Around midnight on January 5th 2008, a white truck drove off the side of River Road, outside of Shepherdstown and crashed into the Potomac River by Knott Island. Dominic Valentine, who lives nearby, was the first person to arrive at the scene of the accident. Photographs by Melissa Rogers
My birthday was coming to a close. I had settled onto the couch after tucking the kids into bed. We had stayed up late together to watch the Steelers/Jaguars game. Sometime around midnight, beneath the sound of the tube I heard what sounded like a faint child’s voice or a cat’s meow. It sounded far away but gradually grew louder. My first thought was that one of the girls was whimpering upstairs, but the sound was unfamiliar. Right away the noise made me uncomfortable. It sounded immediate and panicked. I lowered the volume and called up to the children, “Girls, is someone crying up there?” My oldest daughter answered, “No, but I hear something too. It sounds like someone is asking for help.”
Hearing my daughter’s response confirmed what I had feared—the sound was coming from outside. Everything slowed down, I instinctively went into assessment mode. It’s late. It’s a Saturday night. The voices are not close. It could be an accident. Get to the phone. Go outside and call out to the voice. Many thoughts came in an instant. I knew I was in a different gear. I grabbed my phone and headed towards the door. The girls had come down from their room and were in a panic. “Don’t go out dad!” Without turning around I shouted, “Stay inside!”
I stepped out onto the porch and called into the darkness, “Where are you?” A man’s alarmed voice yelled back, “In the field! Help us! Please help! Please help!” A woman’s voice could be heard further off. She was hysterical—I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I dialed 911 and shouted towards the direction of the man’s voice. “What do you need? Should I bring a rope?” He shouted back, “Bring a rope, Bring a rope. We’re in the water. Help us. Hurry! Hurry!” He said more but I had to tune him out to speak to the 911 agent. I said that they had been in the water for ten minutes and to please hurry.
I headed across the driveway to my parents‘ house. I saw my mother jump up as I crossed her door, and went directly to the couch where my father lay. When our eyes met, I pointed to him and then to the door—I was on the phone with the 911 operator. I knew my mother would immediately go to my house for the children. I ran out of my parent’s house, grabbed the rope out of the shed, threw it in the back of the truck and headed down the drive. I rolled down my window to keep in contact with the man. My father came out of his house. I shouted back to him, “”Meet me at the bottom.” “During the mêlée the 911 operator asked me if I was in West Virginia. “Shepherdstown, West Virginia,” I said emphatically. “I am going to have to transfer you to Washngton County,“ the operator responded. “I am on my way,” I yelled out the window as I started down the drive. The Washington County operator came on and again I gave my address. From the time I first called out to the voice in the field to the time I hit the bottom of the drive about five minutes had passed.
I had a gut feeling the vehicle would be in the narrow stretch of the Potomac flanking Knott Island. Even on a clear night it is easy to miss the bend in River Road. I drove to the sound of the woman screaming for help. I stopped in the road, got out, and went to the edge. She was hysterical, calling out names with unintelligible cries in between, “Kevin, baby! Susan! Somebody help us! Somebody please help!” Her pleas were loud and long. I saw a large pickup truck lying on its side in the shallows. I grabbed the rope, tied it to the bumper of my truck, and descended the bank.
When wet, the ground along the river is as slippery as ice. Even with the rope firmly in hand, I slipped to my knees and slid to a small downed tree lying sideways across the slope. Below the tree the bank was nearly vertical. As I regained my balance I saw lights above me. My father had pulled his truck to the edge to offer some light. At the bottom, I could see the woman was standing on another downed tree, which jutted out from the shallow water. It was slick but she was holding onto the undercarriage of the truck. I carefully joined her on the log, which lay lower than the truck. In the low light she was just a shape in dark clothing and dark hair. Her head hung low. The truck sat like a partially capsized boat, its bottom fully exposed and the topside tipping into the water as if the slightest push would complete the roll. All four wheels were visible. The side of the truck out of the water was over my head. I steadied myself and looked to the top of the bank and shouted to my father not to come down. It was too slippery and there was no room. I was afraid the truck was not stable. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight and was uncertain what was before me.
The man in the field appeared at the top of the embankment, still shouting incoherently. The operator was still on the line. He began asking questions about who and how many. I answered as best as I could. It was difficult to get straight answers from the victims. The man gave so many. To the operator I said, “He says there are two cars in the water… I only see one its truck on its side… there’s a woman standing next to me . . . maybe eight people he says. I don’t see anyone else . . . She’s yelling for someone, maybe two people. . . .”
I apologized for the confusion. The operator reassured me that I was doing a good job. He said he would stay on the phone until help arrived. I turned to the woman and, using the voice I use to relax my children, I was able to calm her long enough for her to tell me there had been four people in the vehicle. I called out, “Is anyone in there can you hear me?” I couldn’t hear anything because the man was still babbling and shouting. Frustrated, I lost my cool for a second and yelled at him to be quiet. He stopped. For the first time there was quiet. I listened for any sound, a groan or voices. There were none. All I heard was the motor running. It was making a slow rhythmic thumping sound. I called out again to the overturned vehicle. “Is anyone in there, can you hear me? Are you hurt?” For an anxious moment, I tightened my face and focused all my attention to my ears hoping for a response. There was none.
Again I brought the phone to my ear and said, “I don’t hear anything. I can’t see into the truck. I have to put you down because I need both hands.”
“Please don’t do anything to add to the problem,” the 911 operator said.
I put the phone in my pocket. I looked down to see how the truck lay in the water. I knew the river well enough to know that the top of the truck was in deeper water. I pushed it with both hands to make sure it felt solid. It did. It’s strange what small things you notice amid a crisis. While deciding how I was going to climb up the chassis I noticed the truck was perfectly clean. No rust. No mud. No wear and tear at all. The chassis was black. The muffler and converter were perfectly silver. Individual parts were distinguishable from others.
I ascended the frame and pulled myself onto the passenger side. It was a large white truck with a perfect paint job. The passenger side door was closed. I slid along my stomach towards the window. I kept my feet dangling because the truck was angled towards the water. With my body half on and half off the truck, I could not see into the cab. I would have to get my head into the window to see down into the truck. The interior light was on. I closed my eyes, prepared myself for the worst, then pulled my whole body onto the truck. I expected to see something grusome: one, maybe two persons badly injured, perhaps unconscious. What was I about to see? How bad will this be? I braced my left hand against the top of the open window frame and looked down. There was a body. It was very still. I saw an arm first. It was pale white, naked to the elbow and under water. The body was lying face up along the The Washington County operator came on and again I gave my address. From the time I first called out to the voice in the field to the time I hit the bottom of the drive about five minutes had passed.
I had a gut feeling the vehicle would be in the narrow stretch of the Potomac flanking Knott Island. Even on a clear night it is easy to miss the bend in River Road. I drove to the sound of the woman screaming for help. I stopped in the road, got out, and went to the edge. She was hysterical, calling out names with unintelligible cries in between, “Kevin, baby! Susan! Somebody help us! Somebody please help!” Her pleas were loud and long. I saw a large pickup truck lying on its side in the shallows. I grabbed the rope, tied it to the bumper of my truck, and descended the bank.
When wet, the ground along the river is as slippery as ice. Even with the rope firmly in hand, I slipped to my knees and slid to a small downed tree lying sideways across the slope. Below the tree the bank was nearly vertical. As I regained my balance I saw lights above me. My father had pulled his truck to the edge to offer some light. At the bottom, I could see the woman was standing on another downed tree, which jutted out from the shallow water. It was slick but she was holding onto the undercarriage of the truck. I carefully joined her on the log, which lay lower than the truck. In the low light she was just a shape in dark clothing and dark hair. Her head hung low. The truck sat like a partially capsized boat, its bottom fully exposed and the topside tipping into the water as if the slightest push would complete the roll. All four wheels were visible. The side of the truck out of the water was over my head. I steadied myself and looked to the top of the bank and shouted to my father not to come down. It was too slippery and there was no room. I was afraid the truck was not stable. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight and was uncertain what was before me.
The man in the field appeared at the top of the embankment, still shouting incoherently. The operator was still on the line. He began asking questions about who and how many. I answered as best as I could. It was difficult to get straight answers from the victims. The man gave so many. To the operator I said, “He says there are two cars in the water… I only see one its truck on its side… there’s a woman standing next to me . . . maybe eight people he says. I don’t see anyone else . . . She’s yelling for someone, maybe two people. . . .”
I apologized for the confusion. The operator reassured me that I was doing a good job. He said he would stay on the phone until help arrived. I turned to the woman and, using the voice I use to relax my children, I was able to calm her long enough for her to tell me there had been four people in the vehicle. I called out, “Is anyone in there can you hear me?” I couldn’t hear anything because the man was still babbling and shouting. Frustrated, I lost my cool for a second and yelled at him to be quiet. He stopped. For the first time there was quiet. I listened for any sound, a groan or voices. There were none. All I heard was the motor running. It was making a slow rhythmic thumping sound. I called out again to the overturned vehicle. “Is anyone in there, can you hear me? Are you hurt?” For an anxious moment, I tightened my face and focused all my attention to my ears hoping for a response. There was none.
Again I brought the phone to my ear and said, “I don’t hear anything. I can’t see into the truck. I have to put you down because I need both hands.”
“Please don’t do anything to add to the problem,” the 911 operator said.
I put the phone in my pocket. I looked down to see how the truck lay in the water. I knew the river well enough to know that the top of the truck was in deeper water. I pushed it with both hands to make sure it felt solid. It did. It’s strange what small things you notice amid a crisis. While deciding how I was going to climb up the chassis I noticed the truck was perfectly clean. No rust. No mud. No wear and tear at all. The chassis was black. The muffler and converter were perfectly silver. Individual parts were distinguishable from others.
I ascended the frame and pulled myself onto the passenger side. It was a large white truck with a perfect paint job. The passenger side door was closed. I slid along my stomach towards the window. I kept my feet dangling because the truck was angled towards the water. With my body half on and half off the truck, I could not see into the cab. I would have to get my head into the window to see down into the truck. The interior light was on. I closed my eyes, prepared myself for the worst, then pulled my whole body onto the truck. I expected to see something grusome: one, maybe two persons badly injured, perhaps unconscious. What was I about to see? How bad will this be? I braced my left hand against the top of the open window frame and looked down. There was a body. It was very still. I saw an arm first. It was pale white, naked to the elbow and under water. The body was lying face up along the and identified as a woman—not a man, as I had thought. Gradually the road became filled with emergency vehicles at least a quarter mile long, lighting up the night like fireworks. An older, obviously senior, member of the fire department began taking charge. Before descending he came to me for details, then asked me if I could leave my truck with the rope until they could get another vehicle in place. A young woman working for emergency services came to me and asked me to move away from the bank. Another came up and asked me to move my truck. I pointed to the rope. River Road was a crowded mess. A large truck was brought up to light the scene.
Another rope was tied off to a tree so others could descend. The truck with the light was pulled up next to mine, and I waited for a fireman to get the winch operational so I could move my truck. After five or so minutes he gave up on the winch. It was jammed. He untied the rope from my truck and tied it off to his. There were firemen from all over. I saw three with Williamsport stamped on the back of their jackets. A few were searching the field and the bank for the fourth victim.
It took a few minutes to clear a path through the crowd so I could pull my truck into the field. A search helicopter arrived and began flying just above the treetops. Mounted just below the cockpit was a fiercely bright spotlight. A dive crew and a water response team arrived. They searched the river and part of Knott Island for the missing person. A state police officer questioned me. I was transformed from participant to witness. It was as a spectator that I watched responders come and go over the next three hours.
As the night progressed the scene became unrecognizable to me. People were standing around with no sense of urgency. They knew what I had not yet comprehended: there was no longer an emergency. It was a unnerving having to dial down my emotions. A person had died, a family was shattered, and the rest of us were going about our business.
The fireman who had been the first to join me at the wreck came into the field to get into his car. He told me that it had been a woman in the car. He said he had thought it was a man as well. He told me that they had tied off the truck and pulled it towards the bank so that her body could fall out the window. We talked for a while longer, both of us relaying details, speculating and discussing the challenges of an all-volunteer force, then shook hands and parted.
I stood several yards away in the field, and watched them push a stretcher with a white body bag away from the bank and into an emergency response vehicle.
Back at the house at four in the morning, I watched the wrecking crew pull the truck from the water. It was strikingly similar to my own.
At around seven o‘clock there was a knock at the door. It was the brother-in-law of the missing driver. He had driven down from Thurmont because authorities had not located his brother-in-law yet. “He was last seen getting out of the truck,“ he said. I sat on the step and told him all that I knew. He was angry that no one was searching for his brother-in-law.
Throughout the day several cars came by, stopped, and looked around. In the largest group were five vehicles. I imagined them to be the family of the woman. Perhaps doing something, no matter how small, helps bring a sense of closure.
Later that day I took the kids down to the site to help them make sense of the chaos. It seemed so safe; so calm; anything but dangerous. One daughter said she could see oil in the water. Another asks what I think happened. The questions keep rolling. What happened here? Where was the driver? Was he lying hurt somewhere, or did he flee? Was he driving under the influence or was he avoiding a deer in the road? How did the others get from the car? Did the woman in the truck survive the initial accident? Did the others try to help her? Were they wearing seatbelts?
It‘s only human to wonder these things in the aftermath of a tragedy. For me the most haunting question is, “Could I have done more?“
Susan T. Daley, 35, of Frederick, Md., died Sunday, Jan. 6, 2008, as a result of an automobile accident. She is survived by a son, Scott. The other passengers, Nicole Moreland, 26, of Harpers Ferry, and Daley’s fiancee Scott Kemp, 33, of Frederick, were taken to City Hospital in Martinsburg. They were treated and released. Police were unable to locate the driver, Kevin Phelps, 30, of Harpers Ferry, until late the following day. He has been charged with leaving the scene of an accident.
