Dead Mountain, page 20
“Depending on how tight his pants were that day!” said the other, to more laughter.
Skip began to get the idea. “Where was he shot, exactly?”
“Jesus, kid, is it that hard to figure out?” the barman replied, pointing downward with one finger from his belt buckle.
“So Hawley got shot in the balls?!” Skip laughed uproariously. “Oh God, I love it!”
Suddenly, a huge form rose from one of the tables in the recesses of the roadhouse. He had a buzz cut and was wearing a leather jacket. He loomed over Skip, who was leaning back on his stool, laughing.
“Shut the fuck up,” he said to Skip and the bartender. “Both of you.”
“I’ll say whatever I damn please in my own establishment,” the bartender retorted.
Skip, meanwhile, was so delighted to learn his nemesis had an Achilles’ heel that he couldn’t keep quiet. “One-Bally Hawley!” he chortled. “Ha ha ha ha—”
His laugh was cut short as a fistful of knuckles bounced off his teeth. As he went down, the biker leaned over him and, grabbing the bartender by the collar, hauled him up with one hand and punched him in the face with the other. Another patron leapt on top of the big man, and others rushed to join in. Skip, lying on the floor half-dazed, started crawling away from the fracas, dimly hearing the sounds of thuds and broken glass. He’d almost reached the door when someone yelled, “There goes the guy who started it!” Skip rose to his feet and prepared to run, only to be clocked upside the head.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor, all was quiet, and two deputies stood in the entryway. Several men, some bleeding, were standing in a line before the bar. Skip tried to rise—only to find that his wrists were cuffed behind him.
“What the hell?” he said, blinking his eyes into focus.
“Hey!” said one of the deputies. “Sleeping Beauty’s awake!” A chorus of laughter followed.
Skip noticed he was the only one wearing handcuffs. “Wait a minute! I didn’t start the fight. I didn’t even throw a punch. Take these things off me!”
“This has nothing to do with a bar fight,” said the other deputy, who was busy writing something on a notepad.
“What, then?”
“Violation of conditions of release,” the deputy replied. He spoke in the slowest drawl Skip had ever heard. He was chewing gum, and perhaps that—combined with writing and speaking—was proving difficult.
“That’s crazy!” Skip said, struggling against the cuffs. “I didn’t violate anything. This is New Mexico!”
“That’s right,” said the first deputy, “but it ain’t your home county. Bail regulations state you can’t leave Santa Fe County—but here you are, hell and gone at the ass end of Torrance. But don’t worry—Sheriff Hawley’s on his way right now, and I bet he’ll take good care of a little lost lamb like you.”
The man laughed. But this time, only the other deputy joined in.
37
I’M LOOKING AT the photographs now,” said Evan Gross, his face looming in the Zoom window on Corrie’s computer. Corrie could see the avalanche expert seated at his desk in his sunny Colorado office, with a view of snowy peaks through the window behind him.
Once Sharp had given her the green light to talk to an avalanche expert, she thought it might be difficult to find someone truly knowledgeable in such a field. It turned out to be surprisingly easy: the University of Colorado had arguably the finest experts on avalanches in the world, and Dr. Gross headed the list. He’d been willing to talk to her—in fact, happy to do so. It seemed that, unlike politicians, scientists were eager to talk about the nuances of their work.
Via the Zoom window on her computer, Corrie could see that the photographs she had emailed him were spread out on his desk, along with the autopsies of the two crushed victims—Lynn Martinez and Luke Hightower. Gross was surprisingly young, with a long ponytail and beard, looking more like a ski bum than a PhD scientist. Perhaps he had been a ski bum—one who’d managed to turn his avocation into a successful career.
“It’s really very interesting,” he said, moving the photos around. “I haven’t had a problem quite this intriguing in a long time.”
“Dr. Gross, may I record this call?”
“Of course.”
“Could you please state your name and credentials for the record?”
“Sure. I’m Evan Gross, and I have a PhD in geosciences from the University of Colorado, where I’m now a research professor. My specialty is studying structure, transfer of mass, and movement of heat in snow.”
“Right,” said Corrie. “And this means you’re an expert in what areas?”
“Among other things, avalanche forecasting. Avalanches are all about snow structure and mass transfer.”
“Thank you.” Corrie felt a twinge of anticipation. The mystery of the two crushed bodies had tripped up Gold in the initial investigation and added fuel to the plethora of conspiracy theories about UFOs, Yeti attacks, secret weapons, and the rest. Gold had hired someone, too—someone who concluded an avalanche wasn’t possible on the slope where the two crushed victims were found. Whether or not that was the case, his investigation had not been able to determine what exactly had happened to the two victims.
“Let’s start with the autopsies you sent me,” said Gross. “I’m not a medical doctor, but I have a lot of experience in avalanche fatalities and body recoveries. The first victim had a chest fracture so extreme—severe flail chest—that it caused fatal trauma to the heart. The second, in addition to chest trauma, suffered a skull fracture so drastic that it drove cranial splinters into the brain. Both injuries were immediately fatal.”
“Yet whatever happened to them didn’t break the skin,” Corrie said. “It’s bizarre.”
“Not really. These injuries are not atypical for avalanche victims.”
“But there was no evidence of an avalanche.”
“Yes! You’re quite correct. That’s because there wasn’t an avalanche. The slope is too shallow, and the area too close to the ridgeline. These pictures tell another story entirely—a tragic one.”
He began shuffling through the photographs he’d printed. “Here are the bodies as they were found by the searchers.” He held up an image Corrie immediately recognized, showing the two bodies lying facedown in the creek, crossways, one on top of the other—Hightower below, Martinez on top.
“You can see they’re lying in a shallow, rocky streambed, partly immersed in the water. Now, here’s a photo of what remains of the apparent snow cave they were building. You can see the fresh boughs they had cut, which they’d laid out on the floor. In this photo, they’re all churned up in the snow.”
“The previous investigators did conclude they were building a snow cave.”
“And they were right. The two victims burrowed into the snow on the lee side of a ridge. Unfortunately for them, they were tunneling into a cornice that was directly above a live stream. The snow was very deep in that area at the time—over twenty feet.”
“So early in the season? October 31?”
“Absolutely. Those cornices can develop very quickly in high winds and reach depths of fifty or more feet. What they didn’t realize was that the cave they were building sat right above the cavity formed by that stream. You see, that stream didn’t freeze in the winter—and the deep, insulating snow above was one of the reasons. Since the stream was always a few degrees warmer than freezing, however, a cavity was formed directly above its length.”
He held up a few other photographs of the area, showing the ridge above and a depression formed by the stream.
“At some point, the bottom of the snow cave collapsed into the cavity. It threw the two tunnelers maybe five feet to the rocky bed of the stream, and the snow above them came down on top—crushing their bodies into the rocks and creating the massive injuries you see in the autopsy.”
Corrie hesitated. “It’s hard to believe a five-foot fall would be enough to crush those bodies.”
“Normally it wouldn’t be. What caused the injuries wasn’t the fall, but the fifteen feet of snow that came down on top of them. Here, let’s do a little math. The snow they dug into wasn’t normal snow: it was hard, wind-drifted, cross-loaded snow, which is three to four times denser than fresh-fallen snow. That kind of snow typically weighs between six hundred and a thousand pounds per cubic yard. Multiply that times fifteen feet, or five cubic yards, and you get around five thousand pounds of snow dropping on them from above and crushing them against the rocks of the creek bed. Trust me, that’s going to cause a lot of damage.”
Explanation complete, Gross sat back. “And that, Agent Swanson, is the solution to your mystery.”
Corrie stared at him. “How sure are you about this?”
“Close to one hundred percent positive.”
“What about the missing tongue and eyes?”
At this, Gross shook his head and chuckled. “That’s even less of a mystery. They were lying facedown in a stream. There are all kinds of little critters living in that stream—caddisfly larvae, stonefly nymphs, mosquito larvae, crustaceans, minnows. All of them will nibble on animal protein whenever they can get it. The eyes and tongues of two dead people, immersed in the water, decaying over months—what a feast that would be!”
Corrie was disgusted—and amazed. “So it’s as simple as that?”
“Are you disappointed?” He chuckled again. “People love a good mystery. I’m sorry to spoil it for everyone, but this mystery is thoroughly explained by the application of a little science.”
“Would you be willing to write this up in a report? We’ll pay your usual fee, of course.”
“Absolutely. I’ll write it up this afternoon and email it to you tomorrow.”
Corrie thanked him, then ended the Zoom call. She wondered why Gold hadn’t sought out a real avalanche expert like Gross. Of course, she almost hadn’t either, until she realized it was a part of Gold’s investigation that didn’t quite add up. It was, she realized, not the only part of Gold’s investigation that gave her an uneasy feeling. There was something about that investigation she couldn’t put her finger on . . . but that just didn’t feel right.
38
IT WAS A cold November Sunday, even for Silver City, but Melody Ann O’Connell felt invigorated at the thought of the upcoming protest. Cosmo and Cassy Wright had driven down with her. At least a dozen other people had signed up for the protest on the Manzano Families Facebook page, which would make this their biggest protest yet. Even more satisfying was the fact that a local television station, KWOW, was planning to tape the demonstration and interview her for the local evening news.
Agent Gold’s street, Bluejay Lane, lay at the outskirts of town. It was a cul-de-sac that ended in a circle. Gold’s house, a mid-fifties modern, stood directly at the end. The house was, as usual, shuttered up tight, all the curtains drawn, car pulled into the garage. The street would provide ample parking for everyone, as well as plenty of space to parade around in front of the house without trespassing on Gold’s lawn.
Melody Ann pulled her Lexus up to the curb and got out, Cassie and Cosmo following. She went around and opened the back, removing the signs she had made and leaning them up against the car, careful not to scratch the paint. She had taken care to make sure they didn’t look amateurish. She’d painted on them the messages that, in her opinion, had resonated the most: TRUTH. REMEMBER THE NINE. FBI COME CLEAN.
She removed a small folding table from the trunk, then placed a Dunkin’ Donuts tray on it, and beside it a Box O’ Joe with a stack of cups.
She checked her watch: quarter to noon. The others would be coming soon—in fact, they were already starting to arrive. A car pulled into the street, followed by another, and another. Melody Ann could see some curtains stirring in other houses on the street. But the Gold house remained shut and silent.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” said Cassy Wright, selecting a blueberry donut and pouring out a cup of coffee.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Melody Ann. “What matters is the publicity.”
Cosmo reached for a fritter and took a big bite, chasing it down with a swig of coffee. “I hope the bastard is in there,” he mumbled as he chewed.
Now still more cars were arriving, people getting out and congregating around the coffee and donuts. While this was going on, a man came out of the house next to Gold’s and stood on the stoop, hands on his hips, angry expression on his face. He stared for a while.
Melody Ann waved.
The man did not wave back. Instead, he called out, “Don’t you folks have something better to do on a Sunday?”
“Ignore him,” said Melody Ann.
“Go bother someone else!” the man yelled. “This is a nice neighborhood!”
But nobody responded and eventually he went back inside, slamming the door.
The swelling group milled around, and there was a sense of electricity in the air that to Melody Ann felt almost festive. At noon exactly, she raised her voice, and—flanked by Cassy and Cosmo—called for attention.
Silence fell. She looked around. She counted twenty-one people, even more than she’d hoped for. The news van would arrive at 1 PM, and they planned to wrap it up at 2.
“My friends!” Melody Ann began. “The Manzano Families thank you for coming out to support us on this cold afternoon! Thank you!” She held up her hands and clapped, generating applause from the group.
“I’d like to introduce Cosmo and Cassy Wright, the grieving parents of Gordon Wright, whose remains, as you all are now aware, were recently found in a cave in the Manzanos. Two weeks ago, the FBI announced they were reopening the case. And yet since then, we’ve heard nothing. At first, we assumed this was just more foot-dragging and incompetence. But then we realized something else was going on. A dark pattern was beginning to repeat itself.”
She paused dramatically.
“The entire Dead Mountain case has the feeling of one long cover-up from beginning to end. Why have we heard nothing? Because they refuse to tell us anything! And that’s why we’re here—to call out the FBI. Demand the truth.”
She pointed dramatically at the house, then spoke again in a ringing voice. “Former FBI agent Robertson Gold directed the original investigation and cover-up. He knows the truth. All roads lead back to him. And after fifteen long years, we demand answers!”
She paused. “In the past few weeks, the Manzano Families have been gathering fresh information—new and frightening information. I can’t promise we have the answers—but we have some leads. And we, the families, want to share what we know—with you.”
Another pause.
The crowd was totally silent.
“For years, there’ve been rumors of a secret project, launched in parallel with the Manhattan Project. I’m talking, of course, about the Boston Project. Some of you have undoubtedly heard of it. The Boston Project centered on another kind of WMD—not nuclear weapons, but bioweapons. Specifically, what would today be called genetic engineering. The Manhattan Project was a success, of course, and led to the atomic bomb and victory over the Japanese. But the Boston Project, based at Kirtland, was not a success—not for a long time. While we are still assembling the details, we believe its goal was to create the perfect soldier. Early on, the Boston Project didn’t have the necessary technology, and their crude experiments made little progress. But nevertheless it continued along in secrecy—and finally reached fruition with the advanced biotechnology tools now available. But there were, shall we say, a few hiccups along the way.”
Melody Ann felt a rush of energy and excitement to see that the small crowd was riveted.
“I say hiccups. A more accurate word would be failures. Early on, they created freaks. Hideous, powerful, subhuman. And on the night of October 31, 2008, one of those genetic monsters escaped the base and wandered off into the storm. It opened the flap of the tent, triggering horror and panic. And in so doing, sparking a tragedy that led to nine deaths.”
She looked around again, letting what she’d said settle in.
“You may ask me, Where’s the evidence? A fair question. So let’s go over the facts. First, it’s generally acknowledged—even by the government—that something blocked the tent doorway that was so terrifying our children cut their way out and fled. A bear, mountain lion, another human being? Hardly. These were experienced mountaineers and wilderness-goers.”
“Two: In going over old newspaper articles, I’ve noted that people reported an unusual number of helicopters and planes flying around the mountains that very night—that very night, before anyone even knew the hikers were missing. What were they searching for if not an escapee?
“Three: The radiation found on some of the clothing, which was intended to remain secret but—luckily for anyone who seeks the truth—managed to leak out. It’s a well-known fact that medical isotopes are used in genetic engineering and identification of neurological problems.”
The crowd was hanging on every word. She wasn’t sure if this theory was 100 percent correct, but if you wanted to motivate people, you had to use the same tools being used against you: even bending the truth a little if it meant giving them something concrete, something specific.
“Enough talk!” she cried. “Let’s start the protest!”
She got out a couple of electronic megaphones, keeping one for herself and giving Cosmo the other. The signs were quickly distributed, too, and she directed everyone to stay on the sidewalks and in the turnaround circle, moving in a counterclockwise direction. She began the chanting, and soon everyone was following along in unison as they made a slow circle in front of Gold’s house, careful not to trespass on his lawn, staying on the sidewalk and street.
This went on for forty-five minutes, and then the real excitement began. Turning into the street was a big white van with a satellite dish on top—KWOW. It pulled up next to her car, and several technicians and a sound man got out, followed by the local investigative reporter, Liz Sanchez, an attractive woman in a crisp suit with a short, dark, serious haircut. Next to her was a man, gesturing and giving directions, evidently the news producer. Melody Ann peeled off from the group and came over to them.
