The Last Season (16 page)

The search teams were debriefed. Their estimated probability of detection (POD) for the segments searched that day took into consideration five potential scenarios: Randy was (1) mobile in the segment; (2) immobile in the segment; (3) responsive in the segment; (4) unresponsive in the segment; and (5) in the segment previously, but not currently. All the teams estimated that there was approximately a 50 to 60 percent likelihood that Randy would have been detected in the segments they had searched had he been mobile and responsive (the groups had called out for him periodically). But assessments dropped to 20 percent and less if he was presumed immobile and unresponsive, thus seriously injured. The terrain was such that it was impossible to cover every square inch. “A boulder could hide a person,” says Sanger, “and there are a lot of boulders out there. You can't walk around all of them—you just take the likely route and keep your eyes and ears open.” If Randy were seriously injured or unconscious, it was at least 80 percent likely the searchers would
not
detect him.

Back at the Cedar Grove incident command post, the overhead team reviewed the day's results and Coffman decided to pass off his
incident commander position to Dave Ashe. Coffman named himself the operations section chief and gave experienced frontcountry ranger Scott Wanek the duties of planning section chief.

But Ashe would later call these on-paper designations “smoke and mirrors.” Coffman was still running the show.

 

BEFORE DAWN BROKE
on Friday, July 26, six days since Randy's last contact and the second day of the search, twenty-nine people, three helicopters, and one scent-specific tracking dog had already been assigned their duties for Operational Period II. At 7
A.M.
the helicopters, including two from the military, began ferrying personnel thoughout the search area. In addition, a law enforcement team was mobilized to investigate the disappearance from a different perspective. Foul play couldn't be discounted.

Enter NPS Special Agent Al DeLaCruz and his two assistant investigators, Ned Kelleher and Paige Ritterbusch—all three commissioned law enforcement rangers. DeLaCruz, a 49-year-old Vietnam veteran with twenty-three years of service in the NPS, was the most senior law enforcement officer in Sequoia and Kings Canyon. It was his duty to teach the yearly refresher courses required for rangers to maintain their law enforcement commissions.

DeLaCruz immediately remembered Randy from training because his big bushy beard made him stand out from the other backcountry rangers in the classrooms. Randy also had quietly and respectfully approached DeLaCruz during defensive tactics baton training to tell him that maybe the backcountry rangers didn't need to be there because “we don't carry batons in the backcountry.”

In truth, Randy and company perplexed DeLaCruz. For a dozen years, he had trained rangers in law enforcement tactics at three Southwest national parks and national monuments and he had “never seen anything like” the backcountry rangers at Sequoia and Kings Canyon. He didn't know it, but the rangers hadn't encountered anybody quite like him either—a by-the-book NPS officer who looked completely at ease in camouflage and on the firing range.

Sensing the rangers' resistance to law enforcement training, DeLaCruz had let them know that he had started as a seasonal campground ranger and trail-crew worker himself two decades earlier. “Listen, you guys,” he said, “this is different for me. This type of training is in your best interest, and I'm not quite sure how to explain it. It's my philosophy that if you're going to be a law enforcement ranger, you should do it to the best of your ability. You're carrying a weapon and a badge, and that brings with it inherent hazards. Look, shit can happen, even out there where you're stationed.”

Most of the rangers were receptive, and Randy himself had given a half-nod, half-shrug—a sort of “fair enough” gesture. But another backcountry ranger told DeLaCruz privately, “The only reason I'm carrying this gun and wearing this badge is so I can keep my job.”

The frontcountry rangers were generally interested in the defensive tactics, disarming an armed suspect, controlling crazed individuals, and so on—likely because it was very possible that they would encounter such situations. The backcountry crew—the veterans, anyway—seemed to prefer nonlethal, nonphysical ways of dealing with aggressors. These tactics were great first lines of defense but not enough, as far as DeLaCruz was concerned. He knew that rangers—and not just those in the frontcountry—were statistically the most assaulted federal officers in the nation.

In the summer of 1984, a noncommissioned ranger in the backcountry of Sequoia and Kings Canyon was strangled into unconciousness after approaching a camper who had built an illegal campfire. The ranger survived and the suspect was apprehended the following morning by armed rangers, but the fact remained: “Shit happens.”

DeLaCruz's main job was investigating crimes in the parks, apprehending poachers, and directing special undercover units that investigated various criminal elements, including drug gangs who were using the parks' lower elevations to cultivate massive marijuana gardens. Over the course of his career, he'd thought he had seen it all—ritual crimes, hallucinating suspects pursued by aliens—but he'd never had a missing backcountry ranger case.

At Randy's station, it proved to be even a little “creepy,” because absolutely everything seemed in order.

DeLaCruz treated the Bench Lake ranger station like a crime scene. Not the dusting-for-fingerprints, yellow-ribbon-police-line kind of crime scene. There was no visible evidence—no sign of a struggle, no blood—to call for that level of scrutiny, but the station and surrounding area were thoroughly searched for clues. “Randy was a missing, potentially injured ranger, but he was also an unaccounted-for federally commissioned law enforcement officer. We had to assume anything and everything,” says DeLaCruz.

He had flown into the mountains with a snapshot of Randy's life and current situation, conveyed by Chief Ranger Bird. He was aware that Randy had brought divorce papers into the backcountry, that he'd had an affair, that he might have been depressed. He also knew that Randy was probably the most adept ranger in the parks, well versed in search and rescue, and despite his gentle demeanor, he'd exhibited to DeLaCruz some proficiency in self-defense.

He began by opening the footlocker. Inside was Randy's duty weapon, as well as two personal diaries. After reading just a few lines, DeLaCruz could tell that Randy was unhappy. Figuring the diaries might contain some bit of information to help the search, he temporarily turned them over to Coffman. He wanted to send them to a profiler with the Department of Justice as soon as possible; it wasn't his place, or area of expertise, to interpret the writings of a man he didn't know. The divorce papers were nowhere to be found.

He mentally worked up several scenarios. The most probable theory was that Randy was injured somewhere, which didn't really concern him; there was already a boatload of people taking care of that possibility. Or Randy could have left the mountains. There was foul play to consider: without his gun he was at a disadvantage if he met a violent individual while on patrol. Of course, there was also the possibility of suicide, and DeLaCruz couldn't discount the idea that Randy was hiding out, even evading searchers.

In the frontcountry, the first order of business for the investigative
team was tracking down backpackers who had passed through the search area in the previous six days. Kelleher was assigned the tedious job of wading through wilderness permits. Ritterbusch helped facilitate the posting of Overdue Hiker flyers at all the trailheads leading into and out of the mountains, and entered Randy into the California Law Enforcement Telecommunications System (CLETS) and National Crime Information Center (NCIC) as a missing person. Bulletins were sent to numerous law enforcement agencies, local hospitals, train stations, and bus depots.

In the backcountry, DeLaCruz scribbled notes on an ever-present pad of paper. Where was Randy's vehicle? Had his credit cards been used recently? Bank accounts accessed? His wife—he had to speak with Randy's wife. And interview all the backcountry rangers posthaste. And follow up with Coffman and the chief ranger. Who was the last to speak with Randy? See him in person? Who were Randy's closest friends in the parks? Outside the parks? Did Randy have any enemies? Had he experienced any confrontations? Medical issues? History of drugs or alcohol?

Something told DeLaCruz this incident wasn't going to be resolved anytime soon.

 

AN INDEPENDENT DOG HANDLER
named Pat Bardone from Tulare County was flown to Cartridge Pass around 9
A.M.
on the second day of the search. Cowboy, a bloodhound, was a scent-specific tracking dog—meaning he was trained to follow the scent of an individual, usually facilitated by a recently worn item of clothing. Durkee had anticipated this and brought a pair of Randy's hiking socks in a plastic bag. Bardone gave Cowboy a good sniff, took his harness off, and put him into “search” or, as Bardone put it, “scout” mode.

Nose to the ground, Cowboy trotted down the difficult terrain of the northern slope of the pass—right past the first track Lyness and Durkee had marked the day before. About a quarter of the way into the basin—more than a mile past the track and near the outlet of the first big lake—Cowboy “alerted,” jumped up with his paws on Bardone's
chest. “A good sign,” according to Bardone's report of the day's events. With his harness back on, however, “Cowboy kind of bird-dogged all over the place,” says Durkee, “not really seeming to follow any one track.”

But then Cowboy moved deliberately toward Vennacher Col, where a section of cliff provided a good view of the basin, “the perfect vantage point for a photograph,” Durkee had surmised the day before. Perhaps Randy had camped near the lake, waited for the right light, then slipped while climbing up the cliff. The area below was brushy and clogged with willows. Near the willows the dog seemed to be responding to scent. The team thoroughly thrashed through the thick foliage, knowing that if Randy was there he probably wouldn't be alive. Relieved to find nothing, they moved down the drainage, following Cowboy.

Lyness split off and took a different but parallel route, looking for “sign.” “Lo figured Cowboy was just being a dog and cheerfully running around,” says Durkee. “Neither of our confidence was really high.” He stayed with Cowboy and Bardone, who continued down-canyon on a “dog route” that neither Durkee nor Lyness could imagine Randy would have taken, but Bardone was letting Cowboy do his job. Durkee began to lose patience, thinking, “There is no way Randy is out here in this flat area—he's not hiding under a bush.” After some time, he urged Bardone to “encourage” Cowboy back up-canyon toward the pass leading to Dumbbell Lakes, the site of the second track they'd seen the day before.

Halfway up the pass, the dog alerted again and seemed hot on a trail. Just before the top, he stopped, sat down on his haunches, and stared straight ahead—“an enigmatic clue,” thought Durkee, “that Randy had headed over to Dumbbell Lakes.”

After a ten-hour day, Durkee, Lyness, and the dog team were flown back to Bench Lake, where debriefing forms were being filled out en masse by searchers. Under the section that asked searchers to estimate the probability of detection in their area, Durkee wrote, “Morgenson is
NOT
in Lake Basin/Area F (POD): 70%. Dog tracking existence of
tracks that he
had
been there (POD): 40%.” Lyness, on her own form, also estimated a 70 percent POD that Morgenson was not in the segment. She concluded with “The question remains unanswered as to whether or not he crossed the Basin.”

On the same form, each searcher was also asked to describe “any search difficulties or gaps in coverage.” Durkee voiced his (and Lyness's) skepticism regarding the search dog: “Hard to tell if dog was tracking scent; handler thinks high probability dog was on scent.” Lyness wrote in her logbook that night, “Dog went in circles for 2–3 hours, not heading anywhere we thought Randy might go.”

Meanwhile, word spread that backcountry ranger Dario Malengo had been medevaced out of the backcountry. He and Bob Kenan had been approaching Dumbbell Lakes from Amphitheater Lake, converging from the north on Durkee and Lyness's position south of Dumbbell Lakes. Unable to follow the usual trail due to snow cover, they'd improvised a new route that led to Upper Basin, essentially a cross-pattern across the route Randy may have taken if in fact those were his footprints leading toward Dumbbell Lakes. While descending a talus-clogged slot, Malengo “rolled” a loose chunk of granite. He reacted quickly and dodged the rock, but the hand placed for balance was crushed, resulting in a painfully broken finger.

At the only landing zone in the immediate vicinity, Amphitheater Lake, Malengo was whisked out of the mountains and Kenan abandoned the route to meet up with another team north of his location that was searching along Palisade Creek. As he picked his way down the canyon, following Cataract Creek to its confluence with Palisade Creek, he reflected on Malengo's injury, the snowfield, and Randy. The hazards were all around him: “a slip on that snowfield could have easily been fatal…nothing but sharp and jagged talus at the bottom.”

In the late afternoon Kenan met up with the search team that, like him, had discovered no clues or tracks along these arterial backcountry routes. They radioed their position, and an hour later a military helicopter approached. They'd expected the smaller park helicopter, so the landing zone they had chosen was too tight for the large Huey.
After a long hover 50 feet off the deck, the pilot descended alongside a mound of granite, the giant whooping blades trimming the tips off a few pine trees in the process. Kenan watched someone he thought was a “hot-shot commando” jump out of the helicopter from a 4-foot hover and wave the searchers over. To his surprise, it was Jerry Torres, a veteran trail-crew supervisor, who had joined the search.