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The tree-lined residential street in Eau Claire, Wisconsin was peaceful ... intermittently. A pedestrian, a university student on her way to class down the block, heard a muffled scream of rage from a well-kept house as she passed. She weighed the probability that the scream was real versus the probability that it came from a TV. Something exciting in Eau Claire? she thought. That’ll be the day.
Five panel trucks kept circling the block. The trucks carried enough firepower to blow a sizable hole in Wisconsin. But the university meter maid wouldn’t let them double park.
In the kitchen of the well-kept house, icy rage stabbed a jagged leak in titanic patience.
“Look Mrs. Francis,” implored the sergeant with a sigh, “We’re not here to hurt you or your son. We’re here to protect you and take you someplace safe. We just want you to talk to the nice lady who called you. It’s Professor Dorothy Anderson, one of your son’s friends. You know her, right?”
The only response was a muffled scream of outrage.
“Mrs. Francis, please. I’ll only take the duct tape off your mouth if you promise to talk, not scream. Professor Anderson just wants to talk. And I’m sure there are things you want to talk with Professor Anderson about, right? So if you’ll just nod your head when you’re ready to talk ... and not scream ... then I’ll take off the duct tape, okay?”
Mrs. Francis was as lean and woody as the kitchen chair to which she was duct taped. Her muumuu was blue, her hair was white, her face was red, her eyes bulged, and if looks could pulverize, the linebacker-sized corporal standing over her could have been dispensed from a salt shaker. In a minute or so, the muffled screams tapered off.
Finally, she nodded.
“Okay, Professor Anderson,” said the sergeant into the phone. “I think she’s ready to talk with you now. Thank you very much for holding, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I’m hoping you can convince her to help us locate her son. She says he’s somewhere in Italy, but she won’t say where. He could be in danger. Please, please help us reason with her.” He motioned to the corporal. “Take the tape off her mouth ... gently. Don’t hurt her. And don’t let her bite you again.”
In New York City Dorothy thought, Italy? That’s all I need to know. The longer I stay on the phone, the greater chance they’ll locate me here. She hung up.
As the corporal peeled the tape off, Mrs. Francis’ lips stretched. Her eyes bulged like they were about to pop. She gasped as the tape came free. The corporal glanced at the sticky side of the tape, now fuzzy. He grimaced, and said, “Sorry about your mustache.” If looks could vaporize, he would have gone home in a warm balloon.
The sergeant held the phone to Mrs. Francis’ ear. She immediately shouted, “Dorothy, help! I’ve been kidnapped! Call the police! Call the ... ” She turned to the two soldiers, “You idiots, there’s no one on the line! Just a dial tone! Help! Helmmmmph ... ”
The tree lined residential street in Eau Claire was peaceful ... again.