![]() ![]() SA Taylor started the government sedan and pointed north on US 160. It sounded like another wild-goose chase, but both agents were running on adrenaline and eager to pursue any clue, no matter how far-fetched, if it might take them to the girl.īlaylock provided them with detailed directions and urged them to move as quickly as they could. The drainage joined Pinto Wash, southwest of Cisco and eventually made its way to the Colorado River. Someone reported a “suspicious vehicle” camped along a remote dry creek bed called Salaterus Wash, some 40 miles northeast of Moab. Another tip had been received by their office and Blaylock asked them to check it out. Just past 10 PM, the agents received a call from SAC Blaylock. The volunteers were still looking, they presumed. One agent nodded to the other, noting the lights. The FBI men occasionally saw lights blink on and off in the far distance, amid the mesas and canyons and rugged escarpments that composed this torturous landscape. It had all happened in a matter of seconds, for reasons no one could begin to explain. It was a terrified 90 pound, five foot tall, 15 year old girl, who had seen her mother executed, right in front of her, along a lonely stretch of dirt and gravel road-the Dead Horse Point Road. But this wasn’t a needle they were looking for. By early afternoon, the FBI was actively, if not officially, offering whatever skills and strategies their agency could provide.įeeling overwhelmed in this new, unfamiliar terrain, the two agents stared at the vast landscape before them and thought of proverbial needles in countless haystacks. Still, assuming this case would not be resolved quickly, Blaylock sent four agents to Moab to assist in any way they could. On that bleak Wednesday morning, hours after this brutal nightmare began, Stocks was at a loss to offer much of anything in the way of hard evidence…he didn’t even know who the kidnapper was, or where he had taken the girl. In fact, the sheriff had called the FBI office in Salt Lake City within hours of the incident, but Special Agent in Charge (SAC) Leonard Blaylock explained that the Bureau could not officially enter the case in the first 24 hours unless a ransom had been demanded or there was proof that the kidnapper had crossed state lines. It was the lack of any real movement in the investigation that had convinced Grand County’s Sheriff John Stocks that he needed federal assistance. ![]() They had little hard information to go on. Now, as Friday came to a close, they, along with dozens of law enforcement officers and search and rescue volunteers, were frustrated. The agents had officially joined the investigation on Wednesday evening. Where was she? Where was Dennise Sullivan? But the idle conversation was just a momentary diversion. They had both noticed the magnificent fruit orchards that Moab was known for. ![]() They marveled at the stars in the desert night. They complained about the repressive heat. The two agents talked quietly between themselves. They watched the skies, the fading light on the towering cliffs above Moab and on the darkening La Sal mountains and tablelands that surrounded them. For two men from the big city, the star field was impressive. The waning moon wouldn’t rise for another four hours. Soon it would be pitch black, except for the brilliance of the Milky Way. There was still just enough lingering ambient light to see the smoke dissipate as they exhaled.īut it was past 10 PM. Special Agents (SA) Taylor and Jones lit cigarettes and drew deeply from them. Both men climbed out of their black sedan and leaned against the rear bumper of their vehicle. They pulled to the side of US 160, just north of town, and stopped to stretch their legs and consider the situation. Two FBI agents, called down from Salt Lake City and asked to assist in this ever deepening and bewildering tragedy, had just left the sheriff’s office in Moab and were unsure of their next move. Somewhere out there, amidst the lovely, lonely vastness of the empty land, dark, unspeakable secrets and inexplicable horrors laid buried in them. On this evening, an hour past sundown, the afterglow from all these distant features was almost surreal it seemed as if the light was emanating from the mesas and monuments and mountain peaks themselves-as if they had a life of their own.īut the beauty on this particular night was deceiving. From that lonely intersection, the views were almost limitless-from Grand Mesa in Colorado to the east, to the Henry Mountains and the Aquarius Plateau far to the west, and south to the Blue Mountains and beyond, the amount of country one could gaze upon, in one sweep of the horizon, is staggering. ![]()
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