5221

5221

 

Dispatch:            5221

Me:                      5221; Hwy 47, Greenville Rd, Northbound.

Dispatch:            5221 Single car accident on Hwy 26, approximately 4 to 6 miles west of the tunnel.

Me:                      5221 any further information; injuries?

Dispatch:            5221, no information available from the caller; said a guy on the highway stopped him and asked to call 911 as soon as he found a phone booth.  Caller called from Staley’s Junction.  

Me:                      Copy; running code. 

Dispatch:            5221 is running code at 18:21 hours. 

 

I’m Mackenzie Clark, 5221; they call me Mac. Let me give you some background so you know what, where, when, and why.  

5221 is my call sign; Swing shift (52) and (21) is me, regardless of what shift I’m working, I’m going to be (21).  With that high of a number, it’s clear to all the jurisdictions that I’m a pretty new guy with the Sheriff’s Department; I just went past 18 months with the Department, starting in late September of 1980.  All the Departments use the same radio channel regardless if it’s a city or the County.  To identify which agency dispatch is calling, you have to throw in the 52 so everyone knows this call is going to the Sheriff’s Department.  If I were working day shift, I’d be 5121 and grave 5321; the big cheese is the Sheriff, and when 5100 comes on the air, you know it’s the boss.  5101 Captain on day shift, 5102 Lieutenant, 5103, and on up a few numbers are Sergeants; you get the drift.  

Washington County, Oregon, is a rather large geographical area, and the west end towards the Coast Range is sparsely populated and has only a few small towns. One could say almost villages they are so small.  The closest town with any population and a Fire Department from the call area is Banks, and it’s manned only by volunteers; there is no staff on duty.   When a call comes in, the siren on top of the Fire Department building blasts, and the volunteers rush to the Firehouse, grab equipment, and respond when they have enough people to man a truck or trucks. 

Dispatch:            5221 

Me:                      5221, Hwy 26 at Phil Rd, running code.  (Siren drowning out the words.) 

Dispatch:            5221, Second caller reports injuries, possible fatalities. 

Me:                      Copy, can you roll Banks? 

Dispatch:            Bank has been notified, waiting for personnel to respond, estimating fifteen minutes to respond and roll. 

Me:                      Copy, I’ll step it up, out running my siren.  (“Out running your siren” happens when you are driving so fast that vehicles can’t hear or react to your siren before you’re on them or passing them; you can only hope they see you coming.) 

Dispatch:            5221 at 18:26 hours. 

It’s been five minutes, and I’m making good time, punched it up to 90mph, the new Impala is purring, happy at this speed, traffic is light, visibility is clear, and the road is dry.  Wednesday, early evening, second week of April, is not a busy time of the year on these back roads as you head up and over the Coast range to the beach.  Hwy 26 to the coast is a decently maintained road with few patches and wide lanes; westbound cars are few, and they see the overhead lights well before I’m running past them at this speed.  

Me:                      5221 dispatch. 

Dispatch:            5221 

Me:                      Couple of minutes to the tunnel and losing radio contact. 

Dispatch:            5221 Copy losing radio contact; be aware, Banks Fire has been unable to fill a team. We are rolling. Hillsboro Fire Rescue estimated time of arrival is 45 plus minutes. 

Me:                      Copy, it’s the west end; at the tunnel. 

Dispatch:            5221 at…………  (Cut off, dead air.)  

Sweeping long turns, dropping the car back into the 70’s, these long curves won’t support anything more, and I’m getting close to where the caller reported the accident.  Second long curve and a short straight stretch, I can see a man standing on the right side of the road waving; I pass him going into the long curve, rolling just over 60mph as I drop the siren, reducing speed further.  At the far end of the curve, I can see three cars parked bumper to bumper along the left side of the road just a few feet off the pavement; there’s a long wide gravel area from the parked cars to the tree line along this section of road giving a good area to park away from traffic but they’re all bunched up next to the traffic lane, strange. 

Grey Black smoke drifts from West to East across the road, pretty much pinpointing the location of the wrecked car, but I can’t see it buried deep in the trees from my approach.  Slowing I pull into the graveled area, sliding slightly in the loose gravel as I brake; I drive towards the drifting smoke, stopping the car a good distance from the accident site, not wanting to disturb any possible tire tracks, etc. 

 

Welcome to my nightmare.

 

There are a couple of things I notice right away as I step from my patrol car; no one is near the crash site, lending aid. A small group of people are standing clustered by their vehicles a good 70 yards from the wreak by their cars up at the highway.  It’s a group of three people; I can see a man further up the Highway waving to slow traffic of trouble ahead. The small group gives me a little wave, but no one walks towards me or the accident.  I can see the group is one man and two women, they’re just huddling together, not moving, looking everywhere except towards the crash site.

The second thing I noticed are the Ravens eagerly eating in the gravel a few feet from the opening into the trees and about four more spaced in a line towards the cars parked along the highway.  

I take a couple pictures with the 35 mm as protocol dictates and slowly move forward taking it all in; I still can’t see the wreaked car as it was just inside the tree line which is blocking my view, if it wasn’t for the smoke drifting from inside the trees and across the wide gravel area, you’d never know it was there.  

A Raven takes to wing as I near it. There lies a large pile of puke that trails off towards the direction of the man who had waved at me earlier as I arrived.  I’m now close enough to see that the other Ravens were also at splashes of puke; that little voice in my head started to groan. 

The winds are picking up a little, changing from the West sweeping around to the North, pushing the smoke down to a low level; I’m going to have to walk through the smoke to get into the slight hole in the woods that the wreck is somewhere down in.  As the wind swings, I can smell the heavy, sultry carbon smell of hot oil and some other smell I can’t quite make out, something sweet but strangely gagging at the same time, doesn’t smell like anti-freeze, it’s something else I can’t quite identify. 

The strange smell is still dancing, digging on my mind as I round the last trees blocking my sight of where the wreck lies.  I’m about twenty feet out to the right of the tree line, still walking in the gravel, keeping way out where I can see a wide view, taking 35 mm photos as I go.   I can finally see the wreak but it’s in shadows even though it’s now only about 20 yards distance, the smoke is obscuring, fogging the crash site, swirling around being held tight by the thickness of the trees, one moment clearing then nearly completely obscured.  I stop taking two quick pictures, recording the crash site and the depression in the woods where the car has come to a stop. 

 I look towards the parked cars along the highway before stepping into the small opening in the trees. I see the smoke has swung around and is now pouring in a direct line to the cars parked up by the far pavement.  

Something’s strange, out of place, startling me; the man is bent over one of the women, and the other woman I can’t locate.  I can only see the two by the side of the middle car, man over the woman, his hands at her head, neck. Oh, she’s puking, and he’s pulling her hair away from her face; I stand watching for a few seconds until she finishes, lots of dry heaves.  He opens the passenger door, and she falls into the seat.  I finally see the other female, she’s sitting in the front car with her head down, I can just barely make her out as the smoke swirls. 

Barbeque; the oily smoke is covering the sweet smell of what I associate with a barbeque; sweet, earthy aroma, but off somehow. 

 

That voice in my head is now getting loud, a constant high-pitched squeal. 

 

I take the last few steps into the small opening to the rear of the wrecked car; I can’t make out the type of car, other than there’s a Volkswagen emblem on the rear panel.  The smoke is thick this close, coming from the middle of the wreak swirling and twisting into tight circles, making it hard to see even now, just five feet from the rear bumper.  It’s confusing the shape of the car is all wrong, way too short, the width is correct but the length is all off; then I realize, it’s a Volkswagen beetle maybe a mid 1960’s beetle, the front is pushed back smashed from the impact with the tree the whole car now only about five feet in length from tree to that V.W. emblem on the rear.  The engine compartment and passenger area are all combined and pushed together in a tight wad.  The roof is ripped from the A pillars, flipped over, and inverted so the inside is facing up and twisted so it points straight out to the right of the car, flat like a flapping wing.  The car is sitting at an upward angle, running up the side of the tree from the impact, making it seem even shorter. 

I realize my feet are getting wet, looking down, I’m standing in a pool of liquid, maybe four inches deep, pouring into my boots over the laces; but it doesn’t make any sense, it’s split neatly in two parts in a distinct line separating half the pool from the other.  Way back in my mind, over the howling internal screams, comes the old saying “Oil and water don’t mix,” but this isn’t oil and water as the color returns to my eyes, one side is hot black oil, the other cooling glossy bright red blood.  I force my eyes away from the pool and back to the rear of the car; I don’t understand how shock works, but I realized that I’d completely ignored the smashed, twisted smoking wreck sitting before me and only focused on the pool of liquid.  Jumping out at me are three people jammed between the engine that had once been in the rear compartment, now rammed forward, jamming the front seats of the car into the dashboard and crushed windshield.   

Time went away; the smoke was choking, making it hard to breathe, my mouth was dry.  I was mouth breathing, fighting to get enough air. There was a deep roar in my head mixing with a high-pitched squeal that was hurting my ears, but something was pushing into my head, riding just over the top of the din. I realized it was a voice, “Deputy,” louder, “Deputy; are you all right?”  I turned, the sound blasting in my head dropped, I could hear the splash of my boots in the sickening pool as I turned; there was a young man standing a few feet from me his eyes on the wreaked car, eyes growing big as I watched, he blinked a couple times, he looked me in the eye then eyes slowly working down the front of my Uniform to my feet and the cooling gelling pool.  His face twisted into a knot as he spun, running towards what were now four cars parked at the hard top. 

The roar in my head of a few seconds ago ended completely in dead silence; I could hear the gravel under his feet as he ran to his car, door slamming, engine starting, tires spinning gravel as he raced away down the highway.  

I tasted barf, the space between my teeth and cheeks full.  I looked down at my hands, which were covered in puke, and the front of my uniform is no longer brown but now shades of glistening barf.  The smell of oil, barbeque and blown bowels is gagging.  I could hear the ticking of the engine cooling behind me, splashes as fluids dripped into the cooling pool.  Everything was over bright, hurting my eyes, the smoke had cleared, and everything was sharp and overexposed.  One ham-sized arm of the driver riding along the driver’s door window sill, the tattooed forearm resting comfortably, elbow at a 45-degree angle against the stub of the front A pillar.  Head tilted back, bright pinkish red at the eye line as something sharp had sliced his head in half from the eyes up, the top wedge of his head hanging over the seat back connected by thin skin and membranes.  These people were huge, grossly overweight, obese.  A picture of a clown car flashed in my brain; I thought, how could these people all fit in the front of this little car? Then it hit me, the center person, a woman, judging from the watermelon-sized bare breast, the areola the size of my fist, must have been riding in the back jump seat area.  She was now smashed across the tree, upper body flattened by the impact, thinned by three-quarters, her skull pancaked, teeth embedded into the bark, her lower legs pinned under the rear car frame, the motor ran up between her large ass cheeks, cracked and burnt, heavy black oil smoke billowed between her ass crack, drifting off into the trees. 

 

The screaming voice in my head was rising to a crescendo.

 

Number three occupant, on the far right in the car, was a woman; she was once huge, obese beyond possibility. Her arms were spread over the hood, her head lying between her arms.  Looking past and out into the trees, her bowels had exploded out; they were hanging from low branches, intestines twisted in grey, trailing back into the car.

  

Shades of pulsating grey poured into my vision, deafened by the roar, high-pitched, shrill screaming. 

 

I was shocked by the coldness of the water as they rinsed the puke from the front of my uniform using a hose and the water from the fire truck tanks, my Sergeant standing just out of the splash zone.  I rode the first rescue unit to the hospital alone, just me and the EMT sitting on the gurney in the back; we didn’t speak. 

A day or so later, my Sergeant visited me in the hospital; we talked a little about the crash.  He said I’d done a great job, my first twelve pictures of the crash scene had turned out great but the rest of the roll of 36 exposures didn’t come out because the camera lenses was covered in puke and had been saved from the drenching by taking so many pictures the film had come off the roller and was wrapped tight in the film roll.  He said I’d taken 12 to 15 pages of notes in my notebook, but they were unreadable, being wet, soaked, and soiled; only my diagram of the crash site was readable.  He told me the local paper had done a short article on the crash, making me a hero suffering from smoke inhalation, trying to save the occupants.  

He had paperwork all filled out for me on the transfer out of Patrol Division, moving to Corrections special teams at the first of the next month if I thought I was ready. 

I wonder if I will ever be ready. 

From the Ramblings

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Sand

The heat was smothering at 115 degrees; it’d be cooler if there was any place to get out of the blistering sun; winds blowing in the 30’s gusting to over 45mph’s.

Flat as a pancake, the sand blowing up to four feet high offs the never ending flat dunes of scorching desert.

Punished to walk; sitting would put you in the blowing sand level were the particles tore at every fiber of clothing, pitting goggles, scopes, every piece of equipment.

Stumbling forward leaning into the winds progress was measured in yards not miles; foot prints disappeared in seconds as the shifting sands blistered polishing stones to a gloss finish in fine glass blown particles.

Vision obscured by height from the desert sand; two feet zero, four feet twenty yards, six feet above the blowing sands fifty yards dependant on the heavy gusts that brought the sands up into swirling clouds blanketing over everyone’s heads. Five lives tied together by light rope flapping in the heavy winds, fibers cutting away with every razor sharp sand particle rubbing abasing against the thin ropes.

Communication between beings defended by screaming winds and pounding heavy particles made even the thought of conversation ear shattering over the cacophony of the blowing winds.

Two hundred and fifty yards from the insertion point the winds split around a wind block; winds blowing left and right leaving a narrow alley of slower moving participles visible by the brightening clouds of lesser blowing sand and backwards dancing dust from the heavy winds made an alley to the base of the towering monolith.

Shouting above the roar Stevens screamed “Can you find the door; where’s the doorway?!”

Digging deep below the swirling stacking sands; dragging huge hands full of dry powdery sandy dust away from the upper recess of the doorway, five beings dug for their very lives as their suits filled with sweat and oxygen supplies fell from the heavy work. The winds sucked the light sand dust from the digging clearing of the doorway in a vacuum caused by the turbulent wind creating a huge whirlwind to form behind the monolith helping clear the door opening.

A small number pad appeared from under the sands; punching in the emergency code the door slid open dumping buckets of sand into the doorway. Jumping down into the open doorway the five shoveled pouring sand away from the door way finally allowing the door to close and lock in its tracks.

“Door closing…….. Sealed” Five bodies hit the flood in exhaustion.

“It’s five o’clock; dinner in thirty minutes, lamb chops in a light gravy with oven roasted asparagus and chilled Resling wine finished with orange marmalade on deck seven” “Would you like to make reservations the computer voice asked?”

“Yes, five for dinner” Master Sergeant Stevens said sliding his helmet over his head dropping it in the flattening spreading sands from the escape hatch.

From the Ramblings.

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Micah

He awoke to the smell of mother earth’s rich deep sweet organic musky scent; a scent he knew well over the centuries, it comforted and calmed his mind as he awoke from death. Arms stiff and achy from the unnatural position they’d been placed in crossing his chest fingers interlaced, he slowly brought them up from his chest; crackling popping elbows he wiped the dust from his face. He knew he’d been buried in a well drained plot probably up the beautiful hillside overlooking the small town; the sweet damp organic smell so soothing to his nose told him so, no ammoniac stench of dank wet stagnate earth or hint of old penny metallic scent of desert sands.

From his death row prison cell window he’d seen the little cemetery up the hill; a smaller unfenced plot sat just outside of the enclosed manicured garden; having no headstones he’d deduced that the open plot held the bodies of prisoners who had died during their incarceration or been put to death as he would be in just a few days if the body wasn’t taken by family.

Taking in a deep breath of the sweet earth he relaxed slipping into the silent devils mantra that’d been burned into his memory as a small boy freeing his mind to wander as he waited knowing he’d be freed from his grave in the near future; his lips moved ever so slightly as he chanted the words, a small smile etched his scared face as a dry tear rolled down his cheek.

Deep in the mantra his thoughts flowing freely; he pushed back to the beginning when he was a very small boy lying frightened in his bed as shadows danced across the ceiling and walls; remembering his mothers angry words “Go back to sleep Micah, it’s nothing” he pressed his lips tight fighting his way into sleep, he deafened his ears to the screams, the hacking chopping sounds of his mother’s satanic murder only waking as the demon chanted the devil’s mantra deep into his mind as he was endlessly assaulted earning the devil’s mark. He remembered the pain growing in intensity until he finally screamed out; silence, not a sound in the dark, he lay still paralyzed by fear until the sun broke the horizon of the morning. Calling out to his mother he was answered only by the chilled morning air and a heavy bitter metallic coppery stench that filled the hut gagging him.

The Capital murder trial was cancelled when he’d plead guilty to the six horrific murders and waited only two months for the State to seat a twelve person penalty phase jury with four alternates in the case one or more of the jurors couldn’t make it through the horrible evidence that they would be shown. The jury would only deal with the penalty phase of the trial but would have to review all the States evidence. They’d only decide whether he’d be sentenced to life in prison or be put to death.

Called to the stand to testify everyone expected him to plead for his life. Glaring at the jury from the witness box he relived the glory of the slaughter clearly in his low cold voice, you could nearly smell the retching tic of blown bowels of the murder scene as he told his story in minute detail.

The fear was visceral in the Courtroom; his testimony coming to a crescendo he told how he stabbed and cut the victims their breaths coming in short moaning gasps, he sprang to his feet and shook the heavy chains that bound him. People in the galley jumped to their feet fighting each other as they piled up trying to escape through the small exit door; he roared in laughter, his deep dead voice shaking the room freeing fine dust from the overhead lighting. Jumping to his feet red faced the Judge bellowed orders at the bailiffs who couldn’t hear over the shrill screams from the men and women of the jury; armed security guards pulled their weapons pointing first at the laughing madman then at the screaming jury; it was chaos.

Taking his seat in the witness box he roared in laughter as the jury raced from the Court Room; he shook his chains one last time bringing fresh screams from the last jurors racing for the door hands over their ears. The Judge continued screaming orders then threats then orders for minutes until he ran out of breath; silence finally fell over the Court Room with the exception of the low deep rumbling giggles from the damned as tears rolled down his face in glee.

The Court lost three jurors that absolutely refused to return to the Court Room; seating alternates took two days as the Judge threatened them with jail time if they refused.

Seated next to his terrified Attorney the Jury found that if spared death he’d continue to be an unreasonable threat to those that he was incarcerated with or if ever released would pose an undue risk to the community; they voted for his death.

Before delivering the death sentence the Judge was compelled to allow the defendant a chance to address the Court.

Standing at the defense table Micah once a small scared boy now a huge man addressed the Court and the Jury; pulling his jail uniform shirt up he displayed the devil’s mark to gasps from the jury and gallery as his fingers caressed the outline of the mark. Speaking in a low rumble he promised they’d all pay with their lives for the decision they’d made.

His execution date was set and making no appeal the date came quickly, he walked proudly to the hangman’s noose; asked if he had any last words he stood silently slowly looking over the small group of witnesses staring into each of their eyes; nodding his head he spoke directly to each and every one of them; this was not the end, he’d give each a visit in which he’d slowly end their lives in the most grotesque fashion.

Placing the noose around his neck with the knot just to the right side of his neck the floor dropped away; falling five feet the rope made a snapping sound as his weight hit the end, stretching and rebounding he danced like a rag doll, lifeless.

The hangman left him swinging several extra minutes making sure he was very much dead. Anyone who’d been to a hanging before would have known that the slow methodical pace of the hangman and helpers was out of the ordinary as the drop from the platform should have snapped the neck and death nearly instant; they weren’t taking any chances with this one letting him hang as they slowly moved around the platform picking up stray items sneaking looks at each other keeping as far away from the dead man as possible; the body swung slowly on the rope in circles, each circle just a little less in the gloom of the death chamber.

Such a small noise but enough to bring Micah out of his whispering mantra; an intense smile slowly spread on his face, he could clearly hear a shovel digging into the earth; low barely audible he began to laugh freeing fine dust that swirled in the stagnate air sticking to his face with the vibrations of his laughing. What had the demon preached to him? Ahhhh……. Matthews 28:6 “He is not here, for he has been raised, just as he said.” That’s what they will find tomorrow morning and so very much more he thought laughing harder.

Timing it perfectly as the guard looked into his cell through the small opening in the door he acted as though he was hiding something in his mouth “What you got?! Don’t you swallow it, you hand it to me NOW!” The guard barked. Micah rose from his hard bunk, palm open he grasped the small object between his thumb and index finger, passing his hand through the door opening he dropped a small perfect diamond into the guards open hand. “What’s this?” the guard Williams said with disbelief. “I have many, hidden if you know what I mean.” Micah whispered to the guard. “Many many more.” He rubbed his stomach turned his back and walked to his bunk. Pulling the single blanket over him he rolled to the wall ignoring the sputtering questions of the guard.

Long hard labor for one man to dig out a grave but Williams was a determined man. Keeping his discovery to himself he waited for the killer to be hanged and managed to beg his way on to the hanging detail. He rode along in the pickup truck to the prisoner’s graveyard and made sure he’d be able to find the grave in the dark when he returned in a few days to collect his treasure from the damned man. The backhoe made quick work of the excavation and Williams waved the local operator off half way into packing the earth tight after the casket was lowered into the hole. He grinned at his ingenuity hoping he wouldn’t get many blisters removing the dirt and loose rocks; he’d hate to have to explain what he’d done to his hands as he waited out the two weeks’ notice he planned to give the prison after he was rich.

Lying in wait, blade finally hit wood; the cheap wood box he was buried in splintered easily under the metal shovel, Micah rolled to his side and pressed up against the side of the casket. Shovel blade pounded between the ill fitting boards of the lid prying the wood apart breaking a small opening into the pitch black casket. Flashlight shining into the casket found only thick swirling dust. Cussing under his breath the shovel pried under the next flimsy board breaking it making the opening bigger. Micah heard the shovel as it was thrown against the open holes side, the flashlight beam danced across the opening as Williams took to his knees to look into the casket. His head dipped into the broken casket the flashlight closely behind, Micah grabbed Williams by the shoulders and pulled him into the rickety wood box pushing him head first arms pinned to his sides to the bottom of the casket as he climbed Williams body using his hands and feet to push him further into the black box as he climbed up and out of the splintered hole broken in the casket lid. William’s legs thrashed and he screamed in hysteria as he fought to back out of the casket begging God to save him. Micah kneeled down reaching back into the cheap casket throwing the flashlight to Williams head so he would have light as he slowly screamed himself to death. Micah shoveled dirt first into the broken caskets lid on thrashing legs then covering the casket drowning out the screams little by little as the hole was filled and the dirt smoothed and manicured at the surface.

Looking down from the cemetery hill at the glistening lights of town Micah had a full night’s work ahead of him; he’d made promises he intended on keeping.

From the Ramblings



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