A Gripping Thriller by
Mark A Davis

     It had rained for three days and nights. Officers Chad Wilson and Scott Bryant sat in their cruiser, parked on the shoulder of the road, as torrents of water streamed down the windshield in thick sheets.

     “Can you believe this?” Chad cranked the wipers to their highest speed. The blades slapped back and forth like frantic hands.       “I’m soaked to the bone. Can’t see a damned thing. This rain better stop soon.” He had just returned from placing a road flare beside a fallen tree branch that blocked the right lane of the county road. His boots squelched with every movement, waterlogged and heavy. His complaint was cut short by the crackle of the radio.

     “Patrol ONE. Juvenile calls from a cell phone. Caller waiting at Chatham Bridge. Reports suspicious activity.”

Chatham Bridge. The name alone made Scott raise an eyebrow. It had been condemned years ago, and its entrances sealed off with concrete highway dividers. The county promised to restore the historic wooden structure, but the budget surplus never came. Since then, the roof collapsed, and the timber flooring rotted. The Otter River surged below, its rising waters dragging branches and debris that snagged against the bridge supports, forming a tangled mess of trash and sodden brush.

     “Ten-four,” Chad replied, already dreading the drive.

The bridge was three miles away. They crept along the flooded road, tires slicing through standing water, visibility near zero. The cruiser’s headlights barely pierced the gloom.

     “There they are,” Scott was squinting through the rain-smeared glass. “Looks like young Mike Stenson and his sidekick. How many times have we had to talk to those two? What are they doing out on a night like this?”

 Scott turned to his deputy. “Let me tell you a quick story.” The staccato of heavy rain hitting the roof of the cruiser filled the cabin. Scott had to speak over the noise. “It was the big game, the payoff for the state championship,” Scott said. “The bleachers were standing room only, and the team practiced all week. It was under the two-minute warning… fourth and goal for the win. Mike and his sidekick were under the bleachers. They had just finished a Duby, so both were high.

By the time we were called, the place was in chaos. Besides the brawl taking place on the field, fights broke out in the stands. When things quieted down, I took Mike into custody. He told me that he found a coach’s whistle under the bleachers, but I thought that was hard to believe.” Scott leaned forward, straining against the seatbelt, and retrieved his hat from the dashboard.  He turned his head toward his partner. “The ball was snapped, and the fullback was blasting through the lane opened by the tackles. That’s when Mike blew the whistle, and the play ended. The players thought the game was over. The clock ran out, and Chatham lost.”

     Scott unsnapped the seatbelt. “Everyone thought the official blew the whistle, but it was Mike Stenson. Someone in the stands turned him in. Mike said it was a joke, but the fans didn’t see it that way. Everyone blamed the whole thing on the official. Bottom line…Chatham lost by one, and the state.”  The cruiser’s strobe lights flashed through the downpour, casting eerie reflections off the wet pavement. Scott stepped out first, bracing against the rain.

     “This had better be good,” he called out. “He shined his flashlight at the two boys, the beam cutting through the mist. The two stood at the bridge entrance, sheltered just enough by the remaining shingles on the roof to stay out of the rain. Their faces were pale, eyes wide.

     “You’ve got to see this,” Mike shouted over the storm.

     The officers walked across the unstable wood, each step a gamble until they reached the hole in the floor. Mike switched on his phone’s flashlight, aimed it down through the opening, revealing bubble wrap tangled in brush four feet below. “This is what you called about?” Scott asked, unimpressed.

     “Look again,” Mike insisted. “There’s somebody in it.”

     Scott knelt and leaned over the opening. He twisted the neck of the flashlight to tighten the beam. Inside the roll, something pale and motionless was visible.

     “He whispered, “It’s a naked woman.”

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     Within an hour, the bridge was cordoned off by police and first responders. Bright lights strobed red and blue, piercing the curtain of rain like a warning. The scene was grim and surreal. Deputy Scott Bryant received word from dispatch that the medical examiner was en-route, but delays were expected due to washed-out roads. The storm had turned the county into a maze of impassable streets and flooded intersections.

Two firefighters discussed methods to retrieve the body from beneath the bridge. Deputy Wilson examined the area. Using his flashlight, he saw another piece of bubble wrap tangled in a fallen tree branch. He inspected the debris for evidence and informed Scott of the discovery. “Could be another one,” Chad muttered. The fire chief finally decided that a team member would be sent below the bridge with safety precautions in place. To prevent them from being swept away by the strong current, they needed to be secured with tethers.

     “Try to wrap the strap in as many places as you can,” he told the rescuer. “We don’t want to have the thing open. Next thing you know, they’ll be picking that corpse up downstream, someplace in another zip code when this is over.”

A pulley was attached to the overhead beam, and three firefighters stood ready to pull it out of the raging water. While they waited, the medical examiner arrived, trench coat flapping in the wind.

     “Figures that something like this would happen during this monsoon.”  He approached the scene.

     “Wake you from your nap, did it?” the chief remarked.

     “Who can sleep in this?” came the quick answer. “So, how long do you think it will take to raise the body?”

     “We’ll have it up here in a few minutes. Why, do you have someplace more important to go to?”

     Once given the signal from the rescuer under the bridge, the three firefighters pulled the ropes. The wrapped body appeared.      A cascade of water rained down from the plastic cocoon. EMTs were ready with a mobile gurney to roll the body to the awaiting ambulance. As if on cue, the torrents of rain suddenly stopped. The silence was eerie. The medical examiner followed the gurney. When it was lifted into the ambulance, he climbed in behind it. “Isn’t this some shit?” he said to the two EMTs inside. “It’s up to me to declare this person dead. Anyone could figure this one out.”

The county required that the medical examiner declare the person dead, especially when there was suspicion of foul play. “You got a pair of scissors? Let’s open this package and see what we’ve got.” He was handed a pair of surgical snips and carefully trimmed the heat-sealed plastic at one end. The smell hit first, rotten but unmistakable. “This one’s been dead for a while.” He looked inside at the color of the woman’s face. “You may want to seal this up when I’m done before the odor gets to you. I think the lady’s been dead for some time. Drop her off in the morgue at the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”