The Adventurer's Son(51)
We strained to see some sign of Roman. A flash of color that he might position on a creek’s gravel bar or still-water pool, or some gear he might drag onto the fresh surface of a new landslide. But there was nobody. Not a miner, not a tourist, and no lost and injured young man.
I couldn’t help but appreciate the effort, the cost, the futility. I wanted to see him there. But peering at the surface of an ocean of green foliage made it clear why everyone hoped Cody was on the trail to Carate, smoking pot with Pata Lora, or hanging out in a bar in Matapalo. Finding him outside Corcovado at least seemed possible.
Fourteen minutes after leaving Puerto Jiménez, we reached the Pacific. We circled over its aquamarine near-shore waters, then dropped off a Cruz Roja volunteer on the beach near Carate. It felt useful to have so many eyes on the ground. We flew back to Puerto Jiménez over the park’s north and west side. From the air, Corcovado’s mountain range looked like a clenched fist, palm down, knuckles as highpoints, the back of the hand sloping toward Dos Brazos, the finger joints forming cliffy canyon rims above the north and western rivers: Sirena, Rincon, and Claro—Roman’s destination. Here and there enormous trees with yellow blossoms punched through the canopy and waterfalls plunged off the summit escarpment. It was beautiful, futile, heartbreaking. He’s likely out of food by now.
I hoped that the helicopter signaled to him we were coming, that we would find him. The helicopter flight was useful in another way, too. It confirmed that to find Roman I needed to follow his trail into the jungle and retrace his route. Fifty minutes later we landed back in Puerto Jiménez. Officials would ultimately log over nine generous hours of helicopter time. I was grateful for the effort, even if disappointed by the not unexpected outcome.
After the flight, Thai and I returned to the Corners Hostel to see if Roman had come to pick up his things without telling us. Do?a Berta said she was sorry that my son was missing. She said God would help. Then she asked me to take the yellow bag and not come back.
Chapter 25
Rio Conte
Pancho in Rio Conte Valley, July 30, 2014.
Courtesy of the author
I spent the rest of the day in the car on my cell phone talking to the embassy, the FBI, and Peggy. I hated talking on my cell. It came to signify empty promises, disappointments, expensive bills. The FBI relayed that the last email Roman sent from his email account was on July 10, the day after he’d written us. He’d written his college sweetheart two words that morning: so weird. Peggy told me that she and Lieutenant Governor Treadwell had managed to learn from reluctant bank employees that Roman made no financial transactions after July 9. If Pata Lora had been paid at a Puerto Jimenez ATM on July 16, it wasn’t by Roman.
Roman’s Costa Rican case was officially a missing persons one, so the FBI couldn’t get involved in the investigation. There needed to be evidence of a murder, a kidnapping, or extortion. The embassy would work as an intermediary among us, the FBI, and the OIJ, but our son was in the hands of the Costa Ricans. Jorge Jimenez—at twenty-seven, the same age as Roman and Pata Lora—was the OIJ investigator in charge. He’d come to the Osa from Ciudad Neily, a two-hour drive away, for another case.
Lauren had a knack for tracking people down while keeping the Iguana running smoothly. She called the OIJ agent and arranged a meeting. Jorge Jimenez met Lauren and me at a pulperia along the Osa highway. A baby-faced young man stepped out of a dark SUV. He wore nice black shoes, slacks, and a button-up shirt that was open at the collar. Jorge was polite enough, but tight-lipped, too. He said Roman’s was a missing persons case, with no evidence of foul play. There was no body, for instance.
“What about Pata Lora?” I asked. “I hear you have him in custody.”
“Pata Lora is being held on another case, unrelated to this. We’ve heard the stories and questioned him.”
“Was Roman with him?”
“Pata Lora,” he offered, “is not a reliable witness.”
Jimenez asked about Cody’s credit cards. There were none—just Roman’s ATM, library, PADI dive, and ID cards left in the yellow bag. The detective asked me about the red notebook that had also been at the Corners Hostel with its entries after July 10. Jorge did not know these entries were from 2011, when Roman was in arctic Alaska working a field job. They concerned snowy owls, trapping shrews, baiting isopods, and working with colleagues. He’d also written poignantly about heartbreak after his girlfriend had left him the year before.
The OIJ’s interest in Roman’s three-year-old journaling was another example of an uninformed lead, like Cody hiring Pata Lora to hike a trail outside Corcovado. I appreciated the effort, but the view from the helicopter had presented a sobering reminder that finding Roman in the tangled landscape would most likely take skill and luck from a small team piecing together his route. Roman had declared his intentions. Why wasn’t anyone paying attention to them?
Dondee had prevented my access to the park, but influential people intervened. Between Lauren’s calls to local officials and a letter of introduction from Lieutenant Governor Treadwell to a well-connected Costa Rican named Juan Edgar Picado, it looked like we were in. Lauren hand-picked a ranger and guide whom I would pay to accompany Thai and me to the Conte.
The authorities nixed that idea. It came too close to offering a reward. So Dondee himself drove Thai, me, and Lauren’s recommended ranger, Pancho, up a steep, bumpy dirt road to the La Tarde field station on the north side of the park, close to the Conte. La Tarde, I understood, would provide a base from which to search the Rio Conte.