“Your back starts to ache, your shoulders get sore, you will speak up. We will stop, I will personally adjust your pack.” Nemeth stares at me. “When everyone feels comfortable, we will resume our pace. But again, seven days. What bothers you now might kill you later. There will be no dying on this trek.”
I’m totally and completely convinced. Whatever this man says, I’m on board. Maybe I should’ve tried boot camp when I was younger, because I’m actually a little turned on right now. Soon enough, I know, I will hate him, as I have a long and troubled history with authority figures. But at this precise moment, I’m drinking the Kool-Aid and hoping for another glass.
“You get tired, speak up. You get thirsty, speak up. You need to take a break for whatever reason: Speak. Up.”
We nod as a single unit.
“Final rule: Pay attention to the body in front of you. We’re starting off on an established trail, but soon enough we’ll be in the backcountry, where markings are few and far between. By the end, we won’t be following an official path at all, just trekking up through the magnificence that is the Popo Agie Wilderness. Unless you’ve been here before, or are really good at navigating your way through the middle of nowhere, don’t get separated from our party. We got enough to do without having to waste time dealing with stupid.”
He stares at me again. I’m tempted to stick out my tongue at him. But I’m also scared of what he might do to me next.
When no one else asks questions, talks backs, or engages in childish insults, Nemeth nods once, claps his hands.
“Gear up. Fall out.” He gives us about sixty seconds to finish adjusting equipment, clothing, boots, then without another word, he turns and heads up the trail, Martin already at his heels.
I find myself glancing around. One last look at civilization? Bob nudges my shoulder, then smiles encouragingly, as if he can read my thoughts. He gestures for me to go first, the giant Bigfoot hunter clearly intending to bring up the rear. I don’t have time to consider the matter, as the fellow members of my party are rapidly hiking away and Nemeth’s words of warning are fresh in my mind. I don’t know where I am or how to navigate forests. City streets, yes. Rows of trees, no.
I scamper to fall in line. And just like that we’re off and running.
Ready or not, Timothy O’Day, here we come.
* * *
—
How do you find a missing person?
I don’t have any real training or even a codified approach. Not being a cop, I don’t utilize forensics, though generally by the time I’ve gotten involved, anything significant in terms of physical evidence has been collected, analyzed, and crossed off as useless by local authorities. I’m not a computer hacker, so there’s no diving into the dark ocean of the internet to discover the victim’s sordid secrets, which led to their escape to a whole new life. To be honest, I’ve yet to encounter a situation where the missing person staged the whole thing or left of their own accord.
Sometimes the cases have garnered a certain level of police interest, meaning the obvious possibilities have already been pursued without yielding results. Other times—especially in underserved communities—the local authorities never bothered to open an active case file. Those situations make me the angriest: an entire life, written off without a single question asked. But even then, months or years later someone has done some basic digging. A loved one, a troubled friend, a concerned neighbor.
Generally, the first step of my involvement in any case is to review the work, whether it be rigorous or cursory, that happened before me. Sometimes, that results in a whole new line of questioning: Wait, no one ever asked about the new guy who moved in upstairs? Other times it leaves me scratching my head and knowing this case is going to be a doozy.
Which brings me to my highly unscientific second step: Show up. Walk around the community. Ask questions of anyone and everyone. No focus, no direction, just start picking up random stones and flipping them over. You never know.
Police will tell you they don’t have the time for such a scattershot approach. Family members will tell you they’re often too embarrassed.
This is where it’s good to be me: I have neither concern. I work one case at a time to obsessive resolution, versus even the most dedicated detective, who has dozens at a time. I have no personal connection, meaning there’s no question I won’t ask, no boundary I won’t cross.
How to translate all of this to a one-week expedition to recover skeletal remains? As I huff along the hiking trail, comfortable enough with the pace, delighted by the fresh mountain air, smiling at Daisy’s sheer joy over . . . everything . . . I struggle with this answer. I’m here to help. I promised I would. But how?