by Rick Mofina
“So what do you expect from me?”
“To do as I tell you.”
“The parents are going to get suspicious right off.”
“Drive home the point that we are here assisting, ruling out all possible scenarios, for the sake of their daughter. Insist they keep all discussion confidential, for the sake of their daughter.”
Some twenty-two minutes after lifting off, the command post came into view as they made their approach to the ridge. Zander locked on to the small tents belonging to the Bakers and the dozen or so people on the ridge steadying themselves against the force of the descending helicopter. Pike Thornton, law enforcement ranger, and Brady Brook, the district ranger who was the Incident Commander, greeted Zander and Bowman, taking them aside privately, waiting for the helicopter’s rotors to stop so they could speak. Everyone knew not to waste time after it was stressed the rangers were in charge of the search and rescue and the FBI was in charge of everything else.
“Search is going full bore,” Brook said. “We got two hasty teams out there within an hour or so of the father’s report. They put in about six hours yesterday, covered a lot of territory.”
“Find anything? Clothing, candy wrappers, human excrement. Anything?” Zander said.
Brook shook his head. “We’re increasing the search. Got more people coming in as soon as possible. We’re setting up a command center at park headquarters for you. Your Salt Lake people are coordinating your help in the operation. We’re restricting all of Grizzly Tooth, keeping the press there at the center. This is snowballing, since the alert went out over the news wires. The networks are already demanding briefings and access.”
Zander nodded. “We’ll sort that out, but I expect your chief will designate a press person,” he said. “I am sure you are informing park staff the FBI is merely assisting in the search of a missing child in a federal park and they should not under any circumstances discuss anything with the press.”
“Absolutely,” Brook said.
“More of our people will be arriving within a few hours with equipment. Everyone will be, or should be, directed to the center.” Zander checked to ensure they were out of earshot from the rest of the team on the ridge, including the parents. Satisfied they were separated by nearly forty yards, he said, “Pike, we’ve read the information you provided. What’s your read on the parents?”
“I do not think they’ve told us the whole story. Dad’s evasive. Got that nasty wound on his left hand. Something just isn’t sitting right.”
“What about the moth…,” Bowman began, but Zander raised his hand as if she were a child speaking out of turn. He halted her question, then hijacked it.
“What’s your read on the mother, Pike?”
“Well, it’s hard to put your finger on it. But it just does not add up with her, either. She said she was nowhere near this camp when her daughter disappeared. Had gone off down the wooded trail to the ridge about a hundred yards to sit alone and take in the view. That could very well be the case.”
“But …,” Zander said.
Thornton exchanged a glance with Brook.
“A few hours ago in the middle of the night, the mother had a bit of an emotional outburst, screaming into the mountains. That would be in keeping with her daughter being lost. But the few words we could make out were disturbing.”
“What were they?” Zander said.
Thornton took out his notebook and quoted Emily, “You can’t have her…Oh God, it is all my fault.”
For a moment, the four of them grappled with the significance. Bowman felt a chill but repeated the words to herself and considered the circumstances. Zander remained poker-faced.
“The father also said they had encountered another family on the trail yesterday. A mom, a dad, and a boy about ten. He said they seemed strange to him.”
“Strange how?”
“Didn’t specify.”
“You looking for any witnesses, people in this area at the time?”
“We’re going through permits,” Thornton said. “Can’t hike in here overnight without one, which requires a name and address, vehicle plate, contact person. It’s routine in case a hiker gets lost or hurt.”
Zander nodded.
“What about Dad’s history?” Thornton asked him. “You get much there?”
“We’ve got something but it requires more work. We’ll need the SFPD to help us there. Their guy, what’s his name, Sydowski? He arrive?”
“Got in last night and will meet you at the command center,” Brook said.
“Good.” Zander answered. “Time for us to say hello to Mom and Dad. Bowman and I will go alone, if you don’t mind.”
Zander and Bowman could not see Emily as they approached the tent area, where Doug waited to meet them, catching the FBI seal on Zander’s jacket.
Zander extended his hand. “Doug Baker?”
“Yes.”
“Frank Zander. FBI.” Zander ignored Bowman. She introduced herself.
Doug regarded both. He was tired, unshaven, tense.
“The rangers said you were coming but we don’t understand. Our daughter is lost out there. She could be hurt. How does the FBI help us with that? We need more searchers, more people looking for Paige. Not police. And why the FBI?”
“Doug,” Zander said, “more searchers are on their way. A huge search and rescue operation is being coordinated. This area will soon be saturated with people determined to find your daughter.”
“We need them here now. We can’t waste any more time.” Baker rubbed his reddened eyes. “She’s just a little girl out there.” Zander looked at Doug’s injured left hand. “So why is the FBI here?”
“Federal parks are our jurisdiction. We get involved in all serious matters, especially those involving children. Your daughter’s case is very serious. It is important. We’re calling in a lot of people from a lot of agencies to make sure we do everything right.”
“Like what?”
“Making sure we have not missed any possibilities.”
“She just wandered off, likely chasing Kobee, her dog. What other possibilities could there be?”
“That’s where we need your help, Doug.”
Zander was smooth Bowman thought, seeing how a gentle, assuring conversation was evolving into something more.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see anything or anybody that strikes you as strange or odd during your time here, or on the way?”
“I don’t see how that has got anything to do this. I’m telling you she just wandered off.”
“Doug, please. Was there anything?”
Baker thought about it. “Just that other family we met. Might have been our first day in. We were tired and stopped for lunch and they just came upon us, spying on us. Just staring. I mentioned that to the rangers. But we left in separate directions. You’re writing this down? You think that might be important?”
“Could be. We have to be thorough.”
“You don’t think that somehow they--that someone--?”
“Doug, it is our job to eliminate all other scenarios here as quickly as possible. The search is a priority and it will be exhaustive, but we will also examine everything else.”
The nylon of one of the family’s blue tents swished and Emily emerged in jeans and a flannel shirt. Her hair was mussed and her eyes reddened. She was exhausted, stressed. Approaching Doug and the agents, she lost her balance and slipped. Bowman caught her. “Easy there,” Bowman said.
Doug introduced Emily to the agents, explaining their presence as his wife struggled to grasp it. Shaking her head, a hand covering her mouth, she stood, with eyes glistening, as Zander asked her about anything or anybody that struck her as strange in the time before they entered the park and the time leading up to her daughter’s disappearance.
“Nothing,” she said.
Zander studied her, watching her reaction, reading her body language in relation to her husband’s as he explained how Paige’
s photograph and details have been circulated widely to news and police agencies.
“You think that maybe she didn’t just get lost?” Emily said. “You think someone in the park may have abducted her? Oh God!” Doug comforted her.
“Emily, we have nothing to suggest that,” Zander said. “We just don’t want to overlook anything. It is a big park. And we need your help to make sure we don’t miss anything. Please understand that we will use every resource to ensure Paige is returned safely to you. I trust you would expect nothing less. But your help is critical.”
Emily nodded and sniffed. “What can we do to help you?”
“We’d like to fly you with us to the ranger command center. To talk to you some more in a comfortable place. As I said, we’ve got a team of people there from different agencies. Everybody’s got a different job but we just need a little time for more information from you to be as effective as quickly as possible. It is easier than bringing everybody out here.”
“But what if Paige comes back, or they find her while we’re gone? She’ll need us.” Emily said. “We should be here.”
“That’s right,” Zander said. “One of you should be here. So we’ll take you in separately.”
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 parking 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.