Illustration by Kevin James Hurtack © 2006
Illustration by Kevin James Hurtack © 2006
Bad Things Happen
by Mark Holter © 2006
I could not stand to spend another minute in my parent's house. The smell was just too much for me. But it was an eerie feeling, like; I was the only person who could smell it. My family went right on eating as I rose from the table and walked for the door. As I stepped outside into the gently falling snow, I breathed deeply of the fresh, crisp, fall air. The smell dissipated, and I could breathe again without feeling nausea attacking my stomach.
It wasn't my family's fault. My wife, daughters, and I recently spent Thanksgiving with my parents. My father often likes to try new things on Thanksgiving, such as deep-fat fried turkey. This past year he decided to try smoking pork ribs. When I walked into my parent's house that day, the smell of charred pork flesh instantly transported me back to something that happened to me a couple of months prior. Something that I'd rather not remember…
The death-colored landscape of fall sped past the windows of the white patrol car at a yellow-brown blur. It occurred to the Deputy that his uniform, a blend of brown and tan, was a near match for this North Dakota fall scenery. At thirty-four years old, the Deputy loved the fall. He was a typical North Dakotan; Scandinavian, light featured with a thick head of blond hair (except for the slowly growing spot on top of his head). The Deputy was starting to ease into the slight pudginess of middle-age. He loved to sit on his porch at night during the cool evenings of October and drink coffee with his wife. Things slowed down in the fall, both at work and home. Not that he didn't love the excitement and variety that his job offered, because he did. He needed it. The Deputy could never do anything else and be happy, or so he often told himself. But he looked forward to quiet time with his family more and more. And sometimes, he felt that his life's B.S. filter just got too full, and he needed time to change it out with a new one.
Take, for example, the reason he drove thirty miles out of his patrol area that day. The patrolman who normally worked the lake area was on vacation, leaving the Deputy with the added duty of checking the area for parties. It always struck him as bullshit that the people with cabins at the lake would be the first ones to call when they saw kids partying there. But, if it were their kids getting busted, well…they'd have the Deputy's job for harassing “good kids”. He once got into trouble for telling one father he could have his job, if he thought he had the balls to do the job. Of course, all the father had the balls to do was to call and complain to the Sheriff. It seemed to the Deputy that was all they ever had the balls to do.
The Deputy was driving to the lake that day to check on a report of some kids smoking drugs in a pick-up by the lake's beach. The beach was abandoned in the fall during the day. The report of drug activity was not uncommon for the lake. The explosion of methamphetamine use in the state seemed to have happened overnight. What irritated him, however, was that he could see the image of the caller in his head. The tinny voice of a busybody sixty-seven year old woman irritated him, even though it was in his own head.
“There's a truck down here at The Lake .” He could here her whine, “It's playing loud rock-n-roll and there's a bunch of hippies in it smoking drugs .” The Deputy wondered if there were any real hippies around anymore. He decided probably not in North Dakota and certainly not smoking dope down at the lake. But a call was a call, and he had to check it out.
The Deputy looked forward to turning the corner off of the main road and into the beach area of the lake. The angle of the parking area was just right so when you came around the corner all you saw was the sparkling blue water past the lot. In the fall, when the temperature was in the fifty degree range like it was that day, the place was deserted. As he drove around the corner on that day, however, the pick-up truck parked in the lot stole his attention from the water. There was something wrong with the scene. The Deputy couldn't think of what was wrong right away. He just knew something was out of place. The Deputy nervously picked up the in-car radio as he pulled up behind the pick-up.
“Central Dispatch, this is unit 4743,” the Deputy reported, “I have arrived on-scene and located the reported vehicle. I will be out of my vehicle for a bit checking on it.” He hung the radio back on the dashboard hook and sat for a minute more, examining the vehicle through his windshield. He noticed that the vehicle was still running. He also saw small puffs of white smoke coming from what looked like a crack in the back window. The Deputy radioed in the license plate number to the dispatcher and asked her to try to find a phone number for the registered owner. As he was hanging the radio up for the second time, he realized what bothered him about the pick-up. Its windows were completely black. The Deputy jumped out of his patrol car and ran up to the passenger side of the pick-up.
He saw that all of the pick-up's windows were black. He also saw that the paint just behind the passenger door was starting to peel off and flake to the ground. As the Deputy cautiously approached the passenger-side window, he could feel the heat radiating from it. He realized something was very wrong with the pick-up. The Deputy knocked on the window with his leather-gloved hand. There was no answer. He knocked again, desperately. No answer. His stomach turned sour with the thought of someone being inside of the truck. The pick-up was on fire inside of the cab, and there was a possibility someone was inside. The Deputy ran back to his patrol car.
“Central Dispatch, this is unit 4743”, he stammered excitedly, “I need the rural fire department to respond to my location now! This is a vehicle fire, and I am not sure if someone is still inside. When you contact the fire department, please have them advise me on what to do.”
The Deputy grabbed the police baton from off of his belt and started back toward the pick-up. Indecision suddenly grabbed him by the back of his coat and held him for a minute. He had no idea what to do. He knew that he had so far done what needed to be done. He had called the fire department and had tried to find out who owned the vehicle. He also had the strong urge to run to the burning truck and smash out the window with his baton or open the door. But hadn't he heard something about introducing oxygen into a fire that was smoldering? He knew that the fire inside of the truck had run out of oxygen. He also knew that the fire was now smoldering inside, coiled like a snake in the truck, waiting for a breath of fresh air so it could live again. What would happen if he opened the vehicle? The Deputy had very vivid images of air rushing the fire-induced vacuum, an explosion, and flashes of flame.
What if someone was inside? The Deputy didn't want to think of that. If he opened the door, and if someone charred and burned crawled out, screaming, what would he do? The Deputy knew CPR and a little first aid. He wasn't trained to deal with what could happen.
What if the Deputy was caught in the flames as he opened the truck? His family flashed through his mind. It seemed that the older he got the more he found fear riding with him while he was at work. He wasn't afraid of doing what needed to be done. He was afraid of not being there for his family. He had two daughters and a wife who counted on him. He couldn't bear the thought of letting them down. His feelings were starting to affect his job.
A tear of frustration rolled down the Deputy's cheek as he stood there, indecisive, helpless, and scared. There was still no word from the rural fire department. He knew that smashing the truck's window or trying to open the door could be deadly. He also knew that he had to do something. The Deputy decided to move his patrol car away from the truck. He noticed orange flames begin to lick the outside bottom of the passenger door. After backing his car up out of harm's way, The Deputy walked slowly back to the burning truck.
The Deputy only had to wait ten minutes before he heard the first sirens of the approaching fire trucks. The rural fire department sprayed the burning pick-up with water and finally smashed open the windows. The Deputy stood next to the Rural Fire Chief. The Deputy strained to see into the cab of the pick-up but could only see the charred metal skeletons of what had been the bucket seats. The Deputy and the Rural Fire Chief had known each other for a few years. They had an “at-work” friendship that rarely extended into their personal lives. They had shared a lot of coffee and conversation over those years.
“Wanna go have a look?” The Chief asked.
“Do you think I should have tried to open the truck?” The Deputy asked, his gaze never leaving the truck.
“If you would have opened up that truck, it would have gone up like that!” The Chief snapped his fingers to emphasize the point.
“Would you have tried?” The Deputy asked, still staring at the dripping, smoking, steel remains.
“There was nothing you could have done.” The Chief said to the Deputy in a low, private voice, “If there was anyone in there, they were dead before you got here.” The Deputy exhaled hard, wiping more moisture away from his eyes.
“Let's go have a look then.” The Deputy sighed. He and the Chief walked to the still smoking truck. The Deputy took a deep breath and glanced quickly into the broken passenger window. He hated death. He wasn't afraid to see it, he just hated it, especially when it was unnatural. The interior of the vehicle looked like it smelt, black, charred, and smoky. The Deputy backed away from the vehicle. “I didn't see anyone in there.” The Rural Fire Chief looked into the vehicle from the broken driver's side window.
“No, there's someone in here alright. Look in the back, behind the seats.” The Deputy braced himself and peered into the back of the pick-up. There, on the floor behind the seats, was a shape. The shape was a man, but it was hard to tell at first. Something had melted over the man's (or woman's, possibly) face. The clothing had also melted around the body. The Deputy could still see pink skin peaking through rips in the body's pants. The smell of a burnt human body is distinct. It's something that you don't forget. The Deputy had smelt it one time before that day. His heart sank as he inhaled it again.
“Alright Chief, let's get everyone backed up.” The Deputy knew that he had to call for assistance. “This is a possible crime scene now.” He moved the Fire Chief and the other fire department personnel back away from the truck. He knew that whether the death of the person in the back of the pick-up was accidental, a suicide, or a homicide, it had to be treated the same. That meant calling out a detective and keeping everyone else away from the truck. The Deputy walked to his patrol car and picked up his radio with a shaking hand.
“Central Dispatch, this is unit 4743.” The Deputy called in a tired voice. “Please have the on-call detective come to my location for an unattended death.” He hung his radio back on the dashboard hook and started to cry. He had himself under control within the thirty minutes it took for the detective to arrive on scene. As the Deputy and the detectives examined the truck, they found the remains of a melted, red, plastic gas can on what was left of the passenger seat. They also found what looked like charred cloth that appeared to have been stuffed into the gas cap of the truck. They found out later that the man (the body was identified a day later) had been down at the lake with his pick-up for a full day before the fire. According to witnesses the man had sat in his pick-up for hours, facing the lake and drinking beer. The fact that nobody had called earlier to report the man bothered the Deputy. He knew that the man must have been working up the courage to end his life. According to the man's wife, he had lost his job a couple of days before his death.
I know that there was nothing I could have done for the man. I know now that he was dead before I arrived at the lake. I know that he was probably dead before I received the call to go. I wish I knew what would possess a man with a family to not only take his own life, but to take it in such a horrible way. I wish I could lie down to sleep at night without smelling that awful smell.
THE END
I am a 35 year old husband and father of two girls. I have been writing off and on, professionally and recreationally for most of my literate life. I have recently gone back to college to get a degree in English. I have an extensive background in law enforcement. I spent ten years in the U.S. Navy as a Master-at-Arms and as a military police investigator. Upon leaving the military, I worked as newspaper reporter for a short time. I was then hired as the 1-man news department at a small television station in Williston, North Dakota. After three years at the TV station, I found myself missing law enforcement. I was then lucky enough to get hired by the sheriff's department in the county I reside in as a night patrol deputy. I enjoy writing children's and young adult stories. I remember being that age and reading some special books and stories. Those reading experiences were what made me a life-long reader and writer.
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