"Midnight Caller":
I was at the station in Bronte, Texas, finishing paperwork on a quiet night. The clock showed just past midnight, when the phone rang, something in the dispatcher’s voice told me this wasn’t routine.
“Officer Daniels, we’ve got a stranded motorist on Highway 277, a few miles south of town,” she said, her tone clipped. “Silver Ford F-150, out of gas. The driver made a 911 call, sounded real shaken up. Said he needs the cops, something about being in trouble. Can you head out?”
“On my way,” I said, grabbing my keys and heading to the patrol car. The night was dark, the kind where the stars seem to press down on you. Highway 277 stretches through empty fields and scrubland, with nothing but mesquite trees and the occasional jackrabbit to break the monotony. As I drove, my headlights carved a narrow path through the blackness, and I wondered what kind of trouble this guy was in.
Ten minutes later, I spotted the truck, its rear end jutting into the lane like it had rolled to a stop in a hurry. I pulled up behind it, flipped on my flashing lights, and stepped out. The air was still, heavy with the scent of dust and dry grass.
“Hello? Bronte Police Department. Anyone here?” I called, my voice echoing into the night. Nothing answered but the faint rustle of leaves. I shone my flashlight into the cab—empty. No keys, no driver, just a crumpled water bottle on the passenger seat. The fuel gauge needle sat firmly on empty, confirming the out-of-gas story.
I circled the truck, looking for signs of a crash or struggle, but everything seemed normal. Still, the 911 call nagged at me. Why did he need the cops? Was he hurt? Lost? I radioed dispatch. “I’m at the scene. Truck’s here, but no sign of the driver. Can you give me more on that 911 call?”
“Hold on, Daniels,” the dispatcher replied. A moment later, she played the recording over the radio. The voice was frantic, words tumbling over each other, distorted by bad reception. “Yes, I’m in the middle of a field... we’re safe, we’re just pushing guys over... going towards Abilene on both sides... my truck ran out of gas... there’s one car here... a guy chased to the woods... please hurry.”
The operator tried to get him to repeat, but he cut in, voice rising. “They will not talk things over. I accidentally ran into ’em.” Then, something about shooting the first guy, followed by a sharp sound that might’ve been a gunshot. My pulse quickened. A shooting? Out here?
“Dispatch, did he say someone was shot?” I asked.
“That’s what it sounds like,” she replied. “Be careful. We’re sending backup, but it’ll be a bit. You’re out there alone for now.”
I gripped my flashlight tighter, scanning the darkness. The fields stretched out on both sides, dotted with clumps of trees and tall grass. If this guy was out there, finding him in the dark would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And if there was a shooter, I was walking into who-knows-what.
Headlights appeared in the distance, and a pickup truck pulled up. A man stepped out, carrying a gas can. “Evening, officer. I’m Kyle Lawson. My brother Brandon called me, said he ran out of gas here.”
“I’m Officer Daniels,” I said. “Your brother’s not here. Truck’s empty.”
Kyle’s face tightened. “That’s weird. He called me maybe thirty minutes ago. Said he needed gas, and something about being chased. I thought he was messing around or maybe on something. He’s had issues before.”
“Chased? By who?” I asked.
“He said some guys, maybe Mexicans from the neighborhood, were after him. I asked if he was high, but he swore he wasn’t. He was heading to our dad’s place in Crowley, but it’s a long drive. I don’t know why he didn’t just find a gas station.”
I nodded, piecing it together. “He called 911, sounded scared. Mentioned a field and someone chasing him. Did he say anything else to you?”
Kyle shook his head. “Just that he was in trouble. I grabbed the gas can and came straight here.”
“Let’s look around,” I said. “Maybe he’s nearby, looking for help.”
We started searching, calling out, “Brandon! It’s the police! Where are you?” The only reply was the wind whispering through the grass. Kyle’s flashlight beam danced across the field, catching the glint of a spider’s web or the eyes of some small animal.
After a few minutes, Kyle’s phone buzzed. He answered, hope in his voice. “Brandon?” His shoulders slumped. “No, it’s Ladessa, his girlfriend. She’s freaking out. Said Brandon tried calling her, but her phone was charging. She’s got no idea where he is.”
I radioed dispatch again. “Any chance you can trace his phone?”
“Already tried,” the dispatcher said. “No signal. Either it’s off or out of range.”
Great. I turned to Kyle. “You said he mentioned being chased. Did he sound like he was running?”
“Yeah, he was out of breath, like he was moving fast. Said he was in a field, bleeding a little, maybe from tripping or something.”
Bleeding? My stomach tightened. The 911 call’s mention of a gunshot echoed in my head. “We need to check the fields. He might be hurt.”
We moved into the tall grass, the ground uneven underfoot. The darkness seemed to swallow the light from our flashlights, and every step felt like it could lead to a drop or a trap. I kept my hand near my holster, aware of how exposed we were. Highway 277 isn’t exactly a hotspot for crime, but you hear stories—drug runners using backroads, drifters passing through. And Brandon had a warrant out for him, which might explain why he bolted when he saw my lights. But why call 911 if he was hiding from the law?
Kyle stopped suddenly. “You hear that?”
I froze, listening. A faint murmur, like someone talking low, came from a cluster of trees ahead. “Yeah. Stay close.”
We crept toward the sound, my heart thudding. The murmur grew clearer, but I couldn’t make out words. It was almost like someone was whispering to themselves.
“Brandon? That you?” I called.
The sound cut off. Silence pressed in, heavier than before. We reached the trees, but there was nothing—no footprints, no broken branches, just shadows.
“Wind, maybe,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction. Kyle’s wide eyes told me he wasn’t buying it either.
We kept searching, moving deeper into the field. The grass scratched at my legs, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. Once, I thought I saw a shape move between the trees, but when I swung my flashlight, it was just a branch swaying. My nerves were frayed, the 911 call playing on a loop in my mind. “Shot the first guy.” What did that mean? Was Brandon armed? Was someone else?
Backup arrived after what felt like forever—two officers from the next town over. “No sign of him?” Officer Carter asked, stepping out of his car.
“Nothing,” I said. “His brother’s here, says he was running from someone. The 911 call mentioned a possible shooting.”
Carter’s eyebrows shot up. “A shooting? Out here?”
“That’s what it sounded like. We need to cover more ground.”
We fanned out, searching the fields and the edge of the woods. The darkness seemed to fight us, hiding anything that might’ve been a clue. At one point, I stumbled over a root and nearly fell into a ditch, my flashlight beam catching the glint of something metallic. My breath caught, thinking it might be a weapon or a phone, but it was just an old beer can, rusted and forgotten.
Hours passed, and the sky began to lighten. We’d found nothing—no footprints, no blood, no sign of Brandon Lawson. Exhaustion weighed on us, and we had to call off the search until morning, when we could bring in dogs and volunteers.
"The Voice on the Line":
It was April 9, 2004, a Friday evening. I was working the late shift at McDonald’s in Mount Washington, Kentucky. It’s a small town, and working at the local fast-food joint was just part of life here. The restaurant was bustling, as usual for a Friday night. Kids were flipping burgers, taking orders, and I was behind the counter, making sure everything ran smoothly.
Around 8:30 PM, the phone rang. I picked it up, expecting a customer complaint or maybe a delivery order.
“McDonald’s, this is Donna speaking. How can I help you?”
The voice on the other end was calm but firm, with an air of authority. “This is Officer Scott from the Bullitt County Police Department. I need to speak with the manager on duty.”
Police? Here? “Uh, that’s me, Donna Summers. Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve received a report of a theft at your location. A customer claims their purse was stolen, and we have reason to believe one of your employees might be involved.”
Theft? At my restaurant? “Oh no, that’s terrible. Do you know which employee?”
The officer described a young woman—slightly built, with dark hair. My mind immediately went to Louise Ogborn. She was 18, had been working with us for a few months. Quiet girl, always on time, never caused any trouble. She fit the description.
“I think it might be Louise,” I said, feeling a mix of relief and worry. Relief that it wasn’t one of the more experienced staff, worry because Louise was just a kid.
“Alright, ma’am,” the officer continued. “I need you to detain her until we can get there. But since we’re short-staffed tonight, I need you to conduct a search first. It’s standard procedure in these cases.”
A search? Here? Now? “But, Officer, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do that. Shouldn’t you come and handle it?”
“Ma’am, I understand your concern, but time is of the essence. The customer is very upset, and we need to recover the stolen property as soon as possible. I can guide you through the process over the phone.”
I hesitated. This didn’t feel right, but he was a police officer, right? He must know what he’s doing. My hands were sweaty as I gripped the phone. “Okay, I’ll do it. What do I need to do?”
“First, take Louise to a private area, like the office. Make sure no one else is around. Then, I need you to search her belongings and her person for the stolen items.”
“Her person? You mean, like, pat her down?”
“More than that, ma’am. Since it’s a theft case, we need a thorough search. That might include asking her to remove her clothing.”
Remove her clothing? In my restaurant? With customers just outside? “But, Officer, that seems… invasive. Is that really necessary?”
“Ma’am, I assure you, it’s standard procedure. We’ve had cases like this before, and it’s important to follow protocol. Now, please, proceed with the search.”
I took a deep breath, my mind racing. Was this really how the police worked? I’d never dealt with anything like this before. “Alright, I’ll get Louise.”
I called Louise over to the office, telling her there was a phone call for her. She looked confused but followed me. Once inside, I closed the door, the sound of the lock clicking louder than I expected.
“Louise, there’s been a report of a theft, and the police think you might be involved.”
Her eyes widened, and she took a step back. “What? Me? I didn’t steal anything! I swear!”
“I know, Louise, but the officer needs us to search you. It’s just procedure.”
She looked scared now, her voice trembling. “Search me? How?”
I relayed what the officer had said, my own voice shaking. “He wants me to search your belongings and… um, your person.”
“My person? You mean, like, strip search?”
I nodded, feeling my face flush with discomfort. “Yes, I think so.”
“But, Donna, I didn’t do anything wrong. This is crazy!”
“I know, but the officer says it’s important. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”
She reluctantly agreed, her hands fidgeting. I started by searching her bag, but found nothing—no purse, no money, nothing out of the ordinary. Then, the officer instructed me to have her remove her clothes.
“Louise, I need you to take off your clothes. Fold them neatly and hand them to me.”
She started crying, her voice breaking. “Donna, please, I don’t want to do this.”
I felt terrible, my chest tightening. “Louise, it’s just for a few minutes. The police will be here soon, and they’ll sort this out.”
She slowly began to undress, tears streaming down her face. I took her clothes—her uniform shirt, pants, and shoes—and, as instructed, placed them in a bag and took them to my car, locking them in the trunk. The walk to the parking lot felt endless, the bag heavy in my hands.
When I returned, Louise was standing there in just her underwear, shivering—both from the cold and from fear. Her arms were wrapped around herself, trying to cover up.
The officer then told me to have her remove the rest of her clothing. I protested, my voice rising. “Officer, isn’t this enough? She’s just a kid.”
“Ma’am, we need to be thorough. There could be small items hidden elsewhere.”
I sighed, feeling trapped. I told Louise to remove her bra and panties. She was now completely naked, covering herself with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. I handed her an apron to cover up, but it barely helped.
The officer then asked if there was anyone else who could assist with the search, as it might be more appropriate for another female to be present.
I called in Kim Dockery, another assistant manager. Kim walked in and froze when she saw Louise naked in the office.
“What’s going on, Donna?” she asked, her voice trembling.
I explained the situation, my words stumbling out. Kim looked as uncomfortable as I felt, her eyes darting between me and Louise. But the officer on the phone was persuasive, his voice steady and commanding, and we both proceeded to search Louise, following his instructions.
It got worse from there. The officer claimed that Louise might have hidden the stolen items internally and instructed us to perform a cavity search.
“Officer, that’s… that’s not right. We can’t do that.”
“Ma’am, I understand your reluctance, but it’s necessary. If you don’t comply, you could be held liable for obstructing justice.”
I was torn. I didn’t want to do this, but I also didn’t want to get in trouble with the law. My mind was screaming that this was wrong, but the officer’s voice was so confident, so sure. Reluctantly, I agreed.
What followed was horrific. We were instructed to use a turkey baster and other items to search Louise’s body cavities. Louise was screaming, begging us to stop, her voice raw with panic. “Please, Donna, I didn’t do anything! Make it stop!”
I wanted to stop, but the officer kept pushing, saying it was for her own good, that if we found the stolen items, she could clear her name. I felt like I was in a nightmare, unable to wake up.
Hours passed, and still, no real police showed up. Louise was exhausted, humiliated, and traumatized, curled up in the corner of the office, clutching the apron. Finally, Steve Maier, our maintenance worker, came into the office and saw what was happening.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his face red with anger.
I tried to explain, my voice weak. “The police… they said we had to search her for stolen items.”
Steve wasn’t having it. “This is wrong, Donna. You need to stop this right now.”
But the officer on the phone was still insisting that we continue. Steve grabbed the phone from me and started yelling at the caller. “Who is this? This is insane! I’m calling the real police!”
That’s when I realized something was terribly wrong. The caller hung up, and Steve dialed 911. Within minutes, real police officers arrived, their faces grim as they took in the scene. They took Louise to the hospital, and I was left to face the consequences of my actions.
In the days that followed, I learned that the caller was a prankster who had targeted numerous fast-food restaurants across the country with similar scams. His name was David Stewart, a prison guard from Florida, though he was never convicted. I felt sick to my stomach. How could I have been so gullible? How could I have allowed this to happen?
Louise sued McDonald’s, and rightfully so. She received a $6.1 million settlement, but no amount of money could erase what she went through. The trauma was etched into her eyes that night, and I’ll never forget it.
As for me, I was fired, and rightfully so. I had failed in my duty to protect my employee. I had let fear and authority override my common sense.
Looking back, I wish I had questioned more, resisted more. But in that moment, I was just following orders, believing I was doing the right thing. I was wrong.
Sometimes, following orders can lead to the worst kind of horror.
"The Silence That Followed":
It was a quiet night in the dispatch center, the kind where the silence feels heavy, broken only by the hum of computers and the occasional crackle of the radio. I was on the night shift, covering a rural county where houses are scattered miles apart, and help can feel like it’s a world away. The clock on the wall read 10:15 PM, and I was sipping my third cup of coffee, trying to stay alert.
The phone rang, sharp and sudden. I picked it up, my voice steady from years of practice. “911, what’s your emergency?”
A woman’s voice came through, calm but edged with worry. “Hi, my friend just cut himself really bad while chopping vegetables. There’s blood everywhere, and he’s holding his arm. I think he needs stitches or something.”
I leaned forward, fingers already typing. “Is he conscious? Is he breathing?”
“Yes, he’s awake, but he’s in pain. I’ve wrapped a towel around it, but it’s soaking through.”
“Alright, stay calm. I’m sending an ambulance right now. What’s your address?”
“1234 Rural Road,” she said, her voice steadying as she focused on my questions.
I confirmed, “Is that correct? 1234 Rural Road?”
“Yes.”
“The ambulance is on its way. It might take about 20 minutes since you’re a bit out. Can you keep pressure on the wound?”
“Yes, I’m doing that.”
“Try to keep him calm and still. Don’t let him move around too much.”
“Okay, thank you,” she said, and the line went quiet.
I dispatched the ambulance, noting the time and address in the system. Rural Road was out in the middle of nowhere, a winding stretch of gravel lined with dense woods. I’d handled calls like this before—accidents happen, especially in kitchens—but something about her tone stuck with me. It wasn’t panic, not yet, but there was a tremor, like she sensed something wasn’t quite right.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again. Same number. My stomach tightened. I answered, “911, what’s your emergency?”
Her voice was different now—high-pitched, frantic, like she was running out of air. “Oh my God, he’s gone crazy! He grabbed the knife and started stabbing himself! Now he’s coming after me with it! Help!”
I heard her footsteps pounding, heavy and uneven, like she was sprinting across a wooden floor. Then a door slammed, and her breathing came in gasps. My heart raced, but I forced my voice to stay even. “Ma’am, where are you? Can you lock yourself in a room?”
“I’m in the bathroom! He’s outside, banging on the door! Please, send someone quickly!”
In the background, I heard a man’s voice—angry, slurred, shouting words I couldn’t make out. The banging was loud, rhythmic, like he was throwing his weight against the door. I pictured a flimsy lock, the kind that wouldn’t hold for long.
“Stay on the line with me,” I said, my fingers flying across the keyboard to alert the police. “The police are on their way. Try to stay quiet and hide if you can.”
“I’m trying!” she whispered, her voice breaking. Then, a deafening crash—like wood splintering—and she screamed, a sound so raw it made my skin crawl. “He’s in! He’s in!”
“Ma’am, talk to me! Where are you now?” I shouted, but the line filled with chaos—grunts, a scuffle, something heavy hitting the floor. Then silence. The call cut off.
My hands shook as I grabbed the radio. “All units, critical situation at 1234 Rural Road. Possible assault with a deadly weapon. Suspect may be harming himself or others. Expedite response.”
I tried calling her back. The phone rang and rang, each unanswered tone like a punch to the gut. I stared at the screen, willing it to light up with her number again, but it stayed dark. The nearest police unit was 10 minutes out, maybe more on those winding roads. Ten minutes was an eternity when someone was fighting for their life.
I pictured her in that bathroom, barricaded behind a door that was no match for a man with a knife. I imagined the blood from his earlier cut, now mixed with something far worse. My job was to stay calm, to be the voice of reason, but inside, I was screaming.
The radio crackled. “Dispatch, this is Officer Davis. We’re arriving on scene.”
“Copy that, Davis. Be advised, possible armed subject and injured parties inside.”
The wait was torture. I kept replaying her scream, the crash of the door, the sudden silence. Had she gotten away? Was she hiding? Or was it too late?
Finally, Davis’s voice came through again. “Dispatch, we have a male subject down in the living room with multiple stab wounds. He’s unresponsive. The female is in the bathroom, shaken but appears unharmed.”
I exhaled, my chest tight. “Copy that. Ambulance is en route; ETA 5 minutes.”
The ambulance arrived, but the man didn’t make it. They worked on him for as long as they could, but the wounds—dozens of them, they later said—were too severe. The woman was taken to the hospital, physically okay but shattered by what she’d seen.
In the days that followed, I pieced together the story from the police reports. The man had a history of mental illness, and he’d stopped taking his medication. That night, something broke inside him. The cut from cooking wasn’t just an accident—it was the start of a spiral. He turned the knife on himself, then went after his friend, who barely escaped by locking herself in the bathroom. When he broke through, he collapsed, his body giving out from the self-inflicted wounds.
As a dispatcher, I’ve heard a lot—car accidents, domestic disputes, even the occasional prank call. But that night was different. It wasn’t just the violence; it was the helplessness of hearing it unfold, knowing I could only send help and pray it got there in time. Her screams still echo in my head sometimes, late at night when the dispatch center is quiet again.
This job teaches you to stay calm, to be the steady voice when everything else is falling apart. But it also shows you how fragile people are, how quickly a normal night can turn into a nightmare. I’m proud to do this work, to be there for people like that woman, but I’ll never forget the fear in her voice—or the silence that followed.
"The Boy in the Box":
It was February 25, 1957, a cold winter night in Philadelphia. I was working the night shift as a police dispatcher, sitting in the dimly lit dispatch center, surrounded by the hum of radios and the occasional crackle of static. The city was quiet, or so it seemed. I sipped my coffee, trying to stay alert through the long hours. The phone rang, breaking the stillness. I picked it up, expecting a routine call about a burglary or a drunk driver. But this call was different.
"Police department, what's your emergency?" I said, my voice steady from years of practice.
There was a pause, then a young man’s voice, trembling and barely audible. "I... I found something. It’s... it’s a body. A child’s body in a box."
My stomach twisted. "Where are you, sir?"
"I’m in the woods off Susquehanna Road. I was checking my rabbit traps, and I saw this box. I opened it, and... oh God, there’s a little boy inside. He’s dead."
I scribbled the location on my notepad, my hand shaking slightly. "Stay where you are, sir. Don’t touch anything. Officers are on their way."
As I hung up, a wave of dread washed over me. Child deaths were rare, and this sounded particularly gruesome. I keyed the radio, my voice tight. "All units, we have a possible homicide. Juvenile male found deceased in a cardboard box in the woods off Susquehanna Road. Proceed with caution."
The officers arrived quickly and radioed back. "Dispatch, we have a deceased juvenile male, approximately 4 to 6 years old, found in a cardboard box. He’s naked, wrapped in a blanket, multiple contusions visible. No identification on the body."
I relayed the information to the sergeant, who ordered the crime scene unit and the medical examiner to the scene. The dispatch center buzzed with activity as more officers were sent to secure the area. My colleague, Tom, looked over at me, his face pale. "What’s going on?"
"Child’s body found in a box in the woods," I said, my voice low.
Tom shook his head, his eyes wide. "That’s bad. Real bad."
As the night wore on, more details came in, each one more horrifying than the last. The boy had been severely beaten, his body covered in bruises. He was malnourished, his ribs protruding from his skin. His hair had been crudely cut, possibly after death, with clumps still clinging to his body. There were surgical scars on his ankle and groin, suggesting he had been in medical care at some point. The medical examiner later confirmed he had been beaten to death.
We didn’t know who he was. There were no missing children reports that matched his description. We started calling him "The Boy in the Box." His photo was distributed everywhere—flyers were posted on every street corner, included with gas bills, even mailed to every household in Philadelphia. The city was gripped by the case, but no one came forward to claim him.
The days that followed were chaotic. The phones rang constantly with tips, each one raising our hopes only to dash them. A woman called, claiming she had seen the boy playing in her neighborhood weeks earlier. "He was with a man, tall, blond, maybe in his late twenties," she said. "I thought they were family." We followed up, but the lead went nowhere. Another caller swore he had sold a bassinet box like the one the boy was found in to a suspicious-looking customer. But that, too, led to a dead end.
The case became a mystery that haunted the department and the city. I remember overhearing two officers talking in the break room a week later. "Who does that to a kid?" one said, his voice thick with anger. "Beats him, starves him, then dumps him like trash?"
"I don’t know," the other replied. "But I can’t stop seeing that kid’s face."
Weeks turned into months, and the case went cold. I retired a few years later, but the memory of that call never left me. Every now and then, I’d hear about new developments—a psychic claiming to know the boy’s identity, a woman confessing to knowing something about the case—but nothing ever brought us closer to the truth.
Then, in 2022, I heard the news on the radio. After 65 years, they had finally identified him. His name was Joseph Augustus Zarelli. He was four years old when he died. DNA technology had cracked the case, tracing his relatives through genealogical databases. They found his family, but the mystery of who killed him remained unsolved.
I still think about that night, the call that started it all. The image of that little boy, alone in a box, abandoned in the woods, is burned into my mind. I hope that one day, the truth about who killed Joseph will come to light, and he can finally rest in peace.