Unabomber : the secret life of Ted Kaczynski

by Waits, Chris

  After agents Max Noel and Dave Weber returned to California, I continued my field investigations whenever possible, trying to solve the remaining mysteries in my gulch. Dave and I both shared a keen interest in gathering every possible detail relating to Ted's life in the Lincoln area and his survival methods in the uninhabited wilderness.

  We talked on the phone regularly. When Dave referred to Ted's plan to escape to Canada, I thought Ted was well aware other criminals had been quite successful evading the law in Montana's high country. Two cases received extensive coverage in the Montana press during Ted's Lincoln years.

  The most notorious was that of the father-son duo of Don and Dan Nichols, who kidnapped twenty-two-year-old world-class biath-lete Kari Swenson July 15, UAS3 while she was on a trainin
  During a rescue attempt the next day, she was shot in the right lung by Dan Nichols, and a rescuer w as shot and killed by Don. They dumped the wounded Swenson, who had been kidnapped to be the "mountain bride" of Dan, the younger Nichols, out of a sleeping bag and left her for dead at the camp.

  Don and Dan then evaded a small army of law enforcement officials—in helicopters and planes, and on foot and horseback—for the next fie months in the rugged Madison Range in southwestern Montana. They w ere fmally arrested near Bear Trap Canyon along the Madison River as winter set in.

  A second case involved the murders of Lincoln-area ranchers Kenneth McLean and his wife, Marion, in September 1977.

  Andrew Sunday and his small entourage of ruffians from Nebraska had stolen horses and tack from the McLeans' beautiful resort ranch east of Lincoln and ridden off into the mountains. The McLeans were shot and killed after they discovered the theft and tracked the group into an open meadow some ten miles away in the Alice Creek drainage.

  The horses were spooked during the shoot-out, so Sunday and his two companions took the McLeans' pickup and fled. They were arrested several days later east of Spokane w hen they attempted to pick up a money order that had been wired to them. Ted surely noted their fatal mistake, knowing their chances of escape would have been much better on foot in the wilderness areas to the north.

  Ted must have been acutely cognizant of the Nichols' superior escape plan. Lawmen found it almost impossible to apprehend fugitives Don and Dan in the rugged terrain. Ted, so cunning and well versed in wilderness survival, would be even harder to find.

  As the summer days shortened and another Montana w inter loomed, I had to break off field w ork to build a new garage w ith guest quarters overhead.

  But the investigation had taken all my time and I wasn't able to pour the concrete for the floor and foundation until August 19.

  We designed the garage as a two-stor' structure, almost like a small

  chalet. Since I had to fell and skid trees and mill out all the lumber on my one-man sawmill, the job ahead was huge, especially considering the mountain seasons are so unpredictable—winter can arrive to stay almost any time after the end of September.

  Nervous that I would be subpoenaed to testify, I kept asking Dave when the witness list would come out. Butch Gehring and I also discussed the trial every time we saw each other and both wondered what we'd be asked to do.

  I absolutely didn't want to go to California to testify, but that wouldn't be a matter of choice.

  Finally Dave said the witness list wouldn't be released until November. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that should give me enough time to enclose the garage for the harsh winter. If it wasn't sealed in by November, it'd be too late anyway.

  Dave also mentioned another piece of surprising trial strategy during that conversation. He warned me I might also be called as a defense witness.

  That brought to mind a sobering scenario: being grilled on the witness stand by both sides. I wasn't afraid to testify, but I was nervous about a prolonged, drawn-out trial keeping me away from home during the winter months because Betty would have to manage everything at our remote mountain home alone.

  Dave and I continued our phone conversations several times a week through the early fall. He said he wanted to get back to Lincoln by himself so we could conduct more field work. We knew there were unsolved issues. Also, there was Ted's secret cabin and all its contents.

  Dave said he wanted to pick up the evidence and wrap up the final details.

  At that time it wasn't clear why he and Max hadn't taken any evidence with them in late July. But whatever they decided to do, or not to do, the cabin and its contents were documented. Every item was safe and preserved for the short term at the cabin site.

  I called Dave in September to get his new address since the entire Unabom Task Force—its offices, computers, everything—had been moved to some anonymous offices located in the Sacramento federal building. They made the move as discreetly as possible to avoid media attention.

  On 1 hursday, October 2, Dac called and described a website, named "Soft Kill," recently posted on the Internet. It ^ave names of people in Lincoln w ho had talked to the press or had been inter iewed by the FBI. The website called for harassment of those listed. Dave said some threats had been posted. The site's creator had been traced and arrested for obstruction of justice, he said.

  Nothing really was surprising anymore. There seemed to be no break in the ominous cloud that hung over us all as Ted's legacy; new manifestations surfaced on a regular basis.

  I was furiously working on the garage, trying to beat the winter weather. Rain and snow flurries made roof work impossible on several occasions, but then a beautiful late fall high pressure system built over western Montana and I knew, even though working alone, that I'd be able to button up the roof and finish the framing and sheeting—if only the phone would stop ringing.

  As Ted's trial neared, the media attention again intensified. There was one distraction after another.

  On October 14, Dave called and left a message while I was working on the roof. He caught me by surprise, saying government psychiatrists were on their way up to see me. He apologized for the short notice, but explained it had been planned that way so the press wouldn't get wind of the visit.

  I returned his call, w^ondering when they would arrive, since I was trying to complete the roof and the weatherman was now predicting snow^ and colder weather that night.

  This might be the last nice day for roof work, but Dave didn't have any more information other than to say the doctors were on a tight schedule and needed to interview Butch and me that day.

  I climbed back on the roof and screw ed down waferboard sheeting until a rented Ford Explorer drove up into the yard a couple of hours later.

  Four people got out as I climbed down the ladder. Max Noel was the only familiar person. He was extremely cheerful.

  He introduced the others as FBI agent Kathy Puckett and two doctors, Philip Resnick and Park Dietz, both psychiatrists working for the government.

  Max spoke glowingly about the beautiful and unspoiled country

  and all the places we had explored during the past summer. Then he turned and asked if he could hike around and enjoy his time while the doctors conducted their interview.

  "Certainly, you know you're welcome," I replied.

  With that Max disappeared and the rest of us sat down outside. It was a beautiful late fall afternoon, one of those almost-too-good-to-be-true days that usually ride the leading edge of an approaching cold weather system.

  Drs. Dietz and Resnick pulled out their tablets and pens and started the interview. I kept close mental notes of everything that was said.

  Agent Puckett said very little, and Dr. Dietz asked the bulk of the questions. He cycled through the questions on Ted's apparent mental state, returning again and again to the same basic question phrased slightly differently: what were Ted's "emotions" like when I first knew him and more recently, his "temperament," his "demeanor." Were his actions "open or secretive," were they "paranoid".^ Did he seem "irrational," or "coherent" or "abnormal" or "unfriendly" or "wit
hdrawn".^ With each new phrasing, Dr. Dietz asked whether the change had been gradual or abrupt. Another series of questions pursued what "obviously upset him": things I did or said, things others did or said, complaints Ted may have made about people or events around us, any time I saw him lose his temper.

  Dr. Dietz wanted to know about our conversations, also: four questions on the quality and occurrence of Ted's eye contact (in general, while he spoke or I spoke, and how direct it was), his vocabulary, what we talked about and what he said that I found unusual, who initiated our talks and who dominated them.

  Interspersed were questions about Ted's wardrobe and grooming. I described his two kinds of clothing, his somewhat nicer going-to-town clothes and his everyday garb, which he never washed and wore until it was "indecent" and would no longer stay on his body.

  When asked if Ted had an offensive odor, I said it was a smoky, musty, musky smell. Other people had noticed it, too. I said that when Ted would leave the library one of the workers, or the librarian herself, would liberally spray the interior with a deodorizer to mask the strong pungent smell that lingered. Dietz asked whether this odor ever prevented me from offering rides or visiting, and I said "Absolutely

  not." I knew that Ted's heat st()e leaked smoke and ash. He had no bathroom faeihties and when the weather w as bad he would reliex e himself in a newspaper and then burn it in his stoxe. Diet/ later returned to this topic to ask w hether 'Ibd physical state seemed to decline.

  Another point Dietz pursued was the quality of our friendship, whether it seemed genuine or whether Ted was using me. Was it onesided or mutual, and had it deepened or become strained over the years.^ Had our contact increased or decreased over the years.'^ When asked whether Ted ever was unfriendly, I explained that he hadn't been so to me, but had towards Betty.

  The other area Dietz asked about was how much of his personal history Ted had revealed: home, family, education, girlfriends. I said I knew he had gone to college, but not for how long, or where.

  They didn't stay long after the interview concluded. Max said they still had to stop down the road and visit with Butch. Then they'd drive to Lincoln before heading back to Helena to catch their plane.

  The whole interview lasted several hours and that time proved to be a crucial loss on the roofing project. After they left, I worked late into the evening before calling it quits in the pitch dark.

  The next morning a fresh, wet snowfall draped the forest with an early winter look and made roofing extremely dangerous. Disappointed, I drove to Lincoln to pick up some nails and screws at the hardware store.

  I ran into a few Lincoln friends and quickly discovered the town was buzzing—the shroud of secrecy regarding the psychiatrists w^as a joke. Not only did everyone seem to know they had been in town, but after leaving Butch's, the entire group spent the rest of the late afternoon and evening dining and socializing at a local steakhouse.

  There are few secrets in a small town. Whom they interviewed was not one of them. Once again the leaks came directly from the very source that demanded secrecy on our part.

  Back at home, I checked the answering machine and found new-media messages and more calls coming in at a rapid pace. The word had spread quickly that the psychiatrists had visited.

  Some secrecy!

  During the next two weeks I faced a juggling act between spend-

  ing every possible moment working on the garage, in spite of the inclement weather, and fielding the continuing barrage of phone calls.

  The psychiatrists' visit had only intensified interest.

  Everyone on the outside seemed to know. Calls poured in from all over the country, including ones from the Los Angeles Times, Time magazine, and Newsweek, with reporters wanting to know every detail about the interviews.

  Finally, I let the answering machine be the secretary, noted who left messages and when, but refused to return a single call because of the confidentiality of the case.

  Working on the roof gave me plenty of time to mull over some of the puzzling actions of the past several months.

  The things of most concern were the secret cabin and why the FBI had left vital evidence behind. Clues gleaned from the psychiatrists seemed to support my theory that the defense didn't know of it. They didn't ask any direct questions about the secret cabin, as if it didn't exist. At one point I brought up the subject, but they passed over it and went to another question like they hadn't heard anything.

  During our phone conversations, I often asked Dave if Ted and the defense team were aware the secret cabin had been discovered. His usual reply was "No, Fm pretty sure they still don't know."

  It seemed strange. The prosecution had so much evidence against Ted, why would they risk the potential damage of going against the basic rules of discovery in a criminal case.^

  But it would be hard to refute evidence to the contrary. A fingerprint, which I felt sure was Ted's, had been left clearly imprinted in the black paint on the brush handle found in the cabin, locked there like a fossil, and much of his clothing was found inside. Plus his journal entries and other pieces of evidence, including Ted's own handwritten notations on a cabin wall, were convincing proof he used the cabin often.

  There was one thing for certain: I wouldn't lie if asked about the cabin by the judge or even the defense.

  It seemed the prosecution still wanted the 30-30 rifle because of the serial number. But they didn't want to examine anything else, figuring then they wouldn't have to inform the defense about the secret cabin.The only plausible explanation seemed to be they were going for the jugular and wanted the death penalty.

  It was no secret that an insanity defense was probably Ted's only chance to escape the death penalty. The defense's plan to use his home cabin to show a pattern of isolationism, and thus his mental state, was widely reported. They had trucked Ted's home cabin from Great Falls to Sacramento so the jur' could examine the oppressive structure and even walk through it.

  At one point, defense lawyxr Quin Denvir said that to enter the cabin was to enter the troubled mind of Kaczynski, who Denvir believed was a paranoid schizophrenic. The defense wanted to show he wasn't an evil person, but a sick one.

  The prosecution indicated it would oppose an insanity defense and the use of the cabin as evidence for that reason.

  If Ted's 10-by-12-foot home cabin, which had been located near other homes and cabins, portrayed paranoid schizophrenia, what would an 8-by-8-foot secret cabin, located high on a mountainside miles from others, do to help the defense's case.'^ It was obvious to me the prosecution didn't want to find out. It seemed as though it had become personal. They wanted Ted executed.

  These theories and ideas were supported further when on Wednesday, October 29, a woman parked out on the main road and approached as I was working out in the yard. She introduced herself as Susan Garvey, a member of Ted's California-based defense team. Knowing I had refused to meet with defense lawyers the previous fall, she wondered if I might now be willing to talk.

  It seemed like the situation had changed, and I definitely wanted to confirm my theory about the secret cabin, so I said we could. We ended up standing in the yard for the better part of two hours, discussing Ted and the case.

  She described in great detail the need for jurors to learn as much as possible about the area where Ted lived.

  Of course, she wanted to know if I liked Ted and considered him a friend. I told her I had, until he refused to see me after inviting me to visit him in the Helena jail, and asked her to tell Ted I had forgiven him for that. She covered the ground of what our interactions had been over the years. I mentioned that I had trusted Ted and was glad to have him roaming about my gulch, believing he would tell me if he noticed anything unusual happening.

  She asked what I thought about the supposedly secret visit from the "shrinks," and what they had asked; I wouldn't answer. Later she inquired what I thought about Ted's refusal to submit to a psychiatric exam, and I said it didn't surprise me; knowing Ted, I though
t he wouldn't want to be accused of being crazy. I also explained that Ted's lifestyle wasn't that unusual for this area and I had lived much the same way early on, before I was married. She referred to Ted's dirty skin and torn clothing at the time of his arrest, so I told her I thought he may have been sheltering in his root house during the cold nights.

  We discussed many other topics that others had wanted to know about, but the time was fleeting and there was plenty to cover, so we decided to talk more the next day. She was working with another person from the defense team, Courtney Bell. I was sure they would take the information shared and use it to structure trial questioning. With jury selection slated to begin in mere days, time was of the essence for both the defense and the prosecution.

  Evening came with the usual phone calls. Despite the intense media pressure there was little new information in stories about Ted. It was apparent no one else knew about Ted's twenty-five-year secret life in Lincoln. Certain reporters also realized that and were beginning to zero in on me. There wasn't much I could do about it, so I was just glad to live within the boundaries and safety of my gulch, shielded by my answering machine.

  Betty and I turned in early that night. I was really feeling bad about what the case had done to her. It had not only been causing a huge disruption in our private lives, but it also had affected Betty personally. She wasn't able to go anywhere without being asked questions. It also was taking much time away from things that needed to be done. She was very understanding, but would be glad when it was all over.

  The following morning the weather had changed for the worse— disappointing, but not surprising. A cold wind was blowing from the west and light rain was trying to turn into snow, especially higher on the mountainside where it started to cling to the trees. Bad weather was inevitable, as it was the end of October. We were living on borrowed time, weatherwise.

  Around noon Susan drove up into the yard. I met her outside and