Cheryl's Kidnapping and Her Odyssey

By Roger I. Lewis

Mired in post-divorce madness, Rolf Burnside has spent most of the last thirteen years carefully planning the kidnapping of his daughter, Cheryl. Hes successfully established the illusion that he lives abroad; in reality, hes been spending his time robbing West Coast banks to raise capital, learning how to fly, recruiting gullible accomplices, and carefully rehearsing every detail of the kidnapping.

Rolf finally strikes one October day in Titusville, Washington, where Cheryl lives with her mother and stepfather. While Cheryl talks with her friend, Annie, outside their middle school, one of Rolfs minions grabs her and tosses her into the car. Terrified, Cheryl puts up what resistance she can, but shes no match for her captors, who take her to a remote mountain camp.

Rolf leads law enforcement on a knotty chase as he slips through every trap they try to set, picks up the ransom, and then disappears; he thinks he cant be caught. But Cheryl is not a willing victim. She fearlessly scorns Rolf and, in a moment of confusion, Cheryl escapes, fleeing to a cabin a few miles away.

Injured and alone, Cheryl wonders if she will ever be able to go home. Unaware of Cheryls location but refusing to give up on his meticulous plan, Rolf is determined to find his daughter and teach her a lesson she wont soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462049882

Roger I. Lewis

Roger I. Lewis was born in 1928 in Holly, Washington. He completed law school at the University of Washington in 1954 and established his private practice in 1959. Lewis became a full-time judge in the 1980s and formally retired in 1996. He and his wife, Louise, live in Renton, Washington.

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Chapter 1

On October 6 Titusville was quiet. Police officers who had spent the day patrolling its streets had little to do and nothing to report except minor misdemeanors and neighborhood arguments. Graveyard shift had laughingly reported one alcohol influenced domestic dispute where he and she were throwing rocks at each other albeit with no serious hits on themselves. However the combatants did score several strikes on automobiles owned by other people. Numerous shrieking complaints had been called in to 911.

Titusville did appear busy; the principal roads and highways in and out of the town were jammed with traffic and that was normal. Otherwise, not much had been going on. Summer had been arid and warm, warmer than is normal in the Puget Sound area of Washington State. Now temperatures were beginning to drop slowly toward their autumn norms. Today the streets were wet with a light but persistent rain. Titusville was shrouded by a blanket of fog covering the city and about 100 feet up the hills on either side of the Cedar River Valley.

Rolf Burnside drove the nondescript Oldsmobile Firenza slowly along the residential areas west of the Titusville school grounds. For more than a decade, Rolf, with the help of a fugitive character living in India, had letters and greeting cards mailed creating the assumption that he was living in India Letters came to his mother proclaiming that he was enjoying success there albeit sometimes he needed small loans from her to help in his enterprises.

He steered the old auto over to the curb of Pearl Street and stopped. The sidewalk was bounded by a five foot cyclone fence marking the west boundary of the Titusville schools, Titusville High, and the combined Maude Hellgraves Elementary and Middle schools. The middle school building was closest to Pearl Street. The high school was 100 yards further east, and it was adjacent to another street bounded by a cyclone enclosure some 8 feet in height. Rolf surveyed the closer and shorter fence and nodded his head murmuring to himself, OK. Then he stared at the higher fence and murmured not OK.

Rolf was now 38 years old. He had his mother’s red hair and grey eyes. He looked older than he was. For weeks now he had been stone sober, but he had to admit that in years past he had probably drank more than he should have and some of that plus a lot of fast food showed on his florid, puffy face with much more folded over his belt. At a 5’-10" height, his 200 pounds was well over what the charts would recommend. He had to squeeze a bit to get under the steering wheel of the compact automobile. And today he was uncomfortable. He was wearing a black wig and cheap black rimmed glasses. The whole get up felt heavy and it itched, but he felt it was necessary because there was the faint chance he could accidentally run into Bonnie Gay. The last thing he wanted was for her to see him and have the India ruse destroyed.

He had been cruising these streets for the past several days. Today he already had spent more time in Titusville than he wanted to. He well knew that if one appears frequently even on busy streets eventually other people will begin to notice. That was the risk, but it had to be taken. The things he had to find out were essential to the execution of his plan. He had considered delegating some surveillance tasks to his co conspirators, Arnie and Bart, but on second thought he had to admit neither of them could be trusted to get the information needed without causing people to be suspicious and to wonder what was going on. No, all of that prep had to be part of his personal assignment as the mastermind of the plan. Besides, he had kept himself concealed from so many people for so long that he was beginning to believe that no one could be as stealthy as he was and it was all kind of nervous, stimulating fun anyway.

Burnside was studying the buildings and grounds of the two adjacent public schools. But he was no educator. He was not seeking new ideas about the layout and design of school buildings and grounds. The most important object of his surveillance was a tall dark haired girl of 13. On one of his earliest visits to Titusville, he had walked the periphery of the school grounds. Whenever he could would engage elementary and middle school kids asking if they had a girl classmate named Cheryl Burnside who would be 13 maybe 14. He kept getting the same answer. The school had several Cheryl’s of varying ages but none was a Burnside. Then finally one 7th grader pointed out a Cheryl Comstock. Rolf studied the identified youngster for a moment, but then professed that that was not the girl he was looking for.

It was exactly who he wanted to see. Once she was pointed out, he could see a clear resemblance. She looked like Bonnie Gay; she did not look anything like Rolf Burnside. He quickly walked out of sight hoping that by denying recognition, he would stifle any tendency the informant might have to tell Cheryl about his inquiry. He did look closely at the girl identified and noted that her height and striking good looks would make it easy to identify her again. Cheryl was tall for her age, 5 feet 7 inches and still growing. Still somewhat shapeless she had worried about why she had not experienced a beginning of normal menstrual cycle. With many of her 8th grade classmates rapidly maturing, she took little consolation from the assurances of her mother that being 13, 5 foot 7 and skinny was normal for her family; and that time would bring maturity soon enough.

Cheryl was a natural athlete. As morning wore on to 10 AM she was on the volley ball court with three ninth graders. She obviously was dominating the game. For a moment or two Burnside registered pride and actually smiled briefly because this lean graceful youngster was his daughter. She was born during the stormy marriage of Rolf and Bonnie Gay Burnside. Rolf laughed out loud and had to muffle his own cheer when Cheryl spiked the ball and the girls broke away from the net. Apparently the game was over and Cheryl’s side had won. He felt a surge of great satisfaction in this demonstration of skill by what was his own flesh and blood, but then he flushed with renewed anger. It dawned on him that Cheryl’s use of the name Comstock probably meant that Marcus and Bonnie Gay had initiated adoption proceedings so that she no longer carried his name. His face flushed full red and he muttered, Comstock, Hell, I’m the father, I made that kid. That stuffed shirt Comstock had nothing to do with it. For a moment or two Rolf noticed he could feel his own pulse racing and pounding in his ear. His stomach felt sickly. It took a while for him to calm down. Rolf knew his anger was great and that it had lasted so long that he might well be harming his own good health, but the psychosis ran so deep he just did not care. For Rolf, the divorce would never be a thing of the past. It was on his mind every day for the past 13 years.

As he continued to drive around the periphery of the school grounds he was changing his traverse from one street to another and as school bells rang signaling the end of the mid-morning break he reached a conclusion. He would choose Pearl Street. Its easterly edge marked the westerly boundary of the grounds. A five foot cyclone fence marked the division between the grounds and the street. That fence proved to be the lowest of all the fencing surrounding the school grounds.

Now the sun was burning through the fog. He reckoned that he had driven around and around the school area enough times that somebody could be watching. Small matter, these local residents would never see this vehicle again. Besides, he had now carefully studied the whole school grounds as well as the roads that would be used coming in and going out of the city.

He drove on into the city center, found a bridge that crossed the Cedar River and then he followed the signs onto the coupler road which connected Titusville to the cross mountain state highway, SR 18. He followed 18 to its intersection with I-90. Following the freeway he headed east without stopping until he turned off at North Bend. Once he had passed the business section, he turned off the main street to a road running southeast to an isolated and dilapidated old farm house with moss covering its slowly failing roof. Some of its windows were out and the spaces boarded up to keep out the weather. He drove around the house and parked in back.

In fact, there was an adequate parking area in front of the house, but Rolf was especially careful to hide all the gang’s vehicles from any possible observers. After gazing across adjacent rural pastures just to make sure that there didn’t appear to be anything that might pique an observer’s interest, he entered by the back door which dragged on the floor as it was pushed open and then refused to close when he was in and endeavoring to shut it behind him. The weather was now warming so a partially open door was no matter anyway.

The living room was blue with cigarette smoke. He stood looking at three men deeply concentrating on a fresh dealt poker hand. The betting had them all tense and they were stealing furtive glances at each other hoping to glean some hint of the state of mind of their respective adversaries. As he stood there a lean young hound dog appeared from between the legs of the players and ran toward Burnside jumping up on him obviously seeking attention. Yelper, get down, you clumsy son-of-a-bitch and with that Burnside brusquely pushed the dog away.

Yelper responded with first a hurt look and then he turned and bounded up a set of stairs leading to the bed rooms. Half way up the steps lay a large black and white cat with scarred misshapen ears and a short tail. He appeared to be asleep, but as the dog thrust his nose into the cat’s face, the cranky feline swiped the hound’s nose in a manner that would have been painful if the feline claws were set for real combat. However, this was not a battle to the death. It was an act for the benefit of all who might watch. The dog and cat performed as they had many times before. The performance was brief but did feature fierce dog barks and cat screams. No humans bothered to look up and in an instant it was over. Yelper bounded on up the steps, found a bed that looked inviting and jumped up on it. In a few moments the hostile cat seemed to have a change of heart. He sauntered slowly up the stairs and down the hall to the same bedroom where he stopped and stared at the dog for a few moments and then quietly leaped up and snuggled down next to the hound. Soon both were asleep.

The three card players gave nodding acknowledgement of Burnside’s arrival and then continued betting. These three were a strange mix. Burnside had drawn two of them into his nefarious plan by promising them great wealth. Their eager acceptance of Rolf’s proposal was a clear example of the criminal mind in action or lack of action depending on how you want to analyze it.

Rolf Burnside, if nothing else, was a spell binder, a con artist with the remarkable ability to excite others about his get-rich-quick schemes. He had the natural talent of stimulating his followers, and these two were ready to follow him giving no serious thought of the consequences if the plan came unraveled. A con’s master plan of action sounds brilliant to them and once convinced, they never contemplate the probable loss of liberty until they find themselves surrounded by grim faced law enforcement types. Failure of prior schemes and the consequences of getting caught etch little on their minds and the new plan always intrigues them.

The first player, Arnold Robert Arnie Sorenson, was not particularly outstanding in appearance. He stood five feet six inches in height with thin blond hair and blue eyes. A rather deep scar over the right eye gave his round face an expression as if he was questioning whatever was being said. His complexion was somewhat dark.

Born in Billings Montana to an alcoholic mother and her heroin addicted husband, he dropped out of school at the ripe old age of 9. He ran away at 14. Lying about his age, he landed a job as a go-fer helping in a steel fabrication shop in Great falls. In 10 years he became proficient in metal fabrication and machinist work. Sadly, he had spent the first 14 years of his life where chicanery and fraud were the usual modus to provide a slovenly existence. He was raised in an atmosphere bathed in drugs and alcohol and where the adults in the household drifted from job to job. His father was being constantly discharged from one position after another for absenteeism, insubordination, and for being high or drunk while on the job. Some youngsters of dysfunctional families succeed in spite of the environment, but Arnie was a low achiever.

It was not surprising then that he had no concept of loyalty and honesty owed to whoever might hire him. Soon he was caught stealing funds from the office petty cash box and forging payroll checks at the shop. When the company bookkeeper uncovered the resulting shortages, Sorenson wisely sought to leave town, but it was a winter night when he tried to drive away and alas, he forgot he needed headlights. The City Police took a dim view of that practice, and the city judge was downright insulting. Having been apprehended and prosecuted for the several offenses committed in Great Falls, he served 18 months of a five year sentence.

Upon his release he failed to listen as the parole board detailed the conditions of his release on parole for the balance of the five year term. Then he more or less went underground and Montana records revealed that he was in violation of his parole for failing to report to his assigned parole officer. In due course a warrant was issued but never served. Overworked Montana law enforcement had more important cases to deal with.

At age 31 he was now more mature in his work habits, but he had become a weekend alcoholic. Beginning with red eyes and profuse perspiration on Monday mornings, he would work his way back to health by Friday managing to both survive the hangover and put out the work required by his employer. Then, come Friday night, the pain and gastric upset of Sunday morning last was a faded memory, and another binge would begin. For a while at least, suffer as he might, he did not fail to be at work on time each day. But, unfortunately, every boss or supervisor with whom he worked was unreasonable, favoring other workmen over Arnie. If he did not get fired he quit. Never once did it occur to him that he might be the cause rather than the victim. The end result was that for all of his talents, he never kept any job very long.

For several years prior to what he regarded as his very fortunate meeting with Rolf Burnside, he had worked for independent repair shops in Spokane. He had avoided larger companies even though they might pay more. Larger shops had a propensity to do background checks and investigation would reveal that Arnie’s trail was littered with various charges including suspicion of child molestation. The later case would show as closed because the mother of the alleged victim refused to testify and the victim herself, looking fearfully at her mother, would profess lack of memory.

In Rolf’s scheme of things, Arnie’s shady past was of little consequence. His enthusiastic and unquestioning acceptance of Rolf’s plan was of primary importance, and there were elements of that plan where a skilled mechanic with welding and metal burning skills could be invaluable.

The second player at the table was John Parker Bart Bartholomew. Bart came into the scheme of things as more or less a guardian of the third player, Gerald Grunt Graham.

Bart had made Arnie’s acquaintance months before they were recruited by Rolf. The relationship grew out of Bart’s Saturday night pool game challenge issued to the clientele of an Idaho bar just across the border from Washington State. Most of the local patrons knew Bart and all of them were of the opinion that they had lost enough money playing against this very skilled master of the bank shot. Then Arnie turned up at Bart’s watering hole.

When Bart slyly invited this newcomer to bring his beer back to the tables and engage in a little friendly play with money on each game, not to take advantage, mind you, but just to make sure the game didn’t become boring. Arnie could sense the knowing winks being exchanged around the room, but yes, he would accept the invitation. Well, Arnie proved to be a real challenge. After playing eight games to a four—four tie, it was getting late and they agreed to quit after one more game as a tie breaker. But the bar owner noted that it was closing time and most of their audience had gone home. Retreating to Bart’s mobile home park unit, they talked well into the dawn of a Sunday morning. Arnie revealed his shady past, all of which was given nods of understanding and perhaps approval except for the molesting thing on which Bart took a no comment position.

Then it was Bart’s turn to talk. Bart was 37. At an even 6 feet he was the second tallest man at the poker table. Although still young, his hair had reduced to a brown fringe around the temples. His face was sallow and his eyes were brown and deep set. Overall he conveyed a rather sad expression.

Born in Sacramento, he had graduated from high school with highest honors and entered Stanford University on an engineering scholarship. Following the popular collegiate trend of those days, he slipped ever so gradually into the grip of drug addiction. First it was an honest effort to keep himself awake as he used his slow reading rate to cover text material and lecture notes but then more and more it was less and less the pressure and more an more the insidious compulsion of addiction. He sustained three successive convictions for possession and dealing. That was too much for the school to tolerate. His scholarship was cancelled.

Changing his identity and in complete contradiction to his prior involvement in anti-draft protest rallies, he joined the Navy. That posed its problems too, but the recruiter got his enlistment over the necessary hurdles and the ex-scholar was sworn in.

With the structured life, Bart became a pretty good sailor. His aptitude tests showed him to be a good candidate for communications and he was sent to a progression of schools. Four years saw him rise to the rank of petty officer second class and qualified as a specialist in the operation of a variety of navy communication systems. However during his term of enlistment an ongoing string of scrapes and escapades kept him on the cusp of discharge. Ignoring any thought of future consequences, he responded to a wager by stealing an officer’s car. Skillfully hot wiring, the vehicle he won the wager and capped the caper by taking his companions back to their quarters in style. All that might have gone undiscovered if, in returning the vehicle, he had not lost his way. Two or three drinks too many took their toll. Singing to himself with the delight of having won the bet, he inadvertently drove over the end of the pier and into the bay. Luckily, he was thrown clear and managed to float. The car sank. Unfortunately, the Navy took a dim view of the whole affair.

After his dishonorable discharge, he re-assumed his real name, John Parker Bartholomew.

Bart was now doing moderately well running a small repair shop where he worked on various types of radio and electronic equipment. Aircraft systems were a specialty and amateur aviators used his services frequently.

Sometime that Sunday morning Bart and Arnie began to achieve sobriety and hunger. It was then that Bart revealed that there was another tenant in the old motor home sleeping soundly in back. Bart explained that his roommate was Gerald Graham, age 19 who, as Bart put it, was a likeable halfwit that Bart had nick named Grunt. Halfwit or not Graham had retired at a more sensible hour. As the two older men continued in getting to know each other, the sun began to rise and the talk turned to prospects for nourishment. Gerald Grunt Graham arose, wide awake