A Vacation That Turned FATAL - The Death Valley Germans

In 1986, a man named Scott McLean was killed in broad daylight. Police quickly found their suspect, prosecutors convicted him. But now, almost 40 years later, I'm re-examining this case. I really didn't believe any of it was real and I was like, "Well, they're going to figure out this is not me, they're going to do their police job." Has the wrong man been in prison this whole time? Even to examine the backfire effect wherever you get your podcasts. Every town has a dark side. This one's for the people listening from behind the wheel right now. The road trippers who like to cruise around and check out all the sites that this wonderful country has to offer. Because this story starts the way a lot of trips do. With the map, the open road, the quiet confidence that things will work themselves out along the way. As they always do, right? I chose this case because it's familiar to all of us, which makes it extremely uncomfortable. As it asks you to sit with the idea that sometimes doing what feels normal and reasonable in the moment can still lead you somewhere, you can't get back from. Hey guys, it's Andrew. Thanks for tuning in to this episode of Every Town, where today we're checking out a cautionary tale from Deep in the Desert. Let's head on over to California now and explore the tragic story of the Death Valley Germans. July 8, 1996, Frankfurt International Airport. Higbert Rimkiss stood in the departure terminal with his 11-year-old son, George Weber, waiting aboard a flight bound to the United States. Higbert was 34 years old, an architect from Dresden, and he approached travel the same way he approached work, confidently, with big plans and very little hesitation. And traveling with him, where Higbert's girlfriend, 27-year-old Cornelia Meyer, and her four-year-old son, Max. Together, they were setting out on a three-week trip across the Western United States, a sweeping itinerary that promised the Pacific coast, big cities, and eventually the Desert Southwest. They flew first to Seattle, and then immediately connected down to Los Angeles. With an hours of landing at LAX, they made their way to the Dollar Renta car counter and picked up a green 1996 Plymouth Voyager Minivan, perfect for the foursome. There was only one small complication, Higbert hadn't brought his driver's license, so Cornelia signed the rental paperwork instead. That van was due back on July 26, and their return flight to Germany was scheduled for the following day. So, they were all set, tossed their luggage in the back and off they went, so far, so good. The first stretch of the trip unfolded the way a lot of vacations would on the west coast. They stayed in San Clemente, beautiful coastal town in SoCal to spend time on the beach, and experience the sights and sounds of a place they had never been. Now back then, there were no iPhones, so they took photos with a practica 35mm camera, the kind you have to ration shots on, saving film for the moments that feel worth it. Many as you know, and go fast in the US, and for the four vacationers it was becoming a little bit of a concern how fast it actually went. On July 12, Higbert called his bank back in Dresden, and arranged for $1,500 to be wired to a bank of America branch in San Clemente. That something went wrong though, and the funds were sent instead to a branch in Los Angeles. That's two hours away without traffic, and whether Higbert ever managed to retrieve that money has never been clearly established, though it's doubtful. On July 21, the group had driven inland the Las Vegas, checking into the Treasure Island Hotel in Casino. That same day, Higbert sent a fax to his ex-wife, Hike Weber, the mother of his son George asking her to send money. She did not. The next morning they checked out, and with their cash running low and only a few days left before their schedule flight home, the trip had entered a different sort of phase. This wasn't really about sightseeing anymore, and they needed to decide how to use what little time and money they had left. So they drove west, headed back towards Los Angeles, and right into Death Valley. A Death Valley National Park is huge, and covers more than 3 million acres of desert, stretching across the California Nevada border. It's the hottest, driest place in North America, a landscape of salt flats, sand dunes, and sharp mountain ranges that seem to go on forever. In July, temperatures on the valley floor routinely climb past 120 degrees, but it's a national park, so you pay a small entrance fee and you can drive around and see some cool things. Although it's more like hot things if we're being accurate. In that heat, the air shimmers, the metal burns to the touch, even people who know the desert well avoid traveling there in the summer. Apart from inside an air condition, minivan, with the windows up in the road stretching straight ahead, the danger isn't all that obvious, especially for a foreign family on vacation. It simply doesn't know any better. On July 22, the family arrived at the Furnace Creek Visitor Center. Inside, they picked up maps and pamphlets, including a German language booklet titled "Death Valley National Monument Museum Text". They spoke with park staff and asked about camping, and they were told that camping on the valley floor wasn't allowed, the heat made it too dangerous, but there were legal campsites on the western side of the park, up in the canyons where higher elevations brought cooler temps. As they studied the map, one route stood out. Heading west on west side road, they could pass through butte valley. Cross-mengal pass and eventually reach the old mining town of Ballarat. From there, they could continue north toward your Semmity National Park. They look like an adventure. A way to see parts of death valley most visitors never reached. On paper, it also looked efficient, the way Germans like it. A way to save time, and money, and avoid another hotel stay by camping instead. Before leaving that visitor's center, they stopped at the store and bought some supplies. A Coleman sleeping bag, a tent, a small amount of food and water, enough to get them through the next couple of days before departing for home. From there, they drove west toward Hennapa Canyon. The pavement didn't last long though. The road then turned to dirt, and then grew even rougher. But the minivan still kept moving, and that night they camp near the top of Hennapa Canyon above the valley floor and out of the worst of the heat. They took photographs there, the kids played, and for a moment it probably felt like the trip had opened back up again, like this was what they'd come for. The following morning, they broke camp early hoping to move before the heat set in. They drove south and then turned west on the warm spring road, a dirt track that led deeper into the park's remote western side. This was back country now, we're talking no ranger stations, no services, long stretches of road where you might not see another vehicle all day. It's the type of place you need to plan to go to, and not just head out there on a whim. The road was rough, but still passable. As they approach warm spring camp, they saw what looked like buildings ahead. These low concrete structures scattered across the valley. From the distance, it could have looked like a settlement, somewhere active, in place to get some insight about the road ahead in provisions. Up close though, it was clear the place was empty. These buildings you see were old concrete cabins built back in the 1930s by a wealthy minor named Louis Grantham, and a long since been abandoned. The desert had crept back in around them, and there were no people, no vehicles, no movement at all. The only sign of recent visitors was a metal pole with a small box attached. Register. Cornelia opened it and signed the law, writing all four of their names, beneath it she added a short note in German, saying they were headed over the pass. The most likely she meant "mengal pass," a rough route that would take them south then eventually out of the park. Nearby stood the geologist Cabin, a simple stone shelter maintained by volunteers for hikers who needed a place for rest. From it, they took an American flag, and that flag would later be found inside the van, quietly confirming that they had been there. After that, they drove on, and somewhere after one spring camp, they made a very wrong turn. Mengal pass isn't a paved road. It's barely a road at all, actually. More of a rocky trail carved through the peniment range, passable only by experienced drivers and four-wheel vehicles. When Egbert reached it and saw the terrain ahead, he must have realized right away that their minivan would never make it through. And they turned back, but by then the day was slipping away. It was late afternoon and heading all the way back to Furnace Creek would take hours. It would also mean driving farther from Los Angeles, the direction they needed to be going. Egbert unfolded the map again, and there appeared to be another way out. A route that ran south through Anvil Canyon, moving back toward the valley floor, on paper, it looked shorter and more direct. What the map didn't show, and what Egbert had no way of knowing was that this wasn't really a road anymore. Years earlier, it had been used by miners, but in 1994 the California Desert Protection Act designated Anvil Canyon as protected wilderness, closing it to vehicles. By 1996, this road was just a sandy streambed, scattered with hunts of rock and loose gravel, even people with four-wheel drive trucks avoided it. But standing there in the late afternoon heat, none of that was visible. The route looked passable and they were running out of time. Egbert turned the van south. At first the route seemed manageable. They passed through Willow Spring without serious trouble, following the wide sandy wash as they dipped into Anvil Canyon. The track was uneven but the van kept moving, and for a while it must have felt like they had made the right choice. But then the ground began to change. The sand grew deeper and rocks had pushed up through the surface. The wash narrowed and the van's front wheel drive started to struggle for traction. Egbert kept moving forward, knowing that if he stopped, if the tires lost momentum, it wouldn't be able to start again. From there the rare tires began to tear apart. Sharp rocks cut into the rubber, shredding it piece by piece. Still the van kept going, grinding forward on flattened tires for more than two miles, metal scraping against stone. Eventually it reached a fork in the wash. Egbert believed the road continued to the right, it didn't. The correct route had veered left. By the time he realized the mistake and tried to adjust, the van slid into a patch of deep sand and stopped. The wheels spun, the engine rev, but nothing happened. They were stuck. The elevation here was around 3,000 feet, which meant the temperatures hovered near 104 degrees. Hot, but not immediately lethal. The larger problem was where they were. Miles away from any marked trail, far from ranger stations, and a stretch of desert that saw very little traffic, even in cooler months. And they also had no way to call for help. Cornelia stayed with the van and the two boys, while Egbert took a beer from their supplies and started walking. He headed east, following Annville Canyon downstream, hoping to see anything that might offer a way out. After nearly two miles, he stopped beneath a small bush to rest. From there, he could see the mouth of the canyon, about 8 miles away. Beyond that was the valley floor where Badwater Road ran another 16 miles away, too far to walk, especially with two young children. And he sat in the shade, drinking his beer, working through their options. A going back meant returning to the geologist cabin, four miles in brutal heat, with no guarantee of finding help. The valley floor, well that was out of reach, but there was a third possibility. On the map, the northern boundary of the China Lake Naval Weapon Station lay about nine miles to the south. In Germany, military bases were fenced, guarded, and impossible to miss. And Egbert assumed the same would be true here. That if they reached the perimeter, someone would see them and they could get help. What he couldn't have known was that in this stretch of the American desert, there were no fences, no regular patrols, nobody was watching. To the land itself provided the security because it's so impossible to navigate. When he finished his beer, he left the bottle beneath the bush, along with a shallow impression in the sand where he had sat, trying to find shade. Then he walked back to the van. That night they camp beside it, and they played with the kids so they wouldn't worry, and it took more photographs. Maybe they even still believed rescue was only a matter of walking far enough south and that eventually they'd be seen. But the Germans never boarded their return flight on July 27th. When Egbert and George didn't come home, Egbert's ex-wife Haik began asking questions. The German travel agency they had used contacted the American rental car company, Mekar, hadn't been returned. On July 31st, German and US authorities officially listed the four tourists as missing and alerted Interpol. But without a starting point, there was little investigators could do. And then, on October 21st of 1996, nearly three months later, a military helicopter flying routine surveillance over Death Valley spotted something out of place. Ranger Dave Bremer was a boy of the helicopter searching for illegal drug labs, and he noticed a vehicle sitting in Anvil Canyon miles away from any legal road and he landed nearby and walked over to it. It was a green 1996 Plymouth Voyager minivan, dusty, locked, and abandoned. Three of its four tires were completely shredded, destroyed by miles of rock and gravel. In Bremer radio, the license plate to park headquarters, the vehicle came back as stolen, reported by dollar rent to car after it was never returned. But when the rental records were checked, something else appeared. The names of four German tourists, all flagged by Interpol. The next day, investigator Eric Hyman arrived by helicopter with sheriff's deputies. They unlocked the van and searched it, and inside were camping supplies. A brand new sleeping bag, still in its box, an empty sleeping bag box and a tent. There were toys, luggage, clothing, and rolls of exposed camera film. In drinks of all kinds, two unopened bottles of beer, one empty, bottles of bourbon, and several large empty water containers. There was also an unused spare tire and jack, and the American flag from the geologist cabin. But there were no passports, no wallets, no keys, and no sign of the family. A massive search and rescue effort launched where more than 200 people took part, including multiple helicopter teams. At any given time, these 45 searchers were in the field, and the crews searched hundreds of square miles, depending out in all directions, using the van as a starting point. And they found only one small piece of evidence. The beer bottle eggbird had left beneath the bush, along with the impression in the sand where he had sat. In the bottle, matched the brand, found in the van. Beyond that, though, there was nothing. On October 26th, after spending more than $80,000, authorities officially called off the entire search. And for the next 13 years, the case went cold. The theories filled the void, but the family had faked their disappearance, There have been a clue. Custody dispute, even darker ideas involving murder, but there was no evidence for any of it, this pure speculation. And then, in the late 2000s, a man named Tom Mahood learned about the case, and experienced hiker and search and rescue volunteer, he was methodical and analytical, and something about the story nagged at him. So, he began studying the original reports, and pouring over maps, and rethinking where the family might have gone. The original search teams had approached the case like season desert travelers, asking what someone familiar with Death Valley would have done. Mahood questioned that assumption. What if the Germans had made choices no local ever would, and what if they had gone somewhere and no one expected to look. So he focused on one area that had seen very little attention, directly south of the van toward the China Lake Naval Weapon Station. If Egbert believed the base was patrolled, he may have let his family that way, not realizing how far it actually was, or that no one was monitoring the perimeter. Mahood made several solo trips into the area, nearly dying from heat exhaustion on one occasion. Still, he kept returning. In November of 2009, he went back with less walker, another experienced search and rescue volunteer, and he split up, staying in contact by radio as they moved across the rough terrain. Then walker's radio crackled to life. He'd found a wine bottle, fragments of its label still clinging to the glass, and something that looked like toilet paper, but wasn't. Up close, it turned out to be pages from a planner, covered in handwritten German. And later, walker came back on the radio, his voice quieted at this time. He'd found bones. These fixtures taken by Walker show a wine bottle he found along one of the paths they may have used after their van got stuck in the sand. He also found papers written in German, and a wallet, passport and ID belonging to mismyers. Walker believes the remains he found are the wallet or hers. Nearby were torn pages from her planner, filled with business cards from hotels and attractions. The family had visited. There was another beer bottle and the soul of a small shoe. But there was evidence of only one person, Cornelia. There was no sign of Eggbert and no sign of the children. I couldn't believe that we'd actually came upon the remains, try to get into their mind where they would have gone having left their van in this wash in Death Valley and where they would have gone from there. The two men documented everything carefully, taking only the wallet containing Cornelia's identification as proof. Sheriff's deputies later returned to the site and conducted their own searches, recovering additional scattered skeletal remains. At March of 2010, Mahood made another trip and discovered a set of keys that appeared to be European. The following month, he returned with another volunteer and identified what seemed to be a more realistic route the family might have taken, a path descending from higher ground toward the valley. Along a hillside there, they found an old wooden post painted red at the top, rings with stones and topped with an amber beer bottle. It appeared to be a marker and possibly left by the Germans themselves. In May of 2010, authorities confirmed that DNA recovered from some of the remains matched Eggbert rimkiss. Additional searches uncovered skeletal fragments believed to belong to 11-year-old George, though the remains were too degraded for definitive DNA testing. The remains of four-year-old Max, though they were never officially found. Eventually, the investigation was closed and the sheriff's office asked that no further searches be conducted. All recovered evidence was returned to the families in Germany. So after all the searching, all the theories and all the years, what actually happened out there. The timeline piece together suggests that after Eggbert returned from the scouting walk, the family spent the night at the van. Early the next morning, July 24, they set out on foot walking east along Anvil Canyon to the spa where Eggbert had stopped the day before. From there, they turned south toward what he believed was a patrolled military perimeter. At first, the walk was manageable with relatively flat ground, but the heat was relentless. Extreme conditions, adults, can lose 2-3 liters of water per hour, and children lose roughly half that. To stay hydrated, the family would have needed 20-30 liters of water and they didn't have anywhere close to that. About six miles from the van, the wash narrowed and curved right, ending at a hillside, and faced with the choice of following the bend or dropping down into the canyon where they went down. It would have seemed easier, faster. Instead though, they carried them deeper into the wilderness, farther from any chance of rescue. They made it roughly 9 miles from the van before they could go no further. At some point, Eggbert may have continued on alone searching for help while Cornelia stayed with the boys, or they may have stomped together. The scatter remains suggest they died from heatstroke and dehydration, and one of the most remote parts of Death Valley. Meanwhile, just miles away, runners were competing in the annual Badwater Ultramarathon, a 135-mile race from the lowest point in North America toward Mount Whitney. Support crews and organizers were stationed along the route, and if the family had known, if they had gone east instead of south, they actually might have found hell. But they didn't know, and they were close, and yet, impossibly far. And so, Death Valley, true to its name, claimed for more lives. So that's going to do it for this week's episode of Every Town. We'll be all enjoyed it, appreciate you very much for checking us out. Thanks for tuning in, remember to come on back here next week, same time, same place for another episode of Every Town filled with scary, strange and mysterious stories, because you never know, and be your town will be next.