“This is where they found the shoe,” he points out.
I take out a picture and compare it to the area. There are definitely differences that come from the many years that have passed, but I can see that this is the same spot.
“But you saw her over there?” I ask.
Dean nods. “Yes. She was headed more in the direction of the campground. Not a direct path. More at an angle.”
He gestures, showing me which direction he means. I follow his point with my eyes and nod.
"Show me the cavern," I tell him.
"It's not an easy hike from here," he warns.
"I'll be fine," I shrug. "Xavier?"
"Just walk in front of me, and I'll walk where you walk," he says.
"So, what you're saying is if there's anything dangerous, I'm going to get to it first?" I ask.
"Yes," he says without hesitation.
I have to give it to him. He's direct.
Dean wasn't exaggerating when he said the hike was challenging from that spot. It takes more than an hour to get to the base of the rocks. I'm hot and exhausted by the time we get there. We take a few moments to drink from our water bottles at the base of the rocks before climbing up.
It always strikes me as surreal walking into what was once a crime scene but now shows no evidence of it. This is the spot where a little girl was found, yet there's nothing to mark it. There's no sign or plaque. No old crime scene tape. Nothing that sets this area apart from any of the others throughout the woods.
But it fits with the rest of the woods. Countless lives were lost here well before this was a national park. Not necessarily by any sort of nefarious means. Just families living out their lives here. And they are all but forgotten.
“I don't understand the bones,” I say, standing in the back portion of the cavern where Elsie supposedly discovered the sleeping bag of bones.
“What do you mean? They’re bones,” says Xavier.
“Yeah, but they never actually showed the bones on the investigation special,” I point out. “The camera stays outside with Elsie when Ken goes in to look. Then when the camera pans back to him, it focuses only on him, not on the bones. That strikes me as really odd.”
“Do you think they made it up?” Dean asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or the detective is right, and he just spooked himself when he saw the sleeping bag of a hiker who came by. But why didn't they show it? And if he did see what he claims to have, where did the bones and sleeping bag go?”
“Somebody must have come and taken them out,” Dean says. “That's the only explanation if they were actually there. You saw how long it took to hike up here.”
“That's true,” I acknowledge. “But Ken and his crew took a much more direct route. Remember, that live-stream was going on while we watched. We couldn't see where they were walking, but we knew when they were at the cavern and when they got back to the lake. It didn't take nearly as long as the hike we just did. Somebody would have had to have known they were going back down to the campground and would be gone long enough for him to get the bones, replace them with another sleeping bag, and get away before he was seen.”
“But why were the bones in there in the first place?” Xavier asks.
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
By the time we get back to the ranger's house, night is creeping in. I'm starving, but the kitchen facilities leave a lot to be desired. Dean starts a fire and as it burns down to a temperature that we can use to cook, Xavier goes inside to continue to tinker with his equipment.
I sit down beside Dean. He stares into the flames as if he's in another place. I wait for a few seconds for him to acknowledge me, but he doesn't. Finally, I lean a little closer.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“What did I see that day?” he asks, almost more to the fire than to me.
“I don't know,” I say. “You can't remember all of it. You know that you saw Violet moving through the woods. You were grabbed by a man. Then you heard her scream. It's entirely possible that you actually witnessed her getting taken, but your memory blocked it out.”
He shakes his head slowly, still staring at the flames. Reaching beside him, he picks up a folder and hands it to me.
"What's this?"
"We didn't get a chance to look at it before leaving your house yesterday. It's the non-redacted version of my statement to the police. It must have been part of the material that was turned over to the Bureau when they got involved thirteen years ago."
"What's in it?"
"Take a look," he tells me.
I open the folder and read through the interview. At first, nothing stands out to me, but then my eyes narrow, and I look over at Dean again.
“You described her,” I frown, pointing at the words on the page. “You said she looked maybe a couple of years younger than you.”
“I don't remember that,” he says. “I don't remember seeing it, and I don't remember saying it.”
“You told me you saw the girl from a distance enough to see the color of what she was wearing, but not enough to see how tall she was or even be able to describe her face.”
“And that's what I remember,” he nods. “But right there I describe her. Emma, that shoe they
