by Rick Mofina
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 Hood 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 t
he 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.
“Mr. Cohen, your client was convicted under the laws of this state. His conviction was upheld by the supreme court of this state. Your attempt to appeal it the highest court in the nation failed. The Montana State Board of Pardons and Parole has not found merit in your petition to recommend executive clemency for your client. A lot of people have studied this file before it came to me. I cannot interfere and undermine the laws of this state and nation. As you know, I do not retry cases. I am limited in what I can do.
“The case of Paige Baker, the little girl from California, is tragic. She has been reported missing and every resource, every effort, is being utilized to locate her. For you, at this stage, to attempt to draw a hideous connection between the case of your client, convicted of the cold-blooded murder of a child, a case which is all but concluded, and the tragedy endured by a family in Glacier is at best, tenuous, and at its worst, morally abhorrent.”
“I am sorry you see it that way, sir. I disagree.”
“That is your privilege. What I will do is take your concerns, as weak as they are, under advisement. I’ll make my decision known to you tomorrow.”
The governor stood, signaling that Cohen’s time with him had ended. The young lawyer took in the gazes of the other men. He shook the governor’s extended hand and left. Jackson saw him out, through the house, to the front steps.
“I’ll say one thing for you, David. You better have brass ones. After pulling a disgraceful stunt like that.”
Cohen stopped, turning on the step.
“Why’s that, John?”
“Because you just squeezed the governor’s balls. Now he’s likely to squeeze yours”--Jackson winked--“so hard, they’ll hear the scream in Chicago.”
Cohen took the comment, tapping his fingers on his briefcase, chuckling to himself. “You’re forgetting something fundamental here, John.”
“I am?”
“My client and I are already fucked. Got nothing to lose. It is all on the line. Now the Grayson Nye, on the other hand, well, let me put it this way, when’s the last time your boss had his picture on the front page of the New York Times?”
A scowl emerged on Jackson’s face.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Cohen stepped into Jackson’s space.
“Watch me. And when your boss screams, they’ll hear it in Washington.”
Jackson returned to the study, where the governor was on the phone. Upset. The attorney general raised a hand of caution to Jackson. The Governor dialed a number but slammed the phone down, abandoning the call. “Why the hell did we not know about the mother’s connection to Hood?”
The attorney general was on his cell phone demanding someone commence emergency research. “Sir,” he said, snapping his phone shut, “I was just getting a status report from Glacier. They’re no closer to finding the girl.”
Grayson Nye shook his head. “This is a goddamn mess.”
“You are clear on the execution on all legal grounds. Cohen presents nothing in the way of solid evidence that warrants clemency. The U.S. Supreme Court has green-lighted you here.”
“And politically?”
The attorney general cleared his throat.
“If you delay this guy, you will be seen as being soft on crime. He is a convicted child killer. If you delay under the suggestion it is linked to the tragic ongoing case in Glacier, you risk offending the state of California in the perception you are convicting an anguished woman in a time of torment, based on what? A Chicago lawyer’s strategy of smoke and mirrors?”
“I could delay for thirty days.”
“Based on what?” the attorney general said. “You’ll be pegged as soft and indecisive. Not assets to national aspirations, Grayson.”
“What if she is guilty of harming her child in Glacier?”
“Then she will be prosecuted,” Jackson said.
“And we’ll have executed an innocent man.”
“You cannot retry his case. She would have to confess and provide some sort of irrefutable evidence,” the attorney general said.
The governor thought of his family.
He had an eighteen-year-old daughter heading off to Yale. The study’s grandfather clock began chiming. Time was the factor. Hood’s execution was scheduled in the next forty-eight hours. The FBI found a bloodied T-shirt, a bloodied ax. The mother was undergoing counseling. As far as he knew, the investigators knew nothing of Cohen’s claim, were unaware of who the mother really was. Not yet. Jesus, please let them find that kid alive.
“I’ll decide in the morning.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
FBI Special Agent Tracy Bowman watched the helicopter’s blinking strobe lights shrinking, vanishing into the dusk after Zander and Doug Baker left the command post.
She would leave later on the last flight before nightfall.
Bowman scanned the mountains, feeling the temperature drop. She pulled her jacket tighter and bit her lip. She reviewed everything so far.
What had befallen this family?
Emily had tried to escape her torment by crawling into her daughter’s tent. A tense calm descended upon operations. No sounds could be heard, except for the low crackle of radio traffic as searchers throughout Grizzly Tooth prepared to dig in for the night. Each of them privately tabulating the time and conditions surrounding Paige Baker’s disappearance, then calculating her odds of survival. Coming up on sixty hours. Not good.
Snow and rain were forecast for part of the night.
Suddenly, Bowman felt alone. She had not talked with her Mark since rushing here. She took an FBI satellite phone, went to the edge of the campsite, called her home in Lolo. It had been, what? Two days? No, one. It felt like a lifetime. She just needed to hear his voice.
No answer at her home. She dialed the home number of her friend, Roberta Cara.
“Roberta, it’s Tracy. I can’t talk long. How is everything?”
“Fine, but you sound funny.”
“It’s a satellite phone, wait a beat before answering. I’m on a mountain in Glacier. How’s Mark?”
Roberta counted one Mississippi.
“He’s fine. He’s here. We tried to call you on your cell. He wanted to stay
at our house with the boys. Lord, I pray they find that little girl. Wait, I’ll put Mark on.”
Static, beeping, commotion, overhearing Roberta, explaining how the phone worked, then Mark. “Hi Mom. You’re really on a mountain. Cool.”
“Hey there, Marshal. Yes, I am. You having fun?”
“Yeah. I saw you on the TV news. In the background walking with some people. How long before you’re done, Mom?”
“Hard to say. Are you taking your medicine?”
“Yup. And Lance is teaching me how to whittle with a penknife.”
“You be careful with that knife. I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I got to go. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. Hope you find the little girl.”
Bowman felt a bittersweet rush of warmth and heartache pass through her. Sitting on the mountain miles from Mark, cradling the phone, she counted her blessings, gazing upon the tent where Emily wept as wind rustled its walls.
What happened to this family?
Bowman felt Emily was on the brink of opening up to her. She was learning more about her past, her childhood in Montana. If she could only get her to continue talking so she could pull the curtain back on the truth of what happened out here. The clock was ticking. It was critical.
Succeed here and she could move Mark to Los Angeles and better treatment. Did she even know what she was doing? Was she handling Emily Baker the right way? Zander gave her no indication. He was icy. “Keep pushing it, Bowman.” Why was he so cold?
She had overheard other agents gossiping about how Zander was haunted by a screw-up in a Georgia child murder case years ago. Then a female agent from Seattle said Zander was in need of comforting, that he was going through a wildly ugly separation back in DC. That might have been why he behaved like a jerk, thought Bowman.
Stop it, Tracy. What are you doing? This is inappropriate. Not right.
Bowman admonished herself, studying Paige Baker’s tent flapping in the cold wind. Like a burial shroud. Would they ever find Paige?
Bowman had a few hours before her flight. Exhausted, she checked with one of the agents assigned to keep the early-night watch on Emily, then crawled into the tent the rangers had set up for her. As the wind did its work, she fell asleep dreaming of Mark, California and Carl. They were there together walking in the sun happy…until the screaming….