Authors: Rick Mofina
44
Lancaster, Texas
H
olding Cassie in her arms, Jenna remained subdued and took a few steps toward Kate.
“Do you have news about Caleb?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“How did you know we were here?”
“We didn’t.” Kate turned toward Mark Danson, the photographer who was approaching from shooting pictures across the street. “We came this morning for a feature on your neighborhood. You’d told me that you hadn’t been back here since everything happened.”
Blake’s face hardened at Kate’s presence, then he glanced at Jenna.
Danson arrived and upon reading the situation stood behind Kate, saying and doing nothing as the tension mounted.
It became unbearable until Kate spoke to break it. “We were down the street when I saw you here. Jenna, I’m so sorry about everything, about Caleb, your home, about what you said to me at the motel yesterday—it all went down so fast.”
Blake shook his head in slow disappointment.
“She’s just like the FBI, Jen.” Blake resumed picking through what remained of their house. “They’re not your friends. You can’t expect them to call you with information about our baby because it’s all a one-way street with them. They’re just doing their jobs. It’s what they get paid for.”
“It’s not like that, Blake,” Kate said. “Yes, I’m a reporter but I’m a parent, too. And I’ve lost—I lost someone close to me. I care more than you think, and I’m doing all I can to make sure
everyone
cares, so you can find Caleb. I don’t expect you to believe it, but it’s true and I want you to know that.”
Jenna stared at her, then set Cassie down. A strand of Jenna’s hair curtained over her face and she pushed it back.
“I know you care,” Jenna said. “I knew it when you found Caleb’s romper at the shelter. Because if you hadn’t done that—” her voice weakened “—we wouldn’t know anything. But I have a right to be angry. You let me down.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate said softly.
Jenna nodded.
After letting a moment pass, Kate said, “Will you talk to me a little bit for a story today?”
Blake looked at Kate then at his wife, who’d mournfully scanned the devastation while holding Caleb’s rattle in her hand.
“I keep thinking how I had his stroller. I was holding him but I let go.”
Blake went to her, took her shoulders. “Don’t do this, Jen. Don’t beat yourself up.” Blake shot an accusatory glance at Kate.
But Jenna maintained her composure and continued. “There’s only one thing I’ll say. Our home can be rebuilt but our lives can’t, not until we find our baby. And I beg the people who have him to please give him back to me.”
Kate wrote it down and, noticing the baby’s rattle, asked, “Is that Caleb’s?”
“Yes. Cassie found it here.”
Jenna looked at it before pressing it to her lips.
At that moment Kate heard Danson’s camera and knew that he had a compelling news picture: Jenna Cooper cherishing her missing baby’s toy while standing among the ruins of her home.
45
Dallas, Texas
“T
hat’s the one.”
Mark Danson was previewing his photos while he and Kate sat in his Jeep before leaving the Coopers’ flattened neighborhood in Lancaster. He angled his camera to show her his favorite frame.
“It’s an emotional image,” he said. “What do you think?”
There was Jenna Cooper standing among the ruins of her home cherishing her missing baby’s toy rattle.
“Yes, it’s strong,” Kate said.
Danson started the motor and, as they made their way to the expressway, he sensed Kate was still shaky from talking with Jenna Cooper.
“You were good back there,” he said.
“What d’you mean?”
“How you got the mother to talk when she was clearly pissed at you over the motel business. It was a good act.”
“‘A good act.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Come on. In this business we gotta say or do whatever it takes to get what we need. Her husband was right, covering tragedies the way we do is part of our job.”
“Pretending to care isn’t how I do things.”
“It’s the name of the game, come on.”
“God, Mark. Do you really think I’m
that
callous?”
Danson shrugged and switched on the radio, tuning it to a country station. Kate turned to the window, retreated into her thoughts and confronted the truth.
Danson may be an oaf, but he was partly right. Covering tragedies involved invading and exploiting the privacy of people at the most painful times of their lives, and Kate hated doing it. She always reached inside herself to be as honest, compassionate and professional as possible.
But Jenna Cooper’s case was one of the most agonizing she’d ever reported on. Look at all Jenna had suffered: her baby’s missing, her home’s gone. How much more was that poor woman supposed to endure? And even more heartbreaking was Jenna’s belief that she was to blame.
As the city flowed by, her words echoed:
I was holding him but I let him go. It’s my fault that I lost him.
That’s why for Kate this was more than a news story. Not because so much was riding on her internship with Newslead—it cut deeper, forcing her to face her own guilt over her little sister...pulling her back years to the accident when she’d gripped Vanessa’s hand
....
...the cold numbing her fingers, felt them loosening, unable to hang on...until Vanessa slipped away...
I let her go.
It also forced Kate to face her guilt about her daughter.
She looked at her phone and traced her fingers over Grace’s sweet face on the screen. Oh God, how she missed her. She was horrible for leaving her.
I’m so sorry
. But there were no jobs for her in Ohio. They’d run out of money and options.
Kate didn’t know what the future held for them. She was giving this story all she had but it was taking a toll. She was exhausted and filled with remorse for thinking of herself. She accepted something she’d known since her first days as a reporter: when you covered tragedies, a piece of you died inside.
* * *
Not long after Kate had returned to the near-empty newsroom and started working on her story, Tommy Koop materialized at her desk.
“Hey, Tommy, where is everybody?”
He glanced around. “Chuck’s out. Dorothea’s running things for today. Be very careful.”
“Why?”
Tommy leaned in and dropped his voice. “She’s taken a few extra spoons of bitch in her coffee today.”
As Kate nodded her thanks for the warning, Dorothea summoned her to her office.
The news editor was at her desk, eyes on her monitor, eyebrows raised as she stared at the updated news budget list.
“I’m reading your slug line regarding today’s story.” She turned to Kate. “Is this the best you’ve got?”
“Yes. They’ve just discovered they’ve lost their home while they continue to agonize about their missing baby.”
“It’s tragic but a bit soft.”
“It’s not soft. And it’s exclusive. Did you see Mark Danson’s photos? They’re good.”
“Not yet. Couldn’t you find anything newsier, harder?”
“I contacted every source and official connected to the story—there’s nothing new so far.”
“What about the FBI? Any leads after the motel, any more new tips in their search for their persons of interest?”
“Nothing, they’re still processing the motel room. They’ve told me nothing so far.”
Dorothea’s eyebrows climbed a little more and she turned back to her monitor.
“Fine, we’ll have to go with this,” she said. “I don’t really need to remind you that the time on the internship is winding down. In a few more days, Chuck and I will have to make a decision on the successful candidate.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Mandy and Roy will be assigned to help with coverage of the President’s visit. I’m sure we’ll find something for you.”
“But I thought Chuck wanted me to stay on this story to its conclusion?”
“Yes, that’s something I’ll discuss with him when he gets back from his meeting. That’ll be all, Kate, thanks.”
46
Shreveport, Louisiana
E
d Bascom sat on a bench in the park across the street from the Beau Soleil West Medical Center, as his subject had instructed him to do.
Her name was Jan Marie Cross and she was a nurse at the hospital.
Bascom was confident she would tell him what he needed to know for his client Hedda Knight in Chicago.
I sure as hell hope so
.
The adoption lawyer had been pathologically demanding with her relentless texts and calls for him to confirm that Remy Toxton had delivered the baby and to locate the child.
“Offer people money, Ed. I don’t care how you do it, just do it!”
Since the earlier information he’d obtained about Arkansas dead-ended, Bascom had gone full tilt on the case. He’d returned to Lufkin, Texas, and Remy’s neighborhood for more door-knocking, finding a neighbor he’d missed the first time.
Ned Weller, a retired electrician, had been walking his dog when he saw paramedics with All Aid Ambulance Service take a young woman from the house in the night. No siren or lights, so few people would’ve noticed. Ned was good with time and dates because he’d always walked Rider, his retriever, after
Letterman
and that night Clooney was his guest.
As all private investigators know, medical information is confidential and there are laws against obtaining medical history or records. Bascom acknowledged that when he went to All Aid’s office and worked a ruse to find out where their ambulance had taken Remy and about her condition.
He claimed to be her estranged dad; that Remy’s mother had a terminal condition and he needed to learn more about their daughter’s, and possibly their grandchild’s, situation before his wife died, and how he was praying people could find it in their heart to help him.
“Oh no, that is so sad.” The assistant at the office blinked fast when Bascom showed an old picture of himself with his wife and daughter, saying it was Remy.
The assistant had then gone into the database, reviewed the call then put Bascom in touch with the two paramedics who’d transported, his “daughter,” out of state. “You should talk to them,” she said, scrawling numbers on a slip of paper. “Give it a moment. I’ll call them first and explain.”
Bascom’s success with the assistant led him to Don Dunlap, one of the paramedics, who was not as easily moved by Bascom’s story. In fact, Dunlap was reluctant to help. But, after Bascom suggested he would consider compensating him for his time, Dunlap agreed to meet him privately the next evening at his son’s baseball practice.
Dunlap was nervous at the ballpark. “Look,” he said. “How do I know you’re her estranged father? Talking about a patient is risky for me.”
“I understand. She’s got a boyfriend, Mason,” Bascom said. “He may have been with her at the time. He’s an ex-convict. We’re worried. Remy’s mother is terminal and we’ve got a lot of pain in our lives to make up for. And if Remy’s got a baby now, well, maybe my wife can pass knowing that we’ve made a new start, you know?”
Bascom looked off to the laughing children playing on the diamond.
Dunlap looked down, kicking gently at gravel as he thought.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t tell you much and I’m not giving you any paper.”
“Any help would be appreciated.”
“Before I left work today I looked at my patient chart for that trip. She was having trouble breathing, which can happen in the third trimester. She was not bleeding and the fetal tone was fine. But the mother’s vitals were a little off. She was having some pain. We got her on oxygen, stabilized her. We transported her to hospital—that’s really all I can tell you.”
“Wait, where? What hospital?”
“Out of state. We were advised to take her to Shreveport, to the Beau Soleil West Medical Center. It’s a faith-based nonprofit, might’ve had a connection to her boyfriend’s employer. I think he’s a carpenter.”
Bascom thanked Dunlap and offered him cash, which he rejected.
“I changed my mind about that. My old man walked out on us when I was a kid and never tried to reach me the way you’re doing. It just got me thinking.”
Bascom looked at him, nodded and turned to leave.
“Another thing,” Dunlap said. “I figure you’re going to Louisiana to learn more.”
“I am.”
“One of the names we had for the hospital was Jan Marie Cross. You might want to start with her. She was a nurse with the team treating Remy when we delivered her there.”
“Thank you. May I ask one more favor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Would you mind letting her know, confidentially of course, as a kind of follow-up, about my family concern about Remy? Sort of let her know I’m on my way to Shreveport and need help?”
Bascom gave Dunlap his cell phone number.
“If it helps bring a family together,” Dunlap said, “I’ll consider it.”
Bascom’s work on Dunlap resulted in him having several heartfelt telephone conversations with Jan Marie Cross, a nurse at the Beau Soleil West Medical Center hospital.
With each call Bascom opened up about how things went wrong for him and his wife and their relationship with their daughter, Remy. Eventually Cross opened up about being a single mom and her teenage son’s online gambling problem and how he ran up three thousand dollars in debt on her credit card. Money she did not have. Bascom said he would give her the money for her peace of mind if she could help him with his.
That’s when Cross, who’d been extremely nervous about breaching patient confidentiality, agreed.
“You sound like a kind man,” she said. “There’s a park across the street from the hospital. Meet me there.”
So now here he was, waiting.
Bascom had followed Cross’s instructions to meet her at this time, at this bench, and to be reading a copy of the
Shreveport Times.
Five minutes passed, then ten.
He knew how uneasy Cross was and how it was always a roll of the dice dealing with people in these situations. He’d gone to a bank and obtained three thousand dollars in cash from the account Hedda had established for the case.
Still, anything could happen.
While waiting at the bench, Bascom surveyed the area, noticed an older couple in the distance strolling along the grass, then a man with an eReader, before he saw a woman in her mid-forties coming toward him from the hospital. She was wearing blue scrubs, just as Cross described.
She had a plain face that was taut with concern.
“Ed?” she said.
“Yes. Jan?”
“Yes.”
Bascom set his paper aside for her to sit next to him, but she declined.
“I can’t stay long. I debated about coming.”
“I know.”
“It’s become complicated. I felt I had to see you, since you’d come this far.” She cupped her hands over her face. “I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought it over and I just can’t do anything to jeopardize my job. I’m sorry.”
“Even after everything I told you about my wife and daughter, don’t you think we have a right to know? We’re family.”
“You’re not listed in her records. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose my job.”
Taken aback by her change of heart, Bascom reached into his jacket pocket for the envelope.
“I understand. Still, let me help you, Jan.”
She looked at the envelope, thick with cash.
“No, please,” she said. “I can’t”
Bascom continued holding out the envelope.
“All I can tell you, Ed, is that she was brought to us. She was stable and the baby’s heartbeat was stable, when she first arrived.”
“Then what happened? Did she have the baby? Where did they go? Did they leave any—”
“No. Please. I can’t tell you anything more. And what you’ve got, you got from the paramedics. I have to respect patient confidentiality. I’m so sorry—please forgive me.”
She turned and hurried back to the hospital.
After she was gone from view, Bascom sat there for a long moment before returning the envelope to his pocket in defeat.
He stared at his phone for several minutes as he tried to sort out how he would update Hedda. He’d tell her that Remy came to Shreveport to have the baby and so far, the trail ends here.
Soft breezes tumbled along the park, crackling the pages of his newspaper in an attempt to carry it off. Bascom grabbed it.
His attention went to a story on one of the inside pages.
It was out of Dallas and concerned a baby missing since the tornadoes hit. It highlighted how the FBI was searching for two persons of interest in the case and it was accompanied with sketches of what they might look like. They had no names and few other details.
At first, Bascom thought that the woman resembled Remy.
That couldn’t be, though.
They were from Lufkin and she’d come here to have the baby.
It’s highly unlikely,
he thought, before he called Hedda. Still, to be on the safe side, he’d mention it to her.