The Stranger in the Woods_ The - Michael Finkel

The crime scenes themselves were so clean that the authorities offered their begrudging respect. “The
level of discipline he showed while he broke into houses,” said Hughes, “is beyond what any of us can
remotely imagine—the legwork, the reconnaissance, the talent with locks, his ability to get in and out
without being detected.” A burglary report filed by one police officer specifically noted the crime’s
“unusual neatness.” The hermit, many officers felt, was a master thief. It was as if he were showing off,
picking locks yet stealing little, playing a strange sort of game.
Knight said that the moment he opened a lock and entered a home, he always felt a hot wave of shame.
“Every time, I was very conscious that I was doing wrong. I took no pleasure in it, none at all.”
Once inside a cabin, he moved purposefully, hitting the kitchen first before making a quick sweep of the
house, looking for any useful items or the batteries he always required. He never turned on a light. He used
only a small flashlight attached to a metal chain he wore around his neck—this style allowed him to leave the
light dangling if he needed it in the forest, and it would illuminate only the ground, keeping his face
shadowed. Knight detested headlamps; they scattered light everywhere, bright as a bar sign.
During a burglary, there wasn’t a moment’s ease. “My adrenaline was spiking, my heart rate was soaring.
My blood pressure was high. I was always scared when stealing. Always. I wanted it over as quickly as
possible.” The only time he paused for more than a moment during a raid was when the weather was cold
and he needed to thaw something out. If meat was frozen, he’d pop it in the microwave.
He’d finish with the inside of the cabin, then by habit check the gas grill to see if the propane tank was
full. If so, and there was an empty spare lying around, he’d replace the full one with an empty, making the
grill appear untouched. It was always best, Knight believed, for a home owner to have no clear evidence that
he or she had been robbed. Then he’d load everything into a canoe, if it was a canoe-borrowing trip, and
paddle to the shore closest to his camp and unload. He’d return the canoe to the spot he’d taken it from,
sprinkle some pine needles on the boat to make it appear unused, then haul his loot up through the Jarsey,
between the elephant rocks, to his site.
By this point, dawn was often breaking. When he carried the last item into his camp, he could finally
relax. “Ahead of me was a long stretch of peace. No, not peace. That’s too icky of a word. A long stretch of
calm.” Each raid brought him enough supplies to last about two weeks, and as he settled once more into his
room in the woods—“back in my safe place, success”—he came as close as he could to experiencing joy.