by Rick Mofina
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 his 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, whether 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.”
Doug searched Zander’s face for a positive or negative signal, finding neither.
“Okay. Sure. Anything. Emily too?”
Zander shook his head. “I think she’s fine here right now with Agent Bowman. We should get going now. It’s getting dark.”
Before Zander joined Doug in the chopper, he waved to Bowman, pulling her aside for an update. She’d had a full day with the mother. They turned their backs to the helicopter, their jackets, rippling in whipping air. The noise assured the security of the information.
“What do you have?” he said into her ear.
“She was somehow present when her sister died here years ago,” Bowman shouted into Zander’s ear.
“Her sister? Do you know any more details?”
“No. She’s vague. Comes out in pieces because of her emotional state.”
“This is more than what Doug told us. He said Emily was receiving counseling related to the deaths of her parents. He said nothing about her sister. She give you any other details?”
“No.”
“She tell you anything more about Paige’s disappearance?”
“No, just that she and Doug were arguing, going through a rough time.”
“Keep pushing it, Bowman.”
During the flight back to the command center, Zander found himself thinking of Tracy Bowman. How she had obtained key information. She was very good. He reflected on her switchblade intelligence, the way she gave him his comeuppance for his arrogant security breach on the phone from the jet. He knew he’d never admit it to anyone, but she was right. She was a fine investigator. Seemed like an exceptional person. Looking over the mountains, he wondered if she was married.
Soon the chopper touched down. Zander returned with Doug to the command center and the cramped room used by the task force.
Doug took his place at the table, nodding to Pike Thornton and Walt Sydowski from San Francisco. Each man, including Zander, had a clipboard and file.
“Coffee, Doug?” Zander offered.
“No. Did you find Paige?”
“No.”
“Kobee?”
“Nothing like that.”
“What have you got? You said you might have found something.”
“We’re coming to that, Doug. First we’d like to be clear on a few things. Can you tell us again exactly how you hurt your hand?”
Doug tried to comprehend the question. He was exhausted, slipping into near intoxication from not sleeping or eating for the last few days. He was worn out, unshaven, eyes reddened from his anguish.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your hand, Doug. Tell us again how you injured it, please?”
“I am sure I told you. I was chopping wood.”
“And arguing with Paige?”
Doug swallowed. His face reddened with shame. “Yes.”
“Before we go further, we can’t fly you back until morning. Too dangerous to fly in the mountains at night.”
Doug was silent.
“We have a room for you here.”
Doug thought for a moment.
“Are you arresting me for something?”
“Why would you think that?”
Doug did not answer. He could not even think of an answer.
“You are not under arrest,” Zander said. “It is just that we might be a while. We told Emily.”
“All right. You said you wanted to be clear on something?”
“What was Paige wearing when you argued?”
“Jeans. T-shirt.”
“Remember the color of her T-shirt?”
“Pink. Maybe.”
Zander slid the picture Emily had taken of the Bakers in the mountains with Paige in her pink T-shirt. “That the one?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Now, the ax you had at the time. Was it a one-and-a-half pound Titan Striker with a steel head and a sixteen-inch handle with a rubber grip?”
“Sounds right.” Doug shrugged.
“Serial number 349975. Purchased four days ago at Big Ice Country Outfitters in Century, Montana.”
“Sounds right. But I don’t understand?”
“Charged to your credit card?”
“Yes.”
Zander leaned forward, invading Doug’s space.
“Where is it?”
Doug’s pulse stopped.
The eyes of three veteran detectives from three different agencies who shared sixty years of experience had locked onto Doug’s eyes in the worst way.
THIRTY-SIX
Montana’s five-member Board of Pardons and Parole recommended against Isaiah Hood’s receiving executive clemency, but Governor Grayson Nye was not bound to the decision. David Cohen was less than thirty minutes away from appealing to him face to face.
The Governor was Hood’s last legal chance to live.
Upon receiving the fax from the board after it convened an emergency night meeting to ultimately reject Hood’s petition, Cohen called John Jackson, the attorney general’s top lawyer, from his cell phone while exiting at Garrison and heading for the capital.
“David, the Governor is aware of the board’s not recommending executive clemency. He’ll make his decision in the morning.”
“I just need fifteen minutes, John. He’s in town. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Static passed between the two cell phones.
“David he’s at a black-tie fundraiser. This is really not appropriate--”
“Damn it, John! He should be concerned about the man’s life in his hands, not the wine glass! Please! Give me the address so your conscience will rest.”
Jackson sighed and dictated the location.
“Leave your phone on, John. I’ll call you when I arrive.”
Cohen never expected the board to recommend clemency. He would have to make his gamble with the governor, who would grasp the scope of the political ramifications of executing an innocent man.
The gala was in Helena’s mansion district, an area of grand homes built in the late 1800s by the territory’s mining millionaires. They were opulent structures in Victorian, Romanesque and Queen Anne styles.
Cohen parked his rented Neon on the street in front of the one where the governor’s function was, then placed his call. Jackson was dressed in a black dinner jacket, which set off his silver hair and tan, when he came to the front steps. Cohen was wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and khakis.
“Come this way,” Jackson said, leading him upstairs to a large private study with a massive mahogany board table, floor-to-ceiling windows and bookshelves. “I’ll be right back with him. You’ll have ten minutes.”
“Thanks, John.”
Cohen sat alone at the board table drumming his fingers on his briefcase. He was well aware of the governor’s connections to Washington, DC, and his plans to run for national office. He sat upright when he heard the state’s most famous voice say his name.
“I’ve heard much about you.” The governor’s handshake was solid. Jackson and another man accompanied him. “Of course you know our attorney general and John.”
The governor sat beside Cohen.
“Sir, have you made your decision to accept the Board’s recommendation that Isaiah Hood not receive executive clemency?”
“Not yet. I’ll do that in the morning. I understand you want me to consider a serious new development in the man’s case?”
“Yes.”
“Something outside of what the Board saw today?”
“Yes. I believe with all my heart Isaiah H
ood is innocent.”
“I understand you’re an idealistic, young attorney. I admire that.”
Cohen unsnapped the locks on his briefcase and produced a file.
“It’s simple sir.” He handed the governor all the pertinent photographs of Emily Baker, Rachel and the unpublished archived photos.
The governor knitted his brows, studying all the pictures. “This is the woman whose child is missing in Glacier? And the others? I am not sure I understand the point you’re attempting to illustrate here.” He shot a glance to Jackson and the attorney general.
“Governor Nye,” Cohen said. “Isaiah Hood, who maintains his innocence, was given the death penalty solely on the testimony of this child, the only other witness to the death of Rachel Ross. Her sister. Now the same woman’s child is missing in the same area, under the same circumstances.”
The governor studied the pictures intently.
How could his office not know this?
He was the one who had quietly pressured Washington to get the FBI involved to clear the case of the lost girl because of the suspicions surrounding her disappearance. Because he was determined not to sit on his hands the way some states did and let the thing fester into a cancer on the justice system of this country.
Why the hell didn’t they know about Emily Baker’s connection to Hood? He had just been blind-sided by a Chicago lawyer with an earring.
“Governor, I think you appreciate the ramifications should you proceed in executing my client. Now knowing full well that this woman”--Cohen touched Emily Baker’s news photo--“was most likely involved in the murder of her sister twenty-two years ago, and has possibly repeated the crime with her daughter, under your watch. I appreciate that the names do not match. I understand hers was changed when she left the state years ago, then changed again when she married Doug Baker. I am searching for documentation to confirm Emily Baker was originally Natalie Ross. As far as I know, no one in the press has yet made the connection, but it is only a matter of time before they do. This is not something your office has kept quiet, is it, sir?”
The governor’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was seething inside but managed a political grin as he studied Cohen’s evidence, sitting on the polished mahogany table, staring him in the face.
