Cold Fear (32 page)

FIFTY-SEVEN

The chief
pressman of the
San
Francisco Star
and his crew were hard at work in the massive basement of
the
Star
building in downtown San Francisco.

They were testing ink, aligning newsprint, readying the
Star’s
twenty-five-ton Metroliner presses to roll the paper’s second edition, which
would consist of some 310, 000 copies destined for subscribers in the city and
in the Greater Bay Area.

The story by Tom Reed and Molly Wilson was a front-page
wallop, lined under the paper’s flag, above the fold, across six columns. A
copyrighted exclusive. Even before ink stained newsprint of the first paper, it
set off a chain of events that would cause the nation to question their
outpouring of sympathy for Emily and Doug Baker.

Just after 1:00 A.M. Pacific Standard Time, the
San
Francisco Star
released its final summary list of forthcoming front-page
stories to the Associated Press wire service. At APs’ world headquarters in Manhattan, the national night editor read the short sentence summarizing the Reed-Wilson
article. “Condemned killer’s lawyer claims proof missing girl’s mother is child
killer.” The editor picked up her phone to make a call when an incoming line
rang. The
New York Times
Internet night editor demanded the Star’s
story; that call was followed immediately by the
Washington Post
, then
CNN and CNBC. Others were coming in. The AP editor implored the Star’s night
desk to move the entire story on the AP wire. The Star was reluctant but agreed
to release a 250-word summary of the article on its Internet site by 3:00 A.M.
PST and a full version by 4:00 A.M. PST.

“The demand is intense,” said the AP editor, mindful of
the paper’s right to protect exclusive enterprise work. She reasoned that AP
could quickly grab a damp copy from the Star’s San Francisco loading docks.

The paper gave the wire its full story with the
understanding that it would not release it until well beyond the deadline of
the
Star’s
California newspaper competitors.

The AP then issued a wire service alert that went to
virtually every subscribing newsroom in the Unites States and on most of the
planet. Thirty-six minutes later, it moved the article. Just before 5:00 A.M.
Eastern Standard Time, large news radio networks were rewriting the AP item and
reading it on the air, crediting the
San Francisco Star
. The same was
happening with Internet news groups and 24-hour TV news operations around the
world, which aired footage of “the drama in the Rocky Mountains,” the Bakers’
news conference, still photographs of Isaiah Hood, Montana State Prison, the
execution chamber gurney. By 5:00 A.M. in New York, the staff at network news
breakfast shows were flipping through Rolodexes, waking professors, lawyers,
authors, victims’ rights advocates, experts on the topics of “mothers/fathers
who kill”; “wrongful convictions”; “fragile justice system”; “anti-death
penalty”; “halting executions”; “political fallout of wrong decisions”;
“compensating the innocent”; “media distortion”; “re-opening and prosecuting
old cases.”

By the time most Americans awoke, they not only knew
what the Bakers were accused of, but
if guilty
, why they likely did it;
how they likely did it; what led the FBI to think they likely did it; why poor
Isaiah Hood was likely innocent; why people should consider, sadly, that
ten-year-old Paige Baker was likely dead; how this case illustrates “precisely
what is wrong with our flawed justice system”; the “American media machine”;
“the stresses on urban families”; and the “state of California.” Throughout the
morning, every network news producer was screaming at their staff, “Why we
can’t we get Hood’s godamn lawyer on the godamn air?”

By 7:00 A.M. California time, the first “flowers of
remembrance” for Paige Baker were delivered anonymously to the doorstep of her
family home in the Richmond District.

FIFTY-EIGHT

FBI Special Agent
Frank Zander took
another swallow of his black coffee. He needed to concentrate on what Agent Rob
Clovis was telling the task force members gathered at the command center office
in the predawn.

Clovis
was a gravel-voiced
technical wizard from the FBI’s Evidence Response Team in San Francisco, which
had responded to the call-out for Glacier. He’d flown in last night with remote
video camera equipment to assist Bill Horn’s team in the search for Paige
Baker’s corpse deep in the crevasses among the cliffs of Sector 23. Clovis
was completely bald and had the sober intensity of an engineering professor who
realized he was talking over the heads of his students.

“It’s one of the most advanced remote fiber-optic camera
systems in the world,” Clovis said. “It’s still under development by a company
in Silicon Valley. They worked nonstop adapting this system for us to probe the
crevasse. That’s why it took a little time to get it here. We wanted to set up
last night but the snow and high winds grounded us. It’s clear this morning.”

The air was a mingling of cologne, mouthwash, perfumed
hotel shampoo and coffee as Clovis directed his technical team to set up what
looked like laptop computers and high-tech electrical equipment on the tables
of the cramped room.

“How does it all work, Rob? Run that by me again. In
English,” Lloyd Turner asked.

Clovis
set his coffee down.

“We’ve got just over two thousand feet of hybrid cable
not much bigger in diameter than, say, a yo-yo string.” He held his thumb and
forefinger nearly touching. “We have a miniature remote video camera and
high-intensity light attached to the end of the cable. The cable is connected
to a control panel so we can direct the camera. The images it captures are
carried by the cable to a color monitor, like a TV screen.”

Turner was nodding.

“Think of it as the same principal used in microsurgery.
Or what cities use to inspect sewer systems for damage to avert expensive
exploratory excavation. But we’re going to do something a little different.”

Clovis
nodded to the room’s
large TV monitor.

“We’re going to transmit our probing of the crevasse to you
live, in real time. The company boosted the signal strength for the cable and
customized the satellite transmitter and receiver.”

“You’re going to bounce the images off a series of
satellites from the crevasse to our monitor here in the command center?” Zander
said.

“Correct. Following some of the principals NASA uses for
sending signals for its missions. You will see what the camera sees after a
two-or three-second delay. We’ll transmit narration from the crevasses about
depth and conditions.”

Zander looked at the other members. All seemed
impressed. He had one concern. “Isn’t there a risk of TV people with their
satellite gear intercepting the images?”

Bowman shuddered at the thought.

Clovis
shook his head. “Our
signal is encrypted.”

The radio clipped to Clovis’s wrist came to life.

“Chopper’s loaded and ready, Rob.”

“Roger.” Clovis nodded to the others and grabbed a small
case of equipment. “That’s our ride.”

On his way out of the task force room, Clovis had to
shuffle past Nora Lam, who was on her way in. Her face was grave as she studied
the agents, slamming her files and clipboard on one of the tables.

“Did anybody have any warning this story by the
San
Francisco Star
was coming? My phone has not stopped ringing.”

“Tom Reed was here,” Zander began, halted by Lam’s hand
as she interrupted to answer her trilling cell phone for a short, terse call.

“That was the Office of the Attorney General in Washington,” Lam said. “They want to know if you intend to charge somebody soon. This
appears to them to be a slam dunk. And I’ve got Maleena Crow demanding you
release Doug Baker.”

“Well we need to wait for--” Zander was cut off again.

“And the governor’s office in Helena has been calling
since the story broke this morning demanding to know what the hell is going on.
Isaiah Hood’s execution is set for midnight tonight.”

Zander sat down, steepling his fingers in front of his
face.

Lam sat down next to him.

“Frank, this case has suddenly become the top file in
the nation and these are the facts: the clock is ticking down on an execution
directly related to your investigation; nobody wants to confront the fact that
Hood may be innocent; Washington is demanding a resolution fast. We’ve got a
governor who’s frantic over Hood, over this whole thing. You have to assure people
the FBI is in control of this file and not the other way around.”

“I’ve heard enough, Ms. Lam,” Zander snapped. “I am
aware of the stakes here. Our priority is our investigation, not politics,
and
not public opinion. It is also not my concern to clean up any wrongful
convictions rendered by the State of Montana. If the governor has doubts, they
are his to deal with.” Zander’s heart rate was increasing in time with the
distant thumping of an approaching chopper. “If we laid charges now, it could
all crumble to dust in our faces.”

Lam’s face flushed as she nodded.

“The crevasse should do it,” Zander said. “We’re close,
very close.”

The helicopter was nearing. Zander stood. It was time
for him to leave with Bowman to get Emily Baker at the command post.

“One way or another, we’ll be resolving this case,” he
said. “But we’ll need a few hours.”

Zander and Bowman left, just as Lam’s cell phone trilled
again.

FIFTY-NINE

Emily Baker
awoke. Or maybe she
didn’t. She was not sure she had even slept.

The snow had long since vanished. Warmer breezes were
caressing her tent. Dawn was breaking. Her body ached as the horror of her
daughter’s disappearance came sharply into focus, engulfing her.

She heard low radio transmissions of searchers getting
their assignments from rangers at the command post search table. How many hours
Paige had been lost in the wilderness? Emily’s thoughts veered to images of her
little sister’s casket.

No. Please.
She had to be
strong for Paige. Today could be the day something good would happen. Something
to awake her from the nightmare.

Emily stepped slowly from her tent into the morning
light under the watchful eyes of FBI agents and rangers. A young FBI agent from
Salt Lake City approached her with a steaming tin cup of coffee.

“Did you get some sleep, Emily?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, accepting the warm cup into
both hands. “Is Doug coming back?”

“They haven’t told us.”

“Is Tracy Bowman at the command post, I don’t see her.”

“No. I think--uhm…” The agent glanced back to the others
at the equipment tables. “They’re searching the northern sectors today.”

“Sure, like they did yesterday. And the day before.”
Emily followed the agent’s attention to the other agents and rangers. “What’s
going on?” she asked and started moving toward the tables.

“I wouldn’t--” the agent said.

“Excuse me.” Emily ignored her.

This morning, it seemed a larger number of agents and
rangers were huddled around the table. Brady Brook was busy studying a map and
talking on his radio to a searcher in a far-off sector. Emily picked up how
others were stealing glimpses at her, over the brims of their coffee cups, from
whispered conversations, diverted ever so subtly from laptop computers or the
small color TV monitors that were flown in--Was it yesterday?--as the search
gathered national news attention.

Their cool glances became stares of icy accusation as
she stood before the table.

“Jesus Christ,” somebody whispered at the realization
Emily was standing before them.

“Has something happened? Did you find Paige? Did you
find something? Please? Anything?”

No one answered.

Their attention had been fastened to the small TVs that
had been tuned to the twenty-four-hour news networks and their reports stemming
from the
San Francisco Star
story.

“What’s going on? Somebody, please, tell me!”

One of the rangers had secured an Internet link through
a satellite phone and had found the
Star’s
Internet site--and the full
story by Tom Reed and Molly Wilson.

“What is it?” Emily’s voice was breaking; she was
inching around the tables in order to see what the others were seeing, reading.
“What’s happened? Did you find her?”

Thunder filled the sky as a helicopter flew by their
ridge, en route to Sector 23. The air was quiet again as Emily’s eyes began
catching the images on one of the TV screens.

“Will someone tell me, please?”

No one wanted to inform her. Another helicopter was
approaching, hovering near the command post. Emily heard snatches of the TV
news reports: “As preparations are made for tonight’s execution of Isaiah Hood,
disturbing evidence has surfaced challenging his guilt; evidence that may
explain the mystery behind the disappearance of ten-year-old Paige Baker….”
That was all she could hear. The noise of the landing helicopter overwhelmed
the TV news report, leaving Emily to stare at the images of her dead sister’s
face, Isaiah Hood, Paige, Doug, the execution chamber at Montana State Prison
and herself at the earlier news conference, in anguish over Paige. The chopper
kicked up the wind; it thumped on Emily’s back as she raised a hand to cover
her mouth.

What was happening?

The others stared at her. She saw the computer laptop,
its large screen displaying the
Star
story on the Internet under the
headline: CONDEMNED MAN CLAIMS PROOF MISSING GIRL’S MOTHER IS A KILLER.

The young ranger, realizing Emily was reading the story,
reached to fold the screen closed. Emily shot out a hand to stop her and
continued to read.

TOM
REED and MOLLY WILSON

THE
SAN FRANCISCO STAR

WEST
GLACIER, Mont--Tonight, the state of Montana will execute Isaiah Hood, who
claims to be innocent of murdering the five-year-old sister of Emily Baker 22
years ago in Glacier National Park.

Hood’s
attorney offered what he said is proof Baker played a role in her sister’s
death. It comes as rangers and FBI agents search for Baker’s 10-year-old
daughter, Paige, who vanished with her beagle, Kobe….

Emily groaned.

“I don’t think you should see anymore.” The ranger
raised her voice over the helicopter’s whirling blades and tried in vain to
close her computer as Emily held the screen up and read…the haunting words from
letters she’d written as a child coming to life, leaping into her soul.

“…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….”

Rachel’s eyes. Falling.

Emily dropped her coffee cup.
Oh God
. Eyes
blurring, heart pounding in time with the helicopter, a roaring in her ears.

She moved from the table.

Someone shouted her name. Inching from the table.
Numbed. Her face in her hands. Dust, pebbles, swirling about her, blocking the
sun, calling her name. She was falling; she was lost until someone, something…a
firm hand on her shoulder. Her name above the fury.

“Emily.”

A woman. A voice she knew.

“Emily, it’s time.”

Bowman. Tracy Bowman.

“It’s time for you to come with us to the command
center. We need to talk.”

Special Agent Frank Zander was standing behind Bowman.