by Rider, Tanya
At eight o’clock Thursday morning, Tom was on autopilot. He went through the motions of working. Every fiber of his body ached from lack of sleep as he drove to his first stop. He was in Tacoma when a King County Police detective called to request another “routine” interview. Tom had no problem answering more questions. “Where and when?” he asked.
They wanted him to come to the Regional Justice Center in the town of Kent, just south of Seattle. Tom called his boss, to let him know what was happening, and then it seemed to take forever for him to drive through sluggish traffic to Kent.
He struggled with his gut feeling that Tanya was fighting to get back to him—and to life in general—but he could feel her slipping away. Maybe he was just suffering from the effects of excessive anxiety and sleep deprivation, but reality started to grab at his heart and mind. He questioned his own feelings. Was there any hope of finding her? Would she be a different person if and when she came back? Was Tanya indeed fighting to survive? Nearing the Regional Justice Center, he let out an exhausted sigh.
He met the detectives in the Center and one of them asked if he was willing to undergo a polygraph exam. Tom readily agreed. First, they wanted to ask some “routine” questions of their own. They sat around a conference table with the tape recorder running while they went through their battery of questions. Then, they led Tom down a hallway to a small room. Finally, he thought. Finally, they’ll see for themselves that I’m in no way responsible for Tanya’s disappearance!
Since Tanya went missing, Tom’s perception had slipped into slow motion and each second became an unbearable lifetime of strained and stretched moments. His lack of sleep showed on his strained face. Each step was a concentrated effort and each breath a labor. In such moments, Tom would have sworn that he could hear Tanya’s voice talking to him, calming him, telling him not to do something stupid. “I will be home soon,” her sweet voice said, “and then we can talk.”
Those passing thoughts sustained him. Sometimes, he felt as if they were all that kept him from slipping over the edge where he would be swallowed in a very dark place. Stay strong, he reminded himself. I’m the only one who can help Tanya, so I need to stay strong.
Walking down the hallway, Tom’s legs felt rubbery. With each step, he grew wearier. Passing faces in the hall, he noticed their sympathetic smiles, betrayed by looks of persecution in their eyes. He could see that they already had their answers. They assumed that he was guilty.
The polygraph examiner introduced himself and explained the procedure. Though his eyes were open, Tom had mentally dozed off into a dreamlike state.
“Tom,” said the examiner, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions to make sure that we get a clean test. To get a clean test, there can be no surprises to taint your responses. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” Tom responded. He didn’t really care how the contraption worked or why, just wanted it to prove his innocence. Tom looked into the man’s eyes and saw his disgust, as plain as if he had a sign tattooed on his forehead that said, YOU’RE GUILTY AND I’M GOING TO PROVE IT TO THE WORLD. Given the entire feel of it, Tom felt as if he was being led to the gallows, as if the wires would be woven into a noose to fit Tom’s neck.
Finally, the examiner spoke. “Okay,” he muttered, like a robot. “We can get started.”
Tom could hear and feel the rhythmic beating of his heart and the wild turbulence of his sleep deprived mind, but the room was heavy with silence. He looked at the examiner.
“First question,” he said. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
Consumed with stress, Tom felt as if his body was pretty much shot. He wondered how his body would react to the strain of the questions, though Tom never hesitated with his answers. “It was Wednesday,” he said. “In the morning before I took off for work. Tanya had the day off or, maybe, I should say the night off. She was still home when I left for work about five-thirty in the morning.”
The examiner droned on about the upcoming question as Tom’s mind continued to toss around his turbulent thoughts. Oh, God! his mind screamed in silence. Where is she? He prayed again, the same prayer he’d been praying for the past eight days: Lord if you can’t keep her safe, then keep her with you. Let no harm take her from you. Let no wrong be done to her. Keep her in your grace. Again, the prayer sustained him, providing feelings of hope and peace.
“When you last saw your wife was she alright?” the examiner asked.
Tom felt a surge of anger, realizing that the police seemed far more interested in him than in his missing person—their victim. Tom looked at the examiner and sensed that the man expected the answer to be a lie. It must have been hard for him to understand that someone like Tanya could love someone like Tom. Of course, he couldn’t comprehend it, Tom thought. I haven’t even figured it out myself!
Tom never let his gaze leave the examiner’s eyes and he never became nervous before answering. “Yes,” he stated with confidence. He didn’t even have to think.
At one-forty-five that afternoon, a search-and-rescue crew on case number 07-284-580 drove to the Maple Valley area of Renton to look for a cell tower in the neighborhood of State Route 169 and Jones Road. This intersection just happened to be on Tanya’s route home from work.
“Our latest information would be a three-to-five-mile range southeast of the towers,” the dispatcher told the rescue crew, Guardian One.
“Did you do anything to make her angry?” the examiner continued.
“No,” Tom said. He tried to think of anything he might have done that rubbed her the wrong way but he came up empty. “I don’t know,” he said, expanding on his answer. “She’s been angry at me about half the time we’ve been married and we’ve been together for a long time.” He knew they wanted a yes or a no answer but the truth was that this was a grey area.
The examiner continued to ask the same question in several different ways, so Tom braced himself for the next variation on the theme.
“The last time you saw Tanya was she unharmed?”
“Yes,” Tom answered.
“Have you ever hit your wife Tanya Rider?”
“What?” he seethed. “No!” He answered with a hint of attitude in his voice. Tom lost his patience and finally looked straight at the examiner. “Are these questions designed to make me angry while she’s out there in God knows what condition?” he asked. “I think this is ridiculous.”
“Easy, Tom” the examiner responded. “You have nothing to fear. Don’t look at all the wires.”
But Tom thought that it was next to impossible to ignore the mass of wires. He squirmed, although he’d done nothing wrong. The wires scared him.
“Ah, let’s continue here, Tom,” said the examiner. “We’re almost done, I promise.”
Tom doubted it.
“Did you do anything to hurt Tanya the last time you saw her?”
Before Tom could take a deep breath and answer the question, the examiner stood and stretched awkwardly.
“Let’s take a break,” he suggested. “I am going to let you unwind for a few minutes before we continue. Do you have any particular questions about the equipment?”
The only question on Tom’s mind was, “Where’s my wife?” But Tom didn’t ask. Instead, he summoned all of his strength and simply said, “No, I don’t have any questions about the equipment or the test.”
The search-and-rescue crew reported, “We have found the vehicle about a quarter mile south of the south end of Jones Road.” In a moment, they added, “We have movement.”
“Copy?” responded the dispatcher.
“We’ve got movement,” they repeated.
The dispatcher then asked the County to send an aid car, saying, “It’s that missing female, Tanya Rider, that was on the news. We found her vehicle and she’s still moving inside of it! Whew! Wow! Goodness!” The dispatcher continued delivering instructions. “Just tell them to go really fast to the Jones Road off of State Route 169. Whew, got my blood pumping!
” she added.
After giving directions for a moment, the dispatcher said, “Oh, my God. This is a car accident!” And, again, the dispatcher adds, “So this is basically, I think, a car accident and she’s been trapped for this long! Wow! Where’s the supervisor? Melinda? This is basically gonna be a car accident and she’s been trapped in the vehicle ever since. Copy. Wow!”
The dispatcher turned to the rescue crew. “And this is just a blue Honda Element?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” came the reply. In a moment, the rescue crew added, “She’s moving. That’s all he told me.”
The dispatcher canceled the car response as fire and medical personnel headed to the site and Guardian One, the helicopter, hovered above the scene.
The examiner left the room so Tom looked around to check out his surroundings. The small office was bare, with no windows and empty, white walls. Aside from the examiner’s polygraph certification and a few other notices of achievements, the room had no decorations of any kind. The computer sat on an undersized desk and the various wires ran to a square case that opened like a suitcase. The box had several leads for various attachments—heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and body temperature. Together, Tom thought that all the leads resembled spaghetti. He wondered how they could get an accurate test when the stress alone would make a person sweat? With nothing to do besides look around the boring room, Tom almost dozed off even though he was sitting erect in an uncomfortable chair.
Barely three minutes after the examiner had left, the door swung open. Tom recognized the detective, who had asked him for his computer several days earlier. Flanked by another detective and a uniformed officer, the detective came in, dangling a piece of paper from one hand.
What was going on? Tom wondered. Why is it three against one? Tom noticed that the paper held a map, but he could barely make it out through the fog that was overtaking his mind. Finally, he could see that the area on the map was a stretch of road he’d driven often—probably a hundred times in the past week. Tom was confused. He couldn’t think of much that was there, along that stretch of highway, except the river and a stoplight.
Tom wondered what the map had to do with Tanya, and why wasn’t the detective saying anything? He just stood there, looking at Tom. Games, Tom thought. That’s all they’re doing—playing mental anguish games with me.
The detective looked intently at Tom. Finally, he abruptly asked, “Do you know what a cell-phone ‘ping’ is Tom?” The guy didn’t wait for Tom to answer. He showed Tom the map, which had a circle drawn on it. He pointed at it and explained that the last calls on Tanya’s cell phone had gone through the same tower. In fact, every call attempted in the last eight days had gone through one single tower. They concentrated on Tom’s reaction.
Time slowed down. Seconds turned into hours. Tom felt pure dread.
The detective paused.
Tom was tired of waiting. “And?” he said, inching beyond irritated. What are you waiting for? Tom thought. Why are you stalling? They’re afraid to tell me! His rage rose to the surface.
“We found her car,” said the detective, pausing again.
Tom’s heart rate surged into overdrive and his brain jumped into high gear. He had hundreds of questions. His head spun and a cold lump rose in his throat. It was hard to speak. He swallowed convulsively, trying to be calm, trying to finish his thoughts.
I open my eyes. What? What am I seeing?
I am scared. I look up at the passenger side of the car and I see a man’s face. I don’t know who he is. I am startled, scared. Why is he asking me so many questions? He is saying something but I cannot make sense of it. What is he talking about?
“It’s a car accident,” he says. “Oh, my God, it’s her!”
Is he real? Or is my mind playing games with me again? Who is he? I do not think I know him. Where did he come from? Maybe he can help me.
I see that he’s a police officer. He pulls open the passenger door.
Other people are with him. They are smiling and seem happy that they found me. I think I am happy, too.
“She’s still alive,” someone says.
“It’s been—what? Eight days?” I hear another voice.
“She’s still alive! We have to move fast and get her out of here. Oh, my God, I can’t believe she’s still alive!”
“Can you help me?” I asked.
I look at the man and his jaw drops. He seems stunned. He scrambles around.
“Do you have any water?” I ask. Then, they ask me questions and I answer them, and I try to be friendly. I make them laugh. They work to get me out of my car, but I’m stuck. My car is smashed around me and they can’t get me out. The fire department uses the Jaws of Life to cut apart my SUV. My beautiful, wonderful car.
“I can’t feel my legs,” I tell the medics. I am so tired I don’t even want to breathe anymore. I close my eyes.
“I can’t get a pulse,” I hear somebody say. “She coded!”
CHAPTER TWO
Recovery
Tom couldn’t stand it. “And?” he repeated. He had a flurry of questions: Where had they found her car? Had it been stolen? Did it provide any clues to her whereabouts?
“We found her car,” the detective repeated. Then, he added, “In a ravine.”
Tom didn’t understand. He just looked at the detective.
“Are you familiar with 196th and Jones Road?”
Tom was very familiar with it, as he’d traveled that section of road many times. Just come out with it! he thought.
“She’s still trapped inside.”
Frantic, Tom’s mind raced. It didn’t make sense. Why was the detective being so vague? What about Tanya? Is she alive?
Tom held the wall to steady himself. “Is she alright?” he asked with a lump in his throat. He held his breath and studied the detective’s face. For God’s sake, just tell me! he thought.
“We don’t know,” he finally offered. “They’re still trying to reach her.”
Tom wondered what could have happened for them to be missing that information. His adrenaline and basic instincts threatened to overwhelm him with impatience, rage and fear, and he struggled to hold himself in check. He wanted a simple answer: Was Tanya dead or alive?
“Where are they taking her?” he stammered. “Which hospital?”
“Valley General,” said the detective. “Do you want a ride?”
“No,” Tom said, picturing himself in the back of a patrol car. “I’ll get there on my own.” Tom didn’t want to surrender to the situation. He wanted to feel that he had at least a little bit of control so he definitely wanted to drive himself. He pushed past the three officers and ran down the hallway and out through the sky bridge to the parking garage. Disoriented, it took him a few minutes to find his truck. Finally, he jumped in, turned the key and merged into a nonstop line of cars in the midst of the lunch rush. While they went about the routine of their daily lives, he felt isolated in his own world of life-or-death panic.
He crept through the gridlock toward the freeway and entered Highway 167, northbound, heading for Valley General Hospital. His personal cell phone rang and Tom answered. A friend from work, Adam, told him that he was being detoured around the 196th and Jones Road area. “Something big is going on over here,” Adam said.
“They found her!” Tom said. “They found her, but no one’s telling me anything. The cop took forever to give me the little info he had.”
“Did they find her on 169?” Adam asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m being detoured around her at Jones Road!”
“Can you see anything?”
“No,” Adam said. “They’re turning everyone toward Issaquah.”
Tom’s work phone rang. He answered the second phone and a reporter wanted to know if he had any comment on the fact that they were airlifting Tanya. His mind reeled. Valley General didn’t have a heliport. That hospital didn’t take airlifts.
“They don’t airlift to Valley,�
�� he said to the reporter.
“No,” she said. “Airlifts go to Harborview, I think.”
“Can you see anything from where you are?”
“It looks like her car is face down in the water.”
“What?” he asked in a panic. “She’s in the river?” Clutching the phone, his fist squeezed around it until he heard something snap inside the phone.
“No, no,” the reporter said. “She’s on the other side of the road, in some sort of storm runoff ditch.”
Tom had already passed the exit to Valley General so he said goodbye to the reporter and scrambled to change highways, finding himself in heavy traffic again. The cars eased forward as Tom searched the skies for any sign of the airlift chopper. Then he realized that he didn’t know how to get to Harborview Hospital. He dialed 411, got the hospital’s phone number, and asked the operator to connect him. In a panic, he talked himself through the directions. Finally, he found the hospital’s neighborhood. He rounded the corner and saw a crowd of news vans parked in the bus and ambulance parking areas.
Tom circled down through the garage, searching for a parking spot. Five levels underground, he found a space. He shoved the cell phones in separate pockets, rushed to the elevator and punched the button. In a frenzy, he couldn’t wait. He took the stairs two at a time. His work phone rang as he emerged at ground level. Adam asked if he needed anything but, just then, the reporters and camera crews raced toward him, blurting out questions.
“Adam,” he said, “I’m low on smokes. And I’m being trampled by news crews. I’ll talk to you later.” Hanging up, he turned to the reporters. “I don’t know,” he offered. “I’m going to try to see my wife.”
Tom found his way to the Emergency Room admissions clerk and asked about his wife. “Her name is Tanya Rider,” he said, as calmly as he could. “She was brought in by helicopter from Maple Valley.”
“I have no patient by that name,” the nurse said.
“She’s being airlifted,” he explained. “This is where she would come, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he thought out loud, “Why isn’t she here?”