Chapter 73: Cabin in the Woods
The Oil Workers Union director welcomed Theodore's team without hesitation. Within minutes, he'd assembled five young men from the Retired Workers Liaison Office, locals who knew every forgotten corner where old-timers might've ended up.
Armed with hand-drawn maps, the teams spread across Felton. Canvas until noon, then meet at Murphy's Diner.
They stared at hundreds of red markers dotting the map. The scope had just doubled.
After a quick lunch, they divided the territory into five sectors. The forgotten spaces turned Theodore's stomach; tool rooms became graveyards, and basements flooded due to neglect.
In the second basement, Theodore and Bernie dragged out a waterlogged corpse. Gary examined it, his three-piece suit incongruous against the decay. "Likely drowned," he concluded.
Three more bodies. Same verdict. Eleven corpses total by day's end, plus mountains of refuse and several living homeless souls. One detective nearly took a rattlesnake bite.
The workshop remained phantom.
Exhaustion weighed heavily on everyone's shoulders as they agreed to resume the following day. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like angry wasps as they filed out into the gathering dusk.
Day three brought Gary stumbling to their meeting spot like a man fleeing demons. His usual pristine appearance had crumbled, the same wrinkled suit from yesterday, hair resembling a bird's abandoned nest. Instead of climbing into the car, he planted himself in front of it like a roadblock.
"Buddy, you need to 'determine' something right now," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "We need to leave. Immediately."
Bernie leaned out the driver's window, his tone softened by two days of reluctant partnership. "What's eating you, Gary?"
Gary's hands shook as he produced a crumpled sketch of a skull. His friend had identified the circular fracture as a result of a high-energy impact, likely caused by a projectile collision.
Theodore saw it immediately. The rotted rope. Hunter's traps. They'd been searching the wrong place entirely.
Bernie understood first, childhood memories of mountain hunting with his grandfather. His eyes widened, pointing at Gary, then Theodore.
Gary's forensic error had wasted twenty man-days while the real crime scene lay in the mountain wilderness. The young analyst looked like he'd swallowed glass.
Theodore felt the weight of wasted effort, twenty man-days searching in circles while the trail grew colder. His entire profile had hinged on Gary's forensic analysis, and that foundation had just cracked.
Gary understood the magnitude of his error. He'd been drawn to detective work after studying Theodore and Bernie's case files, fascinated by their methodical brilliance.
The forensic supervisor position at West District had seemed like a calling to destiny. Each morning, he'd chosen his clothes with care, approaching the job like a sacred ritual.
Now that devotion felt like mockery.
Theodore harboured no anger toward the young forensic analyst. Gary's mistake was born of inexperience, not negligence. Instead, he inquired about the additional evidence, the coyote specimen and the rope knots.
Gary's friend had been thorough: the coyote taxidermy dated back at least seven years. The rope originated from local mountain forests, its craftsmanship earning grudging professional respect from an experienced hunter.
The pieces clicked into place with mechanical precision. Mountain forest. Hunter's domain. Seven years of patience.
Nashville County granted authorisation and offered manpower. When county detectives recognised Theodore and Bernie, enthusiasm crackled through their ranks.
Bernie selected a team familiar with mountain terrain. Three days later, they found it.
The hidden valley lay tucked into the western range like a secret pocket, three miles from Felton's edge. Rock walls enclosed it on three sides, the entrance a narrow crack that forced men to walk single-file.
Inside, a circular platform stretched seven hundred feet across, nature's own amphitheatre.
Dense vines curtained the entrance. Ponderosa pines stood sentinel around the perimeter. And scattered through the approaches like deadly seeds, dozens of hunters' traps waited with mechanical patience.
Time had dulled their teeth. Most springs had rusted, most triggers warped beyond function. But several county detectives examined them with professional appreciation, the work of a master craftsman who understood both prey and predator.
Bernie lifted a length of rotted rope from a snare mechanism, its black fibres crumbling at his touch. Yet the weaving pattern, the knot work, was identical to the rope that had bound the forearm bone.
The cabin squatted at the valley's heart like a wooden toad. No smoke rose from its chimney. No movement stirred behind dark windows. But the assembled lawmen took no chances.
"Police! Anyone inside, come out with your hands visible!"
Their shouts echoed off stone walls and died among the pines. Only silence answered.
They waited. Called again. When no response came, they began the methodical work of clearing every trap, every potential ambush point. A Nashville County detective whistled low as he studied the defensive perimeter.
"Whoever built this place was preparing for war."
Only when the last snare had been disabled did the tension ease. Some detectives clustered around the more elaborate traps, marveling at their ingenuity. Others followed Theodore toward the cabin, eager to witness legendary detective work in action.
Theodore stood before the weathered door, his hand on the iron latch. Seven years of questions waited on the other side of that threshold. He took a breath that tasted of pine needles and old secrets, then pushed the door wide.