by Spencer Kope
On the Go! command, Detective Nate Critchlow rises slightly from his crouched position next to the empty window frame and tosses something through the opening. Quickly, he stumbles backward through the dark and takes cover behind a thick fir that’s so tall it disappears into the gloom above.
It takes the suspect a moment to realize what just happened.
He likely heard a flutter as the canister passed through the air; it’s a certainty he heard it thud and roll as it bounced off the wall and settled in the corner. Yet, it’s the third sound that likely concerned him the most: a slow hiss, like a pissed-off snake.
Make that a furious snake.
It takes the runner—the kidnapper—a few seconds to process this information, during which the gas begins to fill the cabin. The unbearable sting in his eyes answers all questions. Holding his breath for as long as he can, he finally exhales with a rupturing sound. Unable to stop himself, he inhales deeply, sucking gas into the well of his chest.
His lungs suddenly ache and burn, as if consuming him from the inside out.
A roar rises from the cabin.
It’s nothing short of animalistic, the howl of one cornered and beaten, without options. And then the gas really starts to go to work. The roar rises to a wail, painful now, and then devolves into a coughing cry of despair. Pain sears his eyes, blinding him temporarily.
Tears flow.
Mucus runs.
Through the dark of night, through the cabin door, and through the spreading toxic mist, I watch as the kidnapper thrashes about, covering and clawing at his eyes, bashing his head against the timber walls. Stumbling and choking, he begins to search for the doorframe, one arm outstretched. A moment later he finds it and pulls himself forward, pulls himself through the opening and into clean air.
* * *
Modern tear gas may have had its birth in the trenches of World War I, but its legacy is much deeper. There is evidence that the Aztecs and Mayans both burned chili peppers during warfare, creating smoke and fumes to weaken and disrupt their enemies. Reportedly, the Aztecs even punished children by holding their heads over chili peppers burning in the fire. The Chinese, for their part, would grind cayenne peppers into a fine powder that could be propelled into the faces of their opponents.
The Latin term for tear is lacrima, which is why tear gas was originally referred to as a lacrimatory agent or lacrimator. There are a wide variety of lacrimators, some more dangerous than others, some more effective than others. Some just cause the eyes to tear, while others irritate the lungs, throat, and skin.
Law enforcement agencies use either CS or OC gas—which aren’t really gases at all, but solids or liquids that have been turned into aerosols. The Clallam County deputies are equipped with the OC variety of tear gas, which, taking a cue from the Aztecs and Mayans, is derived from chili pepper oil, or oleoresin capsicum, hence the OC designation. Civilian versions of pepper spray generally contain a less potent mix than that used by police, sometimes significantly less potent. The law enforcement version is equivalent to bear spray.
Needless to say, it’s extremely debilitating.
For a cabin this size, one canister is more than enough.
* * *
As the suspect stumbles from the cabin, six powerful halogen beams light him up. It takes only a fraction of a second to assess the situation: no gun in his hand; no bulges under the arm concealing a weapon, no bulges around his waistband, front or back.
Two figures move swiftly from the left and—in the vernacular of law enforcement—escort the suspect to the ground.
It’s not a soft landing.
The wail that rises as he struggles with the deputies is chilling as it echoes through the dark forest. It’s not just the sound of it, it’s the words that come with it, mournful cries of, “He’s going to be so mad,” and “I did it just like you said,” and “I’m sorry.” The last two clearly directed at some person, real or imagined, who is not present.
A thorough frisk turns up a wallet in the suspect’s back pocket, but there’s no identification, nothing that gives a hint as to who this guy is. He’s no help either. When asked his name, all he’ll say is Faceman, sometimes uttering it slowly as if it were two words, other times running them together as if it’s a single name, like Batman or Superman.
“Okay, Faceman,” Jason says, easing the cuffed suspect to a sitting position, “let’s see about cleaning off some of this OC.” Retrieving his canteen, he starts by flushing out the man’s eyes. A half dozen additional canteens are soon stacked before them as others contribute their water to the cause. One of them suggests stripping off the suspect’s tainted clothes and wrapping him in a thermal blanket while they try to air out his shirt and pants.
I suspect this is more out of self-interest than concern for the prisoner. We’re going to have to walk this guy out of here, and it’s going to be pretty unpleasant if OC is bleeding off his clothes during the miles-long journey.
One of the state troopers with our tracking party suggests rubbing Faceman’s clothes in dirt, believing it’ll help soak up or wipe away the OC. It’s a bit like dry cleaning, I suppose, but with dirt. I’ve never heard of such a thing, so I watch with curiosity—and from a distance—as the trooper recruits an idle deputy and the two of them go to work on the garments, giving them a good dirt-scrubbing.
After a few minutes, they shake the earth from the fabric and then beat the shirt and pants against a tree for the better part of a minute. They remind me of old-school lumberjacks, only instead of axes they wield clothes.
When they’re satisfied with their work, they carry the “clean” garments back to our still-unidentified suspect. I have doubts about the efficacy of the dirt bath, which is reinforced when my eyes begin to burn as they pass.
I suppose it doesn’t matter. The suspect’s hair and body are just as contaminated, and we can’t exactly hose him down in the middle of the forest with temperatures now dipping into the high thirties. It’s going to be a long walk out of here for all of us.
I plan on staying upwind.
* * *
While the cleaning process continues, Jimmy, Nate, and I check out the cabin. We quickly find a blue-and-gray Dakine backpack stuffed into the front corner, partially covered with old leaves and other debris, a hurried and poor attempt at concealment.
Setting it on the ground before us and snapping on a pair of gloves, Jimmy reaches into the backpack slowly, delicately, his movements bearing the practiced caution of one who has discovered too many used syringes, open blades, and other hazards among the possessions of the people we hunt. A moment later he has something, and with equal patience he pulls a thin gray rectangle from the backpack and hands it to Nate.
“One Dell laptop,” he announces, and then reaches back into the bag. Next, he extracts a yellow-and-black handheld device that I initially take for a walkie-talkie, but then realize my mistake.
“One Garmin GPS,” he says, handing this to Nate as well. These are quickly followed by a half-used roll of duct tape, a pair of handcuffs with the key still in the lock, a four-inch folding pocketknife, and two bottles of water. Finally, from the very bottom of the bag, he extracts a factory-sealed sack of something called Mirror Image.
“Alginate impression material,” Jimmy reads from the package. “Mint-flavored.” He holds it up. “Any idea what this is?”
I take the package from him and turn it so that Nate and I can get a better look. After a moment, I flip it over and read from the back label: “Distributed by Consortium Dental Supply, Lansing, Michigan.”
Jimmy’s brows scrunch together. “Dental supply?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Probably what they use to make molds of your teeth,” Nate offers. “I got a crown last year and they filled the back corner of my mouth with the stuff. I don’t remember the mint flavor, though.”
“If this creeper turns out to be a dentist…!” I say, leaving the rest unspoken.
“Let’
s not jump to conclusions,” Jimmy says. “I’m sure there are plenty of places you can buy this stuff, maybe even on eBay. It doesn’t mean the suspect’s a dentist—or even a dental assistant.”
“Agreed,” Nate says, “but then, what’s he need it for?”
It’s a question with no answer.
Nate disappears momentarily and returns with some plastic bags and evidence tape. We go through the process of identifying, dating, and sealing each piece of evidence in individual bags, and then Nate signs his bold signature across the taped seam of each bag in thick black Sharpie. This ensures that if anyone tampers with an item it’ll be immediately apparent. Standard evidence-handling procedure.
After stuffing the bagged items back into the Dakine pack, Jimmy starts to swing it over his shoulder. Nate stops him.
“I can take that,” he offers. “If our psycho poster child has any accomplices, you don’t need that getting in your way.”
Jimmy doesn’t argue.
“Besides,” Nate says, “if the bullets start flying I can use it as a shield. Who needs body armor when you have a laptop and some algae molding crap?”
“Alginate,” Jimmy corrects, smirking at the detective.
* * *
With the cabin and surrounding area searched and our prisoner cleaned up to the best of our ability, we turn our attention to finding a way out. Between the intermittent GPS signal and a compass, we plot a course north-northwest and start off through the swaying timber.
Night is fully upon us.
With stealth no longer a concern, everyone has their flashlights out, and I notice that the beams frequently rise to the treetops, apprehensively searching for widow-makers among the swaying branches. I find myself doing the same thing. It’s always best to find widow-makers before they find you.
Much of the walk out is single file along animal trails, so Jason walks in front of Faceman, his Taser drawn and at the ready. The suspect’s hands are still cuffed in front of him, but Jason has strung several sets of handcuffs together to create a sort of chain, which he clings to with his free hand. Jimmy walks directly behind, his hand constantly on the suspect’s right shoulder, reminding him that he’s there.
Before starting the hike back, Jason gave Faceman a wet, folded cloth to wipe his eyes with as the need arose. He promptly lost this along the dark trail and took to using his bare hands, which only exacerbated the problem because they still had some lingering residue of OC, despite repeated washings.
Due to Faceman’s mental state, we decided back at the cabin that we’d wait to interview him once clear of the forest and in a stable, more appropriate environment. Despite this, the guy won’t shut up. It’s a nonstop parade of:
“My name is Faceman.
“I’m a fixer.
“Where is Eight?
“He’s going to be so mad.
“My name is Faceman.
“Where are we going?
“Am I in trouble?”
It’s a maddening barrage that never seems to quit, at times rising to a pitiable wail. You’d think the guy was being tortured.
These outbursts are accompanied by a heavy amount of blubbering and drooling as he constantly wipes his nose on his OC-contaminated sleeve.
* * *
When we emerge from the forest thirty minutes later, we’re exactly where we intended: on an isolated road more than seven miles from where we started this morning. An aid car and several patrol units have responded to the area and are waiting nearby as we stumble from the tree line, exhausted and cold.
I can only imagine how we look.
Leading Faceman directly to the nearby ambulance, we finally get our first good look at him in the full light of the waiting emergency vehicles.
He seems to have two states. In one, he’s distraught and talking nonsense; in the other, he’s constantly grinning, almost comically, as if this has all been a great game and he enjoyed the chase, even though he lost. Sometimes he mixes the two states, wailing in distress and grinning at the same time. The effect is disturbing and suggests he’s even less stable than we first imagined.
If I had to guess his age, I’d say midtwenties, maybe a couple years younger than me. It doesn’t take long to figure out that the path that brought him to this moment, through the long months and years of his life, had been a very different path from my own.
On the surface, he’s weak—a victim. He has small hands that are almost delicate, and a pockmarked face from an ongoing battle with acne. Yet there’s a hard edge to him … and something else, something I can’t place.
It’s in his empty brown eyes.
I’ve seen more life in the gaze of a corpse.
* * *
On the way to help retrieve our search party, the patrol sergeant made a stop at one of the local coffee shops and bought the biggest container of hot coffee they offered, a box that held twelve cups. When he told the barista what it was for, she squeezed in an extra cup.
I’m not much of a coffee drinker, but I choke down a cup despite myself. Anything to drive the chill from my bones. Jason and Jimmy, meanwhile, look like a couple addicts after a dry spell. They sip at the coffee sparingly but constantly, their cups never drifting farther than four or five inches from their lips.
Nate is standing guard at the ambulance as the medics determine Faceman’s condition, but when Jimmy holds up a paper cup with steam rolling off the top, he immediately heads our way, chin tucked low against the chill wind.
“He’s cuffed to the gurney,” the detective says quickly, anticipating Jason’s question. “Medics say he’s got a seriously sprained ankle and two cracked ribs from when he wrecked the car. He’s also got a slight case of hypothermia, so they want to transport.”
“How long before we can get a fit?” Jason asks, referring to the fit-for-jail determination needed from a hospital before an injured or sick arrestee can be booked.
Nate shrugs and shakes his head.
“Well, that’s just great,” Jason mutters in a tired voice, not looking forward to the prospect of babysitting Faceman at the hospital while they wait for a decision.
“He did say something interesting,” Nate adds, offering up the words like someone who’s privy to a tantalizing secret and dying to tell.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Well, you know how he kept going on about how someone was going to be mad at him?”
“Please, don’t remind me,” Jason moans.
Nate grins. “I know—like listening to an endless game of ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, only you’re sober. Anyway, when I kept asking him who ‘he’ was, he finally says, ‘It’s okay,’ which I take to mean, you know—okay, like everything’s copacetic, only that’s not what he means.” Nate drops the last words in a slowing cadence and then pauses, as if for dramatic effect. Jason’s too tired to play along, and just lowers his head slightly and lifts an eyebrow.
“It’s O-K,” Nate says, a little disappointed. “OK is an acronym.”
“An acronym?” I say. “For what?”
“Not what,” Nate quickly corrects, “who.” He rubs his hands briskly together to get the blood flowing and then stuffs them back into his coat. “He said that OK stands for Onion King—or the Onion King, I suppose. He rambled on at one point that the Onion King was a master; used words like brilliant and genius, but then he shut down instantly, like he just remembered that he wasn’t supposed to talk about it—or at least that’s what I took from it. You should’ve seen his face when he realized his mistake: I couldn’t tell if he was happy or scared to death.” Nate shakes his head with deliberation. “Dude freaks me out.”
“The Onion King?” Jimmy says thoughtfully. The coffee cup begins to drift precariously away from his lips but quickly recovers. “Is this Onion King supposed to have something to do with the woman in the trunk?”
“Stands to reason,” Nate replies. “He was so worked up about this Onion King being upset with him, it’s likely that he failed at
something; something big.” He looks at me, then at Jason and Jimmy, each in turn. “I’m guessing he was following orders from this Onion King. He was taking her somewhere … for some purpose.”
It’s a dark thought, a disturbing thought, and it carries with it a sober mood that settles about us like vultures on carrion.
* * *
The medics finish their evaluation and wave us over for an update. Faceman is tucked into the back of the ambulance, cuffs still in place, looking like a weathered scarecrow that someone threw out. As we approach, however, he seems to gain new life.
With a sudden jerk, his upper body rears to a sitting position like some undead thing out of a horror film. His eyes sweep over those gathered, including the deputies and troopers behind us, seeing and not seeing, yet it’s in that moment that I feel he’s looking only at me, his dead eyes singling me out.
“She is Eight,” he proclaims loudly, as if announcing a prophet or queen. “Call her Eight.”
Then, with a weary sigh, he falls back and wilts into the gurney.
CHAPTER FIVE
Entering Port Angeles from the east, we continue along Highway 101 until it morphs into Front Street. A few blocks later we turn right onto North Washington Street and find the Olympic Medical Center lying just ahead. It’s a squat building, unimpressive at first glance, but it’s situated on a bluff overlooking the tempestuous Strait of Juan de Fuca, a ninety-five-mile stretch of water that connects the Salish Sea to the Pacific Ocean.
The view is breathtaking, a feature of the hospital that’s often lost on the patients. I mean, who cares if whitecaps dot the strait and birds glide overhead if you just stroked out and your blood pressure is too high?
Jason drew the short straw when it came to the question of who was going to ride with Faceman in the ambulance, much to Nate’s relief. By the time we park, he and the EMTs are wheeling our peculiar suspect through the emergency room entrance. Even from a distance I can tell that he’s calmed down a bit during the drive, either because the OC is finally out of his eyes, or the warming blanket is putting him to sleep; maybe both.
