Journal of the Dead (2 page)

Mattson yelled for Keebler to wait before proceeding down. The sight of the tent so close the exit trail made the ranger uneasy. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he later recalled. “I was thinking, you know, Why were the campers late if it was that easy to find them?”

Twenty minutes later, they reached the canyon floor. Eons of flash floods had left the bottom covered with smooth, sun-bleached stones the size of footballs. As the pair made their way toward the campsite, the rocks clacked hollowly and swarmed with heat.

“Let me go in front of you,” Mattson told Keebler when they were a few hundred feet away. The campsite ahead of them lay still and seemingly empty, so much so that the feeling Mattson had up on the overlook hardened. He entered the site cautiously, with his senses elevated.

Camping supplies were scattered around the tent in what looked like a debris field: a portable cooking stove, food wrappers, a dirty sock, hiking boots, an empty Gatorade bottle, a blue bedroll, sunscreen, a camera case—everywhere he looked there was some significant item that should have been properly stowed. A few yards to the right of the tent were the sooty remains of two fires—a luxury strictly prohibited in the tinder-dry park. The place looked abandoned, as if the campers had run off and left everything. Glancing to his left, his eyes fell upon a group of rocks that had been arranged in letters—an incomplete “SOS.” The last “S” was only half finished.

Mattson started scanning the cliffs to see if he could locate the campers somewhere, but there was nobody in sight. He turned to take another look at the tent, then realized it wasn’t a tent at all; it was what was
left
of a tent. The bottom and sides were ripped out, leaving only the rain-fly intact, and as Mattson looked closer he froze. There was a person inside, a young man, lying on his side, looking directly at him.

“Please tell me you have water,” the young man said. His voice was raw, craggy.

“Yes, I do,” replied the ranger. “Is everything okay?”

“Why weren’t you here earlier?” the camper asked. He sounded dispirited and weary.

“Well, we’re here now,” Mattson said.

The ranger unsheathed the water bottle hanging on his belt and handed it to the young man. He was about five eight, with short black hair, Mediterranean skin, and a trim, athletic build. His name was Raffi Kodikian, twenty-five, from Doylestown, Pennsylvania—one of the hikers listed on the permit. As he put the bottle to his lips, his Adam’s apple surged like a piston, and Mattson noticed long red scratches running the length of both of his arms. They did not look like cactus cuts. Mattson remembered that there had been two names on the permit.

“Where’s your buddy?” he asked.

“Over there,” said Kodikian, pointing to his right. Mattson looked but saw nothing but stones, cactus, and scrub.

“Where?” he asked again.

“Right
there,”
he repeated, pointing in the direction of an elongated pile of stones about thirty feet away.

Mattson saw the stones but not the other hiker. He was about to ask again when Kodikian spoke.

“I killed him,” he said calmly.

The ranger stood there for an instant, transfixed, as if he had not understood the words. They carried more information than he could digest, and he repeated them in his mind quickly. Had he heard that word correctly:
killed?
Adrenaline socked him in the chest, and he turned rapidly and faced Kodikian.

“Do you have any weapons?” he asked.

“A knife. I have a knife.”

“Any guns?”

“No.”

“May I have the knife?”

Kodikian calmly handed him a small folding knife, with what appeared to be blood smeared across the blade. Mattson did not take it, but instead let Kodikian set it on the rocks in front of the tent, then nudged it farther away with his foot.

Sensing no immediate threat, the ranger walked over to the rock pile Kodikian had indicated earlier. It was laid out with attentive symmetry and great care, about seven feet long, knee-high, and two and a half feet wide. Some of the stones must have weighed over sixty pounds; others, no bigger than pears, had been wedged carefully into the cracks, thwarting any glimpse of what lay beneath. Almost immediately his eyes fell upon one rock in particular. It was flat and round, and seemed to emblematically crown the right end of the mound. The more he looked at it, the more it pulled at his stomach. He carefully lifted it from the pile.

Now revealed to him was a blue plaid cloth with a rise protruding on its surface—the telltale arc of a human nose.

Mattson turned in disbelief, asking by gesture the question he couldn’t yet formulate.
What the hell happened here?

Kodikian, still inside the ruins of the tent, offered an almost inaudible response.

“He begged me to do it.”

The body beneath the stones was that of David Coughlin, twenty-six, of Wellesley, Massachusetts—Kodikian’s best friend. Four days earlier, they had come to the park as a stop on a cross-country road trip. The pair had camped out for the night, then become lost trying to find their way out of the canyon and eventually run out of water. According to Kodikian, that morning—only hours before Mattson and Keebler arrived—Coughlin had asked
his friend to help end his pain from dehydration. Convinced they would both die, Kodikian had obliged.

It didn’t take long for the questions to begin. Mattson radioed in a medically equipped U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopter out of Fort Bliss, Texas, then began treating Kodikian. Scattered across his arms and legs were light abrasions, rail-like cuts, and what appeared to be the red, painful-looking blooms left behind by insect bites—the small, signature wounds that the desert environment inevitably leaves on the body. What the ranger didn’t recognize were more symmetrical, horizontal cuts along each of Kodikian’s wrists.

“How’d you get those,” he asked.

“We were in terrible pain, especially my buddy,” Kodikian explained. “He was just miserable. We decided to end it, so we got the knives…” Kodikian paused for a moment and looked down at his wrists. “He asked me to do it for him. My knife was duller than his. That’s why I’m alive.”

The cuts, the ranger noticed, barely penetrated the skin.

Minutes later, Mark Maciha, the park’s head law enforcement officer, strode up to the campsite. He was shorter and darker than Mattson, with a compact build and thick black mustache. The park’s dispatcher had called him at his home, a bungalow just behind the park headquarters, and he had quickly gathered up a field medical kit with saline-filled IV bags, military rations, and extra canteens, then driven the four miles to the Rattlesnake Canyon trailhead. Like Mattson, he’d seen the campsite from the canyon rim and had been surprised how easy it had been to find.

“When I arrived at the campsite, Lance told me Kodikian’s
story,” he later recalled, “and at the time I didn’t think he was lying. But later on I had a difficult time believing it.”

In his twenty years of park service experience, most of them at desert parks, including Death Valley, Maciha had never heard of a lost hiker killing another out of mercy. But seeing Kodikian there beneath his ragged tent, haggard as a castaway, his only thought right then was that he needed help. Kodikian, he concluded, was dehydrated; his skin was dry to the touch and three times, when Mattson tried to give him some more water, he vomited—a sign that his water-deprived body was unable to absorb it too quickly. Maciha solved this problem by running saline directly into his bloodstream through an IV. Afterward, there was little for the rangers to do but keep their patient calm and wait for the Blackhawk. It was then that Maciha’s doubts began to take hold.

“Where’re you from?” the older ranger asked Kodikian.

“Pennsylvania,” replied Raffi.

“Oh yeah? What part of the state?” Maciha asked.

“Town called Doylestown. Near Philadelphia.”

“The weather out there sure is different. It’s so green.”

“Yeah,” Kodikian said. “How long before that chopper gets here?”

“Not too long.”

“Man,” Kodikian said, irritated. “My grandmother can fly a Blackhawk faster than those army boys can.”

“Hey, they’re en route,” Maciha said. “Let’s just hang tight with me a little bit here.”

Maciha fell silent. The conversation would later haunt him. Victims of heat and dehydration were often delusional and incoherent, but Kodikian’s level of awareness seemed, if anything,
high. He was nowhere close to the worst case the ranger had seen, and the comment about the Blackhawk was unsettling.
Nice sense of humor for a guy who had just stabbed his best friend,
he thought.

The Blackhawk finally flew in at about four-thirty and touched down a few hundred yards south of the campsite. Raffi Kodikian was airlifted to the Carlsbad Medical Center, thirty miles away, where the questions would only mount. Waiting at the hospital was Gary McCandless, chief of detectives for the Eddy County Sheriff’s Office, along with Roswell FBI agent John Andrews, who was called in because the killing took place on federal land.

“They brought Raffi in,” recounted McCandless, the surprise still in his voice, “and I noticed right away when he came off the aircraft that he was in pretty good condition. Not what I was expecting when they talk about dehydration and stuff like that. He was very sharp, he was coherent. He talked well. He talked a lot about how hungry he was. He talked about how glad he was to be out of that canyon.”

McCandless and Andrews had high hopes that Kodikian would tell them what had happened in Rattlesnake Canyon. How had he and Coughlin become so lost in a landscape where a climb to the highest peak would have revealed signs of civilization in almost every direction? Why hadn’t he shaken his buddy by the shoulders, told him to hang in there and tough it out? And, if they had tried so hard to slash their wrists, how come the cuts were so superficial?

But moments later when the investigators approached him for an interview, Raffi Kodikian would no longer be talking. He invoked his Fifth Amendment rights. It would take him only an hour later to recover and be released from the hospital, and as he
walked toward the door to leave, an officer from the Eddy County Sheriff’s Office would arrest him for the murder of David Coughlin. It would turn out that Kodikian was an aspiring writer and journalist. He loved travel and adventure, and hoped to one day pen tales of his own, perhaps in the vagabond vein of his idol, Jack Kerouac. Some would wonder if a story he wrote while lost in the desert was too perfect to be true.

S
hade comes small in Rattlesnake Canyon. The tallest thing that casts a shadow near the spot where Lance Mattson found Raffi Kodikian is an island of brush that sits in the creek bed about fifteen feet from the campsite. Since the bed is almost always dry, calling the brush stand an island is a stretch, but it’s the only place where you can study Dave and Raffi’s final campsite relatively free from the harassing desert sun.

The day after Kodikian was rescued and arrested, there were nearly a dozen crime scene investigators perched on the edge of the island. Leading the group was Capt. Eddie Carrasco from the Eddy County Sheriff’s Office, and John Andrews from the FBI, who had met Kodikian the day before at the hospital. With them was Jim Ballard, Carrasco’s second in command, two examiners from the state office of the medical investigator, a ranger from the National Park Service, two agents from the U.S. Border Patrol, and two anthropologists from the University of New Mexico,
who’d been called in because they were experts at excavating shallow graves.

Spread out in front of the team over a quarter acre were forty-some-odd items, including David Coughlin’s buried body. All of the disarray that Mattson and Maciha had noticed the day before—the food wrappers, the socks, the ripped-up tent—had now become much more than a random scattering of gear cast off in what appeared to have been a struggle for survival. Even the smallest item was potential evidence, its nature and placement a cipher that, when unraveled, could either support or refute Kodikian’s sparsely detailed claim about what had happened.

To preserve the crime scene, the sheriff’s office had closed down the entire canyon the night before. Deputies had been posted at every entrance and exit, guarding them in shifts. Even now, tantalizingly close to the evidence, none of the investigators ventured in too far. They still needed a search warrant, and so the team stood on the island, making a list of everything in view. As the team called off the items, Eddy Carrasco radioed them to a deputy a mile away at the trailhead. The deputy, in turn, radioed everything back to the sheriff’s office in Carlsbad, where Gary McCandless typed them up on the warrant. This is exactly what Carrasco and his men saw: