The North Cascades National Park in Washington state is a breathtaking expanse of jagged peaks, glacial valleys, and dense forests—a paradise for outdoor enthusiasts. But for Roric and Delphine Klugman, a retired couple from Seattle, what should have been a peaceful one-night camping getaway in September 2015 turned into a nightmare that haunted investigators and their son, Tieran, for four agonizing years. When their Subaru Outback was found locked at the Thunder Creek trailhead, with no signs of struggle, the case screamed accident. But the discovery of a rusted wood chipper in a remote forest clearing in 2019 would unearth bone fragments, shattering that illusion and revealing a cold-blooded murder tied to corporate greed and a desperate cover-up. This is the story of how a simple trip exposed a multimillion-dollar fraud scheme—and the brutal lengths its mastermind went to silence a threat.

Roric Klugman, 57, and Delphine, 58, were the picture of retirement bliss. Married for over three decades, they filled their days with gardening, walks with their golden retriever Sunny, and weekend hikes. Roric, a skilled machine technician at Vancamp Industries, had recently taken an early retirement package, which he downplayed to family as a positive shift. Delphine, a homemaker with a warm smile, loved capturing moments on her phone. On September 11, 2015, they packed snacks, water, and Roric’s bright orange backpack for a casual overnight at Thunder Creek—a flat, family-friendly trail. A selfie uploaded to Roric’s cloud that afternoon showed them beaming amid towering pines, the sky a brilliant blue. “Making memories,” the timestamp read. They never returned.

Tieran, their only child, grew worried when weekly coffee chats went unanswered. Arriving at their modest home on September 18, he found mail piled high and a stench that turned his stomach. Inside, chaos: overturned furniture, shredded cushions, claw marks on doors. In the utility room, Sunny cowered on a soiled blanket, ribs protruding, dehydrated to near death. “Mom? Dad?” Tieran called, dialing 911 in panic. The scene suggested a break-in, but valuables like the TV and jewelry were untouched. Sunny’s state implied neglect for at least a week—impossible for animal-loving Roric and Delphine. Police traced their last ping: the selfie at Thunder Creek. Their Subaru sat locked there, contents normal, no distress signals.

A massive search mobilized: rangers, volunteers, K-9s, helicopters with thermal cams. Teams scoured miles of trails, battling rain-slick mud and dense underbrush. Tieran highlighted the orange backpack as a beacon. A hiker’s photo of “orange fabric” in a scree field sparked hope—a high-risk climb for a specialized team. Six hours up unstable slopes, they reached it: faded climbing gear, not the backpack. Deflation hit hard. Winter snows buried leads; the search suspended. Theories swirled: lost in wilderness, suicide pact from job stress? But no financial woes surfaced; friends described a devoted duo. The case went cold, Tieran haunted by uncertainty.

Four years later, in summer 2019, contract logger Brody Houston cleared overgrown logging roads in adjacent national forest. Spotting a rusted wood chipper half-buried in mud—orange paint faded, chute clogged—he winched it free for disposal. As it lifted, compacted debris tumbled out: dark, degraded clumps with hard fragments. Kneeling, Houston prodded with a stick—bone-like shards amid pulp. Heart racing, he radioed base: “Unusual discovery.” Police swarmed, taping the site. Dismantling revealed biological traces in crevices. Soil sifting yielded more: fragmented human remains, small volume suggesting partial disposal. Metal detectors pinged—a silver dental inlay.

Forensic odontologists matched it to Roric’s unique silver alloy inlay via dental charts. DNA was too degraded, but the craftsmanship sealed it. Roric was murdered, chipped and scattered. The case reopened as homicide. Partial remains implied the rest—and Delphine’s body—were elsewhere. Tieran, reeling, probed Roric’s job loss at Vancamp Industries, a heavy machinery firm. Financials showed stability, but a $50,000 cash withdrawal the week before vanished. Colleagues clammed up, fearing retaliation. “Something’s off,” one whispered.

Tieran dug: No debts, but Vancamp’s owner, Oswin Vancamp, seemed shady. The FBI joined, auditing Vancamp’s books. Anomalies emerged: excessive insurance claims for “stolen” or “damaged” equipment, totaling millions. Serial numbers traced to shell-company warehouses—hidden, resold on black markets. Roric, as lead technician, logged the gear; he spotted fakes. The $50K? Blackmail hush money. Vancamp, panicking, ordered elimination.

Enter Jory Pasternack, Vancamp’s enforcer—ex-security foreman with a violent rap sheet. Surveillance caught them emptying a warehouse. A tactical raid in late 2019 swarmed: Breaches exploded, teams flooded in. Vancamp froze mid-clipboard; Pasternack reversed a forklift in vain. Both nabbed. The warehouse? A fraud graveyard—stolen machines matching claims. Rows linked to Roric’s logs.

Pasternack cracked: Roric confronted Vancamp; payoff failed. They stalked the camping trip, ambushed at night, murdered both. Dismembered in a shell warehouse with saws and axes—heads, hands, feet for ID. Torsos/limbs dumped in a collapsed mineshaft; ID parts chipped in the forest machine, abandoned. Vancamp’s arrogance crumbled; Pasternack’s deal exposed all.

In 2020, Vancamp got life for double murder and fraud; Pasternack, reduced time for testimony. Delphine’s remains elude recovery, but justice came. Tieran, scarred by a garage assault (Pasternack’s work), found closure. “Dad’s strength lives on,” he said. The North Cascades, once a tomb, now honors their memory—a reminder: Even in paradise, darkness lurks.