The pensive intro music continued, with graphics of chalk lines, bullets firing in slow motion, and police lights turning. A picture of a balding man appeared, identified by a caption as Richard Schlesinger. An image appeared of a Mercedes smashed into a telephone pole.
Richard spoke over the pictures. “Some say it all started with this accident. An accident where James Fisher lost his wife, Lori.” There was an image of Lori, smiling next to her bicycle. “She didn’t die alone. Her boss, Ronald Powers, was driving under the influence when they crashed.”
They cut to a picture of a plump middle-aged woman with a caption that read Janice Powers.
“I knew he was having an affair with her,” Janice said. “I caught them at our lake house. He said he would stop.”
“But he didn’t,” Richard Schlesinger said.
Janice shook her head, her eyes wet.
They cut to a school picture of James, smiling with his class. They zoomed in on his face.
Richard asked, “Did James Fisher know that his wife was having an affair? If so, did he care?”
Lori’s sister, Rebecca, appeared. “I think he knew,” she said, “and I don’t think he cared one bit for my sister. He walked out in the middle of her funeral. I never did like him. He was flat-out crazy.”
“In what way was he crazy?” Richard asked.
“He thought the economy was going to crash, worse than the Great Depression. And he used to say that our money was worthless, yet I buy things every day.” She shook her head. “Crazy.”
A stocky man in a gray suit was identified as Officer Jeff Koch.
Officer Koch said, “He didn’t hardly react at all when we told him the news about his wife’s accident.”
Vernon Dixon and Maurice Hawkins appeared on the screen sitting side-by-side. They were dressed nicely in button-down shirts. Vernon’s mustache was a little thicker, and he was growing his hair out in an afro. Maurice still looked young, with a tight fade, high cheekbones, and a nice smile.
“What kind of teacher was Mr. Fisher?” Richard Schlesinger asked.
“Mr. Fish was cool,” Vernon said.
“We learned a lot in his class,” Maurice added.
“What kinds of things did you learn from Mr. Fisher?” Richard asked.
“White people make terrible slaves,” Vernon said.
“They get sunburnt,” Maurice added. “And we learned school doesn’t teach us stuff to be successful. It teaches us to follow the rules, so we can be part of the machine.”
“They just want obedient workers,” Vernon said.
“And who’s
they
?” Richard asked.
“Bankers and the government,” Vernon replied.
They cut to Dr. Paul Richards aka Dr. Dicks. He wore a dark suit. His flat top was crisp; he was clean-shaven. A caption with his name and title flashed on the screen for a moment.
“Would you describe James Fisher as an effective teacher?” Richard asked.
“He could have been,” Dr. Dicks replied. “He had trouble following the rules. His students became very unruly because of the ideas he put in their heads. It was almost like a cult. We finally had to fire him.”
“How did he react?”
“Not well. He was very angry. He shouted and used foul language.”
Richard spoke over a photo of James’s cabin. “After losing his wife and losing his job, James Fisher moved to the wilderness of Pennsylvania to this tiny one-room cabin, without indoor plumbing.” They cut to an image of the college. “He took a job teaching at the Community College of Central Pennsylvania. Here he would be up to his old tricks.”
An attractive young woman in a conservative dress appeared. The caption on the screen read Heather Davenport, former student.
“He was paranoid,” she said. “He thought the police were out to get everyone.”
They cut to Kurt Strickland, with his pudgy frame and pencil-thin beard. “He had the whole class hating the police. It was hard for me. I tried to be the voice of reason in debates, but he always cut me down because of my dad and my brother.”
Richard narrated over images of Dale and Chief Strickland. “Kurt’s brother Dale was a decorated officer of seven years, and his dad, a thirty-year veteran and the chief of police. What comes next involves a young girl and the unthinkable.”
The program returned with photographs of Brittany as a young girl on a swing in faded jeans and as a young woman with Jessica and Denise at New Year’s in Philadelphia.
Richard said, “Brittany Summers, by all accounts, was a troubled young woman. She ran away at the age of sixteen. She ended up in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, eating out of a diner Dumpster.”
They cut to a fortysomething woman with perm-curly hair and a tight blouse. The tag below her read, Tracy Wilkerson, Brittany’s mother.
She said, “Britt refused to follow the rules. She was always makin’ trouble. One day she just up and left. She didn’t want no rules.” Tracy pursed her lips. “We looked everywhere.”
“Did you call the police?” Richard asked.
“We knew she left on purpose, so no.”
“Did you ever meet James Fisher?”
She scowled. “Yeah, I met him. He was actin’ like he was a lawyer. He demanded Britt’s birth certificate and social security card. I thought he
was
a lawyer, so I gave him the stuff. I think he was holdin’ her hostage.”
Kurt appeared. “I knew she was trouble,” he said, “but my uncle wanted to help her.”
Old smiley photographs of Happy Harold the Outdoorsman scrolled on the screen. He showed off a trout and turkeys, and posed behind a dead buck, holding up the antlers.
Richard said, “Harold Strickland took care of Brittany Summers for two years, until James Fisher took control.”
They cut back to Kurt. “I saw him with her on campus. I thought it was weird.”
Jessica appeared looking beautiful with her wavy blond hair and light-blue blouse. She said, “It was strange, but I thought it was innocent. I think he just wanted to help her. I was friends with Brittany. I would have known if something bad was going on. She loved James and not like a boyfriend, but like a father or a big brother. He helped her get her GED and asked me to help her get a job at the diner.”
Richard narrated while images of Dot’s Diner filled the screen. The shiny metal exterior, interior, and finally the Stricklands’ favorite booth. “Brittany Summers worked at this diner, the very same diner that Officer Dale Strickland and Chief Wade Strickland would frequent.”
Chief Strickland appeared in a blue suit with his big shiny forehead and mustache. His chin hung like a chicken wattle. The chief said, “I knew he was gonna be a problem the first time I met him. It was just a simple code violation, and he acted like we were persecutin’ him.” Pictures of the cabin flashed on the screen. “He was tryin’ to live full-time in a cabin with an outhouse. You gotta have a septic for that. That’s when it all started—his vendetta.”
They showed a dramatization of a Ford F-150 driving erratically, followed by a police car with rotating red and blue lights. They cut to a clean-shaven man with dark hair, light eyes, and a fat face, identified as Officer Matt Emory. He wore a large suit jacket that wasn’t large enough to contain his gut.
“What happened on the night before Valentine’s Day of 2016?” Richard asked.
“James Fisher was driving erratically, so I pulled him over,” Officer Emory replied.
“Did you know who you were pulling over?”
“I had no idea.”
“Bullshit,” James said to his laptop.
“What happened when you pulled him over?” Richard asked.
“I looked in the truck, and a young girl was with him. She was dressed in a fancy black dress, and he was in a suit. It was Saturday night. A lot of couples went out for Valentine’s Day on that night instead of Sunday. I thought it was odd. She looked like a little girl, and he was … too old for her. I asked if she was okay. She looked like she was upset.”
“Do you think she wanted to be there?”
“No, sir.” The officer shook his head. “I could smell alcohol on Mr. Fisher’s breath, so I gave him a breathalyzer.”
“What was the result?”
“It was a .082. He was over the legal limit, so I took him to the station.”
“What was he like at the station?”
“Unstable. He kept yelling for a doctor, saying that he was dying and needed medication. So we kept him overnight, hoping he would sober up.”
“Did you let him out in the morning?” Richard asked.
“I didn’t. Another officer did.”
“Were there any charges?”
“The charges were dropped. I guess the chief felt that it was so close to the limit. He was giving the guy a huge break. I think he figured that Fisher had learned his lesson spending the night in a holding cell. We’re not interested in ruining the lives of our citizens. We’re interested in keeping them safe.”
Chief Strickland appeared. “That was a mistake. That was my mistake. We should have followed through. I felt bad for the guy at the time. If I knew what I know now, I would have handled that differently. I suppose hindsight’s twenty-twenty.”
Richard spoke over a photograph of Harold with his big smile and big fish. “A few days later, Harold Strickland, beloved brother to the chief, texted the firehouse where he worked that he’d be out because of illness.” Richard Schlesinger appeared. “Was it like Harold to miss work?”
They cut to a pudgy man in a light gray suit with a thinning head of salt-and-pepper hair. Underneath his image was the caption Fire Chief Bill Moran.
Bill said, “No, it wasn’t, but the text looked genuine, and I figured anyone’s bound to get sick eventually.”
“So you didn’t do anything?”
Bill frowned and shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and I wish I had. I was trying to get a million things done before my vacation. The wife and I go to Key West in the winter for a week. You just don’t think of these things ever happening to your friends.”
“When we return,” Richard said, “Fire Chief Bill Moran receives a distressing text message.”
After the commercials, they returned with a dramatization of a plane landing. Richard Schlesinger said, “Fire Chief Moran landed at Harrisburg International Airport, fresh from his Key West vacation on February 24, 2016.” They cut to a dramatization of a man checking his phone in an airport. “He was immediately concerned by another text message he received from Harold Strickland.”
The fire chief appeared. “It said Harold was still sick and would be out another week. I got concerned then, because, even if the text was legitimate, maybe he needs medical attention. So I called Chief Strickland and let him know my concerns. Wade said he would check it out.”
They cut to Chief Wade Strickland. “I was concerned about the text message, but my brother’s a grown man. Harold sent me a message sayin’ that he was up in Lycomin’ County, huntin’ with a friend that he mentioned by name. I did think it was unlike him to shirk his duties, so I was concerned. I called him, but it went to voice mail. I traced the phone, and it was near a huntin’ camp in Lycomin’, so everything checked out as far as I was concerned. Then I spoke with Kurt.”
Richard narrated as images of the Community College of Central Pennsylvania scrolled across the screen. “When we return, James Fisher takes a special interest in his former student, Kurt Strickland.”
After the commercials, a dramatization was shown of a compact car on the side of a road, and a man taking pictures with a long-range lens.
Richard said, “James Fisher was caught following Kurt and photographing him with sophisticated equipment.”
Kurt Strickland appeared. “I was in my truck, and I saw him with this camera. I got out and asked him what he was doin’, and he told me that he was lookin’ for meth.”
“But you don’t think he was there for meth?” Richard asked.
“No, sir. I was seein’ friends, and that neighborhood is a nice neighborhood. I don’t know where you would go for meth, but it wouldn’t be there. Plus, it messes you up. Have you ever seen
Faces of Meth
? He didn’t look like that.”
“Why do you think he was there?”
“I think he was watchin’ me. I think he was plannin’ to kill me. If I didn’t have that conversation with my dad, maybe he would have.”
They cut to Chief Strickland. “I called Kurt, just to see how he was doin’. I was always so busy with work that Kurt sometimes got lost in the shuffle. I guess I was feelin’ guilty.” The chief looked down for a moment. “I asked him how his classes were goin’. That’s when he told me about James Fisher spyin’ on him. I didn’t even know my son had him as a professor. That’s when I called Dale.” Tears welled in the chief’s eyes. The camera pulled in tight on the chief’s face, holding for a moment.
Richard spoke over photos of Dale in his dress blues. “Officer Dale Strickland never answered his father’s call.”
A red-eyed Chief Strickland appeared. “I had a bad feelin’. I dispatched damn near the entire department to James Fisher’s cabin, myself included.” They cut to a dramatization of police cars chasing a Ford F-150 down a gravel road. “When we got to his road, we saw his truck. He must’ve been goin’ about a hundred.”
“Was he alone?” Richard asked.
“He had a small young woman with him,” the chief replied.
“Was it Brittany Summers?”
“I believe so, but the first officer on the scene was the only one to see her, and her back was turned, so he couldn’t make a positive ID. But I believe 100 percent that it was her.”
“What happened when you pulled up to the cabin?”
“They barricaded themselves inside. The cabin was like a fortress. He had an alarm, motion sensors, bars on all the windows, and the doors were reinforced. It took the guys a couple minutes to break through the front door.”
Richard narrated as images of the cabin flashed on the screen. “James Fisher and presumably Brittany Summers are locked inside the one-room cabin, surrounded. What happens next, stunned Chief Strickland. When we return, the pair make a dangerous and dramatic escape.”
The show returns with the camera on Chief Strickland. He said, “When we got inside, they were gone, vanished into thin air. It’s a small cabin, only one room. There’s no place to go. Then we found the hatch. It was hidden under a mat.” They cut to footage of the hatch and the cellar. “We thought we had ’em dead to rights in the cellar, but it was empty.” They cut to footage of the escape tunnel. “That’s when we found the tunnel. It was a black drainpipe about two feet in diameter. It was tight.”