Cold Fear (27 page)

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 seated 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 had 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
Francisco 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.

“Creepy, huh?” said the younger of the two.

The old one nodded, blinking.

“After his interview, we move him into the death cell
and he goes on deathwatch. Then that will be the end of it.”

“What do you make of him saying he didn’t kill that
girl?”

“I don’t. And you shouldn’t either.”

The intercom buzzed.

“The lawyer and reporter are here. Move Hood to the
visitor’s room.”

Waiting in the small visitor’s room on death row, Cohen
and Reed did not speak. They watched the muted TV news. There appeared to be
nothing significant in Paige Baker’s case, Reed thought, playing absentmindedly
with his small tape recorder. They heard the approach of Hood’s chains. The
door opened to Hood, in his orange jumpsuit, prison sandals and shackles.

“You got twenty minutes,” said one of the guards.

“I was told we had an hour,” Cohen protested.

“Twenty minutes because he’s got to be processed.”

Reed shook Hood’s hand, flipped on his tape recorder.

Hood sat down, his chains knocking on the veneer
tabletop, looking coldly at Reed, who met his gaze.

“Isaiah, are you innocent of the murder of Rachel Ross?”

Hood looked into Reed’s eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

“Who killed her?”

“No one.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was an accident.”

“An accident?”

Hood looked at Cohen, then back at Reed.

“I was out there that day, minding my own business when
they came to me. The little girls were playing some game. Chasing birds or
butterflies with some little girl camp. They run from the forest and I said,
“Be careful.” But they laughed at me, saying they’re playing some game. Called
me names.”

“What sort of names?”

“Like I’m trash, and they’re not supposed to play with
me, I mean, all over town, me and my family was the joke of the county. They
were the proper little girls of ranchers, bankers, merchants. I told them to be
careful near that ledge. They never stopped playing and the little one slipped
to the lower ledge there. Got herself dazed and I jumped down to get her, and
her sister’s screaming at me to stay away, she’s going to help her sister up.
But I see the little one’s stunned, crawling in the wrong direction towards the
ledge. This ain’t no part of the game. She goes over the ledge; the big
sister’s got her by the hand and I reach over to help, but it’s too late. She’s
gone over. She’s dangling for a bit. The big sister’s got her hand but not
good. She falls, almost taking the big sister with her. I pulled her up and the
big sister runs off screaming I did it. Whole thing happened in less than a
minute.”

“Why would she accuse you if it was an accident?”

“Because they hated me. The whole town hated the Hoods.
Never, ever thought I would be capable of trying to help. Regarded me as
trash.”

“Why didn’t you explain this to police and the county
attorney?”

“I did. They didn’t believe me. They kept me awake for
nearly two days until I confessed. That’s what they wanted. Later, my lawyer
says the judge will believe me and toss the confession, but it didn’t work out
that way.”

Reed said nothing.

“Why?” Hood’s eyes were shining, pleading.

Reed searched them.

“I’d like to know why she put me here.” Hood stared at
the walls. “The shrinks tested me. They should test her. She’s the one with
mental problems.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t reveal this
twenty-two years ago.”

“You deaf? I did tell them. They wouldn’t believe me.
They made me confess. Said it was no accident. Started asking how my mother had
died years ago. Would not let me sleep. Had me bawling to the point I didn’t
know the truth. Where you woulda confessed to anything. Now look at what’s
happened! And they want to execute me!”

In the time they had left, Reed went over Hood’s version
with him. Cohen did not interfere. Hood seemed to have an answer or explanation
for every aspect.

A guard appeared.

“Sorry, time is up. Mr. Cohen you can stay a bit with
your client.”

“Tom,” Cohen said, extending his hand. “We’ll talk in
about an hour?”

“Sure.” Then to Hood. “Thank you Isaiah.”

Hood said nothing, but nodded. Then the guard led Reed
from death row through the prison’s inner yard toward the main gate. It was one
of the older guards, a friendly-faced, silver-haired veteran who probably knew
as much about inmates as there was to know. During the short walk between death
row and the prison’s main gate, the guard and Reed looked to the mountains.

“Mr. Reed, it’s not my place, but I’m going to say this
anyway.”

“Say what?”

“At this stage of the game, that fella you just talked
to is liable to tell you just about anything and hope you’ll believe it.”

Reed knew that. He also knew that folded in his rear
pocket was a copy of the report on Emily’s confessional letters from the county
attorney’s office. So it did not matter if what Hood said was true or not.

Reed had a helluva story.