by Roger Hayden
Large and stocked with supplies, the storage cabinets didn’t look easy to move. She passed the shelves and felt along the thick, bare walls, turning around to walk past the supplies again. The first shelving unit was stocked with canned goods, and there were scuff marks on the floor ahead of it as though the unit had been moved more than once.
Tara watched Miriam with curious interest as she rolled up her sleeves and pushed against the canned food shelf with her arms out, legs back, and all the energy she could muster. But it wouldn’t budge. She then tried the two other shelves and pushed against them to no avail.
“Escape…” she said, catching her breath. “Where would he escape to? What’s his secret place?”
She paced around the garage, thinking. There was no doubt that Trudeau was going into hiding now. He was a dangerous and resourceful man. There had to be more to the house than what she had seen. There had to be evidence that showed his meticulous planning, something to aid their manhunt. If they didn’t find him soon, Miriam feared that April was doomed.
She turned to Tara with an idea. “Can you help me clear these shelves?”
Tara leaned her back against the wall, surprised. “But you told me not to touch anything.”
Miriam scanned the shelves again and then looked at Tara with urgency. “We’ll put everything back, I promise.”
Tara walked over as Miriam removed the canned goods one by one, handing them to her, who then stacked them in neat, careful rows on the ground. They were making quick progress, but with the shelves of the first unit nearly emptied, many questions remained.
If the secret room was indeed hidden behind stockpiled supplies, how did Trudeau move in and out with such ease? Miriam kept watch for a switch that would perhaps reveal an entrance while also understanding the unlikelihood of making any such discovery.
“That’s good, thanks,” she said to Tara after emptying the first shelving unit. She then leaned closer to Tara and felt her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Do you want to sit?”
“I’m fine,” Tara said.
Miriam walked past her, grabbed one of the lawn chairs, and pulled it over. “Here. Just take a breather.”
Tara threw her arms down in protest. “I said, I’m fine.”
Miriam pointed to the chair using the same stern voice she used with Ana. “You need to rest.”
“Okay, okay. Got it,” Tara said as she sat down with her arms crossed.
Miriam approached the empty storage cabinet, ready to give it another shot and confident that she could move it now that they had removed most of the weight. She went to its side, stretched her arms forward, and pushed against it with all her might.
The cabinet skidded across the floor in an arch, leaving faint scuff marks over the ones already there. Miriam stopped pushing and turned to the space she had made between the shelf and the wall. There was something there. Not a doorway or crawlspace, but a small metal circuit-breaker door. She didn’t know what to make of it.
Tara rose from her chair and walked over. “What’s that?”
“Careful,” Miriam said, blocking her. “We don’t know what it could be.” She felt exhausted from emptying the first cabinet and wasn’t looking forward to doing the same to the other two. “Stand back while I open it.”
Miriam nudged Tara to the side and felt along the wall, from the coarse gray coating to the smooth and glossy mysterious door. She grabbed the tiny handle on the door and pulled it open, backing up in the process and nearly tripping over herself.
“What happened?” Tara asked.
They both looked at the wall and said no more. Behind the tiny door was a normal-looking circuit breaker, which made Miriam even more curious. She had already discovered a functioning circuit breaker in the pantry. What kind of house had two of them?
“That’s weird,” she said, approaching the breaker with its two columns of black switches and one red main switch overhead.
She went to the first column of black switches, flipping them from one side to the other, but it seemed to have no effect on the power. She then tried the next column, again with no apparent results.
“Does it even work?” Tara asked, walking over.
“Stay back,” Miriam said, her eyes examining every switch.
The red master switch remained untouched. It tempted her, though she remained cautious and unsure about how to proceed. Trudeau obviously liked to set traps, and she wouldn’t put anything past him after the van explosion. Part of her, however, wanted to flip the switch. Part of her had to. She took a step back and wiped the sweat from her forehead, delaying the inevitable.
“Are you all right?” Tara asked.
“Yes. I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she answered, staring at the breaker.
The more she thought about it, the more she believed that the circuit breaker was hidden for a reason. Its odd placement and concealment had her convinced that they were on to something. It could be nothing, but there was only one way to find out. Miriam took a deep breath, stepped forward, and flipped the red switch. Every muscle tensed and she held her breath. Then a mechanical rolling sounded, much to her surprise, and as she looked at the lower wall, she was astonished to see an opening into a crawlspace about four feet wide. .
“You found something! What is it? Tara said, ecstatic.
Miriam knelt and shined her flashlight inside with her heart pounding and her mind in a state of disbelief.
“I-I don’t know. Part of the wall just slid open,” Miriam said. “A secret entrance, just like you said.”
“What’s inside?” Tara asked, peeking in with excitement.
“Please stay back,” Miriam said for the countless time.
She then stared into the darkness, moving the flashlight around until she saw what appeared to be a small door ahead in the darkness—a stunning discovery on all fronts.
When she had awakened that morning in her hotel room at the Sand Spur Inn, the last thing she had expected was to find herself trying to breach the door to a secret room. But there was no time to waste. It appeared that Trudeau had forgotten to lock the door to his bunker—a lucky break all around.
Miriam crouched lower to enter when Tara called out, “Hey, you’re not going in there alone, are you?”
“You stay here and be my lookout, okay?”
“What if something happens to you?” Tara asked. “What am I supposed to do?”
Miriam lowered her flashlight and turned her head back. “I’m going to be careful. Don’t worry. You’re a brave girl, Tara, and we’re going to find April. We just have to be patient and stay attentive.”
“Can I go in once it’s safe?” Tara asked, noticeably eager.
Miriam couldn’t guarantee safety. She had no idea what awaited down below. “Maybe. Now, if you hear anyone, just stick your head past the wall here and call for me.”
“Good luck,” Tara said, giving her a thumb’s up.
Miriam thanked her and turned and kneeled at the crawlspace. Whatever Trudeau was hiding in there or below must have been pretty important. She moved in, aiming her flashlight at the door ten feet ahead. Once inside, she stood up with the ceiling inches from her head in a room the size of a broom closet. There was a stale wood smell in the air, and the gritty floor scraped against her shoes with every step.
Concerned that she might get trapped inside, she turned her head and shouted to Tara, “Don’t let anyone mess with that switch until I come back!”
“Got it,” Tara said.
Miriam then approached the door and examined its rusty brass knob. She pulled her pistol out and prepared to enter some sort of room, certain that the clues inside would help lead to April’s whereabouts. Dr. Trudeau’s face would be all over the news in a matter of hours. He’d be one of the most wanted men in the country. With the almost certain media fallout, Miriam hoped more than anything to stay out of the spotlight. All that mattered was finding April. She was confident that Trudeau wouldn’t get far, but that didn’t make his
captive any safer.
She turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open a crack. She heard nothing and saw nothing but pure darkness beyond the door. With her flashlight held out, she pushed the door open fully and saw a staircase leading downstairs, just as Tara had said.
She slowly descended the creaky stairs with her pistol aimed in one hand and her flashlight guiding the way in the other. Upon reaching the bottom of the stuffy room, she recalled the harrowing moment she had found her own daughter tied up in the basement of a madman only one year before. The image haunted her to this day. Despite her abrupt visions of the past, Miriam remained alert to any sudden movement or sounds. So far, the room appeared to be unoccupied.
She moved the flashlight around, barely penetrating the absolute darkness, but catching a glimpse of a desk and some chairs. The room didn’t appear to be very big, and the ceiling was low enough to touch. She wondered how anyone could work or live down here. Suddenly, she caught sight of someone and gasped, backing against the wall. She held the flashlight steady and saw something near the stairwell that looked like people.
They were just standing there, a man and three women, so life-like that Miriam had nearly pulled the trigger. On closer inspection, she could see that they were in fact old-fashioned mannequins, lined up and in different poses. Miriam steadied her breathing as her heart thumped rapidly in her chest.
She turned around and searched the concrete walls for a light switch. There appeared to be a small motion detector on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. She ran her hand across it and managed to turn on a series of long fluorescent lights above, illuminating the room.
Trudeau’s bunker was impressive in its sleek, minimalist design. The floor was covered in white vinyl like a supermarket. There was a work station in the center of the room with a computer, printer, and stacks of files. To her right, she jumped at the sight of another faceless, naked mannequin lying in a black leather patient chair next to an upright “therapist chair” that was empty. A video camera sat stationary on a tripod a few feet from the mock setup, and Miriam didn’t know what to make of it. Did Trudeau videotape therapy sessions with fake patients? It looked like the only person who really needed therapy was Trudeau himself.
Miriam turned away and proceeded to search the rest of the room, feeling a creepiness that sent shivers down her spine. She could only imagine the weird activities that took place down here in secret. Exploring the room, she was relieved not to find additional victims, but also disturbed to think of what kind of work Trudeau did down here.
Past the desk, she approached a long tool bench with plugs, caps, wires, and ball bearings strewn across the surface. There was an open red toolbox filled with screwdrivers, pliers, and various wire splitters. Apparently, Trudeau had been hard at work. On the floor next to the bench sat two silver pressure cookers.
There was no closer link between Trudeau and the van explosion than what she witnessed at that moment. This was the room where he conducted his malicious plans. It was a room he could work in freely without worry that someone would find him. It was hard to believe that one man could be capable of such evil. “That son of a bitch…” Miriam said with contempt. At that moment, she wanted him caught more than ever, and she wanted to be the one to do it.
She walked past the tool bench where an industrial tool cabinet sat with over ten drawers. She pulled a couple of the drawers open and found them filled with basic tools, screws, nuts, and bolts. Past the cabinet was an odd display of wood-carved animals, birds, bears, deer, and horses, no bigger than the palm of her hand. A knife lay nearby among a handful of wood scrapings and a sharpening block.
She turned and approached his computer station, but there didn’t seem to be any power, and it didn’t boot up no matter how many times she pressed the button of his PC tower. She followed the cords and cables to a floor outlet that didn’t seem to be working. Perhaps she had shut it off with one of the switches outside.
A desk lamp hovered over one of the three flat-screen monitors. There were papers everywhere, and though the lights were on, they barely provided enough wattage for her to read anything. With the blue latex gloves on her hands, she fished through the files on his desk, noticing a number of patient files and random notes. They seemed to be ordinary therapist documents until she came upon one name that stopped her in her tracks: Walter Browning. She opened the folder and flipped through the pages fastened within. Inside were appointment dates and times, prescriptions, recommendations, and something that said “tape number thirty-three.”
“Tape number?” she said to herself.
Suddenly her attention went to the video camera across the room on its tripod. She was curious to see what he had recorded, if anything. She set the file down, prepared to search each drawer, when a small, framed picture next his computer monitors caught her eye.
It was of a young freckle-faced girl, no older than Tara or April. She was holding a sunflower and smiling in a good-natured, innocent way. Miriam was intrigued. It was the first picture she had seen of anyone in Trudeau’s entire house. But who was she? Was she a victim or someone else?
She opened each drawer and found a series of notebooks and legal pads in each one. There were several medical and psychiatric journals stuffed in one drawer after another—Trudeau’s desk was all business, until she came across an old scrapbook with a drawstring tie. She pulled it out of the drawer and set it carefully on the table. Distracted, she looked toward the staircase, concerned that Tara might be getting worried about her. Her sweep of the room hadn’t been done yet, so she took the scrapbook and then turned around to explore everything else.
Past the tool bench, she approached a long, flat surface that resembled an operating table. A domed surgical light hung above it, with a small wheeled tray to the side. Everything was clean and sterile, but it wasn’t hard for Miriam to make the connection between the setup and Trudeau’s amateur surgery hobby. He must have carried Tara down here while she was unconscious and amputated her finger.
Behind the operating table in the shadows was a large metal wall locker. Intrigued, Miriam walked past the table and pulled open both doors. Like something out of a hospital, it was filled with a cache of medical supplies: antiseptic wipes, latex gloves, soap, and all kinds of antibacterial cleaners.
She stared into the wall locker in shock at the abundance of medical supplies before her. Who on earth would need all of these things in their home?
She scanned the other shelves and saw a small leather bag of medical tools—scalpels, scissors, stethoscopes, and tweezers—and a few shelves packed full of tape gauze, tourniquets, and various patches.
Whatever his reasoning, Miriam had seen enough. The detectives could figure out the rest. There was probably enough evidence floating around Trudeau’s secret room to lock him up for good—or to toss him into death row. Miriam held the scrapbook against her side, prepared to leave. There was plenty more to search through, confiscate, or make note of, but she didn’t want to keep Tara waiting.
She closed the wall locker and walked to a cluttered workstation in the corner, across from the tool bench and bomb-making equipment. In the shadows, she saw two blue barrels marked with caution stickers and identified as Hydrofluoric acid, causing her heart to race with fear. What other insidious acts had he committed? She felt as though she was only at the tip of the iceberg.
She observed the two connected tables that formed an L-shape and comprised a seemingly busy workstation. There was a police scanner without power, in addition to several small, blank surveillance monitors. There were various pairs of binoculars, a creepy fake wig and mustache, rope, and a bowl of candy. Miriam fished through the bowl and pulled few small wrapped candies out, examining them. Near the bowl were opened pieces resembling taffy. Most disturbing of all was the unmarked bottle of clear liquid and a syringe nearby. Trudeau might as well have left a road map. Here, she saw everything.
There were photos on the table of nearly every storefront, parki
ng lot, park, and neighborhood street corner in Odessa. She looked up and saw a map of the greater Odessa area on the wall next to a dry-erase board. Trudeau not only had his own makeshift operating room, it appeared he had created a tactical operations center as well. Ector County PD was going to have a field day with everything.
Miriam examined the table. With all the documents, writings, and photographs tacked to a nearby bulletin board, it looked as though Trudeau had been planning the kidnappings for years. She wondered where she fit into his scheme, especially when she found a drafted letter on the table, next to an X-ATCO knife she assumed he used to cut out the magazine letters he then pieced together in his creepy letters.
One of the drafts said, Don’t try to find me. You’ll never see daughter again, and then it ended there. It looked as if he had forgotten to add the word “your” between see and daughter and just started a new letter from there. Still, the question ate at her. Why did he call her out by name? What was her role in his twisted plan?
She hoped to find out one way or the other. Perhaps one of his notes would provide some answers. She grabbed a green college-ruled notebook on the table, marked March 2016, and held it next to the scrapbook. It was all she had time to get for now. The police would arrive any moment, and she needed to be front and center. She was confident that they could work together and find Trudeau.
She was in hot water, completely out of her element and jurisdiction. She didn’t know why she sometimes evaded procedures and protocols. All she ever wanted in life was results. Did that make her a bad enforcer of the law? She then thought back to something her old police captain had told her more times than once. Rules are everything.
