by Phil Hamman
“Show us his picture!” and “Did he kiss you?” one of the girls was bound to say, one of them always did, and then they’d all ooh and aah over Roger and how lucky Sandra was to be his girlfriend. She never tired of the attention heaped on her by her doting friends when they’d eagerly gather around to hear every detail about Roger, how he was such a gentleman. She wished she’d had a camera to bring tonight. She could have had Stew take a picture of her with Roger, his arm protectively around her shoulder, sitting next to a blazing fire. Well, it would be blazing again soon when Stew and Dana got back with more wood. Why weren’t they back yet? She didn’t have a photo of her with Roger, and when Sandra made up her mind, she did it with determination. She’d borrow a camera. Maybe Debbie had one. Then her thoughts were interrupted by another strange sound. Sandra gasped. By the way Roger and Mike froze at the same moment, she knew they’d heard it, too. The three slowly stood; Roger’s arm never left her shoulder.
“It’s like they want us to hear them,” Mike said, confused by the increasingly loud cracks off to their left. “Stew! Dana! Where are you?”
“Over here!” one of them called back. But it was in the opposite direction of the noises.
Twigs snapping and the bewildering sound of branches brushing against something continued with increasing regularity.
“Now it’s like they’re on beat. Like someone’s walking.” Roger said aloud what they were all thinking. The sound edged closer each time. Roger turned just in time to see Stew and Dana burst through the darkness. Their arms were nearly empty as neither had found much wood dry enough for a fire.
“Hey, man, something’s going on. There’s someone out there.” A tinge of alarm had crept into Roger’s voice. All five teens once again scoured the edges of the campsite, the once roaring fire now glowing weakly, illuminating just a small area around the campsite. What happened next put a chain of events into action. Although all five of them sensed something was off, they had no idea the night was about to take a terrifying turn.
Chapter 14
November 17, 1973 10:00 PM
Deputy Griesse poured the last of the steaming coffee into a tall mug balanced on the dash of the unmarked vehicle and settled back into the seat with a sigh. The night was turning frigid, and the car needed to remain hidden to avoid detection. Lyon County, nestled in a picturesque corner of Iowa, struggled with the same crimes and social problems as the rest of the country, just on a smaller scale. This evening, in fact, marked the third night of a stakeout. Griesse was parked on a gravel road near a farmhouse where the two occupants were prime suspects in a series of thefts. Vinson was parked two miles away near a spot where the suspects were thought to be stashing the stolen items. The officers communicated by radio and were focused on catching the thieves in possession of some items stolen just that day. The deputy lifted binoculars to his eyes each time car lights pierced the darkness, but they were mostly useless now. A heavy fog had rolled in and was growing thicker.
“The farm is dead tonight,” he reported to Vinson, knowing that catching the bad guy involved a lot more time sitting in the dark for endless stretches than most people realized.
“Nothing here either.”
“Is it foggy over by you, too?”
It was, and Vinson knew that signaled a close to the stakeout. Another evening with nothing to show, but that’s how it went in this business. “Well, we’ll wrap it up for tonight then. We should probably take a trip through Gitchie Manitou and see if there’s a beer party to break up,” Vinson said.
Griesse eased onto the road and headed in the direction of the park. Teenagers regularly gathered in the three-walled camp shelter for a night of beer drinking in what they perceived to be a remote location where their adolescent adventures would go unnoticed. He and Vinson often chased away as many as fifty kids in one night.
After he’d traveled less than a mile, the road dipped, engulfing the patrol car in a thick fog. Griesse stepped on the brake and flipped the fog lights on.
“We’ve got pea soup over here,” the deputy reported into the radio, peering out the window on his side of the car. “I can’t even see the edge of the road.”
“I’ll head away from the river and see if I can drive out of this cloud. It is thick.”
But the fog had unfolded itself across a wide berth, and Gitchie was still several miles away from both men. Dedication to duty was a hard habit to break, though, and their constituents valued a clean county, so Vinson and Griesse made regular weekend trips through Gitchie to prevent the park from acquiring a less than savory reputation as a party place. Both men tried a few different routes to the park and, after one had a near head-on collision in the dense fog, made the mutual decision to head home after a long day. They both switched directions and steered their patrol cars away from Gitchie Manitou, where, unbeknownst to them, five teenagers sat around a campfire wondering what was making strange sounds in the woods surrounding them.
Chapter 15
November 17, 1973 10:30 PM
Roger’s and Sandra’s eyes caught the distant movement at the same time. Roger dropped his arm from her shoulder and took a few strides forward, keeping Sandra back at a safe distance.
“Stew! Did you see that? Two guys just ran across over there!” Roger shouted, pointing into the blackened night air. Mike, Stew, and Dana all whipped their heads around in the direction Roger was pointing, but they missed the two large figures that had now disappeared into the night.
“Say something to them!” Stew urged Roger.
“Hey,” Roger yelled. But there was no answer, and the sounds of cracking twigs ceased. Perhaps there were some campers out there who intended to return to this spot. Minutes passed before the soothing sounds of the flowing river and raccoons emerging from their daytime hideouts to scour for food fell into a peaceful rhythm.
“Let’s find some more wood and get this fire going,” Roger said, and the others agreed. Roger started to walk away, then turned, grabbed Sandra in a tight embrace, and gave her a soft, lingering kiss comparable to a scene in a movie when a soldier kisses his love for the last time before heading off to war.
“Hey, Roger, do you want me to come with you?” Stew asked.
“Yeah, that would be nice,” Roger answered with an even voice. He paused just at the edge of the night where flickering firelight met pitch-black woods. There was movement again in the nearby tree line. Roger stopped and yelled, “Who are you? What do you want?” His question met stark silence followed by the encroaching crumple of leaves. Suddenly, two ominous figures splintered the night atop a low ledge of rock not twenty feet from the teens, with a third shadowy silhouette visible just behind them. They emerged from the darkness, moving methodically. Sandra’s muscles clenched in fear at the sight of their scowling faces. Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself to remain standing. They held guns; one raised his weapon.
BOOM! A terrifying explosion ripped through the campsite. BOOM! Then another.
Lean and dauntless, years of athletic training enabled Mike to react quickly in the face of adversity. He grabbed Sandra and pulled her along until they reached a sheer drop-off at the river’s edge where they shielded themselves behind a tree.
“Stay still,” Mike ordered as he held her protectively behind the only barrier that stood between them and gunfire.
Their bodies taut with fear, they waited as quietly as possible, trying to suppress their loud, panicked breaths. Even in her state of confusion, Sandra’s first instinct when Mike grabbed her had been to keep sight of the shooter to stay out of the line of fire. The man holding the shotgun had been tall and had worn a Russian trooper hat with ear flaps that covered most of his short, brown hair. Hot tears strained at the corners of Sandra’s eyes, yet her thoughts were consumed with finding Roger, though she didn’t dare to move. The gun blast had filled the air at the same moment she’d seen Roger flinch and crumple to the ground. She knew Roger was out there, wounded and helpless, and all alone. Sh
e held back the sobs of terror that racked her body and held tightly to Mike. Their soft gasps seemed amplified in the desperate effort to become noiseless and blend in seamlessly with the woods around them. At first there wasn’t a sound except for the occasional rattle of leaves tossed by the wind.
Another shot rang out and all went still until the blast’s echo dwindled to nothingness. Finally Dana’s usual soft-spoken voice broke the stillness. “Stew! What happened?” There was no answer. Then a loud wail rose from the direction where Stew had been.
“I’ve been shot! They shot me!” Stew’s voice was laced with pain and determination.
Sandra yearned to hear Roger yell back, but only Stew’s distressing groans filled the night. She turned slowly to Mike to avoid making noise and whispered, “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Mike whispered back.
They could hear Stew several yards away moaning in pain. “It hurts, it hurts so bad...” His voice trailed into silence.
Sandra tried to imagine herself becoming one with the tree. She pressed her face close to the trunk and breathed in the scent of musty bark. The gunmen retained their position of advantage on the ledge, causing snippets of their whispered conversation to reach her. Trembling, she pressed a hand to her pounding chest and prayed the men would leave. Though wanting nothing more than to make it all stop, she forced herself to stay alert. Then the three shadowy figures on the ledge shifted position and turned directly toward her and Mike.
Chapter 16
Early 1970s
The cascading falls of the Big Sioux River had long been a place where people gathered to live and play. This scenic area around Falls Park, where tall quartzite ledges create a series of waterfalls and thundering sprays of water send halos of mist skyward at the base of the turbulent waters, gave Sioux Falls its name in 1856. It was along this river’s edge that Roger Essem refined his appreciation and love of nature. He was especially fond of mountains and volcanoes and as a budding artist sketched countless scenes of the outdoors. On the flat plains of South Dakota, he had to settle for roaming small hills, but dreamed of one day visiting the mountains he spent hours sketching. The area around the falls wasn’t particularly hilly, but the untouched stone and acres of tall grasses allowed for a full day of hiking along the river’s edge, where he sometimes brought artist’s paper and charcoal pencils to sit peacefully sketching. He could often be found hiking with friends and taking advantage of the area’s varied seasons.
Roger grew up along with his eleven siblings near these flowing waters in this working-class side of town. His parents taught and expected their children to demonstrate respect, so with this humble demeanor he developed an appreciation for nature and life in general. Roger made the best out of everything life had to offer and became known as a people-person who was well-liked in return. Teachers at school respected Roger’s willingness to help classmates. His good-natured personality was cultivated as he matured into his teens. “He’s the type of person anyone would be honored to have as a son,” one teacher quipped. Roger knew he’d always like being around people and would forever have a special connection with the outdoors.
Chapter 17
November 17, 1973 11:00 PM
After what seemed like an eternity, a voice rang out, “We’re with the police! Come out with your hands up!”
At first neither of them moved. Mike stiffened when Stew’s moans of pain sliced the silence again. “We’re with the police! Come out with your hands up,” the voice demanded.
“Don’t run, those cops have already shot at us,” Mike whispered to Sandra while the two confused teens slowly emerged from the thicket, their hands raised high in the air. “There’s two of us, don’t shoot,” Mike yelled to the three assailants shrouded in darkness. As they walked closer to the men, Mike, filled with adrenaline by the situation, asked, “Who the hell do you think you are shooting at us?” The tall man with the Russian hat trained his gun on Mike and without saying a word pulled the trigger. The force of the blast knocked Mike to the ground with a thud. Though not hit herself, Sandra instinctively fell to the ground next to Mike. She was trembling with fear but tried to remain as still as possible.
A sickening pain radiated down Mike’s shoulder and warm blood spread through his shirt, then his jacket. He was bleeding and in excruciating pain, yet the hard-nosed athlete did not cry out or beg for his life. He lay as still as Sandra, who in the light of the waning fire could see the faces of the three men, all wielding shotguns. Two were thin and one was chubby, all their shadowy faces appearing menacingly evil in the dim light. A scene from a horror movie where some teenagers were murdered by a crazy, knife-wielding killer flickered through Sandra’s mind. This is what it feels like to be in a nightmare. She prayed they’d find out this was all a terrible misunderstanding.
Two of the men who’d identified themselves as police talked in hushed voices and moved about the campsite as Mike and Sandra lay silent. One walked over in the direction of Roger. Maybe they’ll think we’re dead and leave. Over and over Sandra prayed for them to walk away. If they’re police, they’ll call an ambulance, right? She wanted to ask Mike the question, but neither dared to even breathe loudly. Then she realized what she’d just thought. If. The word if hung in the air. If they were police. Something didn’t feel right. Did police use this kind of force on a handful of teenagers sitting around a fire singing? They weren’t in uniform and hadn’t shown a badge, but undercover agents wouldn’t be in uniform so probably they were telling the truth.
After several moments the men circled back. Mike and Sandra heard the sound of approaching feet. Mike concentrated on slow, calm breaths to take the focus off the pain and weighed every possible option to fight for his life. He too wondered if the men were police. If so, they were the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Mike feared that the smallest movement on his part could yield another gunshot. The closer the footsteps came, the quieter he remained until the rustle-tap of each step came to a stop. Right next to him. He braced himself for what he feared was bound to happen next. Wham! One of the men kicked Mike’s lower back so hard that his legs skidded forward, and he clutched his shoulder in pain at the jolt of the kick. Spasms gripped his body.
“That one’s playing dead!” the other man announced, giving Sandra a swift, hard kick as well. “Get up! Put your hands in the air, and don’t try anything!”
In a moment, Mike and Sandra were standing with their hands held high. Sandra’s stomach clenched at the thought of the pain Mike was enduring. She couldn’t imagine how he’d even managed to stand. She caught a glimpse of someone to her side and saw it was Dana, also with his hands in the air.
They’re going to put us in the police car now. Sandra waited to be led to their vehicle and prayed it would be an actual marked police car. Then at least the three of them would know these men were legitimate. One thought hadn’t left her mind the entire time. Where was Roger? Was he wounded like Stew? But then something strange happened.
“Let’s take them this way, Boss,” the shorter one said.
“This is a drug raid! Don’t make any sudden movements. Do exactly as you’re told,” the Boss commanded while keeping his gun leveled on the teens. The Boss was the same tall, thin man who had wounded Mike and shot Roger. With the barrel of the gun, he made a sweeping motion to indicate the three should turn around, which created a frightening tension with guns at their backs. He’s going to shoot us in the back! I know he’s going to shoot us! Sandra almost bolted but remembered what Mike had said. Don’t run, or they’ll shoot you.
Instead of leading them in the direction of the road, the Boss pointed to a small dirt path that led further into the woods. “Follow that trail!” he barked.
Their stomachs turned. The three teens had a feeling that whatever was about to happen wasn’t good. They were heading deeper into the woods. There was nothing in this direction but cliffs, the river below, and rocky ledges that were nearly unnavigable in the dark night
.
Sandra knew Dana to be quiet and obedient, especially around adults, and as of yet he had hardly spoken. She glanced over at Mike. He was pale, sweaty, and Sandra worried he might collapse. Emboldened by Mike’s bravery, Sandra forced herself to utter four words. “Okay, please don’t shoot!” It was all she could muster, and she hoped it would convey the message that the three would cooperate. She just wanted out of there. Please, God, get us out of here quickly!
The Boss herded them down a trail for just a short distance before stopping them on a ledge overlooking the Big Sioux River. Sandra’s heart raced. She couldn’t move, couldn’t dare to look at Dana’s or Mike’s face in case their expressions revealed that they knew more than she did. She wanted to ask questions. Where are you taking us? Why did you shoot Roger? He hadn’t done anything! And Mike? And Stew? All Mike did was ask a question, and they’d shot him! She stood there silently while the Boss briefly conferred with the other man. He was heading back toward them, gun held in front, and Sandra sucked in her breath, hoping he wasn’t going to use it again. Be quiet. Don’t say a word.
“Keep walking! Follow that trail!” he ordered again.
There was no noise except for the sound of feet on dead leaves. Mike was trudging much slower than the others; then his words broke the silence. Sandra startled at the unexpected voice.
“Sir, can we put our hands down?” Mike’s voice was strained, which reminded Sandra that he’d been wounded. He wasn’t moaning, complaining, or causing any problems. She couldn’t fathom how he’d walked this far in his condition.
“Yeah, you can put them down.” The Boss’s voice was aloof. This concession on his part led Sandra to think he might really be a cop. If he wasn’t a cop, he wouldn’t take the chance of letting us put our hands down, right? Yet it was disturbing that they were being led further into the woods.