Community watches Frein manhunt in fear, bemusement

CANADENSIS, Penn, — At least 50 state police and federal agents are pacing near a bit of forest, watching intently for any sign of notorious cop killer suspect Eric Frein, one of America's ten most wanted fugitives.

But in vain. Apart from some fleeting glimpses, Frein, who once lived in this community with his parents, has yet to be seen.

On the 14th day since the 31-year-old survivalist was alleged to have killed one Pennsylvania state trooper and wounded another, everyone — cops and community alike — remains on edge. But increasingly, many of those who live here view the intense manhunt with a mixture of amusement, disgust, and fear.

Each day, a new rumor sends waves of troopers, federal agents, armored carriers and police cars back and forth across this region of rolling Pennsylvania hills, dense woods, lush fields and tidy villages. Friday morning, it was a "sighting" of the Mohawk-coiffed survivalist in the ancient Buck Hill Inn—once the heart of the affluent community of the same name where 20-room hilltop "cottages" have served as the summer homes of the Main Line Philadelphia elite for a century or more.

An armada of security vehicles roared through the quiet streets and up to the decaying hulk of the inn, long abandoned and crumbling into ruins since the owner went bankrupt a quarter century ago. A phalanx of national and local media pressed toward the roadblocks anxious for the first glimpse of the arrest of the fugitive. Nothing. Back to the Canadensis United Methodist Church parking lot went the army of frustrated law enforcement.

In fact, a real survivalist, which is how Frein is being portrayed, could live off the land here and under cover for quite some time. Young deer bound regularly across the road and dart into the woods in front of the lines of state police in full camouflage, while whole flocks of wild turkeys scurry through the underbrush.

Adam Christmann, a 43-year-old security and counter-terrorism consultant whose clients include the U.S. Air Force, has lived in the Hamlet, as it is called, for 14 years and raised his family here. He's had his share of nervous moments. His two daughters, age 9 and 12, both go to the East Stroudsburg schools and count on the school bus to fetch them each day. Early on, however, school officials decided it was too dangerous to send buses into the hot zone. So Christmann drove them.

One evening, though, his family was broken apart. Fetching his older daughter, he returned, only to find the entire area in "lockdown" — no one goes in or out — his wife and younger daughter inside. By 11:30 they found their way home. But at least 20 of his neighbors had not. They made their way to the local firehouse, only to find no cots, no where to sleep.

"Someone dropped the ball," Christmann sighed. For what had become effectively state of emergency, there was no federal or state emergency workers in sight.

For folks like Christmann, "the current issue facing residents up here is 'how/when do we return to normal life?' Or is a heavy police presence, helicopters and uncertainty the 'new normal'? I think that uncertainty is what is causing the most stress—not an actual feel of being in danger."

Still, these tight-knight communities have suffered over the past two weeks in a host of ways, large and small—often less than apparent to many on the outside looking in. At least 13 homes were on the block for sale in the Hamlet alone before Eric Frein fired his fatal shots two weeks ago.

Al Hall, an historian who's lived here with his wife Mary, put their house up for sale as they no longer feel competent to care for themselves and their house. They are looking to move to an assisted living community in upstate New York. "But the real estate broker can't show the house til the emergency is over," Hall said, shaking his head. No sense of when the next lock-down might be called.

In fact, Mary found herself caught in the same lockdown as Christmann. Emerging from choir practice at Mountain Home Methodist, she went home with a fellow choir member who lives outside the hot zone. Another member of the choir remembers little Eric Frein in her Cub Scout den at six years old. Later, he went on to become an Eagle Scout.

Many are beginning to suggest that the cops simply pull back and leave Frein to his own devices. He has, after all, expressed hostility to no one but law enforcement. Moreover, this is an area of Pennsylvania where families are well armed and know how to take care of themselves.

Hardly a weekend goes by, in normal time, when shots aren't heard in the woods and wildlife run for their lives. It's a crapshoot for a fugitive to break into a home here, no matter how well armed he is. And with a $175,000 award on his head, there's no end of locals who'd just love a shot at that.