Cold Fear

by Rick Mofina

  “So how did Reed get his copy so soon after we did? Who tipped him to the connection?”

  “David Cohen, Isaiah Hood’s lawyer,” Bowman said. “I called the capital and they told me there was a simultaneous request for the file from Cohen’s law firm.”

  “More vital,” said Turner, “do you think Hood’s claim of innocence is valid, Tracy, based on the records and your work on Emily Baker?”

  “It’s too difficult to be conclusive. It is accepted Emily was present at the time of her sister’s death and that she tried to reach for her. It is crystalline in her mind, even in her emotional state, that Isaiah Hood is guilty.”

  “Could be she is putting on a show to make sure we buy Hood’s guilt, and that her daughter’s vanishing is just a coincidence?” Pike Thornton asked. “This woman has had some strong emotional outbursts during this ordeal. Weigh that with her undergoing counseling in San Francisco.”

  “I agree, Pike.” Bowman gazed at the county attorney’s report. “Consider her old letters and the fact her daughter is now missing. Same location. Certainly raises a lot of questions.” Bowman shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

  “I don’t buy it.” Paige could have fallen in that crevasse,” Sydowski said. “We know the dad has a temper. We know the mother’s been hearing voices, that she has a troubled past. But I just can’t see how this fits together, I really don’t buy it. Not yet.”

  “That’s your opinion, Walt,” Zander was icy. “Any word from San Francisco on the school girl complaint on Dad? Do we know who Emily’s shrink is? Maybe she confessed the old murder, which would impact the disappearance.”

  “The counselor is traveling in Asia. I am expecting to be updated on the school allegation against Doug Baker.”

  Zander told everyone the preliminary lab reports showed the blood found on the pink T-shirt and axe were one type: O positive. Doug Baker’s military records show he is O positive.

  “If Paige has a different blood type we should have a mix, but if they’re the same, which I think they are, we may need DNA done to separate them.”

  “I recall Paige’s school records show she’s O positive.” Sydowski said.

  “Yes. They need more time for testing if they can determine a gender distinction in the blood.”

  “What is the blood at the crevasse?” Pike Thornton asked.

  “O positive.”

  “The hair?”

  “Matches with Paige’s taken from her sleeping bag.”

  Someone knocked on the door. It was Reese Larson.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I have concluded my analysis.”

  Reese opened an FBI file folder, unscrewed his fountain pen, went over notes that were so neat they resembled calligraphy.

  Zander was impatient but polite. “Reese, first your opinion on Doug Baker’s response to the questions, please.”

  “Inconclusive. I am sorry. The results of my examination are inconclusive.”

  Zander gritted his teeth, looked out the window into the night.

  “On every single point, Reese?”

  “No, not the mundane aspects. He was truthful there. But on the points salient to the investigation, I could not form an opinion as to whether he was truthful or not truthful. He was a difficult subject. I’d be willing to re-test him, if you would like.”

  Turner, a veteran of many battles, steepled his fingers.

  “Reese, is there any area, any critical area, where you even came close to forming an opinion one way or the other?”

  Reese flipped through his file folder, with the FBI seal, leafed very purposely though page after page of graph paper with their inky spikes, nearly touching them with his fountain pen as he reviewed his notations.

  “Hmmm. Well there was one area that was close, very close.”

  “Close to what, Reese?” Zander sighed.

  “I’d say he was very close to being untruthful here on this important area, which we visited several times.” A neatly manicured little finger touched the graph paper at an area marked “1473” with an asterisk. “See?”

  “Reese, I don’t understand. What was the area of questioning?”

  Larson flipped through a separate note sheet. Here it is: “Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter? He answered no. He answered the same way each time we came back to that one.”

  “Yes, Reese?”

  “Well, in my opinion, he was very close to being untruthful there; when you study these numbers, heart rate, skin…”

  Zander looked at the others as Larson went on with technical details.

  We’re close. We’re getting close, he thought.

  After Larson finished, Zander used one of the FBI’s satellite phones to call the agents at the command post. The ones assigned to watch Emily Baker. The darkness and the rough, snowy weather made it too treacherous to fly out that night.

  “This is Zander. Who’s this?”

  “Fenster.”

  “What’s Emily doing, Fenster?”

  “In her tent?”

  “Her demeanor?”

  “Restless. Keeps asking if we know anything. Wants to know when Doug is coming back.”

  “I want someone watching her all night. Go in shifts. Do not let her out of your sight. We’re coming out for her at daybreak. Understand?’

  When Zander finished, he asked Sydowski if he knew if Emily had traveled as a freelance news photographer to any hot spots.

  “I seem to remember something about East Timor, why?”

  “Her blood type would be on file with the Pentagon. We’ll get it,” Zander said. “Look, there are a number of scenarios here. She could have done something and Doug’s covering up. He could have helped her. We’ll be keeping him in custody for a while.”

  “You going to charge him?” asked Nora Lam, punching a number in her cell phone.

  “Not yet,” Zander said. “And who are you calling please?”

  “County attorney. If you’re bringing the mother in to go hard on her, you’ll have to Mirandize her. She may request and attorney.”

  “All you tell her is to be prepared to send another lawyer here in the morning,” Zander said. Lam nodded.

  Pike Thornton was a study of concern.

  “Frank, if this goes the way it is shaping up to go, what does that mean for Hood? We can’t sit here and let the state execute an innocent guy.”

  “What time is he scheduled to go?” Turner said.

  “Midnight our time tomorrow night.” Thornton studied his watch.

  Zander nodded to Lam, who was speaking softly on her phone. “We’ll get Nora to give the governor’s office a heads up, depending on how things go. It’s looking like it will all come down tomorrow.”

  Thornton said it would be seen as Washington interfering in the state’s jurisdiction. “Governor has aspirations of running for national office.”

  Painfully familiar with the sleaze within the Beltway, Zander shook his head. “Executing an innocent man would not really enhance his chances, not that I give a rat’s ass, mind you. Hood is his problem. It was his state that convicted him.”

  Afterward, everyone got into their vehicles, driving wearily drive through the night to their hotel rooms.

  Looking out at the darkness, Zander was convinced Paige Baker’s corpse was at the bottom of the crevasse deep in the mountains. Her mother’s history, her father’s wound, their argument, the bloodied ax. The shaky polygraph results.

  But he noticed Sydowski was subdued, his body language telegraphing that he was holding something back. Something we missed?

  Zander shook it off. It would be over tomorrow. Once they pulled that little girls’ corpse from the crevasse and autopsied her, it would all be over.

  FIFTY-ONE

  That night, Inspector Walt Sydowski was sitting up in the bed of his pine-scented room at the Sky Forest Vista Inn, wearing his bifocals, attempting to read an article on bird droppings. He wanted to take his mind from the case long enough to let
him sleep.

  It was a technical overview of what to look for in droppings. They were a warning of illness. Understanding could help prevent a bird’s death. He set the article on the nightstand, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

  Paige Baker’s face would not let Sydowski rest. He could not take his mind off of the case. In all his years as a homicide cop, this was one of the most baffling files he had ever known. Zander was an excellent investigator, doing everything Sydowski would do. Were they missing something?

  Sydowski was exhausted.

  What was he doing here? The Rockies were not his streets. It was an FBI file. It was unusual for them to arrange a team this way on an unfolding case, working a homicide when it has not been established you have a body. Or even a crime. Was it conceivable that Doug and Emily Baker murdered their daughter? They could not execute an innocent man if there was reasonable doubt about his guilt. Too many times, Sydowski had seen firsthand how evil manifests itself. His tired eyes burned at the memory of one case of two sisters, aged two and four. Their mother had bound them together with duct tape, put them in a cage built for a large dog and…

  Sleep, he told himself.

  But he couldn’t. He was suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness. He dialed the number for his father’s unit at Sea Breeze Villas in Pacifica. He imagined the old man spending the day tending his seaside vegetable garden while snow swirled outside Sydowski’s Montana motel.

  “Hahllow.”

  “Hey, Dad, so you’re awake?” Sydowski said in Polish.

  “Yeah, sure. Watching a movie.”

  Sydowski smiled. “So how are you doing?”

  “No problems. You going to be in the mountains a long time?”

  “Hard to say, Dad.”

  “The TV says you think the father killed his little girl. The bastard, why would he do something like that? It’s crazy.”

  “We don’t know anything for certain, Dad. You know how it is.”

  “I know how it was for you with that last case with the baby girl and the kidnapped kids. I think you want to retire, maybe have something new in your life. But you’re afraid.”

  “Who knows? Listen, Dad, I was thinking when I’m done here, how about we drive down the coastal highway to Los Angeles.”

  “What for?”

  “We could see the Dodgers, there’s a doubleheader coming up. We could have some fun, do something you always wanted to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Go to Hollywood. Get a map of the stars’ homes and check them out. See Brando’s house?”

  “He’s a great actor. The best. Played a good Polack in that Streetcar. Kowalski. ‘Stellllaaaa.’ Heh-heh. He’s put on weight though. Hey, and maybe I can give you a haircut and shave like the last time?”

  Sydwoski winced at the memory.

  “Listen, Pop, we’ll think about everything. I got to go.”

  “You better call your girlfriend, Louise.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She called me asking how you were doing. So call her.”

  A warm feeling flowed through Sydowski. In the six years since his wife’s death, when was the last time a woman cared about him? Maybe she was his girlfriend, he thought brushing his teeth, inspecting his old face in the mirror. What did she see in him? She was so smart, so comfortable to be with. She made him feel so good. You’re like a lovesick pup, you dumb flatfoot. He picked up the phone and put it down. Christ, he was acting like a teenager. Go ahead. Call. Before he knew it her number in San Jose was ringing. He was suddenly guilty. Betraying Basha’s memory. Hang up. It’s better to be alone--

  “Hello?”

  “Louise? Uhm. I know it’s late. I’m sorry if I woke you, it’s Walt. Sydowski.”

  “You didn’t wake me, Walter.” Her voice was like medicine. He could hear her smile. He nestled the phone closer. “I just had an evening swim in the pool.”

  “Oh.” He tried envisioning her figure in a swimsuit. “Look, I won’t keep you. Uhmm, it’s just, well, my father said you called.”

  “I did. I was concerned about how you were doing. It is such a huge story. Tragic. On the radio, TV, the papers. Nonstop, so many twists and turns. It has got to be so stressful.”

  “Yes, well, it has its complications.”

  “Are you holding up okay, Walter?”

  “I’m fine. How are you budgies doing?”

  “They are singing up a storm. But now you didn’t call just to ask about my birds?”

  “Well, no. How are you doing?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Walter, are you going to ask me for a date or not?”

  He was at a loss. Positively impressed and stunned.

  “Uh, sure. How about dinner when I get back?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you.”

  “Sound’s wonderful. Now, good luck on your case.”

  “Thanks, Louise. For everything.”

  For several minutes afterward, Sydowski sat on his bed, in his boxers and T-shirt, listening to the wind howling outside, struggling to think of nothing. Then he switched off the room’s lights and was overcome with a thousand thoughts and worries. His father, his new relationship, Tom Reed and his relentless pursuits, the real possibility that an innocent man was going to be executed in a few hours.

  Sleep. He ordered himself. Sleep.

  Drowsiness was coming for Sydowski but it was coming with visions of ten-year-old Paige Baker’s corpse, stiff and frozen in the mountain night at the bottom of crevasse, so deep, so eternal that none of the flakes swirling amid the celestial peaks of the Rocky Mountains would ever reach her.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The Blueberry Hill Lodge was an independently owned first-rate motel located a few miles south of Glacier National Park’s west gate, not far from Columbia Falls. Its spacious lobby had hardwood floors, oversized leather sofas, floor-to-ceiling windows framing mountain views, log walls and a massive stone fireplace, where a dying blaze crackled.

  In the dimmed tranquility of the late hour, a solitary guest sat near the soft light of a lamp, her hands working on the needlepoint scene of a hummingbird hovering at a glacier lily. Embroidery was the only way FBI Special Agent Tracy Bowman could keep her hands from trembling since coming away from the task force briefing an hour ago.

  Well, you wanted field work, girl.

  She could not stop thinking of Paige Baker, Emily, Doug. Isaiah Hood.

  If Hood is innocent? Dear God.

  Bowman had held Emily in her arms just a few hours ago. Was she comforting a murderer? Had she been manipulated by a calculating, cold-blooded woman who killed her little sister?

  And now her own daughter?

  Bowman thought of Mark, ached to hold him. She ached for Carl. Ached for him in every way. She should sleep. Stop this. I’ve been an FBI special agent for over seven years now. Respectable on the GS pay scale. She’d done well at Quantico and Hogan’s Alley. She’d had a duty to carry out. So much is riding on this case. For Mark. Just concentrate on the job.

  “Tracy,” a large warm hand touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Frank Zander came from behind.

  “Oh!” She smiled. “Just a little wound up and saddened, thinking of Paige Baker.”

  “I understand.”

  Zander had obviously showered, changed into fresh clothes, and had a clipboard and records with him. She detected some cologne. Looked good.

  “That a hobby?” He nodded to the needlepoint.

  “Helps me relax. This case has been tough.”

  “It’s one of the most difficult files I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s so intense. So much. So fast. I guess I didn’t expect it to take so much out of me.”

  “They all take something from you.”

  “You got kids?”

  “No. I’m not married, I’m sep--Well,
I’m getting a divorce.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that I think of this case and Paige Baker, wondering if she’s dead out there. Then I think of Mark. He’s nine, and I think of Doug and Emily Baker. We look into their eyes. We talk to them. What’s the truth here? I fully appreciate that it’s our job to find out fast, but it just eats at you.”

  “I know,” Zander glanced round to ensure they were alone, keeping his voice low. “Perform our duty in silence. That is what you do.”

  “I’m sorry. I should get to bed and not lay this on you.”

  “Tracy, it’s okay to talk about it. I don’t mind.”

  “Really?”

  “It eats at me, too. Always has. If it’s any comfort, I think you’re a good investigator.”

  She nodded appreciatively, staring at her needlepoint.

  “You’re incredibly intuitive and come at things from different angles. Tell me your story. You’re in Missoula.”

  “Yes. Mostly computer work, government fraud. Pretty low key. I applied for extra course work at Quantico and rotation to a big-city division. I’m up for a job in Los Angeles…if I don’t screw up here.”

  “You won’t screw up, Tracy.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “Trust me.”

  She liked being with him. It had been so long since she had talked, really talked to a man.

  “So, Frank. What’s your story?”

  He told her. Everything. About the two wives, his loathing for the snake pit within the Beltway and desire for a new start. His dedication to the job. His life-defining case in Georgia, which earned him his reputation as a prick and shaped his legendary status as an investigator.

  When he finished, she said, “It’s getting very late, we should turn in.”

  Zander walked Bowman to her room. She thanked him at her door, was about to say good night when his eyes held hers.