Burrows
Page 15
Sheriff Griffin watched the press of spectators and reporters milling around behind the barricade. He was sure the phone lines were hot. “Of course I don’t want him to go. But I don’t know what else to do. The longer we wait, the worse it’s going to be.”
“No one here knows what to do with this,” Cody offered. “Even if the National Guard shows up, they won’t have anyone with my experience.”
Ned absently stared at his grandchildren who were dwarfed by the tall deputies. More excited than frightened, Top and Pepper knew the wrong word or action would get them banished from the scene, so they remained silent, and listened. “Crawling in that hole over there won’t make any difference to that dead man, son.”
Cody looked into Ned’s blue eyes. “This has been coming a long time, Ned. For months I’ve been dreaming about tunnels and houses and buildings and attics. Whatever sight our family has, it’s been working on me. It’s like when Top was dreaming about the Rock Hole, and I have to go along with it.”
Top jumped. The mention of the Rock Hole was a wallop of electricity. He took a step backward, as if to run, and then steadied like a wild colt once again under John’s big, calming hand.
Pepper quickly crossed her arms and turned away, unconsciously rubbing the back of her shoulder with her fingertips. For a moment she almost bolted from the crowd of men. The intensity of the situation was simply too much, reminding her of that terrifying night in the bottoms. Her chest tightened and she stifled the tears burning her eyes.
Ned saw the reaction in his grandchildren and wanted to gather them up in his arms, but he didn’t have time. Instead, he put his hand on Cody’s shoulder and hugged Pepper against his side with the other. “Let Griffin send in a couple of his boys. You don’t have to do this. You’re a constable, not a policeman or deputy sheriff. Wait for O.C. to call the National Guard.”
Cody shifted back and forth on his feet, bleeding off energy. “I doubt it’ll be much anyway.”
Griffin knew the longer he hesitated, the more intense the questioning was going to be from the reporters. “Those people back there are having a grand old time. The mayor is already pressing me to settle this thing before dawn, O.C.’s wearing my ass out, and we can’t use teargas for fear of burning the place down, not with a deputy lying there in plain sight, so what else can we do? And besides,” he waved a finger toward Cody, “he volunteered.”
“Like hell he did, Griffin!” Ned snapped at the sheriff, who took a half step back. John and O.C. moved with Ned, intending to step in if he started to swing. Instead, satisfied that Griffin had backed off, Ned sighed and turned to Cody. “All right, but don’t you forget, somebody’s in there and it’s probably Kendal. He’s tied up in this mess. For all we know he’s watching us right now and I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point.”
He turned toward Griffin. “How long will it take for the Guard to get here?”
“Hours?” Sergeant Blair shrugged and spat. “Even if they get called out tonight, they won’t be here ’til tomorrow.”
“Not on your life…” Griffin knew the implications of military action in a civilian situation. “There’s a whole crew of folks in Oklahoma that’s been chasing Kendal, if that’s who you think is involved here. They’ll be back here from Oklahoma at first light.”
“I know what to do, sheriff.” Cody dropped his cigarette butt on the ground and ground the cherry out on the cracked concrete.
“All right. I’m open to suggestions.”
“I had quite a bit of experience with VC booby traps. Close to the same kind that killed Andrews.” Cody felt the familiar dread in those humid jungles so far away. He also remembered what to expect. “What we need to do first is see if there’s another way in, or spider holes.”
“What? More entrances?” O.C. asked, shocked.
“Yeah, I’ll bet if this guy is crazy enough to fill this junk pile full trash and a maze of tunnels, he’s liable to have holes all around the building.”
“Jeeze.” Sheriff Griffin mentally kicked himself for not considering that possibility, distracted by everything else going on around him. Alarmed, he turned away from the Exchange toward the growing crowd beyond the barricades.
The news of a crazy person near downtown Chisum had spread like wildfire. Spectators congregated in the street, straining to catch a glimpse of the activity near the Cotton Exchange. At the edge of their normally quiet neighborhood, the excited and frightened neighbors crowded behind the officials, talking loudly and asking questions no one could answer.
Each of them was a potential target for a sniper.
“Shooting ports! Blair, get these people back and watch the crap around the outside!” Griffin looked over a patrol car toward the drifts of refuse under the sheltered walkway. “I guess this means you don’t think we’ve found the only entrances?”
“Not likely.” Cody waved his arm toward the building beyond the fire truck. “I bet there’s two or three spider holes or entrances hidden in all that stuff piled around the outside. If we were back in-country, there could be lines running from the entrance to homemade bombs all around. The idea was that if anyone opened the entrance, the lines would pull the pins and boom.”
Blair shrugged. “We didn’t find anything outside at first.”
“Your men probably didn’t try that hard,” Ned said. “Nobody told them what to watch for.”
“Well, we need to look harder before I try to go in.” Cody managed a weak grin for Top and Pepper. “It ain’t so bad, kids.” He shifted his attention to Ned and O.C. “We used to send two-man teams underground to check it out. The first guy in front watched for triggers as the second man supported and stayed in touch with the commanding officer on the surface by radio.
“While all that was going on, the section commander kept track of their reports to either map the tunnels, or to know where to dig the guys out in the event of an emergency.”
“But first, step one is to clear the entrance,” Griffin said.
“Yessir,”
“Check it out.”
Blair sighed. “Yes sir. C’mon boys, we’re going creepy crawling.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Stacks of rotting lumber, a Model A hood, tons of damp, moldy clothing, rotting saddles, water coolers, wooden soda pop cases, salvaged sheet iron…and one insane trophy collector named Kendal Bowden.
***
They watched the men erect a blind under heavy guard to block the view of Jeff Andrews’ corpse from the ever-increasing crowd. Two heavily armed men had taken up positions beside the fallen deputy who was covered with a sheet supplied by the funeral home.
Deputy Washington moved up beside Cody. “I heard when you said y ’all used two people over there. I’m going in with you.”
Shocked, Cody’s head snapped around. “No you’re not. I’m not going to be responsible for you. I’ll have enough trouble without worrying about you, John. Besides,” Cody grinned wanly, “you’re too damned big.”
Before John could respond, Ned interrupted the argument by waving toward a constable he’d known for years. “Milton, would you do me a favor?”
Unsure of himself around Griffin and his deputies, Milton Williams stood uneasily beside the sheriff’s car. “Sure Ned.”
“Good. Would you take these kids of mine over to Neva Lou’s house?”
“Shit,” Pepper said under her breath.
“Grandpa, I want to stay here,” Top argued.
“I know you do, but things could get even rougher, and you kids don’t need to see any more. I don’t have time to fool with you. Besides, it’s getting too dangerous. Y’all can stay at Neva Lou’s, or James and them might still be there. Be sure to call Miss Becky. She’s probably getting worried already, because I bet the phone lines are hot. Milton, is that all right?”
“Sure, as long as I can get back through.”
“You can come back,” O.C. said.
“Grandpa, we want to stay.”
Ne
d answered Top without expression. “Well, you cain’t.”
Pepper saw under the surface of Ned’s expression. Instead of arguing, she pulled Top away and they followed Milton. Top took one look at her and knew his cousin was up to something.
***
“Cody, you and John quit your arguing and come here.” Sheriff Griffin motioned for everyone to rejoin the officers.
Temporarily abandoning their continuing disagreement over how best to handle the situation, they joined the others bent over a fresh, hand-drawn map.
“All right. The guys are finished. You were right, Cody. They found at least two openings at ground level. One is here.”
With a hollow thump in the table, Griffin pointed at a position near the southeast corner of the building, across from the train depot. “But it’s blocked with junk that fell in. They found the second on the southwest side after my people cut down a thicket of brush and vines. My guess, someone busted through the section of the brick foundation and that’s where the nutcase goes in and out. There are fresh scuff marks everywhere.”
“Another slick spot,” Ned said. The men stared at the map as if committing it to memory.
“Y’all, it’s right over yonder where that spotlight’s pointed toward the foundation.” Griffin handed a pair of binoculars to Cody.
He stared long and hard at the hole hammered through the long seam where the foundation and the sidewalk met. Cody passed them to Ned. “Well, there it is. I’ve been seeing that hole in the ground in my sleep.”
Ned felt a chill go down his spine as he squinted at the reality of Cody’s nightmare. The men within earshot stared at the young constable, wondering if he’d lost his mind. Ned knew better. “Tell me.”
“The opening leads in and down for a ways. It’ll take me in the building all right, into rooms I’ll probably recognize. I can see them right now, little pieces of the dream that haven’t faded away, but,” Cody shrugged, “anyway, it’ll all lead to what’s been bothering me for months.”
Ned spoke softly. “How’d them dreams come out?”
“I don’t know. I always woke up before I got finished.” He managed a half smile.
Blair offered the only help he knew. “The chipped out bricks are padded with an old quilt to make it easy for Kendal get in and out.”
“This is nuts,” Chief Mayhew snapped. “Now we’re back to basing this operation on squirrel hunting and nightmares.”
Cody grimaced. “You ain’t a kiddin’.”
Mayhew glanced at the men surrounding him. Though he was police chief of Chisum, it was the sheriff’s department running the show. He knew if he wanted to make a fight of it, Griffin might turn the operation over to him, and he for sure didn’t want that. “I hope you’re right about all this, because I’m with Judge O.C. on this one.”
Cody shut off the disagreement. “Chief, I know these old places. There’s probably a trap door in the floor somewhere, to get underneath and fix pipes or whatever. My guess is that whoever we’re after enters the building through the trap door. It probably comes up in a closet. That’s how it was in the house I grew up in. It should be the same here in the Exchange.
“This opening is close enough to the door, though, that I might be able to crawl to where Andrews is pinned and figure out a way to get him loose. Once that’s done, I can get out and we can wait on daylight and the whole U.S. Marine Corps if that’s what it takes.”
“I agree this is damned dangerous, Mayhew.” Griffin turned back to Cody. “But I don’t have much to go on. So here’s what you do. Take a quick look-see inside, but don’t go in very far. I want you to be able to back out real quick. See if you can find that trap door you’re talking about, or a way that leads to Andrews, then get out. We’ll talk about what to do next to free his body. Let’s take this one step at a time. Be careful.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Sergeant Blair joined them, accompanied by a young officer who appeared to be no more than a year out of high school. Despite the hour, the man’s tie was properly knotted and he looked fresh as a daisy.
“Sheriff Griffin, this is Officer Malcom Baker.” Blair made the introductions. “He’s new to our department, and he’s older than he looks. You might want to hear what he has to say.”
“All right, you have five minutes. Cody, wait a minute.”
The crowd shifted aside to make room for the slim, bespeckled policeman who looked frail beside the beefy men surrounding him. He cleared his throat and calmly addressed the group as if they were a room full of college freshmen. “Well, I heard what was happening from my grandmother who called. Even though I’m not on duty today, I may have information that will help in this situation.”
Everyone beside the fire truck was keyed up and ready to get started, but the confident young man with the slicked-back hair captured their attention.
“What do you have for us?” Sheriff Griffin asked.
“I recognize the personality, or personalities, of those inside.” Baker fidgeted with the knot in his tie. “When I heard you found a warehouse packed with junk it was immediately clear that you were dealing with a situation for which you probably aren’t prepared. See, I’m working on my doctorate in psychology and I’ve done extensive research in this area. I’m familiar with this type of pathology. I’m confident that the individual or individuals here suffer from a disorder called disposophobia.”
Ned snorted and shifted his feet. “Son, you’re gonna have to speak a little lower to the ground for us country boys. I can’t even pronounce that last word you just spit out. Can you break it down a little into a language I can understand, say, English?”
“Sure, Mr. Ned. Disposophobia is a clinical term for hoarding, which means to never throw anything away, or even to collect castoffs from other people to add to their own possessions.” Gaining confidence with his subject matter, Officer Baker began to enjoy the attention. “Most victims of a similar obsessive compulsive disorder are compelled to repeatedly wash their hands, or perform ritual tasks again and again before they can move on to the next aspect of the day. In this situation, though, it means the people acquire and keep objects to such an extent that it impacts and impairs the use of normal living space.”
O.C. grunted. “We’re pretty impacted here.”
The men snickered, more from tension than the feeble joke.
“You’re right…oh, hello Judge Rains.” Baker adjusted his tie again. “The person living here has an anxiety toward disposing of any physical items. That anxiety, combined with intrusive thoughts that occur regarding their possessions, can and does become dangerous.”
“I feel like I should be taking notes,” Sheriff Griffin said dryly. “What does this mean?”
“It means the spaces inside are probably filled with materials such as paper products, which are a hoarder’s commonly saved items, even paper with notes written on them, or shopping lists. And you must remember I’m not talking about a shoebox full of papers. I mean entire rooms filled to the ceiling with material. They can include everything from junk mail to newspapers, magazines to books, even trash. They simply can’t throw anything away.”
“This place covers thousands of square feet.” Cody thought aloud about what he might encounter inside.
Baker beamed at the thought. It was easy to tell he was the kid back in school who always raised his hand to remind the teacher she’d forgotten to give her students their daily homework assignment. “That’s right, and it’ll be filled if the exterior is any indication. Hoarders keep food, furniture, calendars, dishes, or even lumber scraps. Patients have saved tires, car parts, even entire vehicles inside their homes.
“One woman I researched for my dissertation kept pictures of kittens which she felt her children would some day want. One man collected newspapers that his invalid brother could read once he regained the use of his eyesight, which of course would never happen, because his brother was permanently blind. But that’s how these people think.”
“No, these are radical cases. Most people simply junk up their houses. Their collections aren’t limited to personal possessions. They save broken household items, thinking they might be useful. They store clothes, toys, machinery, books, dolls, tons of unused material…truthfully anything that reminds them of happier or better days. It isn’t rational to us, but to them it makes perfect sense. I’ve read of extreme cases where hoarders even save such things as prepared but uneaten food, fingernail clippings, urine, or even their own feces.
“These people have been known to bring junk back to their homes by either picking through the trash, or actually stealing from their neighbors. Collecting refuse in this manner can quickly fill entire houses or buildings, which probably happened here.”
Frustrated and nervous, Cody was ready to go, but the soon-to-be professor was on a roll.
“Back in nineteen forty-seven two Manhattan brothers, Homer and Langley Collyer, disappeared. The police investigated and found a three-story brownstone similar to this building here, but much smaller. It took them three weeks to sift through nearly a hundred and forty tons of junk that filled the brownstone from floor to ceiling. They actually had to remove the roof and dig downward.
“That’s what I expect here. I’ve been watching this place since I first came to Chisum. I’m confident the building is filled to capacity with his personal items and whatever he’s collected and brought in through the years.”
Cody digested the information for a while. “Where you from, college boy?”
“Dallas.”
“Figured. Are these people violent?”
“Not usually, but as we know from experience, every case is different.”
“This one is,” Sheriff Griffin said.
For the first time Officer Baker noticed the obscured front door where men worked to free Andrew’s body. “What happened?”