-off in Jordan, during which the FBI arrested the Unabomber in Lincoln. The warm aroma of fresh coffee soon filled the motel room. Reed gulped some, then stepped into the shower. The hot water eased his early-morning pain. Maybe he was getting too old for this. He had just turned thirty-four. He chuckled at himself as the water soothed him. Sure. Too old. He was ancient. At times, it seemed like his life was nothing but airplanes, deadlines, lonely hotels and apologies to his wife.
Toweling off, Reed checked the local time on the coffeemaker’s digital clock: 5:55 A.M. The motel’s Mountaineer Restaurant began serving Sunrise Breakfasts at six. He drank more coffee while dressing. He switched on the local TV stations and the room’s radio to catch any news updates on the story. For all he knew, the drama could have ended.
The search for Paige Baker was the lead item of the newscasts. Her face glowed from the TV screen under the graphic, LOST IN MOUNTAINS. A female reporter was gripping a mike and reporting live from the command center. There wasn’t much new. The reporter listed agencies involved, which included the FBI because it was a federal park and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Waterton Park officials who were helping on the Canadian side. “Over forty hours after Paige Baker became lost in the mountains, the search continues,” the reporter said. No mention of the San Francisco Police Department. Maybe Harry Lance was jerking his chain and Sydowski’s not here, he thought, grabbing his computer then heading to the restaurant.
Reed bought a few newspapers, the Daily Interlake, the Great Falls Tribune, USA Today, and found a booth. A dour-looking waitress took his order of a Denver omelet with hash browns, white toast and milk. A postage-stamp-size photo of Paige Baker stared from an inside page of USA Today. It was accompanied by a summary of the news release. The story was front-page news in the Montana papers, a larger picture of Paige, a photo of Rangers with gear boarding a helicopter, a map of Glacier National Park with a box and arrow near the Canadian border showing where she was lost. Not much new in the stories. But one thing in the Interlake, the local paper, caught Reed’s attention. It was buried deep in the story: “A park official said they would check backcountry camping permits for possible witnesses in the girl’s case.” Witnesses? Why that phrase? Witness to what? Likely just routine, Reed thought, sipping some coffee, but it made him curious.
Reed pulled out his laptop computer and switched it on. While it fired up, he sipped coffee and scanned the Interlake’s story below the fold on Isaiah Hood, the killer on death row whose execution was coming up. Hood was now claiming innocence and awaiting word on a last-minute appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. All these years on death row and now he claims he didn’t do it. Reed shook his head. Many condemned killers do that as their death date nears.
And some have been proven innocent.
Hood had killed a little girl, Rachel Ross, in Glacier National Park over twenty years ago. Hood’s appeal said he was convicted on shaky testimony and circumstantial evidence, arguments lower courts had not bought. Not really much out of the ordinary here, Reed concluded as his computer beeped it was ready.
He connected his cell phone to his computer and entered the commands to access the Star’s computers in San Francisco. His breakfast arrived and Reed ate as the phone and computer began a soft symphony of digital-cyber trilling and beeping before connecting him to the paper. He brought up the front page of that morning’s edition. His story was below the fold under the headline S.F. GIRL MISSING IN ROCKIES. The bylines were Tom Reed and Molly Wilson with a Glacier National Park, Montana, placeline.
Paige Baker’s pretty face, as she snuggled her beagle, Kobee, stared in color from the front page. The story was a thirty-inch hard-news piece. It encompassed the unofficial fear held by some rangers that given the rugged region and conditions, the prospect of the 10-year-old child not surviving the ordeal was terribly real. Reed forced away sudden images of Paige Baker freezing in the mountains.
The article turned to page 3, filling the top half with a wire photo of searchers, shots of Doug and Emily Baker, and a graphic locating Montana, the park and the area being searched. Doug Baker was a high school teacher and popular football coach. Emily was a freelance photographer. Their San Francisco friends were worried. Some wanted to fly to Montana to volunteer as searchers. Nothing negative in the piece about their family history. Nothing about police suspicions.
Reed ate a few forkfuls of home fries and omelet, then opened his e-mail and found Molly’s note. It was hurried, almost in point form:
TOM: TALKED WITH TURGEON IN HOMICIDE. OFF THE RECORD SFPD IS DEFINITELY “DOING ROUTINE CHECKS ON BAKER FAMILY”. HAVE CONFIRMED THAT SYDOWSKI IS IN MONTANA TO HELP FBI AND RANGERS (THAT ANGLE IS ALL OURS, SO FAR.) EMILY BAKER USED TO LIVE IN MONTANA, MAYBE THAT IS WHY FAMILY WENT THERE??? EMILY’S AUNT WILLA AND UNCLE HUCK LIVE IN SF BUT ARE ON RV HOLIDAY IN THE EAST. AUNT KNOWS MORE ABOUT FAMILY. I HAVE GOT TO REACH THEM SOMEHOW. YOU WORK SYDOWSKI AT YOUR END AND I’LL WORK THINGS AT MINE. TALK LATER, COWBOY. -- MOLLY. CELL 415-555-7199
Reed finished off his breakfast quickly, convinced that beneath the surface of this story something very dark was lurking. The rangers were checking for “possible witnesses in the girl’s case.” He pondered that, clicking back to the picture of Paige Baker on his computer screen, glimpsing his cluttered table and the ancient grainy photo in the Montana paper of Rachel Ross, the little girl murdered years ago in Glacier. The children resembled each other. Funny how that was, when kids were about the same age. Reed overheard a reporter a few tables over gesturing to no one and talking louder on his cell phone. The guy was pretty pissed at being punted to the story from his news organization’s Chicago Bureau, when it was supposed to be covered by its Denver Bureau. Reed packed up, paid up, then left, estimating that Paige Baker had now been lost for forty-two hours.
On his way back to the park, Reed passed two slow-moving satellite news trucks, one from Salt Lake City, the other from Seattle. Helicopters whomped by overhead before Reed reached the command center, which had blossomed overnight with more satellite trucks, news vans and cars crammed into the area near the building.
After finding a parkin
g spot, Reed learned a news conference was planned for some point in the day. He inventoried the vehicles and activity--a lot of state and federal cars and trucks, an increasing number of grim-faced officials coming and going, mixing with the press crowd, which was loud with cell phone chatter, idling diesels, hydraulic adjusting of satellite dishes, antennas, newspeople yelling to each other. Amid the bustle, Reed spotted someone familiar. All alone, leaning against a car, he was looking through his bifocals at pages on a clipboard. Reed approached him.
“Excuse me, Officer, can you point the way to San Francisco?”
Inspector Walt Sydowski’s eyes widened slightly at seeing Reed.
“And it started out being a good morning.”
“I am so happy to see you too, Walter. It’s been how long?”
“Not long enough, Reed. Go away.”
Reed planted himself toe to toe with Sydowski, who looked around to ensure they were not drawing anyone’s attention.
“Walt, I am not leaving until you help me with the obvious.”
“Boychik, have I not taught you anything? You should be home with your family, counting your blessings,” Sydowski went back to his clipboard.
“Walter,” Reed dropped his voice. “What is the best homicide cop with the SFPD doing here?”
Sydowski looked up to the peaks, blinking, remembering what happened the last time Reed tried this dance with him.
“I got nothing to say to you, Reed.”
“There’s more going on here than a search for a child lost in the woods, right, Walt?”
A low, distant thunder rumbled. A helicopter, one returning from the command post, was approaching.
“I have to go, Reed.”
FOURTEEN
The cutlery on the table rattled as a helicopter passed over the crowded Eagle’s Nest Restaurant, a log cabin in central Glacier National Park. It was filled with the aroma of bacon and the murmur of customers hunched over coffee, talking about the activity out there.
“What do you think is going on, Dad?” Twelve-year-old Joey Ropa looked out the window.
“Guys at the counter said it was a search for somebody lost in the backcountry,” Joey’s mother, Lori, said.
Her husband Bobby’s attention was outside in the parking lot, on the arrival of two park ranger trucks and a Montana Highway Patrol four-by-four. Their waitress arrived, taking their orders, chatting.
“So are you guys from Brooklyn? I love your accents.”
“You know what’s going on outside?” Bobby said.
“A mountain rescue, or something. I’ll get a newspaper for you.”
After collecting the menus, she left.
“Why you pumping her, Bobby? We’re on vacation.” Lori pulled postcards from her bag, spreading them out.
Bobby steepled his fingers, mulling something eating at him from the other day when they were coming out of Grizzly Tooth. Something unsettling. Ah, maybe it was nothing. Forget about it. Why get in a knot over it? He looked around the restaurant--a great place, log cabin motif. Cedar floors and tables. Rustic. The fragrance of the forest, the frying bacon. He loved it.
This trip was a celebration of sorts for his promotion and Lori getting a raise as a manager with the Port Authority. They were thinking of moving to Glen Ridge, or buying a cabin. He should be thinking in that direction, not on something from the other day on their trail. He said little when the food came. He watched the parking lot, the increasing activity with the rangers.
“What is it, Bobby?” Lori knew. “What is your quandary?”
“I should have said something.”
“About what?”
“The other day.”
“What? The other day? A few details would help here.”
“With that family the other day on Grizzly Tooth.”
“Would you drop that? You are not working.”
“Something was not right with them.”
Another helicopter passed overhead.
“I should have said something.”
“Bobby, this is crazy. You’re upset because you missed a chance to what, fight with the guy? Tell him off?”
“No, Lori, it’s not like that at all.”
“What then?”
“Look around. The helicopters. The search.” He left their table and approached a ranger at the cash register.
“Excuse me,” Bobby said. “I understand there’s a search.”
“Yes, sir.” The young ranger was all friendly. “A little ten-year-old girl wandered away from her campsite and is lost.”
“What trail?”
“Grizzly Tooth. Real deep in there near the border.”
“That so. We were there two days ago. When was this reported?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Seems that dad double-timed it out of there to alert us. Sir, you have to excuse me. We’ve got a lot on the go.”
Bobby returned to his table.
“What happened, Dad? Is it that girl we saw the other day?”
Bobby looked at his son. Tenderly. “Could be, Joe.”
Another helicopter, or maybe the same one, pounded overhead.
“Dad?” Joey said. “Can’t you do something? You’re a cop.”
Bobby had just made detective first grade with the NYPD. The guys in his detective squad respected Bobby Ropa for his superior eye for detail. Or so they said, following a shift and several beers at Popeye’s Bar on Flatbush Avenue. Now, he sat here, hands covering his face. Eyes blinking. Thinking. Had he dropped the ball on something? He knew why he was so unsettled. It was not that they happened on a family having a blowout in public. You see that in stores, restaurants, supermarkets--stress spots--but that it was here, in such a serene setting.
And that it was so disturbingly intense.
“Maybe you will feel better if you talked to somebody.”
“Here you go,” the waitress set that day’s Daily Interlake near Bobby’s plate. “This is the cook’s copy. More coffee?”
Paige Baker’s pretty face stared at Bobby. When he finished reading the article, he looked for the Montana Highway Patrol vehicle in the parking lot.
It was gone.
“Bobby, what is it?” Lori asked.
“Hurry up and finish,” he said. “I’ve got to find out who is in charge of this case.” Then he flagged the waitress. “Excuse me, miss, is there a phone and park directory I could use?”
FIFTEEN
Community Building #215, originally a school house built in 1923, is a green frame hall found among the government compound buildings in the shade of lodgepole pine at Glacier National Park’s headquarters.
Used primarily for fire-rescue exercises, staff meetings and social functions, it was now the command center in the search for Paige Baker.
The wooden walls of its large meeting room were papered with huge, detailed maps of the park, dotted with colored locator pins. Large tables were covered with radio chargers, new phone lines, fax machines, photocopiers, computers, TV monitors and VCRs, all for the operation.
Inspector Walt Sydowski arrived shortly after dawn watching it fill with local, state, and federal authorities. He was met by FBI agents and taken to the criminal investigative section, which was hidden within the massive operation. Known only to a few officials, the specially formed secret joint forces unit was headed by the FBI. It had one aim: to investigate the disappearance of Paige Baker as if she were the victim of a criminal act.
Its operations were set up out of sight, in a storage room where Sydowski had not yet seated himself at a table to await the unit’s first meeting when the door opened.
“Inspector Sydowski,” a young male FBI Agent said softly. “You have a call, sir. You can take it in here. And I’ve been advised that Agent Zander will be here momentarily to convene a briefing with all team members. He and Agent Bowman are en route from the command post.”
Sydowski nodded his thanks and picked up the land line phone, noticing a number of other senior ice-cold police-type men in j
eans and casual shirts taking seats at the meeting table, studying files. Sydowski nodded a hello to them as he took his call.
“Hi Walt, it’s Linda. Been up all night, I’ve got some stuff.”
Sydowski sat down to make notes on his clipboard.
“First off Walt, you got a fax there?”
He saw a machine and got its number from the young agent.
Turgeon took it down, continuing.
“Emily Baker is a professional photographer. Has her own studio. No charges, convictions or warrants. Not even a traffic violation. Nothing much on her family. She has an aunt in San Francisco who is on vacation in Eastern Canada with her husband. The feebees have a line to the RCMP, who put them on the tourist alert.”
“Hope you reach them before the press does. What about the domestic call to SFPD?”
“Pulled tapes from dispatch, had them transcribed. I am faxing that to you along with the summary from the responding unit. Trying to hook up with the officers who took the call and the neighbor who made the complaint. No charges, convictions or warrants for Doug Baker either. He’s an ex-marine. Honorable discharge, a high school teacher, football coach at Beecher Lowe in the Richmond District. Very respected.”
“That it for now?”
“Talked to one of Doug’s teacher friends late last night. Seems Doug confided to him there was stress in the Baker family that he refused to elaborate on, only to say that his wife was receiving psychological counseling and that they needed to go to Montana.”
“Why did they need to go?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Or wouldn’t tell you. Know who the shrink is?”
The word “shrink” prompted one of the cop strangers to look from his file as if Walt had found a key to the case.
“Not yet,” Turgeon said.
“Go back on that friend,” Sydowski said. “Also find out if Paige talked about her family with any little friends; try to get some profile on her. What has she been telling other kids, that sort of thing. Time’s working against us.”
