When Henry McCabe disappeared, he left what can only be described as the most bone-chilling voicemail. He is screaming, pleading, and growling in raw, animalistic agony. Along with these sounds is a noise in the background that sounds indefinably mechanical. As we listen to it, we do not know what is happening to him. Even more chilling is the moment another voice can be heard, telling Henry in a cold, emotionless, detached voice, “Stop it.” Fifty-five days later, Henry’s body was found in an isolated creek. His body had no wounds, no trauma, no injuries. How could this be possible after Henry’s harrowing, visceral voicemail? What was it that took Henry to the gaping, echoing abyss of unremitting terror? And who, or what took him on that terrible one-way journey? “This is what they did to my son. Henry paid for you to learn the lesson,” said his mother; but what does she mean?
Why would he walk six miles to a spot only accessible through thick inhospitable vegetation, in pitch darkness, toward a creek that was so isolated few even knew it was there? For that is where he was found.
The crime scene photos show
this location. There is no footpath to lead him to where he was found. It is a
bleak landscape of tall dense trees and thick brambles. Had Henry tried to
cut-through this area, to get home? And yet it was no-where near where he had been
dropped off, and no-where near home, and it led only to the cold depths of the
water. It was not an easy route to get through, and it was not a route to anywhere
other than desolation.