exact. Each of <strong>the</strong>m felonies. It’s almost certa<strong>in</strong>ly <strong>the</strong> biggest burglary case <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> history of Ma<strong>in</strong>e. Possibly, <strong>in</strong> terms of <strong>the</strong> number of separate break-<strong>in</strong>s, <strong>the</strong> largest <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> country. Maybe <strong>the</strong> world. Knight expla<strong>in</strong>s that he entered places strictly at night, after carefully try<strong>in</strong>g to ensure that nobody was home. He never stole from anyone’s full-time residence, where it was more likely someone could unexpectedly show up. Instead, he burglarized only summer cab<strong>in</strong>s and <strong>the</strong> P<strong>in</strong>e Tree Camp. Sometimes <strong>the</strong> cab<strong>in</strong>s were unlocked; sometimes he jimmied a w<strong>in</strong>dow or forced open a door. P<strong>in</strong>e Tree alone he broke <strong>in</strong>to perhaps a hundred times. He always took all he could carry, but it wasn’t a lot, so he had to keep com<strong>in</strong>g back. Vance expla<strong>in</strong>s that he will have to forfeit all <strong>the</strong> stolen material he possesses. She asks Knight to claim what is his. “Everyth<strong>in</strong>g is stolen,” he says. His backpack, his boots, his break-<strong>in</strong> tools, <strong>the</strong> entirety of his campsite, and all <strong>the</strong> clo<strong>the</strong>s he is wear<strong>in</strong>g, right down to his underwear. “<strong>The</strong> only th<strong>in</strong>g I can honestly say is m<strong>in</strong>e,” he states, “are my eyeglasses.” Vance asks if he has any family <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> area. “I would ra<strong>the</strong>r not answer that,” he says. He doesn’t know if his parents are alive or dead—he has not been <strong>in</strong> contact with anyone—but if <strong>the</strong>y are alive, he hopes <strong>the</strong>y never learn that he’s been found. Vance asks why, and Knight says that he wasn’t raised to be a thief. He says that he is ashamed. Knight does admit that he grew up <strong>in</strong> central Ma<strong>in</strong>e. He was never <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> military. He says that he graduated from Lawrence High School, class of 1984. <strong>The</strong> P<strong>in</strong>e Tree Camp facilities director, Chesley, mentions that his wife also went to Lawrence, <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> nearby town of Fairfield, graduat<strong>in</strong>g two years later. <strong>The</strong>y might still have <strong>the</strong> 1984 yearbook at <strong>the</strong>ir house. Hughes asks Chesley to drive home and try to f<strong>in</strong>d it. Vance calls dispatch and runs a check on Knight. He has no crim<strong>in</strong>al record; <strong>the</strong>re are no warrants for his arrest. He is not listed as a miss<strong>in</strong>g person. His driver’s license expired on his birthday <strong>in</strong> 1987. Chesley comes back with <strong>the</strong> yearbook, <strong>the</strong> Lawrence Lyre, its navy blue cover stamped with a big silver “84.” <strong>The</strong> senior picture for Chris Knight, as he’s called, shows a kid with dark tousled hair and thickframed eyeglasses, arms crossed, lean<strong>in</strong>g back slightly aga<strong>in</strong>st a tree, wear<strong>in</strong>g a blue polo shirt with two breast pockets. He looks healthy and strong. <strong>The</strong>re’s less a smile than a wry sort of smirk. He’s not pictured with any sports team or school club or anywhere else. It’s hard to tell if <strong>the</strong> same person is now sitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> P<strong>in</strong>e Tree d<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g hall. Knight says that he hasn’t seen an image of himself <strong>in</strong> years, except maybe a blurry reflection <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> water. <strong>The</strong>re’s no mirror at his campsite, he mentions. “How do you shave?” asks Vance. “Without a mirror,” he says. He no longer knows what he looks like. He stares at <strong>the</strong> photo, squ<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g. His eyeglasses have been pushed up on his forehead, but now he moves <strong>the</strong>m back to his nose. And this is <strong>the</strong> moment, both Hughes and Vance agree, when <strong>the</strong>y suddenly feel certa<strong>in</strong>—<strong>the</strong>y just sense <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir guts—that everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong>y’ve heard tonight is true. <strong>The</strong> color of <strong>the</strong> frames may have faded over <strong>the</strong> decades, but <strong>the</strong> boy <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> photo and <strong>the</strong> man <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> d<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g hall are wear<strong>in</strong>g similar pairs of glasses. It’s not long before dawn now; <strong>the</strong> darkness has crested. Knight, as Vance knows, will soon be swallowed by <strong>the</strong> legal system, and perhaps never speak freely aga<strong>in</strong>. She’d like an explanation—why leave <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> world beh<strong>in</strong>d?—but Knight says he can’t give her a def<strong>in</strong>itive reason. She po<strong>in</strong>ts to <strong>the</strong> scabs on his wrists. “What did you do for medic<strong>in</strong>e?” she asks. “Or doctors?”
“I took no medications and never went to a doctor,” says Knight. As he grew older, he says, cuts and bruises healed more slowly, but he did not once suffer a serious <strong>in</strong>jury. “Have you ever been sick?” asks Vance. “No,” says Knight. “You need to have contact with o<strong>the</strong>r humans to get sick.” “When is <strong>the</strong> last time you had contact with ano<strong>the</strong>r human?” He never had physical contact, Knight answers, but sometime <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> 1990s, he encountered a hiker while walk<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> woods. “What did you say?” asks Vance. “I said, ‘Hi,’ ” Knight replies. O<strong>the</strong>r than that s<strong>in</strong>gle syllable, he <strong>in</strong>sists, he had not spoken with or touched ano<strong>the</strong>r human be<strong>in</strong>g, until this even<strong>in</strong>g, for twenty-seven years.
- Page 2: Also by Michael Finkel True Story:
- Page 5 and 6: Contents Cover Also by Michael Fink
- Page 7 and 8: In memory of Eileen Myrna Baker Fin
- Page 13 and 14: 1 The trees are mostly skinny where
- Page 15 and 16: 2 Terry Hughes’s wife nudges him
- Page 17 and 18: eyes, and trains the .357 square in
- Page 19 and 20: down, hands still locked behind his
- Page 21: truth. Anything else would be wasti
- Page 25 and 26: Or them. Nobody knew. Because of th
- Page 27 and 28: North Pond hermit, it turns out, wa
- Page 29 and 30: 7 I learned about Christopher Knigh
- Page 31 and 32: 8 A white envelope arrived in my ma
- Page 33 and 34: against the rules of journalism. I
- Page 35 and 36: 9 Augusta, Maine, is picturesque bu
- Page 37 and 38: East accent. I plowed awkwardly on.
- Page 39 and 40: 10 Knight lived in the same campsit
- Page 41 and 42: Knight, matching him step for step.
- Page 43 and 44: He’d spread a carpet over the mag
- Page 45 and 46: It was the kind of total quiet that
- Page 47 and 48: to the nature of the electromagneti
- Page 49 and 50: something. Chris was smart and frie
- Page 51 and 52: 13 But why? Why would a twenty-year
- Page 53 and 54: including Charles Darwin, Thomas Ed
- Page 55 and 56: 14 Knight actually did have a plan.
- Page 57 and 58: the sorts of places where it’s ne
- Page 59 and 60: their canoe has been borrowed and r
- Page 61 and 62: 16 Knight lived in the dirt but was
- Page 63 and 64: he was famished for words, he’d s
- Page 65 and 66: Knight had a strong distaste for bi
- Page 67 and 68: Knight’s camp. He began observing
- Page 69 and 70: 18 The only book Knight didn’t st
- Page 71 and 72: my winter toilet. Do my business. T
- Page 73 and 74:
pen name. “Human society has been
- Page 75 and 76:
do telethons? I hate Jerry Lewis.
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fed her, but with Knight she had no
- Page 79 and 80:
21 A thousand poets sing of solitud
- Page 81 and 82:
“psychologically completely out o
- Page 83 and 84:
22 Snow melted, flowers bloomed, in
- Page 85 and 86:
changes is where the brain is funct
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His thieving raids became considera
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to sing, with his food supplies nea
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inherited from her mother, and a co
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25 A side door to the jail swings o
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Jail, he’s realized, might not be
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26 Chris’s oldest brother, Daniel
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That note, thirty-four words long,
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the bright side. The sun will come
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28 A mile down the road, I pull ove
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It’s now just a spot in the woods
- Page 107 and 108:
For insight into Knight: Matt Hongo
- Page 109 and 110:
Annette Schipf Chris Anderson David
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David and Louise Proulx, whose tiny
- Page 113 and 114:
A Note About the Author Michael Fin