Donald Harstad: Code 61

Well, that shot my concentration all to hell. I tried to move faster, and thought I was doing pretty well, until he said, “Something wrong?” He sounded closer, but I was damned if I was going to look.

“Ladder was moving,” I said between gritted teeth. “Not sure about it.”

“Hell, they always move. Those bolts go clear through the wall, and they fit loose. Don't worry.”

Don't worry, my ass. But I was encouraged. I should have thought about the bolts going through the wall. I stepped it up a bit, and was just fine until I got to the top. The ladder only extended about six inches above the edge of the flat roof. No rail, to speak of, above the edge. I was going to have to shift my center of gravity over the edge without any support. I almost stopped.

“I'm up here!” Her voice was much clearer now.

“Police! We're on the way up!” That was Byng.

“Can you come down here?” I yelled. Christ, why hadn't I thought of that earlier?

“No!” There was a pause. “You let me see you!”

Of course. I gritted my teeth. Just as well. I really wanted to be on that roof. Anywhere but that ladder.

I went up two more steps, my eyes cleared the roof edge. I leaned forward and stepped and found myself on hands and knees on the roof. I crawled about three feet, just to get away from the edge, and then got to my feet. I could see a light-colored figure half crouched behind a skylight.

“Deputy Sheriff,” I said.

“Where is he?” came the reply.

I heard Byng on the roof behind me.

“Who?” I asked, moving toward her.

“I don't know,” she said in a fairly conversational tone.

“But whoever he is, where is he?”

“We don't know, either,” I said. “But you'll be okay now.” I distinctly remember thinking, until you have to carry me off this roof.

Many people don't realize just how dark the rooftops in a business area can be. You rise above the streetlights after about the second floor. I could just barely make her out in the shadows.

She stepped toward us. I shined my light on her. She looked about twenty or so, light brown hair, barefoot, and wearing what appeared to be a pair of faded yellow flannel pajama bottoms covered with pink and blue teddy bears and balloons. She was wearing a black, sequined, short-waisted bolero sort of jacket with big silver buttons.

It was probably the sheer relief of having lived to get to the top of the roof, but I said, “Slumber party?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. You stay right here, and we'll take a look around.”

We did a pretty good search of the roof area. With our lights, we could see most of the way to either end of the block, and look through some of the lower trees on the bluff. Nothing in sight.

“What's your name?” I asked our victim.

“Alicia Meyer.”

“Mine's Carl Houseman. Is there a particular reason you came up here? I mean, as opposed to going down the stairs or staying in your apartment until we arrived? Did this guy get in?”

“I think so. Then I thought he was waiting for me down there,” she said, pointing toward the edge of the roof.

“Reasonable,” I replied. “Any idea who 'he' is?”

“No.”

There was sort of a pregnant pause. Obviously, we were going to have to go back down. Look as I might, there was absolutely no sign of any stair leading down into any of the buildings. It was going to have to be the ladder again.

The trip down was easier. For her protection, Alicia traveled between Byng and me. Also for her protection, I went first. I felt it was better to look silly as I crawled backward to the ladder than to fall on her. I kept my eyes fixed on her bare feet as we came down. The rungs of the iron ladder were octagonal, and I kept thinking about how much that must hurt anybody without shoes. I must have distracted myself just enough, because my right foot striking the deck jarred me.

I went into her apartment first, then her, then Byng. We looked the place over very well. Nobody but us folks.

“Now,” I said, “what's going on?”

“I saw this guy,” said Alicia. “At the window. I know I saw him. Right there,” she said, and pointed a trembling finger toward her bedroom window.

I looked at the window, then at Byng. He shrugged. The window she had pointed to was the one adjacent to her kitchen window, and about ten feet from the rail of the platform outside. I knew; I'd just been there.

“That window, Alicia?” I asked. “You sure?”

“Yes, that window.” She glared at me, brushing a strand of brown hair aside so she could see me better. “I know what I saw. I know. He couldn't be there, because there's nothing to stand on. I know that. But that's what I saw.” Her exasperation was pretty evident. That was normal. She couldn't figure out what she had seen, either, and that was making it damnably difficult to explain it to us.

I was thinking reflection in the window glass at that point, and glanced around the room. The TV was off.

“You didn't have the TV on at the time, did you?” I tried to sound friendly and reassuring. Not accusative.

“No.”

“Okay. Huh. Well, okay, look. Just tell me exactly what you saw, and show me just exactly where you were when you saw it.” I thought that was being reasonable.

She took a deep breath. “All right.” With that, she stood, and walked over to the mirror. “I was standing right here,” she said. “Like this.” She demonstrated by turning her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder at her reflection. “I turned my head like this,” she said, and looked over toward Byng and me. And also right at the window in question. “That's when I saw his face in the window.” She gave a very genuine shudder. Whatever else, I was certain that she believed she was telling the truth.

I walked over to her, and asked her to move a little, so I could stand in her place. I bent my knees, as I'm about six-four, and she was about five-eight, and tried to get my eye level on the same plane as hers. I looked toward the window. Clear view. No obstructions. And no reflections.

“These are the lights that were on?”

“No, the ceiling light was out.”

I motioned to Byng. “Get the ceiling light?” He did. Still no reflections. I straightened up. “You recognize him?”

“No.” She said it hesitantly. Either she was thinking really hard, or she found it difficult to lie.

“Can you describe him?” I asked.

“He was white,” she said.

That struck me as a bit odd. Nation County's population, while becoming a bit more diverse, was still about 99 percent white. It was unusual to have a witness describe anybody as “white.” It was just assumed.

“White?”

“Really white,” she said, and her voice trembled a bit. “Like clown white. You know, like paint or makeup.”

“Ah.”

“But not paint or makeup. I don't think. I don't know. If it was makeup it was really good. And black hair, or really dark brown, I think. Close to his head, kinda like it was wet or oily. It looked black, like his shirt or whatever it was… ”

“Good.” Always encourage your witness. “Anything else?”

She paused. “Yeah. He had these teeth.”

“Teeth?”

“Yeah,” she said, and sat down abruptly on the edge of her bed. “God, those teeth.”

“Like, what? Big teeth? Crooked teeth? Missing teeth? Anything… ”

“Yeah. Long, sharp. Really sharp teeth, you know?” She looked up at me earnestly. “Long, pointy teeth.”

I tilted my head. “I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Like a snake. Long, pointy teeth like a snake or something.” She actually shuddered. “I know what I saw. Just like a snake.”

It took me a second. “You mean fangs?”