Gitchie Girl: The Survivor's Inside Story of the Mass Murders that Shocked the Heartland (7 page)

Roger grew up along with his eleven siblings near these flowing waters in this working-class side of town. His parents taught and expected their children to demonstrate respect, so with this humble demeanor he developed an appreciation for nature and life in general. Roger made the best out of everything life had to offer and became known as a people-person who was well-liked in return. Teachers at school respected Roger’s willingness to help classmates. His good-natured personality was cultivated as he matured into his teens. “He’s the type of person anyone would be honored to have as a son,” one teacher quipped. Roger knew he’d always like being around people and would forever have a special connection with the outdoors.

After what seemed like an eternity, a voice rang out, “We’re with the police! Come out with your hands up!”

At first neither of them moved. Mike stiffened when Stew’s moans of pain sliced the silence again. “We’re with the police! Come out with your hands up,” the voice demanded.

“Don’t run, those cops have already shot at us,” Mike whispered to Sandra while the two confused teens slowly emerged from the thicket, their hands raised high in the air. “There’s two of us, don’t shoot,” Mike yelled to the three assailants shrouded in darkness. As they walked closer to the men, Mike, filled with adrenaline by the situation, asked, “Who the hell do you think you are shooting at us?” The tall man with the Russian hat trained his gun on Mike and without saying a word pulled the trigger. The force of the blast knocked Mike to the ground with a thud. Though not hit herself, Sandra instinctively fell to the ground next to Mike. She was trembling with fear but tried to remain as still as possible.

A sickening pain radiated down Mike’s shoulder and warm blood spread through his shirt, then his jacket. He was bleeding and in excruciating pain, yet the hard-nosed athlete did not cry out or beg for his life. He lay as still as Sandra, who in the light of the waning fire could see the faces of the three men, all wielding shotguns. Two were thin and one was chubby, all their shadowy faces appearing menacingly evil in the dim light. A scene from a horror movie where some teenagers were murdered by a crazy, knife-wielding killer flickered through Sandra’s mind.
This is what it feels like to be in a nightmare.
She prayed they’d find out this was all a terrible misunderstanding.

Two of the men who’d identified themselves as police talked in hushed voices and moved about the campsite as Mike and Sandra lay silent. One walked over in the direction of Roger.
Maybe they’ll think we’re dead and leave.
Over and over Sandra prayed for them to walk away.
If they’re police, they’ll call an ambulance, right?
She wanted to ask Mike the question, but neither dared to even breathe loudly. Then she realized what she’d just thought.
If.
The word
if
hung in the air.
If they were police.
Something didn’t feel right. Did police use this kind of force on a handful of teenagers sitting around a fire singing? They weren’t in uniform and hadn’t shown a badge, but undercover agents wouldn’t be in uniform so probably they were telling the truth.

After several moments the men circled back. Mike and Sandra heard the sound of approaching feet. Mike concentrated on slow, calm breaths to take the focus off the pain and weighed every possible option to fight for his life. He too wondered if the men were police. If so, they were the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Mike feared that the smallest movement on his part could yield another gunshot. The closer the footsteps came, the quieter he remained until the rustle-tap of each step came to a stop. Right next to him. He braced himself for what he feared was bound to happen next.
Wham!
One of the men kicked Mike’s lower back so hard that his legs skidded forward, and he clutched his shoulder in pain at the jolt of the kick. Spasms gripped his body.

“That one’s playing dead!” the other man announced, giving Sandra a swift, hard kick as well. “Get up! Put your hands in the air, and don’t try anything!”

In a moment, Mike and Sandra were standing with their hands held high. Sandra’s stomach clenched at the thought of the pain Mike was enduring. She couldn’t imagine how he’d even managed to stand. She caught a glimpse of someone to her side and saw it was Dana, also with his hands in the air.

They’re going to put us in the police car now.
Sandra waited to be led to their vehicle and prayed it would be an actual marked police car. Then at least the three of them would know these men were legitimate. One thought hadn’t left her mind the entire time.
Where was Roger?
Was he wounded like Stew?
But then something strange happened.

“Let’s take them this way, Boss,” the shorter one said.

“This is a drug raid! Don’t make any sudden movements. Do exactly as you’re told,” the Boss commanded while keeping his gun leveled on the teens. The Boss was the same tall, thin man who had wounded Mike and shot Roger. With the barrel of the gun, he made a sweeping motion to indicate the three should turn around, which created a frightening tension with guns at their backs.
He’s going to shoot us in the back! I know he’s going to shoot us!
Sandra almost bolted but remembered what Mike had said.
Don’t run, or they’ll shoot you.

Instead of leading them in the direction of the road, the Boss pointed to a small dirt path that led further into the woods. “Follow that trail!” he barked.

Their stomachs turned. The three teens had a feeling that whatever was about to happen wasn’t good. They were heading deeper into the woods. There was nothing in this direction but cliffs, the river below, and rocky ledges that were nearly unnavigable in the dark night.

Sandra knew Dana to be quiet and obedient, especially around adults, and as of yet he had hardly spoken. She glanced over at Mike. He was pale, sweaty, and Sandra worried he might collapse. Emboldened by Mike’s bravery, Sandra forced herself to utter four words. “Okay, please don’t shoot!” It was all she could muster, and she hoped it would convey the message that the three would cooperate. She just wanted out of there.
Please, God, get us out of here quickly!

The Boss herded them down a trail for just a short distance before stopping them on a ledge overlooking the Big Sioux River. Sandra’s heart raced. She couldn’t move, couldn’t dare to look at Dana’s or Mike’s face in case their expressions revealed that they knew more than she did. She wanted to ask questions.
Where are you taking us? Why did you shoot Roger? He hadn’t done anything! And Mike? And Stew? All Mike did was ask a question, and they’d shot him!
She stood there silently while the Boss briefly conferred with the other man. He was heading back toward them, gun held in front, and Sandra sucked in her breath, hoping he wasn’t going to use it again.
Be quiet. Don’t say a word.

“Keep walking! Follow that trail!” he ordered again.

There was no noise except for the sound of feet on dead leaves. Mike was trudging much slower than the others; then his words broke the silence. Sandra startled at the unexpected voice.

“Sir, can we put our hands down?” Mike’s voice was strained, which reminded Sandra that he’d been wounded. He wasn’t moaning, complaining, or causing any problems. She couldn’t fathom how he’d walked this far in his condition.

“Yeah, you can put them down.” The Boss’s voice was aloof. This concession on his part led Sandra to think he might really be a cop.
If he wasn’t a cop, he wouldn’t take the chance of letting us put our hands down, right?
Yet it was disturbing that they were being led further into the woods.

Mike’s steps behind her became faster until he was next to her side.

“Can you help me walk?” he asked in a low voice.

Sandra wrapped her arms around his waist. He’d been shot on the other arm, so she was careful to place her hands where she wouldn’t touch the wound. Being propelled into this role of helper gave her something to concentrate on; she had to be the strong one now. She marveled at the connection she already felt with Mike even though they’d only known each other for a few hours.
When this is all over, the first thing I’ll do is kiss Roger and then tell Mike how amazing he was.
Because of Mike’s warning, she’d suppressed the impulse to run. Had she bolted it’s likely she’d have been gunned down. Sandra forced herself to mimic the way Mike carried on in spite of a gunshot wound to his shoulder.

“Are they really cops?” Dana whispered to Mike.

“I don’t know,” Mike replied in a steady voice. He likely thought all of them had a better chance of survival by facing the situation head-on rather than giving false hope and convincing themselves these men were cops. He was one to stick to the facts and deal with whatever was at hand.

Then Dana’s voice was at her side. “I hope they’re cops.” She’d heard Dana’s voice so seldom, she hardly recognized it. Dana seemed more likely to sing than talk, and the seriousness of his voice concerned her.

Mike walked with his arm around Sandra, leaning into her for support, so she was almost relieved when they were ordered to sit down.

“And don’t try anything,” the Boss snarled. “There’s a guy around the corner.”

But his words were less than convincing. There was no corner. There was nothing ahead but more trees, more ridges, and more river. Again, Sandra wanted to ask questions but was afraid of being shot. Mike, however, wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

“Are you Mr. Jensen?” The Boss didn’t answer. “Well, do you know Mr. Jensen?” Mike’s voice was strong and confident. Sandra didn’t know who Mr. Jensen was but wondered if it was a ploy by Mike to see if the men were really cops. Again she prayed that the Boss would respond by saying he knew Mr. Jensen, and then they’d all know this whole disaster was at least legitimate and the men were cops. Then a horrible thought made her nearly vomit. Did Mike feel this was his last chance? Was he thinking it didn’t matter if he was shot again because the guy was going to finish him off anyway, and he may as well give it a try?

The Boss thought for a moment then answered, “No, I don’t know him.” Then he turned and walked back toward his partner but remained within eyeshot of the group.

Mike slowly kneeled, then lay down but kept hold of Sandra’s hand so tightly it hurt her. She wished she could absorb some of his pain; by nature she was drawn to those with needs or afflictions. She kept her focus on Mike and stayed alert. She rubbed the top of Mike’s hand, and her heart sank. Even decades later, she’d marvel at the courage he was able to muster in the face of each successive terror they would encounter throughout the night to come.

Mike lay motionless on the cold, dirty path. There was only enough light in the night sky to make out the vaguest of shapes. Crumpled leaves clung to his bloody coat, and a heavy fog grew thicker around them. “What do you think they will do?” she asked, certain that Mike’s instincts were telling him more than hers.

“I don’t know,” he replied slowly.

“Try and rest,” Dana urged Mike. Sandra wasn’t sure if she could see or feel the hopelessness on Dana’s face. His voice was steady but...

“Sandra,” Mike said, pausing slightly between each word but maintaining a strong front, “I can’t feel my arm or move it. Will you put it on my stomach?”

Without hesitation Sandra gingerly lifted his arm, supporting the underside with her hands, and softly placed it on his stomach, which she could feel rising and settling in uneven gasps. The steady beat of approaching footsteps silenced the three teens. Sandra lifted her head and met the gaze of the man the others called the Boss.

“Get up. Keep walking,” he bellowed.

Mike struggled to his feet with the help of Sandra and Dana.
They walked a short ways down the trail and already Mike had asked twice when the ambulance was coming. Sandra cringed every time Mike spoke, afraid it would provoke the Boss again.

“What are your names?” the Boss asked.

Each, in turn, stated their name. But it seemed to be a desperate diversion on his part. The trail was leading them further into the woods, and there had been no man around the corner. Sandra began to wonder if they should fight back somehow. If they were being led to their death, what could it hurt? Her natural inclination was to relate to people, animals, anything that lived and breathed. If her questions bothered the Boss, well, it was looking more and more like it was just a matter of time before he lost patience with all of them. None of this felt official. It didn’t feel right. Sandra mustered up her courage, then spoke.

“Where are we going?” It was a simple question. Non-threatening. And she’d kept her voice steady, not accusing. She allowed herself to breathe again. The Boss didn’t answer. She tried again. “Where is Roger? Will I be able to see these guys after you take us in?” She glanced behind her. The gun was pointing straight at her back, yet the Boss remained silent and hadn’t told her to shut up, so she pushed a little more. “Will they ride up with me when we go to jail? Will Roger ride up front or is he hurt?”
If he’s a cop, he should have answered those questions!

The Boss snorted. “Absolutely not. That one”—he waved at Mike with the gun—“will be in the prison hospital. You’ll think it’s heaven compared to where these two are going,” he told Mike.

“How long will we get?” Sandra wanted to keep him talking. It felt right. Maybe the Boss was actually warming up to them. She wondered if Mike sensed the same thing or if his thoughts were clouded by pain.

“Five to ten years,” he answered after a short pause, a pause that seemed out of place, as if he were searching for an answer rather than responding with something a policeman should know.

“I bet they get ten years, right, J.R.?” the Boss said to the heavy man.

“Yep, ten years,” sneered J.R.

“They can’t do that! It’s our first bust.” Sandra almost spun around but caught herself. Before the words were out of her mouth, she imagined Roger behind bars for years while they longed for each other’s touch. Then she imagined herself behind bars, too. Alone.