The Undertaker

That was when I heard the second set of radio calls. “All units, an APB has been issued for a brown Campbell County sheriff's cruiser, license plate DEL-O23. Observe and report. Do not attempt to apprehend. The driver is an escaped mental patient wanted in the disappearance of Sheriff Virgil Dannmeyer. Suspect is believed to be armed and dangerous. Repeat. Armed and Dangerous. Observe and report only. Do not apprehend.”

“Escaped mental patient?” Nice touch, Ralph. “Observe and report?” To whom? Ralph Tinkerton, Esq.? You bastard! Too bad Ernie didn't hit you harder. It had to be him. The more I thought about it, the more I knew I had it figured all wrong. They couldn't have found Dannmeyer's body so soon, but Tinkerton saw me drive away. Maybe old Ralph was trying a new angle to box me in. Very clever. Label me as a psycho who kidnapped a county sheriff. Soon it would be “cop killer” and there would be no hope of turning myself in. Every cop in Ohio knew that was cop-speak for “shoot on sight for resisting arrest.”

There were two highway maps in the glove compartment. One was for Greater Columbus and the other was for the State of Ohio. I turned on the dome light and unfolded the Ohio map. Ditching the car way down in the city was out. There was too little traffic at this hour and the sheriff's car would stand out. Where then? Leave it at a truck stop on the Interstate and hitch a ride out of town? No, too exposed, and a dead give away that I'd left town that way. My best bet was to dump it near office building or a shopping center near the Interstate. That would leave Tinkerton with a whole lot more guesses than answers.

I looked at the map more closely. I wasn't sure which road I was on, but if I kept driving west it looked like I'd hit Route 42 fairly soon. I could take that south to Route 33 and back into Columbus. I remembered from my earlier trips that the expressway interchanges were full of shopping centers and big office and warehouse buildings. Maybe I could ditch the car and find a friendly trucker or thumb a ride out of town. Yeah, that was my best shot.

Then I heard the third radio call. Short, sweet, and to the point, it made my blood run cold to hear the pleasant female dispatcher say, “Mister Talbott, we would appreciate it if you'd call the office. You can pick up the microphone hanging on the dashboard and push the little red button, or you could get out of the car and use a pay phone. No big deal, someone here would like to talk to you before things get any further out of hand.”

To anyone else who happened to be listening, it sounded like she was calling the typewriter repairman or the plumber, but she wasn't. She was calling me. I pictured the hulking frame of Ralph Tinkerton standing behind her, breathing down her neck as he listened. That meant that Tinkerton wanted to keep this whole business quiet, and that meant something. But me talk to Ralph Tinkerton? Go in and give myself up? After the embalming table and the scalpel, that didn't sound too appealing, so I ignored the radio call and pushed the pedal to the metal. The next time I talked to old Ralph, it was going to be on my terms, not his.

In two minutes, I was on Route 33 headed south toward the bright lights of Columbus. It had four lanes and it carried me across the I-270 Beltway and down into the northwest suburbs. The first big intersection I came to was Longacre Boulevard. It had large strip centers on all four corners, complete with fast food restaurants and big box stores further down the street. The stores were mostly closed at this hour, but I drove into the first strip center on my right. It had a large food store and bowling alley and it backed up to a wooded hill. Perfect, I thought as I continued around back and saw a dark spot between the food store's dumpster and the trees where the sheriff's car couldn't be seen from the highway or the parking lot. The stores would open up at 9:00 or 10:00 in the morning and the workers might arrive a half-hour before. So, if there were no cops or security guards checking the parking lot, and if I was very lucky, Dannmeyer's car might sit here all night without being noticed.