Unabomber : the secret life of Ted Kaczynski
Page 21
My mind was locked on the pages while I mentally catalogued and memorized each one.
Dave concentrated on setting up the GPS as I read. I even gained a little extra time because the GPS was a new model and he wasn't sure how it operated, aggravated by the fact he had left the instruction manual in their Lincoln motel room.
As I studied Ted's documents describing the buried caches, it was impossible not to notice the meticulously detailed and descriptive legends included with each hand-sketched diagram. Each tree and sapling surrounding a cache was identified by species and measured to within a quarter of an inch. Ted not only measured and noted the depth of the hole he dug to hold an ammo box, for instance, but he also precisely measured the distance from the top of the container to ground level after it was placed in the hole.
Then he carefully inventoried the ammo box's content in minuscule detail. Food w^as identified and then equated into the caloric intake needed to sustain a person in the wilderness.
The basic human needs and the staples stored in the cache w^ere calculated to within 1/lOOth of an ounce or gram, "3 bags flour, each containing 2 days' ration of flour at 5.33 oz per day, being 75% whole wheat, 25% white flour, total 32 oz. flour." He used mathematical symbols to describe stored food amounts, e.g.: "1 bag milk (= [approximately equal to] 6.7 oz.)."
Ted also kept track of ever^ round of ammunition for each of the four calibers of gun he owned, not only the live rounds in his possession, but every spent cartridge as w ell.
He never fired unless he thought it w as a sure shot, w hether at a running rabbit at night or a standing coyote at long range. He kept a tally of his ammo supply, how each round was used and whether it w^as a hit or miss. That information was entered into mathematical
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Ji LY 14, 1975 [Kaczvnski joirnal]
One morning I went down from my camp to the lower areas to look for deer. While sitting on a stump to rest, I heard some noise in the woods, and then a large cow elk broke out into a logged over area—followed by 3 coyotes! The elk was clearly upset—but the coyotes left off the chase probably having concluded that that big old elk was too tough for them, and stood around as if trying to decide what to do next. I tried a shot at one from a long way off— didn't want to try to sneak up too much since coyotes are so sharp. I thought I ought to hit it, but I missed, probably because the rifle went off before I was ready for it. The trouble is that the .30-06 has a lighter trigger pull than my 21. Unconsciously following my practice with the .22, I put a certain amount of pressure on the trigger before I was quite ready to fire. Anyw^ay, I got all depressed again, over wasting a 30(/: cartridge like that.
[from Kaczinsky's Spanish-language journal,
TRANSLATED BY LANGUAGE SERVICES UnIT.
Words in italics were English in the original.] June 23. [1981]
It was maybe 4 weeks ago I shot a ground-hog; {ground-hog; i.e., yellow-belUedmarmot), near my cabin.
I shot it at the head; knocked it out and got blood at the site; but before I could get it, he recovered enough to go to the burrow. Although I spent a lot of time digging the burrow, I could not get it....[Expletive]! This puts my average {average) under 90%; I mean, my average since last August. So, without a doubt, I will raise my average again...
I was amazed w^hen I read further and noted the detailed information regarding the ammunition Ted had stashed in one of his buried
caches or carried with him. He not only recorded the number of rounds for each caHber, but also the grain weight and composition of each bullet, e.g.:
Kaczynski's handwritten ammunition inventory 74 rounds 180 grain .30-06, 12 rounds 220 grain .30-06, 10 rounds 150 grain .30-06, 5 rounds 170 grain .30-30.
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If that wasn't enough, he went on to describe the type of bullet as well, e.g., bronze point, silver tip, soft nose, etc.
The more I read the more the inconsistency of Ted's life unfolded. Here was a person obsessed with neatly organizing and assigning mathematical detail to everything around him, yet the design and construction of his root cellar, for example,
was a feeble attempt at construction. It lacked signs of even the most
basic building skills, resembling more a child's fort than an important
structure necessary to store and protect food.
Time seemed to stand still as I studied the documents. But then
I was nudged back to reality as I looked up and noticed Max taking
our photograph from a spot slightly below us.
Max walked through the lodgepole tree trunks to the GPS and he
couldn't say enough about the beauty, solitude, and tranquility of my
iz;ulch. It was apparent he fully understood the reasons Ted had spent so mueh time up here. What a eontrast to their heetie lifestyle li in
Da e and Max were invited to come back any time. They both said they'd love to return with their wi es for a vacation after the l^nabom saga concluded.
After Dave obtained the CjPS coordinates we all moved back to the secret cabin, set up my tripod, and prepared to take pictures of the cabin with all three of us standing in front of it.
As we stood there the agents joked and exchanged lewd remarks, w hich shocked me, ranging from one suggestion that we all drop our pants and "moon" Ted from his secret cabin, to other options much worse.
I wanted no part of the whole affair and was even less impressed when the conversation shifted to speculation about how Ted might accept the presentation of some "special photographs" if they were anonymously sent to him in his prison cell.
To me, it w^asn't that Ted didn't deserve a taste of his own medicine, but rather that I didn't approve of lowering myself or the agents to his level.
The more I learned about Ted and his secret agenda of hatred and reengc the harder I found it to understand him and also the motivation of a small number of Lincoln people who were forming Ted's "bleeding hearts club," corresponding with him on a regular basis and projecting him as a gentle and misunderstood genius. They were either blinded to the truth or refused to look at it. I wondered what their feelings would have been if a spouse or child had been Ted's victim.
After posing for pictures in front of the cabin and studying some of the more important evidence inside, we talked about moving on to a couple of Ted's campsites and returning to the cabin at a later time. They felt it would be time well spent, allowing Max and Dave a chance to become more familiar with the terrain while looking for new clues.
We dropped straight down the mountain searching for sites that fit the descriptions in Ted's drawings.
The more we hiked and talked together, the more I learned about
Ted's writings and the containers he used to conceal things. They ranged from waterproof steel ammunition boxes to glass and plastic jars and bottles.
Most of these caches were dug deep, a foot and a half or more beneath the forest floor, e.g., "Depth of hole in which cartridges are buried, 18". Distance of uppermost part of jars from surface of soil,
about 15"."
The FBI
agents were anxious to fmd at l
east one of the caches. Its discovery, along with that of the secret cabin, would help prove in court that Ted's journals were valid and reliable descriptions of his life.
Such evidence would also lend cre-dence to some of Ted's other writings, that is, if he wrote about burying an ammo can and it was there, then when he wrote about sending a mail bomb to somebody it was arguably a fact and not just fantasy or a symbolic entry.
We all were convinced that what he wrote he meant, down to every ounce of salt he used.
The irony of it all! In spite of his efforts to live in obscurity, his methodical practice of recording nearly everything now exposed his entire life to the very FBI team he had just a few years before called a joke. The agents were defmitely enjoying this role reversal.
As we reached the creek bottom Max stopped for a second and
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pulled out more notes, deseriptions, and draw in^s and began reading them slow ly. One partieular passage eaught my attention and I told them it fit a spot nearby.
We headed up the next mountain, split up and began to search small caves and crevices located within some rock outcroppings.
The next hour or two passed slowly. We found nothing. Spirits were still high though and we knew if we could find even one cache it would be a major victor\
As I neared the edge of a ridge that ran like the tail of a 7? rex upward to the summit of the mountain, I spotted quite a few small animal bones strewn about in the soil and duff of a crevice in the rock outcropping.
I picked through the bleached remains and noticed something out of place, a small plastic bottle.
I shouted dow n to Max and Dave, "I've got something, come on up."
As they neared, I said it wasn't clear what I'd found and that I couldn't take all the credit for the discovery because some digging and burrowing animal had helped reveal the buried stash.
We stared at the small cylindrical plastic bottle, translucent white in color, but nobody w anted to touch or move it, fearing it might be one of Ted's hidden forest booby-traps.
Finally Max grabbed a long stick, stepped back as far as possible and nudged the bottle slightly. Nothing happened, so his confidence grew and he carefully slid it onto a rolled-up piece of his notebook paper and then onto the top of the notebook.
Max removed the waterproof snap lid from the container, which was about three to four inches in length and an inch and a half in diameter, and we all stared in amazement at what w^e saw^ inside.
Bomb components! Along w ith small coils of solder the small bottle was packed with miniature wire connectors, the uninsulated, flat, fold-over type designed to crimp two wires alongside each other. The thin exposed edges of the connectors also would have doubled as deadly shrapnel in an explosive device.
"This is exactly the kind of thing that Ted would have and carry," Max said.
He was convinced Ted had stopped to rest and scan the countrv^
from atop the large rock outcropping directly overhead and had accidentally lost the container from his shirt or coat pocket.
Max's theory made sense. But there were a couple of other plausible scenarios.
I thought back to the late afternoon of October 1, 1996 when, after shutting down the dragline, there was a loud blast that sounded like it came from the exact area where we stood. Had this container been thrown through the woods by the explosion.^
It seemed unlikely Ted would have been careless enough to lose the bottle, since he obviously kept meticulous track of every item in his possession.
A second theory was logical as well. The small bottle of bomb parts could easily have been part of a larger cache carefully buried for future use, and a small animal burrowing through the earth brought it to the surface.
Later we scanned the area with a metal detector, but didn't find anything. The search wasn't conclusive, though, as it's difficult to obtain detector readings from metal items stored in heavy plastic containers.
Even though Max made up his mind Ted had accidentally dropped the bottle, I was determined to return another day. One way or other I would solve this mystery. Not only was the site located on my property, but I had vowed to the agents earlier that by the time we were finished Ted would have no remaining secrets in my gulch.
Max and Dave encouraged me to send Ted a package with pictures of his secret cabin with the three of us posing in front of it, pictures of his secret camps, and a letter describing our discoveries.
I thought about it, but knew he would continue to deny the truth.
Max carefully placed the small bottle of parts into his pack, and as we continued our search around the ridge our conversation turned to Ted's firearms and the types of ammunition he used.
Earlier, while I studied contents of an ammunition cache listed on one of the daily journal pages, one entry had stood out. It pertained to the number of rounds in a cache for his 30-30 rifie and it made me think of a discovery many years before.
It was clear at this point that Ted always meticulously described
the caliber, bullet \eii:;ht, and most of all, the number of rounds in each cache.
^et this particular entry read:
...lo^ lyin^i^ along a contour line of the hillside. About fifty, .30-30 cartridsi;es are buried under...
The word "about" jumped riii;ht off the page. It wasn't like Ted. Unless he arrived at the site and discovered his container was open and later, when he made the journal entr\ thought he might have lost a round or two as he hiked through the woods.
I told Max that years ago I had been walking in an area near where I now thought this cache might be located and had foimd a single 30-30 round lying in the rocky grael alongside the game trail. It was a live round and I picked it up, curious about its origin since I didn't own a 30-30 and nobody but Ted and I had been in the gulch for years.
"I w ish that you still had that round," Max said. "Maybe we could match it up not only to other unfired rounds, but to spent bullets recovered as well."
Both Max and Dave were amazed w hen I told them I had run across that ery bullet a couple of weeks earlier w hile cleaning out an old camper w here parts were stored.
Max asked if I could find it, and I replied I was sure Yd be able to as soon as we got home.
It was late afternoon so we decided to work our w ay back down the mountain and search along the way.
Max continued his questioning about the flora on the mountain.
While pointing out the variety and abundance of wild herbs and vegetables in the area, I identified, among others, the lomatium, ers-thronium, and yampa nearby.
"Yampa, Ted liked yampa," Max blurted out after recognizing the name.
He said Ted had written in his journals about using yampa in some of his stews.
Sept. 8, 1975
Today I w ent up in the meadows west of here to get
yampa. Digging was tough, but I got perhaps 3 cups anyway.
I dug some of the roots to let Max and Dave taste them. The lomatium (also called biscuitroot), and yampa (also called Indian carrot) smell just like
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carrots, but are bitter and pithy. Cooking removes some of the bitterness. The roots also can be cleaned, dried and ground into a flour for making cakes.
Ted had experimented with cross-pollinating some of these wild varieties of carrot with domestic ones. He found fair success with one cross-strain he called "Wild Carrot Big Yellow." He gave away some of the seeds obtained from his field experiments. Max was especially fascinated by the abundance of wild herbs, vegetables, and plants and the idea
they could provide not only excellent vitamins and nutrition, but were
tasty in salads as well.
Those facts, coupled with the medicinal values of many of the
plants—e.g., willow bark tea contains salicylates (co
mpounds similar
to that used in aspirin), an effective wilderness analgesic—proved to
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both Max and Dave the importance of understanding the endless larder and pharmacopoeia! supply the wilderness could provide.
We fmally reached the bottom of the gulch and worked our way back to where the agents had parked their vehicle.
Betty greeted us as we walked into the yard and asked questions about the day's excursion and what we had found.
"We weren't skunked," I said smiling.
Dave and Max started to share stories about the day and I disappeared for a minute to fmd the 30-30 bullet.
It didn't take long and when I walked back to where the three were talking, Max jumped up, looked in my hand and exclaimed, "Is that it.^"
"You bet, do you w^ant to take it with you.'^" I replied.
He nodded enthusiastically as I handed it over to him.
"It may not mean much to you, but it certainly does to us," Max explained.
We wrapped up the day with a lengthy discussion about our discoveries and then talked about our plan for the next day.
Being an eternal optimist, I was confident w^e'd have continued success. Max and Dave, both more conservative, tempered their optimism with a healthy dose of reality.
After they left, I wrote out detailed notes of our conversations and pages we had read from Ted's journals. Betty and I talked into the late evening hours. When we fmally went to bed I was mentally mapping all the places we could go the next morning.
I got up early, prepared my gear and w aited for Dave and Max to arrive. After making their morning phone calls they drove the seven miles from tow n to our house, ready to hit the trail.
Our agenda included plans to explore some of Ted's secret camps, several of which I had already located. I also knew about many of his favorite haunts since I had cut his tracks frequently or had seen him at other times, without his knowing I was anywhere near.