When the National Park Rangers finally descended into the pit, the first thing they heard was not a scream of horror, but the smell of vomit. Experienced trackers who had seen a lot in their careers fell to their knees and lost consciousness. What lay at the bottom of this pit in an abandoned gorge in the Cascade Mountains violated all the laws of human nature.
Two bodies joined together in a way that no living thing should be joined. The crime, which the police would later call the forest surgeon case, began 28 years ago on a warm July morning when two college students simply wanted to spend the weekend in the mountains. This story makes you think about how thin the line is between civilization and savagery, between man and monster.
Write in the comments whether you believe that evil can hide behind the most ordinary face and how far an investigation should go to achieve justice even if the criminal is already dead. In the early 1990s, Bellingham, a small college town in Washington State, was a quiet place nestled between Bellingham Bay and the majestic Cascade Mountains.
In the summer, the streets were filled with the scent of blooming roodendrrons. And in the evenings, the bells of the old Methodist church on Holly Street marked the hours of a measured peaceful life. Everyone knew each other here. Local shopkeepers remembered who liked which kind of coffee, and the owner of Village Books on Bay Street could recommend the perfect book for any customer.
It was a world where people didn’t lock their doors at night, where children played outside until late, and where tourists came to admire the mountain peaks and wildlife of the Pacific Northwest. Emily Thompson and Jennifer Riley were the kind of girls that small towns are proud of. Emily, a 19-year-old sophomore biology major at Western Washington University, dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.
She was a petite, fragile girl with red curls who always carried a worn sketchbook for drawing mountain plants. Her parents ran a small pharmacy on Meridian Street, and Emily often helped them in the evenings, patiently explaining to elderly customers how to take their medicine. Jennifer Riley, a year older, studied English literature and worked part-time at the Watcom County Library.
tall with long blonde hair braided into a ponytail. She was calm and thoughtful, the complete opposite of the energetic Emily. They met in their freshman year and had been inseparable ever since. July 1995 was particularly hot. By the middle of the month, the temperature in the valley had risen to 95° F, and the young people of Bellingham had only one dream.
to escape to the mountains where the air was cool and fresh. Emily and Jennifer had been planning their summer hike for several weeks. They chose a route through Hayes Lake Pass in Mount Baker Snowquami National Forest, a popular destination among experienced hikers known for its breathtaking views and relative isolation.
The route was not considered particularly dangerous, but it required good physical fitness and orientering skills. The girls prepared thoroughly. They bought provisions at the REI store on Sunset Drive, checked their compasses and topographic maps, and packed a tent and sleeping bags. The morning of July 21st was clear and cloudless.
Emily and Jennifer met at the Bair Shopping Center parking lot at 6:00 in the morning. Both were in good spirits, excitedly discussing the upcoming adventure. Emily’s mother, Mrs. Thompson walked her daughter to the car and reminded her one last time to bring spare batteries for her flashlight and to call every evening from the nearest pay phone.
Emily laughed, hugged her mother, and promised to be careful. It was the last calm smile Mrs. Thompson would see on her daughter’s face. Jennifer’s old red 1992 Jeep Cherokee pulled away at 7:03 a.m. Several neighbors saw the car turn onto Highway 20 and head east toward the mountains. 2 hours later, the Jeep arrived in Glacier, the last town before the mountain trails began.
No more than 200 people lived in Glacier, mostly loggers, national park rangers, and a few owners of guest houses for tourists. Old Bob McKenzie, owner of the town’s only gas station and the Glacier Peak General Store, later recalled how two cheerful girls stopped by around 9 in the morning, filled up their car, and bought a bottle of water and some energy bars.
They asked about the weather for the next few days, and McKenzie told them that forecasters were predicting sunshine, but that thunderstorms were possible in the evening of the 22nd. The girls thanked him, left their jeep in the tourist parking lot, and headed for the trail head. McKenzie watched them until they disappeared around the bend in the road leading into the forest.
He was the last person to see Emily and Jennifer alive. The first day went according to plan. On the evening of July 21st, around 8:00 p.m., Emily called her mother from a pay phone at the ranger station 6 milesi from the trail head. She said they had walked about 10 mi, set up camp by a stream, and everything was fine.
The connection was clear, and Emily sounded happy. She promised to call the next evening from another ranger station further along the trail and said goodbye. Mrs. Thompson went to bed feeling calm, unaware that this was the last time she would hear her daughter’s voice. July 22nd began with a sense of unease.
By noon, the parents of both girls had not received any messages, which was strange considering that Emily and Jennifer were supposed to reach the Hayes Creek Ranger Station around 300 p.m. By 6:00 p.m., when the calls still hadn’t come, Mrs. Thompson tried to contact the ranger station herself. The ranger on duty said the girls hadn’t arrived. By 9:00 p.m.
, the parents decided to contact the police. The Watcom County Sheriff’s Deputy on duty, Deputy Dave Harrison, took the missing person’s report without much enthusiasm. He explained to the worried parents that delays often happen in the mountains, that the girls had probably just lost their way or decided to spend the night somewhere unplanned.
He asked them to wait until morning. But the morning of July 23rd brought no news. By noon, when it became clear that something was indeed wrong, the first search operation was organized. A team of 15 rescuers from the National Park Service and volunteers from the local mountain rescue service set out on the Hayes Lake route at 2:00 p.m.
on July 23rd. They were accompanied by experienced rangers who knew every trail in these mountains, as well as dog handlers with dogs. The search began at the last known location, the Ranger Station, from where Emily had called her mother. The rescuers moved along the main route, examining every meter of the trail, every fork, every cliff.
By evening, they had found the first clue. At the foot of the pass, in a small clearing surrounded by pine and fur trees, stood a red Jeep Cherokee. The car was neatly parked, locked, with no signs of forced entry. But next to the car at the very edge of the trail lay two backpacks, one green, one blue, exactly like the ones Emily and Jennifer had.
The backpacks were neatly placed next to each other as if their owners were going to return for them in a minute. Inside they found all the girls equipment, a tent, sleeping bags, food, spare clothes, compasses, maps, documents, money, even their wallets. The only thing missing was the girls themselves. The discovery of the backpacks turned the search from a routine operation into an emergency.
If the girls had left all their gear and their car behind, it meant that something had happened suddenly. But what? There were no signs of a struggle, no blood, no damage to their belongings. The backpacks looked as if they had simply been placed on the ground. Rescuers expanded the search area, combing through forests and gorges within a 5mm radius of the discovery site.
Coast Guard helicopters with thermal imaging cameras were deployed, and volunteers from local towns and students from the university where the girls studied joined the operation. Hundreds of people searched the mountains day and night, shouting Emily and Jennifer’s names and shining flashlights into every crevice. By the end of July, it became clear that this was not just a case of lost tourists.
The Watcom County Police officially opened a criminal case into the disappearance of two people under suspicious circumstances. The investigation was led by Detective Michael Stevens, a veteran with 25 years of experience who had handled dozens of complex cases. Stevens was a tall, thin man with graying temples and a piercing gaze.
He immediately ordered a detailed analysis of all the evidence, interviewed all the witnesses, and compiled a list of everyone who had been in the mountains during that period. The first suspect was a local guide named Ray Dalton, who offered to accompany tourists on mountain routes. Dalton, a 49-year-old man with a scruffy beard and nervous mannerisms, was known in the area as an eccentric.
He lived alone in an old trailer on the outskirts of Glacier and hardly socialized with anyone. Several years ago, a case was brought against him for harassing a tourist, but it was closed due to insufficient evidence. When the police came to Dalton with questions, he behaved extremely suspiciously. He stuttered, avoided eye contact, and contradicted himself in his statements about where he was on July 21st and 22.
His trailer was searched twice. They found a collection of photographs of young female tourists and newspaper clippings about missing persons, but no direct evidence linking him to the disappearance of Emily and Jennifer. The second suspect was Travis Coleman, a 37-year-old former soldier who worked as a caretaker at one of the Mountain Ranger stations.
Coleman was a large, physically strong man with tattoos on his arms and a reputation for drinking. Several witnesses claimed to have seen his truck near Hayes Lake Pass on July 22nd, although Coleman himself denied this. A search of his home turned up women’s jewelry, two rings, and a silver bracelet, which Coleman could not explain the origin of.
However, forensic analysis showed that these items of jewelry did not belong to either Emily or Jennifer. Coleman was held in custody for 2 weeks, but was eventually released due to lack of evidence. As the weeks and months passed, the case gradually cooled down. By the fall of 1995, the search was officially called off. Detective Stevens, who had spent sleepless nights trying to find any clue, was forced to admit that he had reached a dead end.
The mountains had swallowed up two young lives and left no trace. The girl’s parents did not lose hope. They hired private investigators, consulted psychics, and placed advertisements in newspapers throughout the Pacific Northwest. Every time someone’s remains were found in the mountains, they froze in fear and hope at the same time, but the remains always turned out to be someone else’s.
Bellingham slowly returned to normal life, although the disappearance of the students left a deep wound in the heart of the city. Western Washington University erected a memorial plaque in memory of Emily and Jennifer. Their names became a symbol of the tragedy that can befall anyone who ventures into the mountains without realizing their full danger.
But the real danger was not in the mountains. It was in man. 3 years is a long time. Long enough for the sharp pain of loss to turn into a dull, constant ache. long enough for hope to fade almost completely. By 1998, the case of the disappearance of Emily Thompson and Jennifer Riley had been officially classified as cold.
The investigation files gathered dust in the Watcom County Sheriff’s Office archives. Detective Stevens retired, taking with him a sense of professional failure that he was never able to overcome. However, as is often the case, the truth surfaced unexpectedly and in the most terrifying way. In the fall of 1988, four hunters from the town of Lynen went into the mountains to hunt deer.
Among them was Jack Morrison, a 54year-old high school teacher who had been hunting in these parts for 30 years. He was accompanied by his son-in-law and two old friends. They chose a route through the abandoned dead man’s Gulch, a remote place rarely visited even by experienced hunters. The gorge had a bad reputation among the locals.
They said that grizzly bears lived there, that strange noises could be heard at night and that it was better not to go there. But Morrison did not believe in superstitions. On October 7th, around 3:00 in the afternoon, the hunters were descending a steep slope overgrown with bushes and low fur trees when Morrison’s dog, an old Labrador named Buck, suddenly stopped and began barking, staring at one spot.
The hunters approached and discovered what at first glance appeared to be a natural depression in the ground. But upon closer inspection, Morrison realized that it was not a natural formation. It was a pit, a deep, carefully dug pit about 7 feet by 7 feet and about 10 ft deep. The pit was partially covered with old branches and moss.
But time and weather had destroyed this camouflage. Morrison shown his flashlight into the pit. What he saw made him recoil and grab hold of a tree to keep from falling. At the bottom of the pit lay what had once been human beings. Two bodies, partially mummified, covered with a layer of dust and fallen leaves. But the worst part was how these bodies were connected.
Even in his shock, Morrison realized that he was seeing something so perverse, so unnatural that his mind refused to accept it. The police arrived at Deadman’s Gulch 3 hours after Morrison’s call. The area was immediately cordoned off. By evening, a large group of forensic scientists, medical examiners, and photographers had arrived.
It took several hours to recover the bodies. They had to work extremely carefully so as not to damage the evidence. When the bodies were finally brought to the surface and taken to the Watcom County Morgan, Bellingham, the most nightmarish part of the investigation began. Watcom County Chief Medical Examiner, Dr. Richard Parker, a man who had spent more than 30 years in the profession and had seen almost everything that humans are capable of doing to other humans, later admitted that this case shook him to his core. A preliminary examination showed
that both bodies belong to young women of Caucasian descent. Based on the degree of mummification and preservation, it was determined that death had occurred approximately 3 years earlier. Low temperatures and dry air in the gorge had partially preserved the remains, allowing for a detailed examination. Identification took 2 days.
Dental records and DNA analysis confirmed that they were Emily Thompson and Jennifer Riley. The girls who had disappeared 3 years ago had been found, but in what condition? Dr. Parker compiled a detailed report which later became one of the most shocking documents in the history of Washington State criminalistics. According to the report, both victims did not die instantly.
They were placed in the pit alive, bound and unable to move. The cause of death was dehydration and hypothermia, a process that lasted several days. But the most horrific thing was what was done to the bodies before death. The perpetrator, who according to experts had basic medical knowledge and surgical skills, performed a series of operations on the living victims.
Emily Thompson’s head was surgically connected to Jennifer Riley’s anus. The operation was performed crudely in field conditions, but with a certain degree of technical skill. Surgical sutures were used, which, as analysis showed, were made with vicil medical suture material. Traces of injections were found on the skin of both victims.
Local anesthetics may have been used, but not enough to completely relieve the victims of pain. Experts believed that the operation took several hours, possibly in the same ravine or nearby. The psychological profile of the perpetrator, compiled by specialists from the FBI’s behavioral analysis unit in Seattle, described him as a person with deep psychopathological deviations, probably with medical education or experience in medicine.
This was not just a murderer. This was a sadist for whom the process of inflicting suffering had a special perverse meaning. The profile pointed to a middle-aged man, lonely, socially isolated, possibly with a history of mental illness or previous crimes. The investigation entered a new phase.
Detective James Carroll, who replaced Stevens as head of the homicide division, formed a special team of 10 detectives. They began by digging up all the old case files from 1995 and reanalyzing every piece of evidence, every piece of testimony. They paid particular attention to the medical aspect. Who in the area had surgical skills? Who could have obtained medical instruments and suture materials? The list turned out to be surprisingly short.
Within a 50-mi radius of where the bodies were found, there were only 14 people with medical training. Five doctors, three nurses, four paramedics, and two veterinarians. All of them were checked. Most had ironclad alibis for the period when the girls disappeared. But one person caught the detective’s attention. His name was Robert Kaine, and at the time of Emily and Jennifer’s disappearance, he was 59 years old.
Cain worked as a paramedic at a small rural clinic in the town of Concrete, about 40 m from Dead Man’s Gulch until 1994. After that, he was fired under unclear circumstances and moved to an isolated cabin in the woods, not far from where the bodies were found. Cain lived as a recluse, avoiding contact with people, earning a living by carving wood and selling firewood to local stores.
When detectives began to dig deeper, disturbing details emerged. In 1992, Cain was arrested on suspicion of sexually assaulting a tourist who had lost her way in the mountains and asked him for help. The woman claimed that Cain had given her something to drink that caused her to lose consciousness. And when she woke up, she found marks on her body indicating that something had been done to her.
However, medical examinations were unable to confirm the rape, and the woman refused to file a formal complaint for fear of publicity. The case was closed. In 1993, Cain was charged with stealing medicines and instruments from the clinic where he worked. After the trial, he was fired and stripped of his paramedic license.
Detectives checked Kane’s medical records. It turned out that in the 1980s, when he was still working at the clinic, he had access to the surgical unit and had repeatedly assisted in operations. His skills were sufficient to perform simple surgical procedures. Most importantly, among the items seized from him in 1993 were the very same vicil sutures that had been used to stitch up Emily and Jennifer’s bodies.
Detective Carol immediately ordered a search for Cain, but the search ended before it even began. Robert Kaine died on March 16th, 1997 of a heart attack in his cabin. The body was discovered by a lumberjack who had come to warn Cain about planned logging. According to the medical examiner’s report, Cain had been dead for several days before he was found.
He was buried in a rural cemetery without any special ceremony. No one attended the funeral. It was a bitter irony of fate. The criminal had probably escaped justice by dying before the police could link him to the horrific crime. Detectives searched the place where Cain lived, an old hut that had already partially collapsed by that time.
There they found many strange items. Homemade surgical instruments, jars of formaldahhide containing tissue samples of unknown origin. Notebooks with anatomical sketches and descriptions of procedures that only a sick mind could find interesting. In one of the notebooks, they found an entry dated July 23rd, 1995. Experiment number seven, two subjects.
The connection was successful. Observation 72 hours. Handwriting analysis confirmed that it was Kane’s handwriting. DNA analysis of biological material found in the cabin matched the DNA of Emily and Jennifer. It was their hair, their blood, their skin. But the most terrifying discovery was a series of photographs hidden under the floorboards.
The photograph showed two girls tied up and lying on the dirty floor of the cabin. Some of the pictures showed processes that are better left undescribed. On the back of the photographs were dates July 22nd and 23, 1995. The picture finally came together. On July 22nd, when Emily and Jennifer were walking along the route through Hayes Lake Pass, they probably met Cain.
Perhaps he offered to help them, saying he knew a shorter way. He may have used some excuse to lure them into his home. There he immobilized them, most likely with powerful sedatives he had on hand. Then the nightmare began, which experts estimate lasted two to three days. After the girls died in the pit, slowly in agony from thirst and cold, Cain probably returned to the place of their disappearance and left their backpacks there to confuse the investigation.
It was a cold-blooded, calculated act by a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The police now believe that Cain might have been involved in other disappearances in the region. Over the past 20 years, nine people, tourists, climbers, hunters, had gone missing in the mountains of Watcom County. Most cases were attributed to accidents or getting lost in the mountains.
But now, each of these disappearances was subject to review. The news of the discovery of the forest surgeon, as he came to be known in the press, shook the Pacific Northwest. The story made the front pages of all the newspapers. Television channels devoted special reports to it. The public was shocked and outraged.
Emily and Jennifer’s parents, who had lived in uncertainty for years, finally got their answers, albeit the most terrible ones possible. Mrs. Thompson, Emily’s mother, gave a press conference at which she said only one sentence before bursting into tears. I knew my daughter wasn’t just lost. I felt that something terrible had happened to her.
Now I know the truth, but that truth is tearing my heart apart. Watcom County conducted a major review of its tourist registration and mountain safety monitoring systems. New rules were introduced requiring everyone going into the mountains to register at special checkpoints and carry emergency beacons. A hotline was set up for emergency communications.
Additional ranger stations were established on major tourist routes, but no precautions could bring Emily and Jennifer back to life. They were buried in Bayiew Cemetery in Bellingham on October 28th, 1988. Hundreds of people attended the funeral, relatives, friends, classmates, and simply residents of the city who wanted to express their condolences.
Detective Carol was there too, standing apart, his expression impenetrable. He knew that formally the case had been solved. The perpetrator had been identified, but the perpetrator was dead and he could not be brought to justice. There would be no trial, no sentence, no catharsis that justice brings. Psychologists who studied Kane’s case concluded that he suffered from a rare form of sadistic personality disorder with elements of medical fetishism.
For him, the human body was nothing more than material for experimentation, and the suffering of his victims was a source of satisfaction. Experts believed that the first signs of his devian appeared in his youth, but were hidden under a mask of social normality. His job as a paramedic gave him access to bodies, instruments, and knowledge, which he began to use in increasingly perverse ways over time.
After he was fired and moved to isolation, his behavior spiraled completely out of control. The question that remained unanswered was, “How many more victims did Cain have?” Detectives continued their investigation, trying to find a connection between him and other unsolved crimes. They searched the woods around his cabin and used ground penetrating radar to look for possible burial sites.
They found two more pits similar to the one where Emily and Jennifer were found, but they were empty. Perhaps Cain was preparing them for future victims. Perhaps someone had once lain there, but the bodies had decomposed completely, leaving no traces. The Forest Surgeon case was officially closed in December 1988 with the status solved, perpetrator identified, criminal prosecution terminated due to the death of the suspect.
But for the victim’s parents, for the residents of Bellingham, for everyone who followed this story, the case will never truly be closed. It will remain a reminder that evil can lurk in the most unexpected places, that a monster can look like an ordinary person, that civilization and savagery are separated only by a thin line. At Western Washington University, a new inscription was added to the memorial plaque in memory of Emily and Jennifer.
May their story teach us to be vigilant, to care for one another, and to never forget that behind every life is a loving family. The girls parents created a charitable foundation that helps families of missing persons and funds safety programs in mountainous areas. This became their way of coping with their loss, turning tragedy into something that could help others.
Dead Man’s Gulch is now officially closed to visitors. Locals avoid the place considering it cursed. But sometimes, according to those who live nearby, on quiet autumn nights, sounds similar to a woman’s crying can be heard coming from there. Superstitious people call them the ghosts of Emily and Jennifer still wandering in the mountains where their young lives were cut short.
Rational people explain it away as the wind, the rustling of leaves, the cries of nightbirds. But whatever it is, one thing remains unchanged. The memory of the tragedy that occurred in July 1995 is still alive. It serves as a warning to all who go to the mountains and a reminder that the greatest danger comes not from nature, but from people who have lost their humanity.
If you found this story interesting, don’t forget to subscribe to the channel and turn on notifications so you don’t miss any new investigations. And in the next episode, we’ll tell you about a case that the police still can’t solve. The disappearance of an entire family in a quiet suburb of Seattle, where the only clue is a surveillance camera recording that shows something inexplicable.
