now void of any of the milling equipment that once was so important to Bandon and Coos County economies. Secondary rooms, some small and clearly habitat for rodents of all variety judging from the number of droppings on anything flat. Rust as common as marshmallows at a Girl Scout campout.
Sal stood in the middle of one of the rooms, eyes scanning the dirt-crusted windows, long central workbench.
“Good place to stage and prep these bombs.”
I nodded. When I worked in the woods, this place was one of the most active mills on the river. Log trucks drove in, delivered old growth and not-so-old growth trees and other trucks or barges left with cut-to-dimension lumber to feed a booming housing industry.
“You know, Sal, the world has changed in 20 years. Not just a little, but fundamentally. There’s a shortage of young men to work in the woods.”
I toed a huge industrial bolt, rusty and half buried in the dirt. “Can’t find enough to do the logging even though the trees are there, the contracts are there, the demand is there. A whole generation of kids who once would kill to get a job with a lumber company has been lost. The knowledge of what to do and how to do it, cutting down trees, was stymied when logging became a politically incorrect industry.”
The bolt broke loose of the dirt and flipped on its side. “Now that there’s growing demand and government is pulling back from some of the more onerous restrictions, there aren’t enough people who know how to do the work. Stuff their dads and uncles once taught ‘em isn’t being taught any more.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Nicky.”
DiMaggio’s black Chevy Impala SS rumbled into the gravel parking lot in front of the building and parked next to the Crown Vic. The duo looked like a pair of weight lifters on Pismo Beach. Flames on the Vic. Lipstick red bow-tie in the grill, a matching red Impala SS emblem on its flank and a red spoiler on the rear deck.
The doc, dressed in casual slacks, button-down shirt and wearing soft loafers, climbed from his car, reached into the rear seat and pulled out a small briefcase.
“Nick. Sal. What do you have for me?”
We led DiMaggio into the old mill. He sniffed as he entered, the mustiness clearly not to his liking.
At the central work area, Sal and I stood back so DiMaggio could look into the room.
Pointing a chin at the imprints, “What are the circles?”
“The rings at the bottom of propane tanks.”
“Lots of circles,” he said.
“About 50.”
“This to do with the bombs going off around the county?”
Sal and I nodded in unison.
Putting his briefcase down, he started to lean against the door jam, thought better of getting the decades-old grit on his shirt, and inspected at a distance the 30 or 40 footprints in the dirt floor. Some were overlapping others as the walkers traipsed from workbench to propane tanks. His sharp and experienced eye imagining what caused the markings.
Looking over his shoulder, I said, “The way I read it, three guys moved the propane tanks to the workbench, attached the timing mechanism then moved the bombs to here,” pointing to a spot just inside the doorway.
“Two.”
Sal raised an eyebrow. “Looks like three different sets of footprints to me.”
DiMaggio leaned over, opened his briefcase and pulled out a clear plastic sheet with some sort of grid printed on it. Careful to avoid stepping in the prints, he gently placed the sheet over one of the impressions.
“Two, Sal.” Looking at the grid, “This one is a size 10 if it’s a man’s shoe, size 11 and a half if it’s a woman’s print.” He moved the grid to another print, “Ditto this one.” Laying the clear plastic over the third print, “And this one’s a size 11 if a man, 12 and a half if a woman.”
I took the sheet from DiMaggio, put it on the first print then on the second. “The one print is far wider than the first, though.”
“Bunion, probably,” DiMaggio answered. “Look here.” He walked to the workbench, circling around the prints. “See these indentations next to each other?”
Crouching down, he pulled a pen from his pocket and pointed. “See this series of prints where one of the bomb makers stood?” He waved the pen around the impression in the dirt. “One set, the larger prints, pretty much are isolated as if the man didn’t move from one spot as he attached the dynamite. He stood still with his feet 24 inches or so apart.”
Moving the pen to a second set, “The other man, though, kept only one foot still as he worked. This print shows his left foot was planted in one place. But the other! Ah, he moved it quite a bit. That’s why the right print appears to be smudged and scuffed.”
Standing, “Bunions are pretty painful. Here, look.” He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a small brochure from a stack of pamphlets, opened it to a page and turned it so I could see the pictures.
“The length of the foot doesn’t change, but people with bunions or who have had bunion surgery wear wider shoes.” Aiming the pen to the second print in the dirt, “That’s what we’re looking at here. The guy was in pain and to relieve the pain he wore a wide shoe and moved his foot quite a bit in order to relieve the pressure.”
“Can you tell how big these guys were?”
“You mean, by measuring the stride patterns?”
“Yeah.”
“Not very precisely. That’s good in the movies and for Sherlock Holmes, but stride only gives you a very loose approximation.” He turned and tipped his head to the prints Sal, he and I made in the dirt from the doorway.
“See the stride patterns for the three of us? All about the same yet you’re 6-foot-five or so, Sal is about six-feet and I’m 5-foot-10. We all walked to this spot together so we moved almost like a unit. That meant I took a bit longer stride than I normally would to keep up. Sal a bit longer or you a bit shorter than normal. Very imprecise, to say the least. That said, I’d suggest that the guy with the bunion would take a shorter stride just to favor his bad foot.”
Again leaning over his briefcase and pulling out a tape measure, he pulled the metal tape and put it from heel to heel of one set of prints. “About 27 inches. Adjusting for the bunion, shoe size and all, maybe 5-foot-6 to 5-foot-10. The other guy,” again laying the tape measure on the prints, “Anywhere from 5-foot-10 to 6-foot-one.”
He spun on his heels and walked to the prints in the far corner where the propane tanks were stored before being moved to the workbench.
“Here, though, we can tell something else.” He measured the stride pattern for the shorter man. “That’s about 23 inches compared to 27 inches before he attached the timer and dynamite. Again, either he’s not a strong man and the bomb’s extra weight made him take shorter strides in order to maintain balance or the bunion was hurting or he was afraid of the
