by Andrew Mayne
Two hours later, he almost cracked his head on the ceiling when he woke up startled and confused. It took him a minute to find the iPod and shut off the alarm. He was terrified a passing patrol car was going to hear it and know where he was hiding.
After he turned off the iPod, he took a look out through the vent. It was dark. There were a few more cars in driveways, but the neighborhood still looked deserted.
Mitchell decided he should wait to see if there was a pattern to when the police car drove through the neighborhood. Knowing that could help him plan his escape out of there.
In the meantime, he needed to occupy himself. After a lot of internal debate, he decided to turn to WQXD to see what they were saying. He was also strangely obsessed with the thought that they were going to give Mike the intern his late-night spot. It was a stupid thing to think about, but the idea that Mike would rat him out for the opportunity nagged him. Everybody for himself.
Mitchell heard the opening music to Rookman’s show. It was some Neil Diamond meets the Doors send-up that Rookman had recorded in his garage with a few of his buddies. Imagining Rookman playing guitar next to an ex-cop playing a drum set in front of a half-put-together Camaro and beer bottles strewn about the place made Mitchell feel like things were back to normal.
Rookman’s gravelly voice came in over the music, “Man on a rampage! Watch out! Our own Mad Mitch a wanted fugitive folks! It doesn’t get any more exciting than that. Tonight I’m going to give you the inside scoop into this criminal mastermind. This dark loner who sat just a few feet from where I am now earlier this morning.
“I’ve got a special last-minute guest on the line whose going to tell us how the authorities are going to catch this dangerous menace before he murders us all!”
Mitchell shook his head. What the hell?
“Please welcome former police captain Dick Miller. Dick just wrote a book about the search for the DC Snipers and is an expert on how manhunts work. I brought him on the show so he could explain how the authorities are going to catch our Mad Mitch and bring him to justice. Dick, how are you?”
Mitchell’s stomach turned. Despite all his fight-the-power talk and what he thought was mutual respect if not friendship, Rookman was ready to pounce on him like everybody else. Mitchell wanted to turn off the radio, but his sense of self-loathing wouldn’t let him.
“Great, Rookman, thanks for having me on here,” Miller said.
“Thank you for agreeing on such short notice. Just for background for our syndicated listeners and those of you living under rocks and in your bunkers, an arrest warrant was issued today for Mad Mitch, aka Mitchell Roberts, the kid who plays that emo music here after I go home to get drunk. Run for your lives, folks!
“So, Dick, first I have to ask you, is it clear to you why there’s this manhunt for Mitch? I’ve looked at the bulletin they’ve sent out and I can’t find any mention of a gun, a rifle, a knife or even an angry T-shirt.”
“Well ...” Miller hesitated. “I think that since he’s the one person who seems to be at the center of the tragic events at the Park Square Mall, I can understand why police want to talk to him. That plus the events earlier in the day when he assaulted, allegedly, his girlfriend, the boyfriend and threw the parking enforcer into a windshield.”
“Have you ever seen Mitch?” asked Rookman.
“I saw the photo. But, no, I’ve never met him.”
“I guess you never really know a guy until he beats up on two people at once and then picks up an overweight parking cop and throws her five feet into the windshield of his car. I’d never have believed it myself if the cops hadn’t told us that’s what happened.”
“So, Dick, you’re an expert on what happens when police decide who public enemy number one is and have to go after them. What’s going on right now?”
“I’m not part of the search, so I really couldn’t tell you,” replied Miller.
“Just give me your best guess. I know a lot of my listeners would feel safer knowing what steps are being taken.”
“Well, the first 24 hours is critical. Although there’s a coordination between the different city and county police departments, the farther away he gets from here, the harder he’s going to be to catch.”
“Why is that?” asked Rookman.
“As much as they try to cooperate with one another, you’re not going to be as concerned about something that didn’t happen in your own jurisdiction. Dade County and Palm Beach County, which surround Broward County, have their own problems and have to figure out how much of their own resources to expend in trying to apprehend Mitchell Roberts. So the farther he gets away from here, the harder he’ll be to catch.”
“I see,” said Rookman. “So he needs to get as far away from here in 24 hours if he wants to avoid getting caught.”
Mitchell’s ears perked up. He couldn’t help but notice the way Rookman said that. It wasn’t even a rhetorical question.
“Now, what are some of the ways fugitives can travel that allow them to avoid getting caught?” asked Rookman.
“The first method is a car that hasn’t been reported stolen. Or a stolen car where they’ve switched out the license plates for a car that the owner might not realize they’ve gone missing.”
“Like a long-term airport parking lot?” asked Rookman.
“Yes, that’s one place.”
“What if they don’t have access to a car or don’t know how to steal one?”
“That makes it harder. In populated areas, it’s difficult to travel by foot and not go noticed. Public transportation is heavily monitored, as well,” answered Miller.
“So if he sticks to side roads and places like railroad tracks and travels by night, it would be harder to catch him?”
“It would make things more complicated.”
“I’ve heard that one of the things that some fugitives have used is police scanners to listen for police presence,” said Rookman.
“It’s not a common thing, but a lot of departments use open frequencies. Especially when they’re doing coordinated activities with other agencies.”
“Let’s just hope that Mitch doesn’t get one of those. Mitch might be able to stay hidden for days ....”
“I agree,” said Miller.
“As a public service announcement to any truckers out there listening to this show who might think about leaving your police scanner on your seat when you went into a diner to get something to eat, think twice. Our Mad Mitch might just put a brick through your window and steal it.”
25
Rookman spent the rest of the night using his guest to covertly offer Mitchell helpful advice. Mitch paid close attention. When it was time to leave, he put the radio away and gathered all of his belongings together. In total darkness, he carefully climbed down the attic ladder and raised it back into place. Being extra cautious, he fished the applesauce containers from the trashcan and placed them into his bag to throw away someplace else. He threw them back out when he realized the mysterious car in the garage was probably going to be a bigger tip-off that somebody was there than a few empty containers of Mott’s.
He’d heard the police car roll by three more times, roughly an hour apart. The last time was ten minutes before. He knew he couldn’t count on that being a reliable estimate, but it gave him an idea when he should avoid the street entirely.
After doing a last pass through the house, Mitchell carefully slid open the sliding glass door enough for him to pass through. He then pushed it back into place and gave it a tilt to lock it into position.
He looked up at the moon. It was half full. He couldn’t decide if he’d prefer no moon so he wouldn’t be seen or a full moon so he could see where he was going.
There was a tall wooden fence between the house he was at and the house in back of him. He looked over the fence and could see into the darkened living room. There was a light coming in from the hallway. It looked like somebody was living there.
Mitchell climbed over the fence
at the far left corner away from the part of the house with activity in it. He kept his body down low and moved along the left fence to the front portion of the backyard. He popped his head over the fence and looked.
The street was empty except a few cars parked in driveways. His plan was to cross the street and move to the next backyard. Mitchell was getting ready to climb over when something touched his leg. He froze in panic. Something touched it again.
Mitchell looked down and saw something shaggy beneath him. He hoped it was a friendly dog and not a confused raccoon. He knelt down and gave the furry thing a pet. He heard happy panting.
“What’s going on boy?” he whispered, not knowing if it was a boy or a girl. He was just happy to know that not all members of the animal kingdom were out to get him.
Mitchell squatted down to give the dog a scratch around the ears. He felt a tongue lick his face. He gave the dog a few more scratches, figuring it was a good idea to win over the locals best he could.
The dog gave him another lick and then marched off into the backyard to go about important dog business. Mitchell looked back over the fence for a spot to drop his bag. An alarm went off inside his head.
Three doors down across the street there was a car with a spotlight attached above the driver’s side door. The car was facing the street. Unmarked cop car.
Inside he could see the glow of what looked like a computer. Definitely a surveillance car. Mitchell felt like he owed the dog a French kiss.
If there was one unmarked surveillance car, there could be others. His idea of just walking out of the neighborhood looked less plausible. They were waiting for him to show up, effectively trapping him there.
He looked back toward the house he just came from. He knew he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t take the chance that they would start going door to door tomorrow and peek into people’s garages. It had to be tonight.
For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy of busting through the garage door in the tiny compact and tearing off down the street, blowing by the cops. Then he went back to reality. He could try to steal a car from a house he was near. That was if he magically figured out how to hot-wire a car in the next five minutes.
He could try to break into a house and steal keys to a car, but with a cop around the corner, one 911 call from a frightened homeowner would have him caught before he turned the ignition. He needed a better strategy.
That strategy came back over and licked his ankle. Good idea, stupid idea, it was the only idea. Mitchell went back into the yard and looked for a piece of rope. He almost walked right into a clothesline while looking at the ground.
Keeping an eye on the living room, he took down the clothesline and rolled most of it up. His furry friend came over to help. Mitchell tied one end to the dog’s collar. The mere thought of a walk sent the animal into ecstasy. It began prancing around his feet. Mitchell had to give him a soft shush to not wake its owner.
Mitchell went around the other side of the house and found a latch to the gate. He carefully opened it and left it slightly ajar. He passed what he was sure was the bedroom window. Through curtains he could see a flickering television and hear snoring.
Before he stepped in front of the house and in plain view of the cop, Mitchell made one last adjustment. He pulled the blazer from his backpack and put it on with the backpack under his arm. He put the golf cap on, too. From a distance, he hoped, he just looked like another retiree out walking the dog.
He leaned over and gave his accomplice a pat on the head. His hope was to step out to the sidewalk and go in the opposite direction of the police car without notice. Worst-case scenario, the cop would see an old guy out walking his dog at night.
Mitchell took another step and heard a click. He was surrounded by light. He almost dropped the leash and bolted down the street. Then he realized that it was just a floodlight on the corner of the house with a motion sensor.
He resisted the urge to look over at the cop car. He was already a few feet in front of the house. There was no way he wasn’t in plain sight. Mitchell leaned down and gave Mr. Barks a pat on the head.
Mr. Barks? He had no idea where that name came from.
Acting as if this was his normal routine, Mitchell and Mr. Barks walked out to the sidewalk and headed away from the cop car. He tried not to walk too fast. Mr. Barks made that easy by stopping to smell everything.
When the dog stopped to take a leak, Mitchell panicked that the dog might go number two and the cop would get out of the car to give them a citation. It was a million silly things that filled his mind. He pushed the thought out and just tried to focus on making it to the development’s exit.
They reached the end of the street with no sound of doors opening or tires squealing. That was encouraging. He had two more streets to go before he came to the entrance. Mitchell was convinced there would be at least one more car near there waiting to see if he drove in.
Mitchell reached the end of the last street, and sure enough, there was another unmarked car waiting inside the entrance parked on the grass behind a hedge. It was the only thing separating him and Mr. Barks from freedom. There was another entrance he could try, but he was certain that one had a car waiting there, too. It had to be this one.
Mitchell took a step forward. Mr. Barks began to pull at the rope. He thought the walk was over. He was ready to go home.
“Not yet, buddy.” He kept walking and the dog followed after.
The sidewalk wrapped around the entrance and onto another sidewalk that ran along the main road in front of the complex. He remembered a convenience store and a strip mall located off to one side, near where he was going.
If he played it casually enough, the cop in the car would just assume he was taking a walk down to the store with the dog. He assumed they were looking for someone driving a stolen car or walking in on foot. But that was only an assumption, one that could get him killed.
Mitchell kept walking on the sidewalk with Mr. Barks trotting alongside him. It would take him on a path directly across from where the cop car was parked. He could already see the glow from the computer screen inside. He imagined his face was on it in full color.
Trying to stay casual, he gave the car a quick glance while keeping the hat low and rounded the corner opposite where it was parked. His ears tried to pick out every single detail. There was nothing to indicate the car was moving. Mitchell kept walking, and he and Mr. Barks rounded the entrance and came to the sidewalk along the main street. Car headlights came around a corner and moved in his direction.
Mitchell shielded his eyes from the light while Mr. Barks did his part to blend in by taking another leak. A real method actor, thought Mitchell.
As the car passed, Mitchell could see that it was a police squad car. It kept going behind him and pulled into the complex. Mitchell tried to keep the same pace and not avoid breaking out into a run. He walked several more blocks on the sidewalk. Mr. Barks stopped more frequently and looked back.
Mitchell had to figure out what to do with the dog. He couldn’t let him go just yet. If the dog ran back into the development, there was the chance one of the cops would notice and wonder what happened to the owner.
Mr. Barks let out a soft whimper as he looked back toward the development.
“Sorry, buddy. You volunteered to be my hostage.”
26
Somewhat reluctantly, the dog followed Mitchell as he continued traveling away from the housing complex. Until Rookman had mentioned the police scanner, the plan was to make his way over to a marina two miles away and try to steal a small boat.
While Mitchell knew nothing about hot-wiring cars, he knew something about boats. He’d spent a summer working in a marina that belonged to his mom’s boyfriend at the time. In South Florida, there were five ways to go north and south. There were three major highways, I-95, U.S. 1 and the Turnpike. The other ways were via rail or the Intracoastal, a waterway that led from Miami all the way up to Georgia.
Besides giving h
im a way to travel that didn’t involve major roads, being out in the open water would give Mitchell a safe distance from people getting too close.
He remembered an all-night diner was right off the main highway that ran near the marina. Mitchell decided that Rookman’s hint about the police scanner was worth paying attention to. He walked another half mile with Mr. Barks.
He came to the other side of the street across from the diner. In the distance he could hear the low rumble of trucks on the highway and smell the exhaust fumes. Several tractor-trailer trucks were pulled up at the diesel pumps or parked in the large lot in the back.
He looked down at Mr. Barks. The dog stared back up at him. The animal had enjoyed the adventure at first but was now scared by the unfamiliarity of everything. Mitchell tied the dog to a pay phone near a darkened strip mall and walked back toward the diner. He could hear whimpering behind him.
He’s just a dog, Mitchell told himself and kept walking. The dog let out a sad whine.
Mitchell stopped. For fuck sake. He turned back to the dog, not believing himself. After everything that happened that day. The horrific human tragedy he partially caused, the goddamn dog was now making him feel bad?
He sat down by the dog and looked at its collar. He found an old tag and a new tag with the same phone number. He pulled one off and put it in his pocket.
“Listen, buddy, when I get away from here, I’m going to call your parents so they can come get you. I just can’t do that right now.” He looked at the rope. “If I let you go, I don’t want you to get hurt, and well, I can’t let you go running back home and have the cops see you.”
Mitchell looked at the pay phone he’d tied Mr. Barks to. Should he make one more effort to call 911? He picked up the receiver and started to dial. He hesitated over the last number. What would happen if he called? They’d send a cop car out to get him for sure. None of the cops he saw so far had been wearing any kind of protective gear. That meant that even they didn’t know what was going on. Calling for help was an invitation for suicide.