Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Yet, so much was working against them. The first night it rained, washing out a scent for the dogs. She was in bear territory. And having her dog was like ringing the dinner bell. Why had they not discovered a single shred of this kid? It was disturbing. The park superintendent, the planning and operation chiefs, all agreed when they flew out earlier for an on-site status briefing. It was puzzling. By this point, they usually found something, a footprint, a candy wrapper. Something.

  Brook was a God-fearing, churchgoing father of two daughters aged seven and nine. It was as if he was searching for one of his own children. He never counted on it taking such a private emotional toll. As district ranger at Glacier for six years, he had been Incident Commander in scores of major searches. He knew each one had its own circumstances. In this one, Paige could be hiding. She could be surviving. She could have fallen. Injured. Slipped into a crevasse. Slipped into a river, drowned, her body carried downstream. She could have been taken by a bear. Abducted by a stranger. He glanced at the Bakers. Or worse.

  He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his face, remembering the Bakers’ first reaction when certain questions about Paige’s demeanor were raised. They were so obviously evasive, guarded, not forthcoming.

  He also remembered the sobering section of the SAR Plan that advised in major cases to consider criminal intent no matter how remote the possibility. Brook’s radio on the map table received a static-filled transmission. A distant one broken up badly, until the signal bounced off of a repeater in a passing helicopter and came through clearly.

  Ranger Tim Holloway was one of the Park’s best SAR people. He was in outstanding physical condition. He could move his lean, firm surfer’s body over the roughest territory faster than anyone else in the park. “Only an eagle could cover more ground faster than Holloway,” other rangers joked.

  Last year, when he turned twenty-five, Holloway climbed Mount Everest with friends from England and New Zealand. He reached the summit. It had been a dream since he was a kid growing up in Santa Ana, California. So Holloway was Brook’s natural choice to backtrack on Grizzly Tooth to scour the treacherous shoulders of the trail.

  But Holloway had found zero since he started, and it was upsetting him. Determined to find the missing girl, he pushed himself, moving swiftly, scanning thoroughly every inch of the trail’s shoulder. If there was anything to be found, he would find it. He had passed along a hair-raisingly narrow ledge about twenty yards beneath the trail, a mile or so south of the campsite, when he saw it. Holloway grunted as he made his way to a stand of spruce, on a steep incline below the trail.

  “Bingo, dude.”

  A small pink T-shirt entangled in the branches. It looked so out of place, creepy, like a primitive offering. Did a griz do that? Holloway swallowed. It looked blood-stained. Holloway reached for his radio.

  Within a half hour, the FBI had its evidence people at the scene, sealing the area, photographing it from the ground, from the trail above, even from the helicopter pounding overhead and the airplane from a higher altitude. They were also videotaping the entire procedure.

  “Like I keep telling you, nobody has touched it since I found it,” Holloway told the FBI people.

  They put on blue coveralls, pulled on surgical gloves, sifted the area, took more pictures and then up-close video before plucking the shirt from the tree. One produced a kit with test strips, dipped in a small bottle of distilled water and touched it against the stain. It turned dark green confirming the stain was blood. The T-shirt was placed in a bag and sealed; more pictures were taken.

  One of the agents with a small suitcase told Holloway to sit down.

  “Take off your boots and give them to me. Need an impression of them.”

  “Sure thing.” Holloway began unlacing them. “You know, a bear or animal could have put the shirt up there.”

  “Also looks like it could have been tossed up there from the trail. Like someone was trying to get rid of it in a hurry.”

  Holloway turned to gauge the height and angle. FBI dude could have a solid theory there.

  The T-shirt was choppered to the command center. Inside the FBI’s large white evidence van, the T-shirt was subjected to a special reagent test; its stained fibers were examined under a microscope. Conclusion: the blood was human. Urgent calls and arrangements were made to fly the T-shirt immediately to the crime lab used by King County in Seattle, to undergo further analysis.

  In keeping with the chain of evidence procedure, an agent who helped recover the shirt was rushed to Kalispell Airport. The FBI and the Justice Department delayed departure of a Seattle-bound Northwest DC-9 in time for the agent to board it. The shirt was in his briefcase.

  In the task force office of the command center, Agent Frank Zander and the other investigators watched the video recording of the scene where the shirt was discovered. They studied the images in silence. The T-shirt looked so small when one of the evidence team members displayed it for the camera. It was horribly stained with blood. Zander stared at it coldly.

  After the video ended, agents at the table transferred the digital still color photographs of the shirt into their computer with the enlarged monitor. They selected an image of the shirt unfurled to its full size, emblazoned with the browned blood. They froze the image, split the screen, clicked on the mouse until the faces of Doug, Emily and Paige Baker and Kobee appeared. They were the pictures Emily had taken at the outset of their trip to Glacier.

  Smiling. Happy. Breathtaking scenery. All-American bliss.

  The agents stopped on one photo of Doug and Paige. His arm around her; both were grinning. Paige was wearing a pink T-shirt. The agents sized the two photos, unifying their scale. Paige, happy and bright in her pink shirt; next to it, the shirt found in the trees. Bloodied.

  Zander looked into Doug’s eyes. Into Paige’s eyes.

  In most child homicides, a parent or guardian was the perpetrator. The “nearest and dearest” rule. Zander knew that. In crimes of passion, frenzied rage, involving the use of knives or bladed instruments, it was common for the attacker to cut or injure himself. Zander knew that. What he did not know--his eyes boring into those of Paige, Doug and Emily--was the truth about this family. Something happened and he was going to find out.

  “I think I’d like to get Doug and Emily Baker back in here and put them on the box.

  Lloyd Turner, FBI Special Agent in Charge of Salt Lake City Division, nodded. “It’s already on its way, Frank.”

  The tapping of a pen on yellow legal pad distracted Zander and the others to Nora Lam, legal counsel from the U.S. Justice Department.

  “You’re intending to polygraph the parents, which you know cannot be used as evidence.”

  “I am aware of that,” Zander said.

  “You are walking a fine legal line here. Depending on how you proceed and when, or if, you Mirandize these parents, you could cross it. You understand what is at stake?”

  Zander turned back to the picture of Paige Baker.

  Remembering the fragrance of magnolias and peaches, the red mud of a country road to rural Georgia and the graves of the two little boys, one of whom he failed to save.

  “I understand what is at stake. Believe me. I understand.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Molly Wilson’s bracelets tinkled as she typed at her computer terminal in the San Francisco Star newsroom.

  She had been on the story for several hours today and had nothing fresh on the Bakers despite all of her legwork in their neighborhood. Huck and Willa Meyers, Emily’s relatives, were definitely on the road. Seniors don’t sit at home in their rockers anymore.

  But Wilson was counting on a lead she got from a neighbor girl who baby-sat for Doug and Emily: the Meyer’s home address in Lake Merced. Wilson drove down there, did some door-knocking and found out that Huck and Willa were members of the Wander the World RV club. At her terminal, she called up the club’s Web site. It had messenger service linked to all affiliated RV parks. She fired off
an urgent one, then worked on her story.

  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 led 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 coffe
e.

  “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.”