Fatal Encounter, Chapter 9
by Irv Pliskin
R-Rated
No light trickled into the tunnel.
It was as black as the inside of a closed coffin, and except for the fact that Carl could feel the hard, irregular floor beneath him, he thought that he might be dead, and in his grave.
He knew he wasn’t dead, at least not yet. If he was going to survive, he knew, too, that he must do something. He had to move, find a light, something . . . or he could die there and never be found. He could see himself, dying, painfully, and then mummifying as the months and years went by. Probably become a feeding station for small animals, mice, rats until all that was left was stark, white skeleton.
The prospect was suddenly frightening and he shuddered, determined to try to move, if only just a little.
First, he had to orient himself.
The ladder went all the way to the floor. If he could find it, and then stretch in either direction, he might be able to help himself. Although each movement hurt terribly, he stretched out his feet, which had been curled up almost under him, and touched a wall with one foot. He moved his foot to the left, and felt the ladder that was bolted to the wall.
He was now somewhat oriented. The passage into the l0xl0 foot living area was a few feet behind his head. If he could scoot himself on his back, he would be in the living area. That meant that on his right side there was a low shelf with battery-operated Coleman Lantern he had placed there for emergencies. It looked like a table lamp.
He put his hand on the shelf and very slowly moved it along the surface. He touched the light and moved his hand along the base of it. Finally, he found the switch then moved it. The light buzzed for a second, flickered and the neon tubes lit with excruciating brightness. He felt blinded for a moment, and he closed his eyes tightly.
Through his closed lids, he saw the red of the light, and he felt a sense of exaltation. He might die down here, but it wouldn’t be in darkness. He had several battery operated lamps and extra batteries. If he was able to move, he would survive.
He lay on the floor, feeling the surging of pain, and the tingling of his muscles. He tested each leg slowly. They moved. He felt pain along his back, but it was not debilitating. He finally rolled over on his stomach, and then got to his hands and knees. Moving slowly on all fours, he crawled to what he considered his ‘living room’ where he had a bed, and all of the rest of his needs. He crawled laboriously to the low bed and then on to the mattress. That was better. He could lay there for a while, and, hopefully, hopefully the pain might subside. He had aspirin somewhere, but he couldn’t be bothered to look for it now.
The battery-operated Coleman lantern would burn for several hours: possibly six or seven. If he fell asleep though, he would again awaken to the bitter darkness. At no time during the construction, had he realized how dark, how frightfully dark and black the tunnel would be without light. He had used a miner’s helmet, as he worked to build the place, but that was out of reach, and he had never before been in the place with the opening closed and no lights on. The reality of it was frightening.
He found a small flashlight on the shelf alongside his bed, slipped it into his shirt pocket and let himself fall off into a pain-filled, thrashing sleep.
He felt less pain when he woke up. He had no idea how long he had slept, or what time it was. He reached over and pushed the stem of his Timex watch, and the little light came on. It was 4 o'clock. Was it four in the morning, or four in the evening? How long had he slept, he wondered?
The Battery operated Coleman was still burning, but faintly. It would run out of energy soon, the light was very faint, just enough to give him some orientation.
“That fall must have addled my brain,” he said aloud. “Why didn’t I think to push the button on my watch for some light before? It might have helped, but I never thought of it. I wear the Timex because it has the light. I don’t understand why all the fancy watches, like the Patek Phillip and the Rolex don’t incorporate that feature. It would be worth it, I’m certain. But no, the cheap-shit watch, the Timex lights up so you can see the time and get a little light on the subject.” I guess I’m getting back into control, he thought, at least a little.
He felt an overpowering need to pee.
With great care, he moved his legs over the side of the small cot, and found that he could do that without experiencing excruciating discomfort. He stood up, supporting himself with his hand against the wall, and moved to the small chemical toilet in the corner of the room.
He looked down as he got ready to void, and saw that there was some sort of sticky ooze coming from his urethra. “What the hell is that?” he wondered. And then, as he started to urinate, he felt a wave of terrible pain, pain so sharp he almost shouted out loud. It was terrible, searing pain. Almost as severe as the pain he had felt when he fell.
By the time he had finished he was in a cold sweat. He staggered back to his bed...feeling that he and his life were completely and totally out of control. He considered what had happened that he had trouble voiding. And he realized that he had a venereal infection, probably gonorrhea. That blond British bitch had given him the clap. That was reason enough for him to have done her in. If he could, he would kill the slut again. Several times.
Within minutes of the broadcast of the pictures on all of the local television stations, the phones at police headquarters in every one of the neighboring towns started ringing.
Police stations in Mt Pocono, Bushkill, Moscow, Tobyhanna, Pocono Manor were getting frantic calls from local residents.
“Hey, Charlie,” they would say to the police officer whom they generally knew quite well, “that picture on the TV, that looks like a guy called Carl Rogers. Lives up on the mountain in a big log cabin. Rich guy, got two or three cars, I think. You know the house I mean, doncha?”
“The picture looks like Carl,” another local person said, “but he can’t be no killer.”
“As usual, you cops got it wrong, it can’t be him. He’s a really nice guy.”
The same message, in somewhat different words, was repeated and repeated.
“Must be a look alike,” folks were saying.
“I don’t think he has a twin,” someone else said, “but it sure looks like Carl Rogers.”
The local police called the state police and then an immediate call went to Hallen who was at home. He had seen the six o'clock news broadcast with the pictures in it. He had been pleased to see it, feeling certain that he might get some positive results.
Soon after the broadcast, his phone started ringing. The officer on duty at headquarters was calling him to report that he had had a rash of calls, all seemingly identifying the man in the picture.
“I’ll be right there,” Hallen said. The desk officer said that the local police were calling to report that most of the identifiers were saying that there had to be a mistake. This was a man they knew, who had lived in the area without any trouble, not even a parking ticket, for a long time. “Think you better take it slow, Detective. This guy has big bucks, and he ain’t never ever been in no trouble. We better be sure he’s the right guy,” the deskman said. “All the callers say it has to be a mistake.”
“Could be,” Hallen said, “but we have to check it out. Right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Hallen got to the police headquarters in about twenty minutes and walked into his office. He sat down to look at the comments that had been recorded. So many people indicated that this was an upstanding citizen that he began to doubt that he had the right drawing, or the right man. His phone rang, and he picked it up.
“Jerry?”
“Yes boss.”
“Are you sure you got the right guy? Christ I’ve gotten half a dozen calls from police chiefs and sheriffs who tell me he’s a sterling person, gives lots of money to the benevolent association, and is always ready to shell out bucks for any project.”
“One of the guys said he tried to call him to tell him about the news broadcast, but got no answer. That's not so strange he says, the guy seems to travel a lot, and is only around some of the time. I got some calls from other guys who said they never saw him with a woman. They figured he was gay, frankly.”
“I’ve heard much the same thing, Lieutenant, but all I did was publish the picture I had the artist draw of the guy I saw on the airplane. I didn’t say that it was this Rogers guy. Shit, Lieutenant, I don’t know if it is, but I sure have to check it out, don’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I guess so Jerry, but we better dot every I and cross every T. You got me?”
“Yes sir, you know I will.”
It was too late to get warrants from a judge, and they did not even know if they had sufficient reason to break into the man’s house even with a warrant.
Hallen sent a police cruiser out to the location to check it out.
The Statie in the car called back in half an hour:
“Detective,” he said, “This place is dark. There is no one here. I don’t know if anyone has been here all day, or all week. Can’t tell from here.”
“Can you check the garage and see if there are cars in there?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
The cop drove around to the out buildings, and using his flashlight, looked into the garage windows. He got on the cell and called Hallen back.
“Have you any idea of how many cars there are supposed to be here detective?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll have to check with motor registration in the morning. But I think someone told me three.”
“Well, there are three cars here now. There’s a Jag, and two Lincoln Town Cars.”
“That must mean that the man is around. He wouldn't be able to go very far without a car, don’t you think?”
“That's right.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Set up a watch on the house, and then get a couple of cars to go around the area. Let them check every road, look for a guy walking, or something. Be careful, if this is our guy, he could be damn dangerous. I sure don’t want anybody to get hurt looking for this character.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll check it out immediately.”
Hallen was at the stake out at the cabin first thing in the morning, just to see what was going on. They would have the search warrant and the permission from the judge to open the house just after l0 AM, but he didn’t feel frustrated at this early hour. He had a sense that he was closing in on his quarry, and that he was really doing his job.
He pulled up in his unmarked car and got out. When he got out of the car, Sheriff Jefferson, who was the law in a small town nearby got out of his vehicle, too. He had parked down the street from the driveway up to the cabin. Jefferson hiked his pants up, pulled up on his gun belt so it would be more comfortable and walked up to Hallen.
The sheriff, a big, burly man with a watermelon gut that hung over his pistol belt bore the signs of hard living, hard drinking, too. He had a county-wide reputation for being ornery and for hard headedness.
“Been waitin' fer ya, Hallen,” he boomed, “just what the hell do ya think it is yer doing?”
Everyone’s attention turned to Jefferson, and it was apparent that he was irritated and very angry.
Hallen was more than a little taken aback.
“Why? What's your problem, Jefferson?”
"My first problem is that you should respect me and call me by my title," he said sputtering. "You know that. I ain’t just a cop, I’m the sheriff. I’ve been the law in my territory for 23 years and you got no call to call me only by my last name. You got that boy? "
My second problem is that you are god damn wrong about this man. This here investigation is crazy, fucking dumb, you got that? What you are doin’ is an embarrassment to every hard-working pOlice man on the job in this area. You are making a dumb mistake, and I wancha to stop right now and don't go no further.”
“Can ‘t do that, Sheriff, we are going to go ahead with this investigation.”
“Well, you dumb impertinent whippersnapper - you better listen to me. You are like hell goin’ ahead. I’m gonna call the governor and the state police commander on my cell right now, ya hear? I’m gonna tell ‘em both what a dumbass you are, and what a stupid stunt you are pulling. I think you are looking for publicity, that’s all. I warn you now, you go on with this, I'm gonna have your badge pulled."
"What's with you, Sheriff? Why the hell do you have your balls in an uproar?"
"I know this Rogers guy, personal. He’s a good guy. Always gives a couple of grand to my Benevolent Association, every year. And I wancha to stop this here witch hunt right now. You are wrong. You don’t have a shred of evidence that Rogers done anything like what you said.”
Hallen starred at him, speechless.
“Where the fuck did you get that there picture, anyway? From some snitch with an ax to grind, I’ll bet.”
Hallen found it hard to control himself. He didn’t tell Jefferson that he had been the person who gave the sketch artist the information. Let the big dumb bastard stew in his own juice, he thought.
“You better make those calls now, Sheriff. But when the warrants arrive in about ten minutes, I’m going ahead with my investigation, regardless of what you think or say.”
He turned on his heels and walked away.
The warrants arrived a few minutes later, and Hallen started to the door with them in hand. He could hear Jefferson raising his voice on the phone, decidedly angry.
He stopped to eavesdrop.
“Listen, I don’t care that you’re the freakin' state police supervisor.” Jefferson was screaming. “I wancha to stop this crazy cop, Hallen, from embarrassin' the force with what he’s doin’...What, what that’s you said? You can’t talk to me like that. I’m the sheriff...I’m gonna call the govenour, he’s gonna get an earful and your sorry ass is going to be in a crack, along with that jerk, Hallen. You guys are just trying to get publicity, that’s what you’re doin'. What is it, appropriation time?"
Hallen smiled. He had been confident that his commissioner, a real pro who had been on the job for almost 40 years would back him up. He apparently had.
Hallen heard the sheriff sputter and then Jefferson’s car door slammed, and he moved down the road, burning rubber.
Hallen and Barney Billings, another inspector called BB for obvious reasons, walked up to the door of the log cabin.
“What’s with Jefferson? What the hell is that all about?” BB asked.
“Beats the shit outta me," Hallen said. "He has always had a wild hair up his ass, and I guess he knows the guy we’re looking for and wants to protect him for some reason. He said that Rogers always gives money to his Benevolent fund...probably to him directly and in cash so it doesn't show up anywhere. That’d be my guess."
“Well, you might be right, Jerry. You might just be right.”
They stood to the side of the door, in the proscribed fashion for entering a premises where someone might fire a gun through the door and Hallen pushed the door bell. They could hear it ring loudly inside.
Nothing happened.
He pushed he bell again. Still nothing.
He and Billings had a short talk, and they decided that rather than break the door down, they would call the department lock expert and see if he could open the locks.
The locksmith arrived an hour later, during which time the officers checked the building perimeter, and the out buildings, which were locked as well. They got a very good view of the premises, a strong sense of what was around the place.
Sammy Schisel, the locksmith, checked the front door, and then the back. He walked up to Hallen. “Detective those are very good locks. Probably the best ever made. They cost a fortune. They are called Locknetics, and they're made by the Ingersol Rand company. They’ll be hard as hell to pick, might take a good long time. I can cut the locks out, but that would ruin the door. What do you want me to do?"
"Cut them out, Sammy. Cut them out. We’re gonna want to get in there, and as soon as possible. If we have to, afterwards I’ll seal the place off, and we’ll put up a piece of plywood, and that’ll protect it. I think we’re probably going to have to keep the place under surveillance for a while, any way. Depends on what we find here.”
"Okay, Jerry," the Locksmith said.
Sam took a heavy duty DeWalt cordless drill from his truck, and put a special bit on it.
"This baby will cut through anything,” he said. “Well, just about anything.
It’s the best tool they ever made: better even than those new Mikitas from Japan. It’s a honey."
Sammy walked to the door put the large circular bit against the lock and started the drill going. It took about five minutes and he turned to Hallen, “Well, I got through that one. We got one more to go.”
Ten minutes later, he called to him again.
"You can go in now detective. I think you’re going to set off a bunch of alarms, this place seemed as wired as Fort Knox. Probably just as secure, too.”
“Thanks, Sammy, but we gotta do this, it just can't be helped.”
It took Hallen a while to convince the alarm company that he was indeed a state policeman, and that the house had been entered with a warrant. He finally got them to give him the turnoff code for the alarm system, and told them that he would, when the place was closed up again, turn on the alarm.
“Now that we have the entrance code,” he said to the Alarm company operator, “we’ll use it whenever we come in. Okay?”
The alarm company agreed, but while he was on the phone, a security car rode up with two armed private cops to check out what was going on.
When they saw the state police cruisers and the local sheriff's cars, they called into their office, and then took off.
Hallen and BB walked around the place, admiring the lushness of it.
They were impressed with the electronics and the extensive collections of expensive and valuable furnishings. There was a huge flat-screen wall television, hand knotted oriental rugs on the living room and dining room floor and an elegant antique silk oriental rug in the bedroom.
It was, as anyone could tell a home of a very wealthy person with very good taste.
The technicians had already begun searching, and before long, they had a several strands of long blond hair that had been taken from the shower drain. There was also a lot of men’s hair: on the silver-backed military hair brushes, in the drain, and on the bed in the bedroom.
The samples were painstakingly collected aand stored to be sent to the lab for evaluation and DNA processing.
Lying on his back, on the narrow cot in his tunnel, Carl was still feeling very week and very sore. He was no longer terrified about the possibility of being alone in the impossible darkness, he knew that he had an emergency flashlight in his shirt pocket, and plenty of batteries for the lanterns that lined the wall. He also knew that he had to start moving, doing something,that would get him going despite the pain.
Otherwise, he could and might easily die right there. He rolled off his cot, and on his hands and knees crawled, like a baby, to the small, powerful electric generator in the corner of the room. If he could get that working, then he would have overhead lighting, and he might even turn on the TV and see what was happening in the world out there.
He knelt in front of the generator, holding a flashlight on the printed instructions. He knew them, he had used the generator a lot in the construction, but he wanted to check them out. He pulled he starter cord, and nothing happened. He pulled it again, and realized that he didn’t have enough traction from his knees, he would have to stand up and do it.
He managed, after sometime to get to his feet, bent down, pulled he cord and again, nothing happened. He took a deep breath, reached again and gave a real hard yank, and the generator started to chug. The lights overhead flickered and then began to burn.
He relaxed, feeling a sense of total accomplishment.
He had planned to run the generator during his waking hours only. He would turn it off when he slept, relying on battery power for his illumination at those times. There was no danger, he thought of anyone finding the generator exhaust line, which he had buried and carried into a fallen hollow tree. The exhaust would dissipate from the tree, leaving no sign that a generator was working. He had been proud of his engineering skills, digging the conduit hole for the exhaust lines, and then arranging them to come into the bottom of the tree, leaving no sign of work there at all. He had planted wild flowers and weeds along the pipeline, and last he had looked he was unable to find the line at all. If he hadn’t known it was there, he would never suspect that it existed.
Shaken by the effort of getting light in the hole, he staggered back to his bed, but stopped in front of the stock of soup cans and other supplies. He took a can of Chicken Noodle soup, opened it and drank it cold and with the congealed fat still sticking to the can. It was sustenance, and he needed to eat something.
He picked up one of the bottles of aspirin and a bottle of Tylenol, and before he finished drinking the soup, popped two tablets of each in his mouth and washed them down with the remains of he soup. He put the soup can on the floor, stretched out on the bed, and let himself fall off to sleep with the generator running and the overhead light still on.
He didn’t think he would run out of fuel, but at this point in time, he didn’t much care.
*************************************
Hallen was waiting for results of the the lab tests on the blond hair and the black hair found in the shower. Anxiously, he kept calling the lab to find out how they were doing. He knew it might take as long as five days to get the results, but he hoped that by impressing upon the lab the urgency and the importance of the tests that they might move along more quickly.
After the third time he called, the Lab Director got on the phone.
“This is Doctor Judson, detective. What the hell is the hurry here?”
“Well, Doctor,” Hallen said, “we are waiting to do a complete search of the premises if the DNA matches up. I’ve got a bunch of people here who are telling me that I have the wrong man as a suspect and they are putting a hell of a lot of pressure on me and the department. One SOB even called the Governor to complain, so you can understand that I'm anxious.”
“Well, I understand, Detective,” the Doctor said, “but we have to let this thing take the time it needs. Under that much pressure, you don’t want to rush it and make a mistake, do you?”
“You’re right, of course. But you can’t blame me for being anxious, can you?”
“Guess not. Just hang in there, we’ll get to you as soon as possible.”
Hallen did not want to risk any of his options by acting too quickly.
If they got a match of the DNA from the hair, and that matched the floater body, that would indicate the girl had been there, taking a shower. If they got a further match of the sperm DNA with the men’s hair sample, that would indicate that he had been there with her, and it was not a long jump to assume that he had killed her. Certainly that would then have enough evidence to tear the house apart and see what else they could find.
That much hard evidence would give him the licensee he needed to really conduct an in-depth survey of the house: it would also serve to shut up the assholes like Sheriff Jefferson, whose wailings and shoutings were becoming a real pain for Hallen.
Hallen was certain that the Jefferson had a personal motive, and as soon as he had a chance, he intended to launch an investigation into the alleged donations to the Sheriff’s Benevolent Association.
It was Hallen’s guess, that in his aggravation the Sheriff had said something he had not intended to say and might not even realize that he had possibly incriminated himself.
Falling asleep was almost impossible for Hallen, he finally dropped off into a restless sleep at about 3:30 AM.
He awakened in the morning feeling groggy and jaded. Even a couple of cups of strong coffee didn’t help to perk him up. He was dragging his behind when he got to his desk to see a note to call the lab, ASAP.
He got Dr. Judson on the phone. “Hallen, Doctor.”
“Well, Detective, we have the results now. We’ll send them over by messenger, but in a nutshell, the hair from the shower matched the DNA of the corpse, and the black hair matched the DNA of the semen. These two had definitely been together.”
Hallen could feel his fatigue evaporate. He had been right.
Now all he had to do was locate and arrest the man they called Carl Rogers.
He was sure it was not going to be easy.
Continued next month.
