Surviving a Stalker Part II: Seeking Justice

The whispery voice was back in my life, and he was making it hell.

The calls went from just coming on weekends, to nearly every night around 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. Both my young daughter and I were beginning to lose sleep, only finding relief by occasionally staying over at the homes of friends and family. At the time, caller id, (or many other commonly used harrassment detourants, like "star 69" or call blocking) was not available in my area. A life long diary keeper, I bought a notebook specifically for journalling the incidents. I logged the date, time (or times), duration, and content of each and every call.

The whispery voice would share sexual fantasies, tell me what he wanted to do to me, telling me that he liked my "long, sexy legs," and my strawberry blonde hair. At times, he would start begging me not to hang up. I could hear a t.v. or radio in the back ground and before long, there were other sounds as well. The thought of what he was doing while he was talking to me, turned my stomach. In an attempt to turn off, whatever I had turned on, I began reading passages from the Bible, to no avail.

Simply hanging up and leaving the phone off the hook did not work. Most times, the call would not disconnect, and he'd still be there. I tried leaving it off the hook under a pillow, but he would just call my name, over and over again. If the call did disconnect, he would just call right back before I could get it off the hook. It was like being in a movie about a hostage situation, where the police have a one way line, and whenever anyone inside picks up the phone, they find themselves on the phone with the cops. Only my line was linked to the devil.

I had been promoted to supervisor and the CSR team or the answering service would need to be able to reach me, so leaving my phone disconnected was no longer an option. And I know what you are thinking..."Why didn't you just change your phone number?" I had considered the fact that I had four phone numbers since the harrasment began roughly ten years earlier and the behaviour had continued. This person was obviously resourceful and I realized it would only buy me a few months peace before it started again. I had tried to solicit the help of our two-cans-and a-string telephone company, but they dragged their feet about helping me bring an end to the situation. The fact of the matter was, that harrassing communications is a CRIME and I refused to allow this CRIMINAL to further inconvienence MY LIFE by changing my phone number again.

NO! It was time to face this demon head on, not take "no" for an answer from the authorities sworn to protect me, and get my life back.

My husband, then new boyfriend, was protective and supportive, every bit my knight in shining armor. He recorded a new message for my answering machine, so it would be a male voice. He would stay late, often resorting to sleeping on our couch, all to answer the phone when the calls would begin. This temporarily discouraged the whispery voice. When the calls began again, they coincided with nights my boyfriend was not at the house.

But the call that was the straw breaking the camel's back, came mere moments after my boyfriend left for home. In a rush for work that morning, I had swept my hair back into a ponytail. Rather than making myself late styling my hair in its usual coiffure, I had taken this shortcut for the first time in a month. The whispery voice informed me that he "did not like" when I wore my hair "that way." I knew instantly that I was being watched.

I threw clothes for my daughter and me into a bag, scooped up my sleeping daughter, and dashed off to my boyfriend's home. I hysterically explained what had happened. We decided that I must contact the authorities and implore the county sherrif to help me.

I took a vacation day and went to the sherrif's department the very next day. I showed my journal, and explained that I was certain that I was being watched. It was very hard to remain composed while I spoke with the deputy, but as I described the telephone company's reluctance to act, I broke down. The compassionate deputy brought me a soda and assured me that he could help me.

I gave him the name and number of the representative I had spoken with at the telephone company. In a twenty minute telephone conversation, he arranged for a phone trap to be put on my number that would be effective at 5pm that afternoon. Relieved that I was finally getting help, I went to work to finish out my day. It took two nights before I got the call I was waiting for.

I contacted the sherrif's department from work and was told that I would have to come in and sign the warrant, so I asked to leave early. In the meantime the sheriff's department contacted the telephone company with the date, time and duration of the call from the infomation I provided and had pinpointed the source. There was just one problem: it was a cell phone, and there, the trail went cold again. I suddenly felt faint and I immediatly collapsed in a sobbing heap on the conference room table.

In the beginning, cell phones were not as popular as they are now. Very few people had them, so one would think they'd be easy to trace. But early on, when a call was made from a cell phone to a land line, the trail ended at the cell phone company. They had access to the records beyond that, thus leading early owners to believe their calls were untraceable. This was somewhat, but not entirely true. Though we had the number, their first loyalty was to their clients, and they were reluctant to share who he was. It could be obtained, but it took a little leg work. There were only three cell phone carriers at that time. Lucky for me, I knew someone who worked for two of them. I gave their business cards to the deputy and he called. Both friends proved very knowledgable about the new technology and knew enough to know that the number was not the prefix assigned to either of their companies. It belonged to the third. Both suggested that the deputy contact the security department of that carrier and explain the situation and he would be given the information we needed. We were nearing 5:00 p.m. so the answer would have to wait until the next day. I would have to come back to sign the warrant after the deputy got the name, because I couldn't sign a blank warrant.

I hardly slept, but when the whispering voice called that night, I just laughed at him, cackling uncontrollably until he hung up. He did not call back.

I had long suspected a former co-worker from my high school job, a boy named Joe Jones,* from the neighboring town. He had the same low, whispery voice. Not only would have have known my schedule then, he would have had the means and opportunity to leave the gifts, as well as access to the rolodex where the store manager kept everyone's telephone number. The icing on the cake was that he was a friend of my ex-husband, and would have had our home number, even after we both resigned from the store.

Around lunch the next day, the deputy called me to ask me if I knew Dan Smith* I did actually know several Smith's, our town was full of Smith's but that name was not familiar to me. I hung up the phone and called my boyfriend. When I told him the name, he instantly knew who I was talking about, as did my little brother. Both had made it their mission to see that I was protected, and both had offered to go and "have a word" with this person. I assured them both that the sherrif's department could handle it. I left early to sign the warrant and wait for Dan Smith to be picked up by the sherrif.

Dan Smith was arrested at his parent's home on a Friday. If the deputies had waited a mere 15 minutes later, would have spent that entire weekend as a guest of the county. But his parents immediately went to bond him out, and caught the magistrate 15 minutes before close of business. I don't know if he tried to call me that weekend. I chose not to be home.

Pardon this rabbit trail, but you must know a little bit history to understand this next information. My small hometown of Leeds sits on the South side of I-20, while our closest neighboring school of Moody is just a short bridge hop North. For many years I-20 served as the boundary, an unofficial school zone divider. Students on the South side of I=20 went to Leeds, students on the North side went to Moody. If you look at Leeds on a map, you will see that it's city limits actually cover three counties, Jefferson, Shelby, and St. Clair counties. The school is in Jefferson, but the St. Clair County line runs a mere two blocks behind the school property and well over a mile from the unwritten boundary. Sometime during my time in high school, St. Clair County had begun to rally the state board of education to force students living within the Leeds city limits but over the St. Clair County line to begin attending Moody. Many held out as long as they could, several paid tuition to stay, and some finally relented and crossed the bridge every day to go to Moody. Dan Smith was among those students.

I was determined to find out who this person was. I wanted to see what he looked like so I could watch out for him. Right now, I had no idea who he was. He could walk up to me and shoot me and I'd never see it coming. I had learned from my boyfriend and my brother that Dan had left to complete his Junior and Senior years at Moody. Having spent his Freshman and Sophomore years at Leeds meant he would be in my Junior and Senior yearbooks. Unfortunately, his photo was "not available" in either. My only other recourse was to see if any of my friends who had "jumped the bridge" might have a photo in theirs. One such friend, coincidentally in the same class with Dan, lived across the street from my grandparents. I knew she would have the yearbooks I needed.

Because I didn't know who might be related to him, I did not tell her who I was looking for when I asked to see her yearbooks. I was extremely disappointed when he was not pictured in either of those yearbooks either. Not even a graduation photo. Apparently part of being a lurker is avoiding being photographed.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" she asked. I fought back tears as I handed her the two books. "No, he's not in here." She sat down next to me on the couch. "What's going on?" her face concerned. I said, "Oh, there's this guy who's been calling me. It's been going on for months. They told me his name, but I don't know him. I'm told he got transferred to Moody during all that county line crap. I just want to see who he is." She sat straight up and said "Is his name Dan Smith?!" Right in that moment, you could have knocked me over with a feather. "You don't even have to answer. I can tell by your face that it is. There is someone I want you to meet."


Next Surviving a Stalker Part III: My Day in Court

*names have been changed to protect the innocent, namely me

Surviving a Stalker Part I : A Little History

A friend recently posted on Facebook that she is being following by a woman from her husband's past. She mentioned several incidents that had occured, which all sounded like scenes from "Single White Female."

I have a unique perspective on the subject: I am a stalking survivor.

Though I suspect it started while I was in high school, I can not say for certain. The voice and the circumstances surrounding the incidents that began way back then are too similar for it not to be the same person. Many stalkers pick their victims early and maintain a sick obsession for many years. While most victims know their harrasser, I only learned the identity of my stalker when he was finally caught.

I know now that his name is Dan.* He was two years behind me in school. I would later learn that we were often at the same events, parties, outings etc... He was no one of consequence: not the sports hero, or the cute guy, class clown, or award winning brainiac. What he was, however, was a lurker.

A lurker is one of those people who kind of lurks around in the background. Someone who wasn't identified with any particular group (the jocks, the band, the geeks, or the stoners), but yet found a way to be included in everyone's goings on. They weren't really friends with anyone, but are always at the parties. Usually they didn't come with anyone,and likewise left alone. They are in the background of all the pictures, being quiet,lurking in the half-light, and observing. They want to be part of the action, but lack the personality to pull it off. You might not know their name, but occasional when faced with them somewhere like the mall , you might recognize their face from school. I bet you remember one from your own high school as I describe this. Having once been a wall flower myself, I did not allow people at parties to languish on the sidelines. Ironically, Dan slipped through, completely unnoticed, while I, on the other hand, apparently captured his attention.

I had been plagued on and off throughout high school by a series of obscene phone calls,beginning aroud my Junior or Senior year. A late bloomer, I had begun to blossom and was being noticed. I was also a majorette, which had elevated me into a status hovering just between "band geek" and "jock/cheerleader." And I had just ended my first, steady relationship.

The calls would come at all hours, the same whispery voice, saying the most vile, unspeakable things. And he knew things, like what I had worn that day, or where I had been. There had also been a series of unexplained gifts, that no one ever admitted to sending. Flowers, candy, stuffed animals, all left for me on my car at work. I had attributed them to an exboyfriend, trying to win back my attention, but he never claimed credit.

Before long, the calls escalated, as I recieved my own phone line as a gift. Canned air horns, rape whistles, and the threat of prosecution did little to deter this pervert, who would call every night for a month, then suddenly stop calling for two. It was not long before the obscenities were joined by threats on my life. That I should be dead, that the world would be a better place without me. He had a knack for calling the moment I would get home, regardless of the time. Only then did it dawn on me that I could be being watched.

Terrified, my mother and I sought the help of the police. I signed an affidavit that I would proceed with prosecution. While the phone trap proved successful in theory, our mom-and-pop local telephone company could not obtain permission from the larger carrier to proceed toward prosecution, and the matter was dropped. Despite my desperate pleas, the local athorities dismissed my concerns. One misguided individual went as far to say "You are a pretty girl. You should be flattered." I do not know if the possibility of being caught was too close for comfort, but it was enough to stop the calls for about a year.

After marrying my first husband, and moving into a local apartment complex, the whispery voice started calling again. Apparently changing not only my phone number but also my last name was no match for this person. The calls increased in frequency and came at all hours of the day during my six weeks maternity leave,when I was at home all day by myself. My husband's position at a local country club, led to overtime opportunities when the club would host night time events. This left me alone at home with our newborn at night. Disturbingly, the calls would come on nights when I was alone, sometimes hours on end, stopping only as my husband came in. I was certain our home was being watched.

A few months after our daughter was born, my grandparents offered to let us move into a house they owned in a neighboring town. It was also closer to my inlaws, so we happily picked up and moved. Several years went by before the calls started again, the same whispery voice, taunting me.

By this time, our marriage was disenigrating. When I told my husband about these disturbing calls, he accused me of infidelity. The fact that the calls only came at times when he was not at home, and his daughter could also be in danger, did not seem to concern him at all. One night, in a fit of panic and rage, I told the whispery voice that I would soon be meeting them in court. The calls stopped, but so did my marriage. My daughter and I lived with my grandparents as I tried to piece some sort of normal life back together. It was the better part of a year before I felt safe enough to move back into the house, alone.

A new relationship kept me either out of the house, or on the phone for the next year. I used a pager so that those who needed me could still reach me and I carried several dollars in quarters for returning calls. The whispery voice drifted back into my past and I gave it very little thought. As all rebound relationships eventually do, my new relationship ended and I was devastated. Aside from caring for my little girl, I did little more than eat, sleep, and go to work. Because my job was to answer the phone, the last thing I wanted was to talk on the phone when I got home. I unplugged it most times, relying on my pager for making contact.

The week before Christmas, the late night calls started again. They were nothing at first. Almost like someone had knocked the phone off the hook and I had been the last number dialed. No one said anything, but I could hear a radio or tv somewhere in the back ground. On average there was one or two a week, just enough to be coincidence, not enough for concern.

I met the man who is now my husband the following January. We had much in common, including a shared childhood, and would talk until the wee hours of the morning. Then we'd race to see who would be the first to call and wake the other for the day, sometimes picking up the phone to dial and finding the other already on the line. We had laughed about how surprisingly well we functioned on so little sleep. We took great delight in being the last voice either heard as they drifted off to sleep and the first when we woke in the morning. Anyone who called either house would definately get a busy signal.

Then one night, after a spirited game of "no, you hang up first," the phone rang the moment I set it back on the base. I quickly picked it up and cooed "I have to go to sleep, so you can wake me up again." The voice that responded was not that of my sweet, new boyfriend.

The whispery voice was back again.

(Next: Surviving a Stalker Part II: Seeking Justice)



*names have been changed to protect the innocent, namely me.