A Wicked Snow

at her home in Deer Lake, November 1972. It had been more than four years since Crowe’s disappearance. According to the report, the sister gave up looking after three years.

Bauer parked the rental car, a maroon Pacer with a tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror, in front of the white-gabled house that had been converted to the duplex that had been Barbara Layton’s home for the past decade. A hand-lettered sign pitched next to the mailbox fringed with icicles indicated the other unit was available for rent.

Barbara Layton came to the door in a cloud of smoke. A cigarette hung from her lip; deep pink lipstick crept into the fissures around her mouth. She looked older than her years—late fifties, according to the FBI file. Bauer introduced himself, and the woman with the nicotine-ravaged voice extended her arm and motioned him inside. A wood stove sent out a blast of dry heat that nearly knocked him to the braided rug–scattered floor. She offered coffee and Bauer accepted.

“He never got over DeAnn’s death,” Barbara said. “And, of course, the baby, too.”

DeAnn had been the name tattooed with the image of a red rose with a broken and bleeding stem on his forearm.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Bauer said, acknowledging the death of the man before asking questions that would form the backbone of his investigation. He launched into a few rudimentary facts and emphasized that the case was only beginning and more, hopefully much more, would be known later. She said she understood and told the handsome young man that she would be grateful for any information he came across.

“I want to know what happened to him. I want to know if the man, the handyman they arrested out there in Oregon, did it. I expect he did. And I want an answer. For my brother. He was decent and deserves that much.”

“All victims deserve nothing less,” he said. As Bauer brought out a tablet of paper and a silver Cross pen, his eyes fastened on a photo atop a creaky table crowded with spider plants and cloudy jars of rooting cuttings. The framed photo pictured a man in an army uniform.

“Mr. Crowe?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the photograph in the chrome frame.

“Yes, that’s my brother…” Her voice fell to a near whisper. “I knew he was dead. I’ve known for a long time. Even so, this is very, very hard.” Her eyes watered.

Bauer would later say that was the only time the woman would express anything that resembled emotion. It was fleeting, but unmistakable. While she stirred heaping spoons of freeze-dried coffee into earthenware mugs, she told Bauer that while she had loved her brother, the truth was they had not remained particularly close. He left Idaho for the military and never really looked back.

“Oh, after he retired,” she said bitterly, “he said he’d come back here and live. I’m alone, you know. My husband ran out on the kids and me thirty years ago. Talk about a real jerk. The kids live on the coast now. No one wants to stick around Deer Lake.”

“That must be rough,” Bauer said, steering the woman back to her brother’s life. “I’m sorry about your brother. Your …loss.”

Barbara dropped powdered creamer into her cup. “You know, I’m kind of glad that he’s dead,” she said.

Bauer looked at her, but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

“I realize it sounds a bit harsh,” she said, “and I don’t mean for it to be that way. It’s just that with him being dead, I know that he’s not coming back to Deer Lake. I know that I don’t have to wait. He was never really happy after he lost DeAnn anyway.”

Bauer pretended to understand, though he couldn’t quite grasp it. He’d rather have hope than finality, if indeed it meant the death of a loved one.

The dead man’s sister lit another cigarette and told Bauer that she had no firsthand knowledge of who Claire Logan and Marcus Wheaton were or why her brother would have landed in Oregon in the first place. She only knew what she had seen on television. As a way of appeasing the young man who had traveled so far, she offered him a box of her brother’s belongings.

“I have some of his papers if you want to go through them; you’re welcome to take them with you. Just send them back when you’re done.”

She held out a shoebox, and Bauer took it.

“Special Agent Bauer,” Layton said, holding the door open, “is it true that they found a dozen dead bodies out there in Oregon?”

“Twenty, ma’am, counting the dead woman and the two boys.”

“Were the others, the seventeen, were they all army? That’s what I heard. That’s what everyone is saying.”

Bauer shook his head. “Not all. I’m not really supposed to say. The investigation has just started.” Her eyes were so pained that he found it hard to refuse her simple request. “Not all army,” he said, “some are Marines. Even a couple of navy guys.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. “I mean, I wonder why?”

“We don’t know. Not yet.”

Special agents in six other states conducted interviews similar to Bauer’s chat with Barbara Layton. It turned out that Cyrus Crowe and the others unearthed at the Logan farm shared a number of similarities beyond their pursuit of a military career. All had been single and lonely. All but four had been sixty or older when they disappeared. All had few close relatives to report them missing, though in actuality most had been reported missing by someone. In some cases, there had been more than one report made.

One agent made the trek to rural Liberty, Mississippi, and talked to a woman who had filed a report with the Jackson police two years before. She was convinced her friend—a man who raised pigeons and cut her lawn with a riding mower—had met foul play on a trip out to Seattle or somewhere out there.

“But nothin’ was done. I called three times! The cops only do so much before they give up,” she said. “After a while I gave up. Someone else cuts my grass and I let his pigeons go. Thought he’d be real mad at me for that. But I guess not.”

A retired Marine from Pittsburgh named Conrad “Connie” Patterson was also a loner. Connie was discovered missing when his Chinese pugs, Ding and Sing, weren’t collected as promised. The dog kennel owner reported it because he had to bathe the pugs a second time—four days after the owner didn’t show up.

“I still have Ding and Sing,” the kennel owner said. “Nice dogs. Nice guy, too.”

An army officer from Weed, California, was the oldest at seventy-three. He had a thirty-year career in the military before opening a secondhand store in the small northern California town. Business hadn’t been great, and when the man turned the grimy cardboard sign over to CLOSED never to flip it back, no one cared but the landlord. The agent who was dispatched from San Francisco to Weed filed a brief report: “No contacts made. No one knows anything about the victim.”

Darrin Hoadley left behind two daughters when he disappeared. The women, both in their late twenties, couldn’t stop crying when the agent, a woman, came calling three days after Christmas.

“We knew something like this would happen,” the elder of the daughters muttered. “He wouldn’t have left us for good… not without a reason.”

“How could this happen?” the other said, a blonde with violet eye shadow and an overbite.

The special agent, a seasoned veteran from the Salt Lake City field office named Donna Andrews, pulled some tissue from her purse.

“We’re doing our best to get to the bottom of it,” Andrews soothed.

“You’d better,” the older sister said, her anger barely contained and ever close to seeping to the surface. “I want someone to pay for this! Our father was a good man. For Christ’s sake, he was a man of God!”

The three talked for two hours in a room the female agent had rented at a motel, though she had no intention of staying overnight. Both sisters were married to staunch Mormons and didn’t want to talk about the investigation in their homes.

As in the case with the others, it appeared that Chaplain Hoadley was like the others—single. His wife had divorced him when she could no longer take the months apart when he was at sea. The girls were ten and seven at the time and saw their father only occasionally over the first few years following the divorce. Even so, somehow they managed to remain close.