Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “That he killed her sister, Rachel Ross. And now, twenty-two years later, on the eve of his execution, Emily’s daughter is missing in the same remote area. It's an epic tragedy.” Reed sipped his coffee.

  “It’s a miscarriage of justice.” Cohen looked out the window. “You have just scratched the surface.”

  “I know Emily's name was Natalie Ross. Since then it’s been changed. Likely the reason nobody else has reported the link yet.”

  "And why do think her name was changed?"

  Reed shrugged.

  "You're a reporter. You should be digging into this."

  "Don't have to."

  "Why's that?"

  "Because you're going to tell me."

  Cohen liked Reed for being right.

  "Her name was changed because she killed her sister. Isaiah is innocent of murder and this state is going to execute him.”

  Dawning. It suddenly made more sense to Reed. Sydowski's presence. Emily's aunt telling Molly Wilson that Emily was undergoing counseling for the death of a child years ago.

  "You can prove she killed her sister?”

  Cohen slid legal-sized pages of court transcripts across the table.

  “Look at this.”

  It was an excerpt of her testimony of what had happened that day. The girls were on a camping trip with other girls. They had wandered from the campsite collecting butterflies when they had come upon Isaiah Hood.

  Q: Did you feel threatened?

  A: Yes.

  Q: How?

  A: He was bigger. Creepy.

  Q: Why didn't you run away?

  A: I tried. I said we better go back but--

  WITNESS: (sobbing)

  COURT: Would you like a short recess?

  WITNESS: (shakes head)

  Q: You have to speak.

  A: No.

  Q: What prevented you from running away?

  A: She let go of my hand and went to him, and then--

  Q: Take your time.

  A: And then he picked her up and held her over the edge. I begged him and fought with him to stop. “Please stop.” I grabbed at his arms. He was bigger and so strong. He wouldn't stop. He said, “Guess what I'm going to do. I am going to see if she can fly.” And then--

  WITNESS: (sobbing)

  Q: Go ahead.

  WITNESS: (sobbing)

  A: He let her drop.

  WITNESS: (sobbing)

  Reed saw a handwritten notation on the photocopied transcript. The distance of the fall was measured at 540 feet. Cause of death was cranial trauma, massive internal injuries. Her neck was broken. She was five years old. Reed thought of his son, Zach, then chased it from his mind. The transcript was a straightforward accounting of how Hood murdered her, consistent with the old material Chester Murdon dug up for him. He slid the papers back to Cohen.

  “This proves nothing, David. There's nothing new there.”

  Reed sipped some coffee.

  “Bear with me. This testimony essentially convicted him on her say-so. She was not cross-examined effectively.”

  “So? That’s the loser’s mantra in every capital case.”

  “She later recanted her testimony.”

  “What?”

  “Her father died about a year after the trial. Her mother sold their ranch and they moved away. When I took on the case a few years ago to work on Isaiah’s appeals, we hired a PI to find her. No luck. He did learn Emily’s mother had changed their names frequently. At one point, we believed they moved to Canada, even sought citizenship there.”

  "You said she recanted."

  "After the trial, Emily confided to a little girlfriend in Buckhorn that she felt confused, sad and guilty over her sister's death.”

  “Seems only natural, if she witnessed it.” Reed nodded at the court transcript.

  "Yes but after her father died and her mother took her away, Emily resumed her confidential revelations in a series of letters from Kansas City to the friend in Montana. She discusses her guilt in her letters."

  "You got the letters?”

  Cohen shook his head.

  "How about the friend?"

  "Killed five years ago. Car accident in France."

  Reed's food arrived. “No proof then?”

  "I have proof. When the little girl first told her father about the conversations, he was unconcerned. Later, when he saw Emily's letter to his daughter he had a change of heart and quietly informed the county attorney, who kept copies, producing a summarized report of their contents. At the time, the county attorney did not regard the letters as enough to warrant reopening the case. He categorized them the manifestation of young Emily's shock, trauma and grief at having witnessed her sister's death, which was followed by her father’s death. He considered questioning her, but the state could not locate her. So it faded.”

  “Have you talked to the county attorney?" Reed bit into his sandwich.

  “Deceased. Last winter. Cancer."

  “No letters. No one alive to confirm them. Where's your proof?"

  “Last week, I made another routine request to the state for a departmental-wide records search. A piece of the case had fallen through the cracks. This came this morning.”

  Cohen slid several pages to Reed.

  A fax with a cover page, dated that day, from the state’s legal library research branch in Helena. The attached documents were some twenty years old with the letterhead GOLIATH COUNTY ATTORNEY. Reed flipped through the pages, reading snatches of Emily's words quoted in the report:

  I am guilty of her death. She begged me to save her. I don't know what happened. She pleaded and screamed. I had her hand but I don't know what happened that day. I will never forget her eyes staring into mine as she fell. God, please forgive me.

  Reed swallowed and stared at Cohen who was returning from the counter after paying the tab.

  “Let’s go, Tom. Isaiah will tell you the truth about what happened that day.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Special Agent Reese Larson was a small bookish man. Soft-spoken, bespectacled, pale with short blondish hair that resembled an infant’s, Larson looked more like a bank manager or choirmaster in small Midwest town, than one of the FBI’s top polygraphers.

  At fifty-one, Larson was a low-key behind-the-scenes wizard. Over a number of decades, he had pointed agents in the right direction in some of the FBI’s biggest investigations. He was also a grand master at chess. He had flown in from the Manhattan Division the previous night.

  Larson left his Kalispell motel room, dressed in a summer business suit, and arrived at the command center.

  He spent several hours with Zander, Sydowski, and then Bowman, who choppered in from the command post. The investigators revealed every aspect of the case to him in preparation for “examining the subject,” as Larson insisted on putting it.

  Then he worked with Doug Baker and his lawyer, Maleena Crow, explaining the process of preparing Doug for “a polygraph examination”.

  “As you likely know, in most jurisdictions, the results of the examination are inadmissible in court.” Larson brushed a fly from his face while familiarizing Doug with his machine.

  It would use instruments connected near Doug’s heart and fingertips to measure electronically respiratory activity, galvanic skin reflex, blood, pulse rate, breathing and perspiration. It would record the responses on a moving chart as he answered questions.

  “I’ll be the one asking the questions and analyzing the results,” Larson said. “Upon completion, I will give the investigators one of three possible answers: “The subject is truthful, untruthful, or the results are inconclusive.”

  Larson had given this prep-talk a thousand times.

  “I know you will be very nervous, I am fully aware of that and expect you to be.” Larson, smiled, showing baby-sized teeth. Larson made notes with an elegant fountain pen as he conducted a pretest interview, then discussed pretest questions with Doug.

  About an hour later, Larson very expertly sea
ted Doug in the most comfortable chair available, then connected Doug to the instrumentation of his machine. He made a point of sharing how he personally enjoyed the Factfinder model of polygraph.

  The examination began casually with routine establishing questions. Zander, Sydowski, Thornton, Crow, and Bowman were present but sat behind Doug. Larson repeatedly went over various areas as the ink needles scratched the graph paper.

  “Why have you agreed to the examination, sir?”

  “So you will know what I am guilty of.”

  “What are you guilty of?”

  “Forcing my daughter to run away, to become lost.”

  “Did you harm her directly in any way during this trip?”

  What is happening? This examination seems to be eternal. Doug tried concentrating but was slipping into a surreal world. Only a few days ago his family was singing along to rock songs on the CD of their rented SUV as they drove to Glacier National Park. This was going to be the healing trip. The one that brought them together, closer than they had ever been. Emily was going to bury the past and they were going to help her. What happened? Sweet Jesus Fucking Christ. Help me. How did I come to be sitting here, wired to a lie-detector, with the FBI thinking I killed my own child? My only child? Something was forming his throat. Someone was repeating his name.

  “Doug?”

  “Did you harm her directly in any way during this trip?”

  “No.”

  “Are you are an ex-marine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have to be tough?”

  “Yes.”

  Larson’s eyes were fixed on the graph paper.

  “Are you a high school English teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know Cammi Walton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever touch her in any way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it appropriate?”

  “Yes.”

  Larson made tiny indecipherable notations on the graph paper with his fountain pen.

  “Did you strike her?”

  “What?”

  The chart needles tremored.

  Maleena Crow glared at Frank Zander.

  “Doug, did you strike her?”

  “No.”

  Tears were stinging his eyes.

  “Are you are a high school football coach?”

  “Yes.”

  God, he was going round and round with the same questions.

  “Do you yell?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ever lose your temper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever threaten physical violence at home to your wife or daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Were police ever summoned to your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it because of a report of violence?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you physically violent before police arrived at your home?”

  “No.”

  “Did you yell at your daughter during this trip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been violent?”

  “I’ve yelled.”

  “Have you been physically violent?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever struck anyone in anger?”

  “No.”

  A notation.

  “Did you hurt your hand chopping wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you bleed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you right-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your daughter present when you injured your hand chopping wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you harm her with the ax?”

  “No.”

  “Was you wife present?”

  “No.”

  More notations and a pause.

  “Who harmed your daughter?”

  “I don’t know that she is harmed.”

  “Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?”

  Doug did not answer. Paige, running to where Emily was--the last image.

  “I sent her to you.”

  Five seconds passed. The needles scratched. Ten seconds. Larson watching the graph, repeating.

  “Do you believe your wife could have harmed your daughter?”

  “No, she loves her.”

  “Do you know who Isaiah Hood is?”

  What? Doug was puzzled. “Yes, the guy who is going to be executed.”

  The needles swiped the page.

  “Does your wife have a sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know her sister was dead?”

  What? What did he say? Jesus. What?

  The needles swayed wildly.

  “Did you know her sister was dead?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know your wife was present with Isaiah Hood when her sister was killed?”

  What? The needles lurched wildly.

  Doug turning white with fear and rage. Standing, he ripped the polygraph instrumentation from his body. Larson was urging, “please sit down!” Doug turned and confronted Zander. The other investigators rose defensively. Doug eyed their sidearms.

  He did nothing. Stood there. Feeling the earth shifting under his feet. Heartbroken. Defeated. Unshaven. His hair wild. He looked every bit the man suspected of hacking his daughter to death with an ax.

  FORTY-SIX

  Respect and revulsion were twin internal forces Tom Reed battled whenever he conducted death row interviews.

  From San Quentin near San Francisco, to St. Catherine District Prison, a seventeenth-century nightmare near Kingston, Jamaica, to Ellis One, a criminal warehouse rising from the snake-infested swamps northeast of Huntsville, Texas, he had wrestled both emotions when he talked with killers.

  Respect--because he was looking into the eyes of a person who knew the date of their death, sometimes within days of their conversation. One guy, a cop killer from Lufkin, Texas, had sent him a letter postmarked the day of his execution. Reed got it a few days later. It was like a voice from the grave: “Thanks for your interest in my sorry life, Tom.” Reed had tacked it up at his newsroom cubicle, not as a trophy but as a personal reminder of something he struggled to understand. He actually liked a few of the killers he interviewed.

  But in most cases, he could switch off any lingering fondness with a good riddance or hallelujah because of his revulsion. Because the others were evil, mother-fucking, stone-cold, remorseless, degenerate, defective dangerous attempts at human beings who needed to be dispatched back to the factory.

  Reed never lost sight of the pain, the sorrow, the soul-destroying result of their presence on earth. They added nothing of value to this world. Nothing but cemetery headstones.

  Isaiah Hood had fallen into that category, a psychotic cold-blooded bottom-feeder who threw a little girl off of a mountain in front of her sister. He deserved death.

  Or so Reed thought up until a few minutes ago.

  Now his guilt no longer seemed so absolute.

  Driving to Montana State Prison, Reed supported Cohen’s strong case for reasonable doubt over the circumstances of Rachel Ross’s death. The elements swirled. Only two witnesses to the murder of the five-year-old daughter of a respected, church-going, ranch family. Her thirteen-year-old sister and Hood, the mentally disturbed child of an abusive hermit monster.

  In her letters, Emily acknowledges “feeling guilty.” Her mother takes her on the run, changing their names. Her aunt tells Molly, “She’s undergoing counseling for the death of a child.”

  Why?

  Because she’s guilty and knows an innocent man will die? Why do Emily and Doug Baker come to the mountains at the time of Hood’s execution? Why do they hike to the region of Emily’s sister’s death? Reed felt a shiver vibrate up his spine.

  Better call the desk. En route to the prison, he grabbed his cell phone and punched the direct line of Zeke Canter, metro editor of the San Francisc
o Star, who picked up on the first ring.

  “Canter”

  “It’s Reed.”

  “Nice of you to check in, Tom. AP moved a story this morning, quoting sources saying that the FBI is finding evidence and looking hard at Dad. Enlighten me on what you know. Hold on. Violet’s here; you’re going on speaker.”

  Reed pulled over. Within a few intense minutes, he informed his editors of what he had. They agreed. No matter how you looked at it, Cohen had presented a compelling case of reasonable doubt. Anticipating a huge story, they had dispatched Molly Wilson and a Star photographer to Montana. Reed resumed driving. He was nearing the turnoff for the prison.

  “You wanted me to tell you a story about Isaiah Hood, Violet. Looks like you’re getting one.”

  As the prison loomed before the mountains, Canter came on.

  “Tom, we’ve got some time. I want you to back this up with Cohen’s stuff from the county attorney. Fax us a copy, maybe graphics can do something with it. And confront the FBI in Glacier for reaction. Grab Molly in Glacier to help out with anything, like calls to the governor.”

  Reed pulled into the prison parking lot, where David Cohen was waiting.

  Isaiah Hood sat on his bed, staring at his poster of the Rocky Mountains. He had spoken with his lawyer on the phone earlier that morning. He knew about the governor’s refusal to intervene, about the old records from the county attorney’s office Cohen had just obtained. About the interview with the reporter.

  Hood was tired. Tired of paying for sins that were not his. Hell, he was a sin--a living, breathing mistake. And he had paid for that all of his life. Now, that had got to count for something. He had paid his debt. Now I’m owed. It was time to put him back, return him to the place where he was free.

  The mountains.

  Whatever it took, he would return.

  It would happen.

  God owed him.

  Because one way or another, he was leaving this place tomorrow.

  Hood almost smiled.

  At the central desk with the console, where the guards on death row watch the security video cameras, one of the guards nudged a colleague.

  “Look. Hood’s going into one of his trances.”

  Both men stared at Camera 8, the one trained on the interior of Hood’s cell. He was sitting on his cot, arms outstretched toward his poster of the Rockies. Fists clenched as if gripping something unseen. Eyes closed. Frozen.