Page 32 of Unnatural Death

Tron points out an oak tree along the Mansons’ footpath. The trunk is marked with an evidence tag some four feet off the ground where the bark is scarred. She tells me this is where the closest trail camera was found.

“From here we’re more than fifty yards from the campsite,” she explains. “No sound was going to be detected unless it was loud like gunshots.”

“How many cameras did the Mansons set up?” From here the path continues through the woods for as far as I can see, dissolving into shadows.

“A dozen strategically placed. None are inside the campsite itself, and none inside their house,” Tron says. “They made sure they weren’t going to be spied on by their own surveillance devices during private moments.”

“Have other investigators found anything significant inside the house or anywhere else so far?” I ask as we start walking back. “I’m wondering about any sign of a break-in. If the Mansons were taken out by someone, then I should think the person responsible would be interested in what might be inside their home, their store or anywhere else they frequented.”

“We’ve got agents inside Wild World even as we speak,” she says. “Also, at their fulfillment center. I doubt we’ll find much in any of those places. When Huck and Brittany isolated in the woods, they took their most valuable belongings with them, such as wallets, passports and other important documents. All of which were scattered and deliberately destroyed, as you know.”

She continues telling me the details of what’s been found at the campsite, and the Mansons weren’t roughing it as much as one might imagine. They had bedrolls, linens, an electric fan and space heater inside a tent that was watertight and spacious. A cooler with bear-proof locks was filled with steaks, chicken and other foods. There were snacks and all sorts of creature comforts including booze.

“Also, Wi-Fi hotspots for high-speed internet, and backup power sources for laptops and satellite phones,” Tron says. “They have a water filtration system. Solar panels they set up could generate enough power to stay out here for weeks as long as their food held out.”

We’ve reached Marino and Lucy near the entrance of the path. Off to one side of it are huge fir trees, the forest floor crowded with evidence flags and markers.

“This is where it happened. They were probably hiding behind the trees when the bad guy showed up.” Marino says this to all of us. “It’s where we found the spent cartridge cases, the slugs and frag. As you can see, there’s a lot of blood and I’ve made sure we collected more than enough samples.”

I bend down to get a closer look at what he’s pointing out, flies alighting and crawling on coagulated blood and bits of drying brain tissue. From here I can see the tree where Tron dug out the rifle slug. Nearby is the flattened camouflage tent, big enough to sleep six, and Tron says that when investigators first got here this is what they saw.

“The tent was on the ground where it is now,” she explains. “It’s like something big and powerful went on a rampage, intent on destroying everything.”

“Considering the footprint I found, I’d be careful with descriptions like that,” Marino says.

Back inside the pup tent, Lucy hands me a blaze-orange Mustang anti-exposure suit with built-in boots, gloves and a watertight hood. Spreading it open on the ground, I sit down because it’s not possible for me to suit up in a Mustang while standing. I cover my boots with plastic bags, making it easier to pull on the neoprene legs. Then I’m on my feet again, working my arms into the sleeves and zipping up most of the way.

I tuck a flashlight, plastic bags and rubber bands into pockets, grabbing a respirator that I’ll put on later. Gathering equipment, we head to the entrance of the mine, framed in old logs and planks of graying wood. Flashlights on, and we duck our heads as we pass through the opening, the air instantly chilled and damp on my face. I smell dirt and rotting wood.

Then the space opens considerably, enough that Marino can stand up straight without bumping his head. Tree roots from above ground have grown through the ceiling, dangling and twisting like claws. When they touch me it’s unnerving. I recognize the mining tools, the spiderweb-shrouded ore cart from the videos I’ve reviewed. Our lights cut through the pitch darkness, finding the narrow opening of the mineshaft.

The timber supports around it are broken and halfway collapsed. Evidence markers and flags dot the rocky floor where Marino discovered bloodstains. Likely from the victim being dragged, he explains. I shine my light over the dirty, gritty area, not seeing much blood.

“There was very little,” he says. “I collected most of it.”

“If there wasn’t much it’s probably because the victim was dead by then,” I reply.

“You want to see the real McCoy?” Marino says. “I’ll show you what’s left of it.”

He directs his light at a tunnel’s black opening beyond the mineshaft, the stone and dirt sparkling with shiny flecks of what I suspect are gold. Leading me to an upside-down banker’s box, he picks it up. The outline of the huge foot in the dark gray dirt would be easy to miss.

“Obviously, it was a whole lot sharper before I poured in the liquid plaster.” Marino explains why all that’s left is a bloblike shape, the details mostly obliterated. “I was masked, gloved, the whole nine yards, making sure I didn’t contaminate anything.”

“I wonder if this area floods,” I reply. “Because it seems relatively dry considering last night’s storm.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, and you’re right, Doc. We don’t know how long the footprint has been here.” He again covers it with the banker’s box.

“I wonder if the Mansons ever came in here for any reason.”

“No sign of it if they did,” Marino says. “But it’s not like I’ve been beyond where we are right now. It wouldn’t be safe going in any deeper.”

Returning to the entrance, we unfold two heavy-duty black vinyl body pouches, tucking one inside the other to form a double barrier. Marino spreads them out while Tron and Lucy assist with my harness. They clip carabiners on sturdy nylon ropes, a belay rappelling device on the main line.

I step close to the edge of the mineshaft’s opening, my light illuminating the caved-in wooden scaffolding. A ladder is rotted and missing rungs, vanishing into the abyss. Shining my light on the male victim’s nude body caught in crisscrossed logs, I calculate how I’m going to do this.

“There’s not much supporting him except the hiking poles he’s impaled with, and they’re bent,” I say to Marino. “If it wasn’t for them, he probably would have dropped all the way down, however far that might be. It makes me wonder if the killer intended on the bodies being found.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Marino shines his light down the shaft and I can’t see the bottom. “This one in particular is hanging by a thread and he might not have been noticed. This won’t be easy and don’t feel bad if it doesn’t work out, Doc. If his body gets jostled or other things do, gravity’s gonna win. If he falls, just don’t go with him.”

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