[0:11]I've been a K9 handler for almost nine years. My partner is a four-year-old Dremmon Shepherd named Rex. He's trained in tracking and narcotics detection, and he's solid, he doesn't spook easily. I've taken him into warehouses, abandoned houses, woods at night, and he's always steady. That's why what happened that night stuck with me. We were called in to assist patrol on a house search after a foot pursuit in the area. Officers had attempted to stop a male suspect a few blocks away, and he ran. They chased him through backyards and lost sight of him near this property. A side gate to the yard was found open, and the back door of the house was unlocked. Neighbors had also reported hearing a struggle in the backyard, which added to the urgency. Patrol swept the first floor but weren't comfortable calling it safe. They believed the suspect may have forced his way inside and could still be hiding somewhere in the house. Rex and I arrived about 20 minutes later. The house was a two-story place in a quiet subdivision. There were no signs of forced entry from the front. The officers on the scene briefed me quickly. Long story short, they told me there were no obvious signs of struggle, just the open access at the rear of the house and the fact that the suspect had vanished within yards of it. I put Rex on a short leash and gave him the search command. He pulled forward immediately, moving from room to room on the first floor. The living room was clear, kitchen was clear, and laundry room was clear, so we moved upstairs. Up there was a narrow hallway with three bedrooms and a bathroom. There was no fresh air up there and no drafts, all the windows seemed to be closed. As to be expected, as the neighbor reported that the owners of this house were not in town. Rex and I went into the first bedroom, then the second bedroom, then he pulled toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. I examined the little bathroom, and overall it seemed clean. Nothing was out of place in any of the rooms. Rex sniffed around the room, the edge of the vanity, the floor, then he froze. His ears went forward, and his body stiffened up. He started growling, looking outside the bathroom door. His growls then turned to barks. He was staring out into the hallway, growling and barking at something out there. I stepped backwards out of the bathroom with him. What is it? I said quietly. Rex was locked onto something down the hallway, at the very end, near the last bedroom door. I saw what he was barking at, this figure standing there, this tall, dark, completely still figure, and it didn't look like any of the officers downstairs. They also would have in some way announced their presence to me. I identified myself as police and that there was a K9 with me, but there was no response to this. Then I just flat out asked who is that. Still no response. Rex was pulling in the opposite direction, something I'd never seen him do before. He didn't want to go down the hall. Then the figure turned and walked into the bedroom at the end of the hall. I knew every officer on scene. I knew where they were positioned. None of them were upstairs with me. Rex planted his feet when I tried to move forward. He pulled backwards hard. He did not want to go down that hallway. I drew my weapon and said over the radio that I have possibly located the suspect at the end bedroom. Start making your way up. I pulled Rex forward, and he resisted the entire way. He kept looking at me like he didn't understand why I was making him go. When we reached the bedroom doorway, he refused to cross with me. I stepped into the room first with my gun raised, but it was empty, like completely empty. Just a bed against the wall and a dresser across from it. I waited for the others to get up there before fully entering the room, and when we finally entered, there was no one standing in there or hiding under the bed. The window was closed and even the closet was empty. There was no kind of attic hatch or crawl space door. Rex stayed in the hallway. He wouldn't step foot into the room. I expected the others to doubt me, but they saw Rex and the way he was acting. One of them tried coaxing him into the room. He refused. We searched every inch of that bedroom. We checked the walls for false panels, we checked the bathroom again, we checked the other bedroom. There was not a single trapdoor anywhere. If it weren't for Rex, I feel like I'd have gone crazy. After about 20 minutes, I told the others I had to take Rex out of there. But before we left, he kept glancing back down the hall at that bedroom. As soon as we stepped outside into the night air, he relaxed slightly. When he was in his crate, he curled up immediately, but he didn't look at me the way he usually does after a search. Patrol wrapped up not long after. I've replayed that moment a thousand times in my head. I think I believe it was a real person, the suspect even, but I don't know how they escaped that room, or why Rex behaved that way. Maybe more suspicious people than me will say what Rex and I saw was a ghost. Rex has never reacted like that before or since. He's tracked armed suspects without hesitation and entered a lot more stressful environments than that house, but that room he wouldn't step inside. I trust that dog more than I trust my own instincts. Just about everyone in my department has at least one unexplainable night call, and this one was mine.
[5:39]When I turned 21, I joined the police force in a remote town that I won't name. The department needed new officers, and I was a young father who needed money, so the timing was perfect. Because I was a rookie, they assigned me to the night shift. It ran from 6:00 at night to 6:00 in the morning. The guys at the station sometimes tease me about my hours, saying that I always worked the crummiest shifts. I actually didn't mind them, I've always been a night owl. Besides busting people for speeding and pulling over the occasional drunk driver, I spend most nights sitting back listening to podcasts. In a weird way, it was kind of relaxing. After a year in the department, something happened one night that changed everything. A severe thunderstorm rolled into town and caused major power outages. Torrential downpour flooded most of the major roads. To be in the best position possible when accident reports came in, I parked my cruiser in a parking lot in the middle of town. At 2:00 a.m., our dispatcher, Clare, radioed in. She reported that someone who sounded like an adult male, claimed to have been kidnapped. They told her they were held captive inside someone's home, then the call ended. When she redialed, the caller didn't answer. My cruiser had a built-in computer display that showed all the call details. Based on the address, I was about 10 minutes away. So I was probably the closest officer. I radioed in and told her I'd respond. I also requested backup. Another new officer named Chris chimed in and said he'd be on location in five. Clare clicked on her radio, but hesitated for a few seconds over the static. Then she said the caller sounded like they were altering their voice in some way, possibly through digital means, to make themselves sound like a child. She used the specific phrase, like a young girl. She concluded that officers should proceed with extreme caution. All of us were pretty close at the station, so we felt nervous for one another during high-risk cases like this. I radioed back and said 10-4, then drove off to the scene. When I turned into the neighborhood, I saw that every single street lamp was out. The entire block had lost power. That meant we would have low visibility into the home we were investigating, which put us in greater danger. I followed my GPS to the end of the street where the house was, and I saw that Chris had already beaten me. His cruiser was idling in front of the house. I pulled up next to him and rolled down my window. Chris commented on the home's poor condition. I glanced ahead, taking it in for myself. The grass was knee-high, overgrown bushes blocked out the windows. The roof was dented in several areas and had a ton of missing shingles. It looked completely abandoned. This sent off alarm bells in my head. You can gather a lot about someone's mental state by how they treat their living space. I told Chris I'd take the lead. We both stepped out of our cruisers into the pouring rain, opened our umbrellas, and followed a water-logged path up to the door. Chris clicked on his flashlight. Whenever a second officer like Chris is present during an investigation, their entire job is to protect the leading officer by monitoring the suspect's body language. If the suspect makes a move on the cop that's interrogating them, they neutralize the threat. Chris made the perfect backup because he was both observant and calm under pressure. This allowed me to focus solely on the suspect's story, and if I was hearing the truth. When we reached the door, I rang the bell. Then we stood there, listening for movement inside. After a few seconds, footsteps shuffled up to the door, then they paused. Whoever was on the other side was completely still, just waiting. A feeling came over me that we were being watched. Slowly, my gaze drifted over to the peephole. As soon as I made eye contact, a distorted shape moved back, like whoever was watching us had pulled their head away. If you're in there, we'd like to ask you a few questions. Open up, please. I said. They froze again, as if they were thinking about what to do next. Then the locks started turning and the door creaked open, but only by a foot. From the darkness, a man peeked out of the crack. He looked like he was in his early 30s. He was overweight, balding, and wore thick-brimmed glasses. I took a single look into his eyes and sensed that he was hiding something. I informed him that we'd received a call from his address of someone claiming to have been kidnapped. The man acted confused. He apologized and told us it must have been a pocket dial. I asked him if it was a pocket dial, then how could he explain the voice in the phone call? For a split second, the man averted his gaze, then said he didn't know anything about a voice. I asked him if there was anyone else in the house, and he said he lived alone. Then I told him that for safety reasons, we needed to have a look inside. Not without a warrant, he said. These days, a warrant can be obtained in minutes. I went back to my cruiser, called dispatch and requested communication with the on-call magistrate. Five minutes later, Clare came back on the radio and told me the judge approved a telephonic warrant and emailed it. We were clear to enter. I showed the warrant to the man. He reluctantly pulled the door open, and I could see that his hands were visibly shaking. I clicked on my own flashlight and stepped inside. A putrid smell immediately hit me. I scanned around to find the source. And saw a hallway straight ahead, and a room directly to my right. I shined my light into the room and saw what looked like a living room. It was absolutely disgusting. Piles of clothes and stacks of dirty dishes were spread across the carpet. Cockroaches were even crawling all over them. A couch that looked like it was pulled off the side of the road sat at an angle against the wall. This man obviously used this room as his living space. I'd seen these sorts of living conditions in drug cases before. When I turned to look back at the man, he shifted uncomfortably. I made a mental note to check for paraphernalia once I'd confirmed the house was safe. Then I stepped toward the hallway. My foot struck something. I looked down. In the beam of my flashlight, I saw a pink Barbie doll playhouse that I knew I'd seen before. I thought about it, and realized I'd bought this exact set for my daughter last year on Christmas. I asked the man if he had kids. He said no, but explained to us that sometimes his nieces came over, so he kept a few toys around for them. Chris and I exchanged a look. No mother in the right mind would allow children into this environment. I told him this was his last chance to tell me if anyone else was in the house. He assured me there wasn't. I started my way down the hallway and the man followed, saying that nothing was down there. Chris yanked him back by his arm and ordered him to stay put. The hallway had an open room on either side and a closed door at the end, which was probably the basement. I peeked inside the first room, scanning from right to left, and saw more children's toys and even items like diapers scattered across the floor. In the corner, the dark shape of a person was hunched over. I drew my weapon, only to realize that it was a doll, sagging its head down in a rocking chair. The shock of that visual made my heart pound. I leaned against the doorframe and steadied my breathing. Chris asked me what I had seen. Before I could respond, I started studying the doll. It was the largest one I'd ever seen, every bit as big as a person, and the man had dressed it in women's clothing. On the bed beside it, ladies' blouses, jeans, and lingerie were folded into neat piles. Each pile was separated by color. Meanwhile, the rest of the house was a pigsty. What was happening in this room felt wrong on many different levels. All clear, I told Chris. I moved further down the hall and glanced into the second bedroom. This one was empty. I reached the final door at the end of the hall, when from behind me, the man called and asked if I'd like to see the upstairs instead. I told him yes, but first I was going to see the basement. The man said again that there was nothing down there, and I heard Chris tell the man to stay still, which meant he was probably trying to follow me down the hall. The closer I moved into this part of the house, the more agitated he became. I reached for the handle, twisted the knob, and pushed the door open. It squealed on its own hinges. A set of wooden steps descended into a pitch black room. I shine my light down. I could only see the area that surrounded the landing. It looked equally as messy as the upstairs. From deep inside the room, in an area I couldn't see, something rattled. I told Chris that I heard movement. The man responded instead, apologizing to me and Chris over and over. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I had no choice. The man was lying to us. Someone was down there. I headed down the staircase. Each step creaked under my weight. The rattling noise from inside the room grew louder. Behind me, the man repeatedly begged us to stop looking around. I neared the landing and swept my flashlight across stacks of boxes. No one appeared in my line of sight. Across the room, there was another door. The noise was coming from there. I drew my weapon. I commanded whoever was inside to come out slowly with their hands up. Whoever was inside stopped moving. I shouted the same command a second time. The door remained shut. I crossed the room, sliding between boxes and old furniture that blocked the way. My sights were trained on the door. When I stood within several feet, I paused, listening. Whoever was inside also remained perfectly still. My anxiety ticked up with each second. So many things could go wrong in this situation. I moved to the side of the doorframe in case they were armed and tried to fire through the door. I reached for the knob, grabbed on, and twisted, then I swung the door open. I was still hidden to the side of the frame. If anything besides empty hands emerged, I would have to use deadly force. After several agonizing moments, nothing came. I said a quick prayer, then aimed my weapon right into the room. What I saw, I can't go into detail on, but basically, this is what happened. A man in his mid-40s was being held captive in that basement. He was a father of three and a respected member of the community. Months after he went missing, everyone, including his family, assumed he was dead. After two years in captivity, he finally got the chance to escape. Earlier in the night, before we arrived, the homeowner brought the victim's dinner down and made the mistake of leaving his phone behind. The victim managed to activate Siri and call 911. When we arrived on scene, the victim had already been confined in a way that prevented him from calling upstairs or making any kind of substantial noise. Then, when I ordered him to come out, he froze in fear, not because he couldn't obey my command, but because he didn't want me to use lethal force, thinking that he was a threat. Once I opened the door and found him, we arrested the homeowner on the spot and took the victim to the hospital for immediate treatment. I feel incredibly lucky that no one was harmed, and that we could reunite this man with his family. But the most disturbing detail, which has haunted me every day since, is how my dispatcher described the voice of the man who made the call. Why was he speaking like a child? The only explanation that makes sense is that this man was forced to speak in that young tone of voice for so long that even when he called the station, that's the only way he could communicate. And if he was forced to do that, what else inside that house was he forced to do?
[19:12]I've been a patrol officer for a little over eight years now. I've worked nights for most of that time. You see a lot on midnights. For example, I've lost count at how many domestic fights, drunk drivers, break-ins, and overdoses I've had to deal with. After a while, most calls start to blend together. You show up, then separate people, you take a report, possibly make an arrest, and then move on. There are only a handful of calls that ever stuck with me. This is one of them. It happened in late October a few years back around 2:40 in the morning. Dispatch toned me out for a 911 hang-up. The caller had reported hearing a woman screaming from inside the house next door. The address was on a quiet residential street, one that most people are familiar with, lined with single-family homes in a decent neighborhood. Nothing that generated a lot of police activity. The caller said the screaming had stopped by the time she dialed 911, but she was sure that she heard someone yelling for help. I was only about five minutes away. When I pulled up, the street was dead silent. Most of the houses had their lights off at this time, of course. A light rain had started to fall, just enough to make the pavement shine under the streetlights. The house in question was a two-story place with a small front porch. There were no lights on inside that I could see from the street. I parked a few houses down and approached on foot. As I got closer, I noticed the front door was slightly cracked open. That immediately raised my guard, because it confirmed some validity to what this woman had reported. I radioed dispatch and advised I was on scene and had an open door. I asked for another unit to start my way, but at that time of night, the nearest backup was about 10 minutes out at least. I stepped onto the porch and listened. The only sound was the light rain hitting the ground. I knocked on the doorframe and announced myself. Police department. No response. I knocked again a bit louder. At that point, with the report of screams and an open door, I had exigent circumstances. I pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. Nothing really stood out, such as any kind of signs of forced entry or weird smells. Their living room was directly ahead of me, and everything looked normal and neat. There were no signs of a struggle. I searched the living room first, checking behind the couch and in the corners, then I moved toward the kitchen. My flashlight beam bounced off clean countertops and a sink full of dishes. There was a glass on the table with what looked like water still in it. I remember that detail because I made a mental note of it, meaning that someone had been sitting there not long ago. I called out again. Police department. If anyone is here, make yourself known. My voice sounded too loud in the quiet home. Rarely would I get nervous on a late night call, but something about this was creeping me out. I kept expecting someone to answer from upstairs, but no one ever did. I moved down the hallway toward the back of the house. I remember the layout. There was a small bathroom on the right, a guest bedroom on the left, both clear. At the end of the hallway was a staircase leading up. As I stepped onto the first stair, I heard a sound from above, like a quick, faint shuffle, like a foot dragging across carpet. I stopped and listened. I drew my weapon and continued up the stairs slowly, one step at a time, keeping my light aimed ahead. The upstairs hallway had three doors. Two were closed, one slightly open. The open one was at the end. As I reached the top, I heard it again. A soft movement from that direction. I announced myself a third time and told whoever was inside to show their hands. No response. I approached the open doorway and pushed it wider with my foot. It was a bedroom that was larger than the one downstairs. The bed was unmade with the sheets partially hanging off the side. A lamp on the nightstand was knocked over onto the floor. That was the first thing that looked wrong. I stepped inside and checked the closet. It was empty. Then I checked under the bed. Nothing. The window was closed and locked. No obvious way in or out from that room. I felt that uncomfortable feeling in my chest you get when something isn't adding up. The rest of the upstairs still needed to be cleared. The second bedroom was a kid's room from the look of it because of the toys on the floor, the small dresser, and posters on the wall. There was no one inside. The last door was the bathroom. As I reached for the handle, I noticed something on the carpet outside the door. A dark spot. At first, I thought it was just a shadow from my flashlight. Then I realized it was wet. I crouched down and touched it with my glove, and it was blood. Not a huge amount, but enough to form a small pool. My heart rate went up instantly. I called it out over the radio and asked dispatch to expedite backup. People may forget police officers are people too, but when we're in these kinds of situations, we're just as scared as anyone else. I pushed the bathroom door open and flicked on the light with my elbow. The shower curtain was closed. There were streaks of blood on the tile floor leading toward the tub. I moved closer and yanked the curtain back. The tub was empty, but there was more blood near the drain. The blood looked as though someone had been standing there bleeding. I checked everywhere in the bathroom to no avail. By this time, backup was still a few minutes out. I was alone in a house with fresh blood and no victim. I did another sweep of the upstairs, but slower this time. That's when I heard a faint sound from below, like a floorboard creaking under weight. It came from the first floor. I moved back toward the stairs and aimed my light down into the darkness. The living room was still dark and I couldn't see movement, but I felt it. That feeling like you're being watched. I descended slowly, trying to control my breathing. When I reached the bottom, I cleared the living room again. The kitchen, too. But then I noticed something I hadn't before. A door near the refrigerator that I'd assumed was a pantry. It was slightly ajar now. I was almost certain it had been closed earlier. I approached it and opened it wider. It wasn't a pantry. It was a narrow set of stairs leading down into a basement. The light switch was at the top. I flicked it up, but it did nothing. Either the bulb was out or the power was cut down there. The stairs descended into complete darkness. I radioed again, advising I was going into the basement. No way was I waiting up there with someone possibly moving around below me. I started down the stairs. The basement was unfinished, and as I went down, I noticed concrete floors, exposed beams, and boxes stacked along one wall. As I stepped off the last stair, I saw a chair in the middle of the room, a metal folding chair, and the floor beneath it, a large pool of blood. Bigger than what I'd seen upstairs. The chair had zip ties attached to the armrests. They were cut. I scanned the rest of the basement. That's when my light hit movement in the far corner. A figure bolted behind a stack of boxes. I yelled for them to stop and started moving toward them, but they moved fast, heading toward the back of the basement, where there was a small window near the ceiling. I heard glass shatter. By the time I reached that corner, the windows had broken, and whoever it was had forced themselves through. The window led to a narrow side yard between houses. I climbed out after them, cutting my hand on the glass in the process. Outside, it was still raining. I could see a dark shape sprinting toward the alley at the end of the block. I chased for a bit, but lost them once they turned the corner. Backup arrived minutes later. We set up a perimeter. K9 responded, detectives came out. But we never found the person who ran. The house turned out to belong to a man who lived alone. He wasn't there. We found his wallet upstairs and his phone on the kitchen counter. There were signs he'd been restrained in that basement chair. The blood matched him, a lot of it, but not enough to confirm he'd died there. He was never found. The neighbor who called 911 swore she heard a woman screaming. We never identified any female connected to that address, and no signs anyone else lived there. I don't know if I interrupted something in progress, or if I walked in after it was already over. If they hadn't made that one mistake in the basement, knocking over that stack of boxes, I might have walked out of there thinking it was a false alarm. The missing man's case is still technically open. Every once in a while, I drive down that street on patrol. A new family lives in that house now. I see the kids' bikes in the driveway sometimes. Like I said, it's a normal neighborhood, but sometimes fucked up things happen in the most normal neighborhoods.
