by Sahara Foley
'Yeah, well, maybe being locked away in the funny farm is better than going into that dirt room. But I don't plan on walking in there. No. I'm going to sit on the bottom step, with my gun and the flashlight, and wait for It to come out. And It will come out. For me. Then, I'm going to kill It, if I can.
'So, whoever is reading this must know by now I couldn't kill It with my fourteen shot, 9mm semiautomatic pistol.
'I know I've seen It, as I said, in brief snatches. It's brown, bigger than a full-grown house cat. It has to weigh more than eighteen pounds to make the floor squeak. It would have to be extremely strong for its size to be able to drag Pat down into the basement, then into the dirt room. It has round, yellow eyes, or at least they appeared yellow in the light before.
'I don't know where It came from, or what It is, but I do know where It is. If you don't find me, for God's sake, don't go into that room! Run, and get help. Men with guns. Many men and many guns. I can't prove any of this, but I'm warning you, if you don't find me, don't go down there alone, because IT LIVES IN THE BASEMENT!' The end of the story was signed 'John Sempek.'
Lieutenant Flynn looked again at his trembling hand where it rested on the gun butt, then to the open, lit doorway. He took out his pen and wrote quickly for a few seconds, then slowly, reluctantly unfolded from his chair. He knew if he didn't go down there and check the room, he would never be able to sleep again.
But he didn't want to go down there. OH GOD, he did not want to go down there.
* * *
The time was 3:15 pm, and Mickosky and Daniels were cruising slowly north, toward the new downtown station. Their shift ended at four, but they liked to get in earlier, if they could. They always had so much paperwork to fill out, and it was easier filling out the reports at a table than on a car seat.
Mickosky turned north on 18th street, as Daniels pointed and said, “Hey, Mick, there's the Lieutenant's car. Let's stop and see what he found.”
Not answering, Mickosky double-parked next to Flynn's car, and they got out. The front door was still open. Mickosky leaned in and yelled, “Hey, Lieutenant Flynn? You in here?”
Not hearing a response, and because it was cold out, they proceeded inside. As they had been in the old house before, it didn't take them long to search, discovering there was no one in the house.
Daniels recognized the coffee-stained, spiral notebook sitting on the kitchen table. He said, “Oh yeah. One of those stories the Sempek guy was writing. From the looks of the notebook, the Lieutenant didn't like the story.”
Mickosky stomped up the wooden stairs from the basement. “I wonder why the Lieutenant left all the lights on downstairs. Say, Daniels, do you remember if we saw a shoe in the dirt room? Lying right inside the doorway? I don't seem to remember seeing a shoe.”
Daniels dropped the still soggy, coffee-stained notebook into the kitchen trashcan. “Hell,, Mick. How am I supposed to remember now? We were here hours ago. Hey, I bet the Lieutenant's getting statements from the neighbors.” Glancing at his watch, he suggested, “It's getting pretty close to quitting time. What do you say we just go check-in, buddy?”
Mickosky stared at the coffee-stained notebook for a second, and then walked past it, shrugging his shoulders. “Yeah, you're probably right. Let's go.” They let themselves out into the cold, and hurried to their warm car. In seconds they were gone.
Through the ensuing investigation, and for several years afterward, Mickosky was nagged by something he could never quite remember. As he stared at that coffee-stained, pencil-smeared page of the notebook lying in the trashcan, his mind didn't register that the last line on the page was written in illegible ink.
Some experts claim once you read something, you never forget it. You may never remember what you read, but it is filed in your brain somewhere. In Officer Mickosky's brain, was stored that one illegible, ink-written scribble at the bottom of the coffee-stained page.
The one line that should have read, “If you don't find me, then this story is true, and don't go downstairs alone. I'm going down there now, at 12:30 pm.' The page was signed, 'Lieutenant Mike Flynn, Omaha Police Department, November 30th 1985.'
Don't Sit Down
December 15, 1989 Omaha, NE
Two detectives sat shivering in an unmarked police car, impatiently waiting behind a city bus at a traffic light. Although the engine on their big Ford had been running for over an hour, the air blowing from the heater/defroster was less than lukewarm. Barely warm enough to cut the incessant ice forming on the inside and outside of the windshield. After receiving a phone call at the police station, the two detectives were on their way to 1921 S. 18th Street. En route, they had already slid and slipped by three bank signs displaying times and temperatures, none of which showed the same time or temperature.
Scraping the inside of the windshield, watching ice fall and accumulate on the frozen dashboard, forty-five-year-old, baby-faced Sergeant Larry Waltham grouched to his older partner, Lieutenant John Carter, “John, don't any of these damn bank signs have the right time?” Pointing with his scraper, he declared, “Look at that. My watch says its 6:43 am, but that sign says its 7:10. The last two signs weren't right either. I wonder if the temperatures are even close.”
His partner, face buried in his heavy overcoat to help prevent the windshield from fogging, mumbled a response.
“What's that, John? I couldn't hear you.”
A ruggedly handsome face, topped with thick, silver hair and icy-blue eyes, appeared over the coat's top button. Blowing out a puff of steam, he said, “I hope not.”
Thoughtfully, Sergeant Waltham said, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Let's find out.” Leaning over, he switched the car radio to a local all-news station.
The traffic light turned green, but the city bus didn't move. As the bus' hazard warning lights flashed on, Larry Waltham voiced his favorite expletive, “Shit!”
In the predawn darkness, maneuvering around the stalled bus, the car started sliding sideways. Turning the wheel to compensate, the car obliged Waltham by sliding the other way.
“Shit!” he exclaimed again. How was he supposed to control the car on the snow and ice-covered street? Why the hell were they out here? He'd rather be in bed, snuggled up warm and tight with his girlfriend.
Sliding sideways in slow motion, the big Ford lurched to a stop, resting against the curb on the opposite side of the street, facing the wrong direction.
“Shit.” Waltham slapped the steering wheel. “Where are all the goddamn salt and sand trucks? These streets are slicker than snot on a brass doorknob!”
Shifting into park, they sat listening to the radio, trying to relax from their white-knuckled slide. After a long string of school and business closings, the radio announcer said, “Our current news time is 6:50, on a very cold morning in the Metro area. Our current temperature is minus twenty-one degrees, with a wind-chill factor of minus forty-three. The air temperature is VERY cold folks, and by all reports, every major street in the metro area is ice-packed with treacherous driving conditions. We just received an announcement that the Metro Area Transit bus system has been shut down as of 6:45 this morning. The MAT bus officials state they will reevaluate every half-hour, and an announcement will be made when they resume services.”
As the long string of school closings began again, Waltham turned off the radio. “Well, that explains what happened to the bus. I guess when they decide to shut down, they stay wherever they are. Maybe we should do that too, John.” He glanced over at his bundled-up partner.
Lifting his head, with only his top lip showing over his coat, the older man asked, “Want me to drive, Larry?”
Shifting the car into gear again, Waltham answered, “No, we're almost there. I'll drive.”
John Carter was upset, not by the weather or roads, but the call he'd received. He'd seen Waltham's face, his look of concern, while he listened to Carter's one-sided conversation over the phone. That was the reason Waltham had offered to drive to the residence in
question. The house wasn't even in their assigned area. But the detective on the case had called Carter, because the murder scene was the same house where Carter's former partner, Flynn, had disappeared from, four years and one month ago.
Several hundred cops had searched the neighborhood, inch-by-inch, never finding more than Flynn's car and one black shoe, which Carter later identified as Flynn's. They had bought the identical shoes from the same catalog. The weather had been bitterly cold that day too, right before Thanksgiving. Carter could never understand the disappearance of his friend and partner.
The City of Omaha had been shaken by that event, partly because a young couple who lived in the house had also disappeared. Rumors abounded, the main one claiming the cop killed the boyfriend so he could run off with the young woman. The most outrageous rumor was about a UFO kidnapping all three of them. Carter didn't believe any of them, but he had to admit he didn't know WHAT could have possibly have happened either.
And now, four years later, a body was discovered at the same location. That's why Captain Reames, at the scene, had involved Carter.
Carter and Waltham were heading for a part of Omaha that, back in the thirties and forties, used to be an affluent part of the city. But since then, had fallen into what could be considered one step away from a ghetto. The area was now a haven for illegal Mexicans, and the Omaha Housing Authority reports indicated most rental houses had as many as twenty-five illegals living together, sleeping on the floors.
Carter shook his head. It made no sense. Why did they come to Omaha anyway? There weren't enough jobs for people that already lived here. Carter had to agree with one of Waltham's remarks, made over four years ago, that Americans should be moving to Mexico, because the country should be a giant ghost town by now. Besides that, Mexico was warm!
Carter had his head pulled into his coat in the manner of a turtle, eyes closed, but he popped them open at his partner's usual remark, “Shit!”
Before them was a long steep hill, cars parked on each side, with barely enough room for the big Ford to pass through. Halfway down the hill, Carter could see the street they had to turn onto, and he understood Waltham's consternation. Would they be able to reduce speed, turn the corner, and avoid sliding into any parked vehicles?
As he felt the car lurch sideways, Carter knew they were sliding out of control. He closed his eyes again, not wanting to witness the inevitable crash. As Waltham fought to keep some control of the slide, Carter was thrown about, bouncing against his partner, and then the passenger door.
He heard his partner shout, “Shit! Hold on, John!”
The Ford jumped the curb; the impact so hard it lifted Carter off his seat, his head smacking the ceiling. Throwing his arms toward the dashboard to brace himself, he heard a loud scraping sound as he caught a glimpse of a stop sign disappearing under the car. The rear tires lifted, and they bounced once more, stopping solidly against someone's chain-link fence-gate, squarely parked on the sidewalk. Steam hissed angrily from the front of the big Ford.
“Shit!” Waltham declared, hitting the steering wheel.
Heart racing, leaning his head against the headrest, Carter took a deep, calming breath. Turning his head northward, he saw two cruisers and Captain Reames' car. With a shaky voice, Carter told his irate partner, “Larry, call in our accident. I'll walk up. Come as soon as you can.”
Stepping out into the freezing blast of the sub-zero wind-chill, Carter shut his door, again hearing his partner say, “Shit!” as he picked up the radio.
The house in question was only half a block away, but walking into that thirty-five mile-per-hour wind, which kept the wind-chill factor at forty below, was almost too much for Carter. By the time he reached the house, he was gasping for air, and couldn't feel his face, ears, hands or feet. Even his kneecaps were numb.
At the door, a uniformed female officer pointed, saying sarcastically, “Nice landing there, Lieutenant.”
Not answering, he hurried inside as fast as his frozen body would move.
In the dark, dingy living room, were three more uniforms, along with Captain Reames, who held out a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. “Here, John. Take the chill off first while I fill you in. Don't worry about touching anything, the lab boys were already here. I'm just waiting for the coroner to come pick up the body. I'm glad you got here first. I wanted you to see this.”
Taking a sip, Carter almost choked. Captain Reames had added brandy to the coffee. “Thanks, Ray.” Carter said as they walked toward the rear of the house. If the Captain is doctoring the coffee, Carter thought, the crime-scene must be pretty bad. The Captain had told him there was a mutilated body, so he'd been preparing himself by imagining some gory scenarios, a headless body, or arms and legs dismembered. How much worse could it be?
At the bathroom doorway stood a young, redheaded female cop, named Kaslowski, who everyone called Pepper. She was holding a notebook which she began reading from as they approached. “Male, Mexican, twenty to twenty-five years, dead at least four hours, no gunshot or knife wounds, at least that we could see, Lieutenant.”
Standing in the tiny bathroom doorway, John Carter studied the crime scene. The lid of the toilet was up, seat down, both covered with blood. He could barely see the dirty porcelain for all the blood. The dried blood was splattered all over the floor and walls. The small room reeked of blood and bodily fluids, causing Carter to start breathing through his mouth. In the corner lay a body covered by a thick, plastic sheet.
Carter asked the pretty woman officer, “If there are no gunshot or knife wounds, what the hell killed him? That's a lot of blood for no wounds, kid.”
With a shark smile, she stepped around the toilet, bent, and lifted the plastic sheet. “This, sir.”
Carter froze, almost dropping his half-full coffee cup. Stomach rolling, it felt as if he might upchuck the egg sandwich he had eaten for breakfast. As his stomach rolled again, then settled down, he thought that maybe he wouldn't puke.
On the bathroom floor laid a young Mexican man, wearing a blue shirt and jeans. His jeans were drawn to his ankles, covered with blood and bodily waste. Carter had seen gruesome crime scenes during his career. But he had never seen the condition of this young man's genital area, or more precisely, what he wasn't seeing. All that remained was a large, gaping hole with slimy parts hanging out.
Holy Moly, what happened here? Carter thought as he own genital area twitched with sympathy pains.
“Not cut off, Lieutenant. Torn off,” Kaslowski explained. “Looks like it took one big yank to tear off his private parts.” She gave a small yanking motion. “Of course, without an autopsy we can't be certain, but that's what the cause of death appears to be for now.”
The air suddenly became hot and claustrophobic in the small bathroom, so Carter backed out in a few quick steps to where Captain Reames and the other officers waited. He took a deep breath. Reames took out a silver flask, adding a big shot of brandy to Carter's cup, his own, then to the other cups on the filthy kitchen table.
Bustling through the front door, Waltham exclaimed, “Shit! This place really stinks.”
Pouring more coffee from the airpot and adding brandy, the Captain handed the laced cup to Waltham. Waltham stared at his partner, who was white-faced, hand trembling as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Something bad had happened. Walking to the bathroom, where Pepper was waiting, she began reading off her list again. She then showed him the body.
Waltham, being one of the like-minded people who thought breakfast was the most important meal of the day, took off at a dead run for the front door, hand over his mouth, making gagging noises. He never made it. On hands and knees, right before the front hallway, he retched in uncontrollable spams.
Hearing his partner's retching made Carter's stomach roll again. He had to swallow several times before he calmed his stomach, the taste of bile strong in the back of his throat. He feared taking another sip of his coffee.
In an emotional-laden, soft voi
ce, Captain Reames said, “The person who called 911 couldn't speak English. He kept yelling, “Carlos, la muerte.” with the address, then hung up. Kaslowski and Rickerman were the first officers on the scene. The house was opened and abandoned, with the body where they found it. Evidence indicates there were at least a dozen people living here, though we couldn't locate any of them”
Stepping from the bathroom, Pepper took her cup of laced coffee. “We searched everywhere, sir. The toilet hasn't been flushed, and I probed it using a coat hanger. Nothing was found.”
Waltham, carrying his overcoat, walked back in, looking pale and embarrassed. “Shit. I'm sorry, Captain.”
Reames gave him more coffee/brandy. “That's okay, Larry. We're all having trouble dealing with this case.”
Rickerman, a big, young blonde man declared, “All but Pepper. She's like a goddamn robot or something.”
The pretty, young woman smiled, winked, and retorted, “Oh this does bother me, but I'm not going to let you big, macho boys see that.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I wonder where they went to, sir. Don't you?”
Understanding what Pepper was implying, neither Reames nor Carter chose to respond. However, Waltham blurted, “Shit, those other wetbacks probably ran like hell. We'll never learn who stayed here last night.”
Pepper said softly, “No, I don't mean them. I meant we can't find his, er, private parts anywhere.” With a sly smile, she lowered her eyes to below his waist.
“You mean someone cut off this guy's coc–!” Waltham stopped, blushing, staring at Pepper Kaslowski.
“That's right, Sergeant,” Pepper said with a smirk, “all his male equipment. I'm not sure if they were cut off, but they sure aren't here anywhere.”
Suddenly feeling very old, Lt. John Carter sat heavily in a chair next to the dirty, littered kitchen table.
Becoming professional again, Pepper continued. “Well, I guess we should do a house-to-house search, and see if we can nail down anyone who was here last night. They couldn't have gone far, it's too damn cold. It looks as if they took their clothes and other belongings, and left fast. If our time of death is correct, the guy died about 2:00 or 2:30 am, so I doubt the immediate neighbors saw them leave. But there are so many Mexicans around this area, we might luck out, and find at least one. C'mon, Rickerman, let's get going. Okay, Captain?”