by Waits, Chris
Bobby told him about a couple of old mines near Baldy, but said he might as well forget McClellan, going on to say he knew the man who owned McClellan Gulch well, that he was protective and didn't let anyone into the gulch. But Bobby promised to pass the message along and then I could decide whether to let Grayson look at my old mine sites.
John Grayson told Bobby he was staying at the Sportsman's Motel in Lincoln and could be reached there.
The whole story seemed plausible, and since I also sat on the historical society board of directors and was a mining enthusiast, it seemed appropriate to help him.
But one thing started to make me doubt his entire story. The man had told Bobby the company he worked for wasn't in a hurry so he had no time limit. Yet, why was a mining enthusiast running around Stemple this time of the year, and better yet, how could he photograph old mines with two to three feet of snow still on the ground.'^
Something wasn't right, and the more Bobby and I discussed the situation, the more perplexed we became. We agreed to keep our eyes and ears open and stay in close contact.
My suspicion deepened every day as more new vehicles kept showing up on Stemple Pass Road between my house and Lincoln. There were white Broncos, Blazers, and pickups, blue and green, some
HZ
with Wyoming license plates, others with snowmobiles on trailers towed behind.
All the vehicles were brand new, shiny, and the more you saw them the more they stuck out like a sore thumb, quite a contrast to the older, muddy vehicles owned by the few people living up on Stemple. With no local car wash, Lincoln people couldn't drive a clean vehicle during the winter months even if they wanted to.
As the days passed, these vehicles were seen most often traveling along the two gravel roads that led toward Baldy.
Something was going on, and it definitely wasn't related to photographing old mines. Heading toward the Center to start piano lessons one afternoon, I bumped into a friend who owned the Sportsman's Motel and asked if he knew anything about the out-of-towners who were staying with him.
He said he wasn't supposed to say anything, but they were undercover FBI agents, posing as a man and a woman on their honeymoon, employed to document and photograph old mines.
I asked if he knew what they really were doing in Lincoln and told him of their interest in my gulch. He said he didn't know, and then asked me not to repeat a word. I agreed, but it was hard to concentrate as the first piano lesson started.
Another friend, who was bookkeeper for my logging and road construction company and also for the Lincoln Telephone Company, told me something strange was happening along an old driveway that led to a cabin near his house.
His son was the first to notice a couple of vehicles parked there that didn't belong, back in the trees below the seldom-used cabin less than 200 yards from Ted's place.
My friend said a federal agent familiar with the area, known to both of us, had stopped him just the day before and asked where Ted lived.
"You know where Ted lives," my friend replied. He thought it was a strange question, since the agent already knew where Ted's cabin was located.
So they were watching Ted. But why.^
My first thought was game violations. Ted had poached deer, elk, grouse, and plenty of other wild birds and animals during the twenty-five years he had lived here.
A long-time Lincoln game warden who knew that Ted lied off the land had been determined to catch him in the act. One winter he thought he had Ted, with evidence in hand. The warden had been watching his movements and crossed fresh tracks, with a red blood trail alongside, leading through the snow down from Baldy toward Ted's home cabin. Hunting season wasn't open, so the warden followed the tracks to Ted's, ready to make the arrest. When he arrived at the cabin he was dismayed to find Ted had killed nothing more than a porcupine for supper and it was nailed to a tree near his door.
But surely it must be something more than poaching. So many federal and FBI agents wouldn't be called in simply to catch Ted for shooting a grouse or a deer out of season.
The next clue came from a good friend involved with the investigation. He wasn't at liberty to talk, but he said it had something to do with Ted sending threatening letters through the mail, that's what he'd been told. He could say no more and admonished me to keep everv thing to myself.
I was getting a little nervous. If the FBI was observing Ted, they might be watching me as well. After all, they had showed an early interest in McClellan Gulch. I was worried about how they might interpret my efforts to keep people out of the gulch. They might think there was something to hide. Maybe I was being investigated as an accomplice, but I had no clue what the crime might be.
Then on the morning of April 3, 1996, all hell broke loose.
As I drove into town there was lots of early traffic, all new vehicles that were either moving slowly along the Stemple Road or were pulled off on the double-tracked side roads that lead off into the mountains.
I had barely unlocked the door to my building to continue the remodeling work when the telephone started to ring off the wall. The first caller stunned me. A reporter asking questions about the infamous I'nabomber wanted to know if he had been arrested near Lincoln.
It couldn't be possible, but it had to be Ted he was asking about. They must have the wrong man. My friend and neighbor, the man I had helped and who had virtually lived in my backyard all these years, could not be the Unabomber. When asked who the suspect was, I wouldn't give them Ted's name. They said they would find out any-wav, but I still refused.
The day of Ted's arrest is still a blur in my mind as I, along with the rest of the nation, tried to sort out the details. It was amazing how quickly the media arrived, droves of reporters from all over the country. All flights into Helena and Missoula were booked solid. All of the motels were full within the first few hours after the news broke.
Bulletin compiled from first-day news reports Unabomber Suspect Arrested IN Montana Mountain Shack
Helena, MT (April 3, 1996)—A bearded and unkempt mountain hermit in tattered clothing, believed to be the notorious Unabomber, was led into an FBI office in downtown Helena early Wednesday night with little ceremony.
Handcuffed and escorted by two FBI agents, 53-year-old Theodore Kaczynski was questioned for several hours in a third floor FBI office in the Arcade Building before he was taken to nearby Lewis and Clark County Jail at 10:30 P.M. and locked away. About 50 reporters and onlookers, who had been poised there for hours, watched as he was brought to the jail in a white Ford Bronco.
Kaczynski, a former Berkeley math professor and brrl-liant student who graduated from Harvard University at 20, purchased land south of Lincoln with his brother, David as co-signer, in 1971. It was his brother who found a 1971 essay at the family home in the Chicago suburb of Lombard written by Kaczynski. His brother became suspicious after comparing it to the 35,000-word manifesto, unnamed federal officials said. The work was jointly published last September by The New York Times and the Washington Post, and distributed in the Post.
Kaczynski's neighbors in the mountain community of Lincoln, located about 50 miles northeast of Helena, said Kaczynski was reclusive and didn't seem to bother anyone. "He was a quiet little guy," said Butch Gehring, who runs a sawmill near Kaczynski's one-room cabin.
The rnabonibcr has been responsible for a deadly 18-year bombini; spree in w hieh three w ere killed and Z^ others were injured. Many of his homemade bombs were mailed, others were left for unsuspeetin^i:; ietims in parking lots. His manifesto was published after he promised he would stop planting deadly bombs. His last victim was a timber industry executive who was killed in Sacramento, Calif, when he opened a mail bomb on April 24, 1995.
FBI agents with a search warrant surrounded Kaczynski's one-room mountain cabin earlier in the day. They lured Kaczynski outside where he was detained after a short scuffle.
Kaczynski was not placed under formal arrest Wednesday. Officials said he will make an initial appearance
in Helena Federal Court Thursday or Friday.
Word traveled quickly. Reporters discovered almost immediately Ted and I had been neighbors and friends since he built his cabin.
I spent the better part of the morning after Ted's arrest talking to Bobby Didriksen, but I was pursued everywhere I went.
By afternoon, when it was time to start teaching piano lessons, reporters, cameramen, and technicians w ere lined up across the Lincoln Center's stage. At times, more than tw^enty patiently waited for a comment. Eventually they were all told the same thing: I couldn't and w ouldn't talk until the investigation w as complete.
Getting through the piano lessons w^as almost impossible, w ith the telephone perpetually ringing and more reporters showing up by the minute. Most w-ere friendly, but some were rude and they were promptly sent away. The answering machines at the Center and at home filled to capacity and, by nightfall of the second day, April 4, five satellite up-link trucks were parked in Lincoln—a sight never seen before here and probably never to be seen again.
News people called from all over the world—England, Japan, France, Australia, Canada.
Most people in Lincoln were overwhelmed. Some chased cameras, wanting to be interviewed. Others made fools of themselves talk-
ing about someone they didn't know, confusing Ted with other people who hved out in the hills.
ril never forget an interview on television the first day, when a prominent Lincoln man stood on camera and said, "You are saying Ted is about 5'9" or 5'10"? Ted is nowhere near that tall." He quickly proved he didn't know Ted or what Ted looked like. Many townspeople lost their credibility early on, victims of the press, caught up in all the hype. It was like a feeding frenzy of sharks in shallow water loaded with prey.
Some reporters used various ploys to get people to talk, everything from flattery about on-camera appearance to putting a conclusion into their mouths and then waiting for a nod of affirmation so they could broadcast the supposed response.
There also were many professional journalists who showed restraint and patience, knowing that when all the hype subsided there would be an important story to tell. I made many friends among that group, promising to talk when the time was right. Some tried to convince me now was the perfect time to tell my story. I even received phone calls from higher-profile newspeople, like Tom Brokaw, attempting to get an immediate interview.
I was more anxious to spend time with the federal agents to make sure they didn't implicate me in any way with the Unabom events. It was easy to see why agents would be looking for an accomplice. Not only did the manifesto speak in the plural when it mentioned responsibility for the acts of terrorism, but it also seemed improbable Ted could plot and carry out the complex acts without money and a car.
The more you dwell on the unknown, the easier it is to become more paranoid. I started to think about my two manual typewriters, which had been stored for years in an old camper up the gulch. What would the agents think if they knew.^ I didn't know if Ted had used them or not, but he certainly had the opportunity. Would agents w^ant to check my typewriters to see if they were used to type the manifesto.^
Since I also worked in water-well installation, I had literally truck loads of different-sized pipes that could have been employed in the pipebombs, sitting close to the campers where things were stored. It wasn't long before I started to worry about the dynamite that had been
so essential for many years in road construction and mining, know in^ it was stored near the other thin
Sleep was impossible. Kven though I wasn't guilty of anything, what did the agents think?
My paranoia increased as I considered the implications. It was important to talk to the federal investigation team soon. It became imperative to arrange a meeting, but I still hoped they would come to me first. I didn't want to appear guilty.
Later, as I worked with FBI agents searching the gulch for Ted's camps and caches, they confirmed that early on I had been a suspect and was thoroughly investigated.
But at the time, I explained my concerns to Butch Gehring, knowing he had spent time with the FBI. He recommended I keep tight-lipped about the typewriters and other materials that might appear incriminating, at least for a while longer until they were sure Ted had acted alone. Even though Butch knew I wasn't guilty of any crime, this was a high profile case. The agents were out for blood.
My meeting with the agents would come soon enough, but even knowing I would eventually be cleared, it was impossible not to be obsessed with the fact that I had unwittingly helped provide not only sanctuary, knowledge and instruction, but also the materials needed to wage an eighteen-year reign of terror. The scrap piles, not only at my Lincoln shop, but also the larger ones behind the house up the gulch, included every type of metal, electrical w iring, switch, and any other part needed to construct a bomb; plus the construction and testing of bombs could have been carried out in the complete privacy of my gulch. Ted knew these items in my salvage piles couldn't be traced. He even had easy access to arc and acetylene welders, drill presses, files, grinders, and every other tool. He could borrow anything and I likely wouldn't miss it because of the sheer volume of materials and tools located there.
I also felt great sympathy for the unsuspecting victims and their families, picked at random, who had met their fate at the hand of the mad bomber.
My wife comforted me often, saying, "There's no way you could have known."
What she said was true, but the haunting feeling will never leave me completely.
The Investigation Begins
Three days had passed since Ted's arrest with absolutely no peace to be found at home or at the Lincoln Center when I taught piano. I finally cancelled lessons for a while, at least until things quieted down. The way it was going, that wouldn't be anytime soon.
Reporters dogged me everywhere I went. It didn't take any of them long to figure out what my pickup looked like, so even if they saw me traveling up or down Stemple Road they would whip a U-turn and follow me to my destination. I tried to be courteous and talk to each one, but I still stood firm and didn't divulge any information.
In Helena, Ted was being held in the Lewis and Clark County jail's 8-by-lO-foot protective custody cell with a bulletproof window through which the jailers could watch him twenty-four hours a day. The constant observation, even in his most private moments, was a far cry from the solitude of his mountain cabin.
As the Easter weekend neared and temperatures reached into the upper sixties, the long bitter winter was finally coming to a close. Ted was finally warm, but in a hard jail cell where he certainly wouldn't enjoy the many spring smells of the forest.
As he was escorted across the asphalt lot and led into Helena's Federal Building and U.S. District Court on April 4, television cameras followed his every move. In homes across the country, his face filled television screens; the world got its first chance to study the Unabomber suspect. As I watched him on television, surrounded by federal agents and a crushing throng of media people, I could see the same look of confidence on his face that I had grown to know so well. His hair and beard had been slightly cropped and cleaned, surely a concession for his first court appearance, but his head was held high and his eyes were calm, showing neither fear nor intimidation. On a
couple of Occasions he een seemed to Hash an arrogant sneer. It reminded me of times \ hen I had seen led convey a disdain for eer-day people in Lincoln.
Meanwhile, defense and prosecuting attorneys around the country were discussing what a difficult case this would be to prove in court, and information about the first bits of solid e idence linking Ted to the mail bombings and the manifesto was being leaked to the media.
On April 5, various news agencies reported two manual typewriters were taken from Kaczynski's cabin and that one of them was probably used to type his letters and the manifesto. An unnamed federal agent in Washington, D.C., told the Associated Press, "It looks like the manifesto and the letters from the Unabomber were type
d on" one of the machines.
In Helena's federal court an affidavit was filed with information about other items found in the cabin: three-ring binders containing writings and sketches; hand-written notes describing chemical compounds that could be used in explosives; pipes of various types and sizes; containers of chemicals; papers and logs of experiments; a cylindrical package that appeared to be a partially completed pipe bomb; books on electrical circuitry; and tools. Much more from the cabin would be logged and then entered into evidence, but the search was slow and methodical because of the fear of booby traps, another unnamed agent said.
Members of the local and national press were relentless, talking to anyone who seemed to have a shred of information about Kaczynski. A drop of knowledge soon attracted a torrent of media attention. For many people in Lincoln, merely remembering a chance meeting with the now infamous suspect was worth a front page story or an interview^ on the nightly news. Just listening to media questions and carefully going over and logging each name and telephone number left on my answering machines at home and the Center seemed to be taking all my time.
By the afternoon of April 6, I was still very nervous about my potential involvement and that I hadn't yet been contacted by any of the investigators. Lincoln residents knew that besides FBI agents, postal inspectors, and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms
agents were in town. I was anxious to meet with authorities, and still hoped they would come to me before I had to make the arrangements to meet them. But the tension and stress were becoming almost unbearable.
Then about 1 P.M. a good friend called, local postmaster Don Pearson, whom I had known since he moved to Lincoln in March of 1990. Even though it was Saturday, everyone involved in the case was working extra hours.