William Royden

There was no possible way the crash could have done that sort of damage to them.

The cockpit was almost entirely intact.

A policeman noted in the report that there was a long, winding indentation in the snow, starting from the ground outside the cockpit and moving into the trees, but no one else was found.

Cording told me that several months after the crash, he was finally allowed, through a secret contact in the state police, to search an archive of the men and women's possessions.

They had married each other in 1987 and had lived mostly in Egypt.

Cording said he believed they had been coming to this place on that day in order to confront someone.

But, quote, she got them first, unquote.

Once again, he left me with questions I didn't feel ready to ask.

I put a new tape into the camera and we moved on.

My legs were getting tired.

Cording never slowed his step.

The day was unexpectedly divided in two after a bizarre incident.

As we crossed through a small park off Lord Street, Cording suddenly stopped and swore angrily under his breath.

He was looking to the edge of the park, where a man was sitting slumped awkwardly against a bench, as if his body were completely broken.

Cording started to walk toward him, and I followed.

But he turned and told me to stay where I was.

Cording went over to the man and crouched before him.

I could tell he was speaking to him, but I couldn't hear anything.

The man was dressed only in torn sweatpants and an old Domino's Pizza t-shirt, and he wore nothing on his feet at all.

He had pulled what looked like a white sheet around his neck for warmth.