At 6 a.m., Cook reported to Dannemora Elementary School in the village community center on Emmons Street. The state police and other agencies had set up headquarters in the school’s small gymnasium, where higher-ups briefed them every morning on the status of the manhunt. More than 800 state, local, and federal members of law enforcement were now part of the search, and at least 700 leads had been developed. After the meeting, Cook gathered his team. The sergeant jotted down each of their car numbers and took account of who was paired up with whom before heading out.
Cook rode with his partner, Sgt. Rich White. The two first worked together nabbing drunk drivers in the late nineties before Cook was transferred to Ray Brook, New York, where he was asked to test weapons as part of the state’s “CoBIS” program—an “easy” nine-year post of blasting bullets into a barrel that White, a distinguished man several years Cook’s senior, still gave him sass for.[26] (A few years back Cook and White had learned they were distant cousins, which only increased the good-humored banter between them.)
As they drove, both expressed their aggravation with how the operation was being handled. Frustrations had mounted over the last week because of problems in communication and the inevitable chaos it created with coordinating hundreds of personnel. The men and women from downstate did not know the area. When it came to designated duties, there was a lack of continuity from day to day; one shift they could be working a fixed post, the next they could be out vetting complaints, making the process increasingly inefficient. Morale was low among the officers, and the enthusiasm for catching the inmates had therefore begun to dwindle.
For the sergeants, the prospect of finding the fugitives was the one thing that kept them going.
“Man, can you imagine if we saw one of them running across that field right there?” Cook said to his partner as they drove past the passing landscape. “Wouldn’t that be awesome if we could be the ones to get him?”
• • •
Sweat woke with a start. Through the darkness, he ran his fingers over the ground, feeling the tread of tires etched in the dirt. They had left the field and moved on to the road, where they sat down for what was only supposed to be a quick break. Instead, they had nodded off.
“Come on, dude!” Sweat shook Matt’s shoulder until he stirred. It was 3 a.m. They did not have much time before dawn. “We gotta go, we can’t sleep in the road!”
Matt lumbered to his feet, his body heavy with exhaustion. Sweat was already standing. They had not slept long, but it was enough for him. He had been born with the gift of natural athleticism and boundless energy. With little conditioning, Sweat could sprint a good distance. One of his friends from adolescence later joked that Sweat did not even need shoes, as he seemed to run much faster without footwear. He likened him to an Olympic track star—a speeding bullet that could outrun just about anything or anyone.
This morning, however, he slowed his pace for Matt, who followed him deeper into the woods. They walked along a dirt trail for some time until they came across a lodge with a long drive. Fresh tire tracks had been pressed into the forest floor, so they decided to keep it moving. A little farther up, road signs that read “POSTED PRIVATE PROPERTY” and “NO TRESPASSING” had been tacked to the surrounding trees.
“Good,” Sweat thought. “Privacy is what we want.”
As they moved closer, a one-room cabin with two outhouses and a shed came into view. Two four wheelers were parked on the property, one of which had an attached trailer covered with a tarp. Sweat lifted the canvas and found it was full of fertilizer.
“Man, someone has a big garden up here,” he thought. He then went over to the ATV and lifted one of its seats. A small pile of papers had been stashed there, including the owner’s registration. According to these documents, the quad was licensed to a man in Cadyville.
“No fucking way,” he said to himself. Sweat remembered the radio announcement that cops were in Cadyville. For a split second, his stomach lurched. He and Matt could be in Cadyville at this moment (he was not entirely sure where they were). Then again, just because the four wheeler was registered there did not mean this cabin was in Cadyville, Sweat thought. In any event, they had not heard a chopper in some time, so he decided not to worry about it.
He made his way over to Matt, who had remained by the cabin. The front door was locked but one of the windows higher up appeared to be ajar. Matt brought a bucket from the yard and turned it over for Sweat to use as a step. He ascended the makeshift ladder and, lifting the window sill, crawled through before letting Matt in the front door.
A large flat screen television hung on the wall. Several bunks, two sofas, and a small dining table with four chairs filled the space. On the table was a map that appeared to plot the location of two crops on the property. On one of the beds were a few tote bags packed with clothes and blankets. He left most of the clothing (they already had what they needed) excerpt for a hat with the word “Grady’s” embroidered on the front, which he had taken from a large plastic bin. As he searched the one-room cabin, adding batteries and bug repellant to his stash, he also found a camo pack. Sweat opened it to find that it contained two items: socks and a black powder pistol. He removed the firearm (having one might invite unnecessary trouble) and handed the pack to Matt, who was noshing on a pickled sausage in between swigs of Southern Comfort. (In Clinton he mostly drank homemade hooch distilled by the inmate Wild Bill. A proper bottle of amber whiskey was therefore a welcome treat.)
On a small stand in front of the television were black and white photographs taken from a trail cam.[27] The pictures unnerved Matt; he did not like the idea of a camera capturing footage of either of them. He went outside and searched for the device, which did not take long; a tree facing directly toward the front house was the only place where a camera could capture the front door from the angle he had seen in the photos. He walked toward the tree and spotted the device strapped to the trunk. Matt pulled it out of its place and brought it back in the cabin to show to Sweat.
“This is where the photos came from,” he said, holding up the camera.
Sweat gave it a glance, then shrugged.
“Let’s put it back.”
Matt threw him a puzzled look.
“What if it took pictures of us?” he asked.
“Well, is it working?”
Upon closer inspection, Matt could see the camera was not turned on.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It probably didn’t get any pictures of us then.”
“Yeah,” said Matt, but he removed its SIM card before returning it to the tree, just to be sure.[28]
By the time Matt had put the trail cam back in its proper place, Sweat was ready to pack up and head out. It was a Saturday, and even though it was the off-season for hunting, people in these parts would probably use the weekend to check on their lodges. [29] (Sweat suspected they weren’t the kind of people who would be deterred by a prison escape.) Later he and Matt might be able to return to the cabin, and if the coast was clear, they could stay the night and maybe even crank up the generator to watch the evening news.
But the hum of an engine from down the road interrupted his thoughts, and ruined any chance that they would return that night.
“Matt! Someone’s coming!”
Grabbing their bags, they ran outside and ducked behind some brush, in the shadow of a few trees. Within seconds, a truck pulled up and parked in the drive.
An elderly man got out first. He looked from side to side, then toward the cabin door. His eyes narrowed as they roved over the camp. What he saw—or sensed, as there was nothing visibly out of place—caused his lips to purse, then twist into a grimace. He leaned inside the vehicle and grabbed his pump-action shotgun.
Firearm in tow, he made his way to the tree in front of the cabin. He looked around for a moment, then reached for the trail cam. Holding the device, he pressed a small button to dislodge the memory card. Nothing came out.
He looked back at his companions, a middle-aged man and a woman who appeared to be the younger man’s girlfriend.
“Someone took the chip,” he said.
“C’mon,” said the younger. He knew what the elder was implying. “No one’s been here.”
The latter shook his head.
“I’m telling ya, someone’s been here.” He surveyed the ground for signs of an intruder and what he noticed made his face turn white: the wet blades of grass at the base of the tree had flattened under the weight of Matt’s boot. Someone had, in fact, taken the memory card.
“See there!” he said, pointing at the footprint. “Someone’s been here!”
Matt made a motion to stand.
“Stay put!” Sweat hissed. “Don’t move a muscle!”
To put the old man at ease—he had quickly dropped his tough-guy exterior—the other man hopped on one of the four wheelers parked on the property and started the engine. He drove up a hill and rode for a few minutes before returning to the cabin.
“Nah, we’re good. Nothin’ been touched.”
The old man gripped his shotgun with firm resolve. His feet stayed planted as if rooted to the ground.
“I’m stayin’.”
“C’mon, there ain’t nobody here,” the younger repeated as he made his way back toward the truck, got in, and turned the ignition. When it was clear to the old man that he would be left behind, he followed, cursing as he went.
When the truck was out of sight, Matt and Sweat sprinted toward the woods. Once they were far enough away, they stopped to catch their breath.
“Do you think they’re gonna call the cops?” Matt asked, panting.
Sweat laughed. He thought of the map of crops, the fertilizer, and even the trail cam. By this time, he had put two and two together.
“Bro, they’re not going to call the cops. They’re pot growers.”
[26] The Combined Ballistic Identification System or “CoBIS” was an effort by New York to trace guns used in criminal activity. It sought to create a databank of ballistic samples taken from all new firearms sold in the state. Ballistic samples—shell casings of a bullet or projectile discharged from a specific, identified pistol or revolver—were required to be collected by firearm manufacturers, authorized dealers and anyone in the business of supplying firearms before the weapon could be sold. Instated under Gov. George Pataki’s administration in 2000, CoBIS ended up being a costly program with a major flaw: it did not account for the sale of illegal weapons, which are predominately used in criminal activity. It was ultimately considered a failure and was dismantled in 2012.
[27] “Trail cams” or trail cameras are used by hunters to track game. (In the Adirondacks, this includes deer and bears.) The devices, many of them camo-colored, are motion activated and are often placed in wooded areas where they record still images and/or video of passing wildlife. Information from these images helps hunters determine best location and time of day to capture game.
[28] Like cell phones, some trail cams also use SIM cards, which allow for these devices to connect to a cellular network. This type of trail cam—also known as a cellular game camera—can send data (i.e. images and video) to a cell phone. Without the SIM card, the camera cannot communicate with a cellular network.
[29] In the Adirondacks, early bear season commences on the first Saturday after the second Monday in September. Bow season for deer begins September 27 and continues through the second to last Saturday in October, or the Friday immediately preceding the regular season. This is followed by seven days of muzzleloading—hunting with firearms loaded through the muzzle—before the regular season begins. The summer is considered the off-season.