Chapter 5 - The Call That Was Never Supposed to Survive
The recordings were transferred to a secure evidence facility outside Hawthorne County.
Sheriff Mercer made that decision before we left the courthouse.
He told me the best protection for old evidence was to remove it from the reach of anyone who might benefit from its disappearance.
For once, I agreed with him without hesitation.
Mom returned home under police protection.
I stayed with her.
My wife, Laura, drove in from Columbus that evening.
She hugged Mom so tightly that Mom gently complained she couldn't breathe.
Our daughter, sixteen-year-old Emma, called from a school trip and demanded to know why Grandma was on the local news.
That was the first time I realized how quickly the situation was spreading.
A reporter had obtained information about Deputy Price's suspension.
By six o'clock, the county's largest newspaper had posted a headline about the traffic stop.
By seven, a local television station had received an anonymous tip connecting Shirley Hagen to the Black Creek flood.
By eight, strangers were leaving comments about a tragedy I barely remembered.
Some called my mother a hero.
Others accused her of seeking attention.
And several insisted the flood had been investigated long ago.
I watched the comments scroll past.
Mom sat beside Laura on the sofa, knitting a scarf.
She hadn't looked at her phone once.
“Doesn't any of this bother you?” I asked.
She glanced up.
“Of course it does.”
“You don't act like it.”
“Jeffrey, there's a difference between being calm and being comfortable.”
I sat beside her.
She continued knitting.
“The people who died at Black Creek don't get to argue on the internet.”
I fell silent.
“Neither do the children who grew up without them.”
Then she looked at me.
“If the records are true, those are the people who deserve our attention.”
The following afternoon, Investigator Brooks invited us to hear an authenticated working copy of the first recording.
The original tapes were being preserved and examined.
The investigators emphasized that the material still needed verification.
But the contents were enough to make the room feel suddenly smaller.
The first recording began with static.
Then a ringing telephone.
Mom's younger voice came through the speaker.
“County emergency communications, this is Shirley.”
I felt something move through my chest.
I hadn't heard that voice in years.
It was unmistakably hers.
A little stronger.
A little faster.
But warm and steady.
A man's voice answered.
His breathing was ragged.
“This is Frank Dobbins at Black Creek control.”
“Frank, what's the emergency?”
“The reservoir's rising.”
“Have you notified the plant supervisor?”
“Yes.”
“What's your gate status?”
“Closed, but they're ordering a controlled release.”
Mom's voice sharpened.
“Do not open that gate until downstream notification is confirmed.”
The man hesitated.
“They said the county authorized it.”
“Who said?”
A pause.
“Mr. Harrow's office.”
The recording hissed.
Then Frank spoke again.
“Shirley, there's something wrong here.”
I leaned forward.
“What do you mean?” my mother asked on the recording.
“They've been holding water all afternoon.”
“Who has?”
“The supervisors.”
“Why?”
“They wanted to keep the south access road open for freight.”
A longer silence followed.
Then Frank whispered something.
“If they open this thing now, the houses below the crossing are going under.”
Mom's recorded voice became commanding.
“Frank, stay on the line.”
She switched channels.
“County dispatch requesting immediate downstream evacuation authorization for Black Creek.”
A second male voice answered.
“Stand by.”
“Negative, we have an imminent flood hazard.”
“Stand by, Shirley.”
I recognized the voice from a publicly available interview Mercer had shown us.
Calvin Price.
My mother repeated the request.
This time, there was no response for almost thirty seconds.
Then Price spoke.
“Evacuation authorization is pending.”
“Calvin, we don't have time.”
“Do not activate the warning system.”
“People are in the flood path.”
“I said stand by.”
Mom's younger voice was quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“Who is making this decision?”
The answer came after a pause.
“County administration.”
The recording continued.
Mom requested permission again.
Then once more.
Each request was met with another delay.
Finally, the recording captured a distant voice near the mill operator.
“Open it.”
Frank Dobbins shouted.
“Wait!”
A mechanical rumble filled the line.
Then something crashed.
“Shirley!”
His voice broke.
“They've opened the west gate!”
The recording became chaotic.
Mom began transmitting to available patrol and fire units.
“Black Creek residential area, possible immediate flood impact.”
“Begin evacuation assistance.”
“Repeat, immediate flood danger.”
Another voice interrupted.
“Dispatch, cancel that instruction.”
Mom didn't stop.
“Units responding, prioritize the houses below County Road Six.”
I felt Laura grip my arm.
The room was silent except for the recording.
Then came the worst part.
A little girl's voice.
Thin.
Terrified.
“Hello?”
Mom switched to another incoming call.
“This is emergency communications.”
“There's water in our house.”
“Sweetheart, what's your name?”
“Annie.”
I looked up.
Mercer did too.
The little girl was crying.
“My mommy can't open the back door.”
Mom's voice softened instantly.
“Annie, listen carefully.”
“Okay.”
“Can you get to the stairs?”
“We don't have stairs.”
“Is there a table you can climb onto?”
“Yes.”
“Climb onto it and tell your mommy to come with you.”
The girl began sobbing.
“She's not waking up.”
I felt my stomach turn.
Mom's recorded voice remained steady.
“Annie, I'm sending somebody to help you.”
“Please hurry.”
“I will do everything I can.”
The line crackled.
Then the recording stopped.
Nobody spoke.
I looked toward my mother.
She was staring at her hands.
Her face had gone white.
“Mom?”
She swallowed.
“That little girl survived.”
I looked toward Brooks.
“Is she the Annie from the letter?”
The investigator nodded slowly.
“We believe so.”
Mercer leaned forward.
“What happened to her?”
Mom closed her eyes.
“Thomas Mercer went into the water.”
“Your father?” I asked the sheriff.
Mercer nodded.
“My dad.”
“He found Annie on top of a kitchen cabinet,” Mom continued.
“He carried her out through a window.”
I looked at Mercer.
“Did he save her mother?”
His expression answered before his words did.
“No.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Finally, Investigator Brooks spoke.
“There's another recording.”
She glanced at my mother.
“It was stored in the third cassette case.”
Mom looked up.
“I don't remember a third call.”
Brooks placed a transcript on the table.
“We believe it was recorded after the flood.”
“Who was speaking?”
The investigator hesitated.
“Harold Hagen.”
I stared.
“My father?”
Brooks nodded.
“And someone else.”
“Who?”
She turned the page toward me.
The name printed beneath the second voice made my hands go cold.
Victor Harrow.
May you like
Beneath it was a single sentence from the recording.
If Shirley won't change the log, we'll have to find another way to make her disappear from the story.
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