Page 71 of Dead Mountain

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.

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