Buried Secrets on the Oregon Coast: The Disappearance of Alicia Eakins

The Oregon coast is a place of beauty and brutality. Jagged cliffs drop into crashing waves. Fog rolls in like a living thing, swallowing roads and memories alike. It was along these cliffs in October 1990 that 27-year-old Alicia Eakins vanished — and for decades, the sea seemed to hold her secret tight.

But nearly two decades later, a rusted patrol car pulled from a cliffside would reveal the outlines of a chilling mystery. And in the years between, Alicia’s husband would stumble across a chain of clues — a name in a yearbook, a hostile confrontation, a wooden box buried in the sand — that suggested her disappearance was not an accident at all, but part of a cover-up that reached into the ranks of local law enforcement.

The Night She Disappeared

On October 6, 1990, Alicia told her husband Frank she was heading out for a late drive. It wasn’t unusual — she loved the coast’s winding roads and often used them to clear her head. But when morning came, Alicia’s car was missing, and so was she.

The Lincoln County Sheriff’s Office launched a search. Helicopters scanned the coastline. Volunteers combed trails. Deputies reported nothing. Rumors swirled of an accident on Highway 101, of a woman driving too close to the edge in fog. Others whispered of foul play.

No body. No car. No answers. Within weeks, the case cooled. For Frank, it was the beginning of 18 years of torment.

A Hidden Clue in Plain Sight

Nearly a decade later, Frank was cleaning out Alicia’s old boxes when something slipped from a stack of yearbooks. Tucked inside the 1980 Newport High School edition was a handwritten note:

“Call me if you ever need help. — Jason Murray.”

Jason Murray wasn’t just any classmate. He was now a sergeant in the Lincoln City Police Department — and had been on duty the very night Alicia disappeared.

The discovery jolted Frank. Why had Alicia saved this note? Why had she never mentioned Jason?

Knocking on a Closed Door

Frank drove to Jason Murray’s home. When Jason opened the door, his reaction wasn’t shock — it was anger. He refused to answer questions, denied knowing anything about Alicia’s last night, and slammed the door shut.

Frank left shaken. Jason’s hostility wasn’t just defensive. It was chilling.

In the following months, whispers surfaced. People claimed to have seen Jason driving along Highway 101 the night Alicia vanished. One anonymous tip suggested his patrol car had been parked along a pull-off overlooking the cliffs. Nothing could be proven.

A Midnight Ritual

Determined, Frank began following Jason. For weeks, nothing. Then, one foggy night along the coast, Frank saw something he would never forget.

Jason pulled over near a windswept bluff south of Newport. He took a shovel from his trunk. From his backseat, he lifted a small wooden box, a bouquet of flowers, and what looked like folded papers.

Frank watched as Jason dug into the sand, placed the box inside, laid flowers over it, and let the wind carry the papers into the dark.

Why would a police sergeant conduct such a ritual — alone, in the dead of night — at the very cliffs where Alicia was believed to have vanished?

The Silence of the Sheriff

When Frank pressed investigators, he hit a wall. His questions were brushed aside by then-Sheriff Richard Hensley. “We’ve looked into it,” Hensley told him flatly. “There’s nothing to pursue.”

But others in the department hinted at a different story. One deputy confided that Hensley had personally ordered reports “cleaned up” in Alicia’s file. Another claimed Jason had not logged his whereabouts the night she vanished — a serious breach that was never disciplined.

The more Frank pushed, the colder the official response became. It seemed no one in power wanted the case reopened.

The Cliffside Discovery

Then, in 2008, fate intervened. Two teenagers exploring the coastline near Seal Rock reported a rusted vehicle protruding from the cliffside, partially hidden by brush.

Authorities confirmed it: a Lincoln City Police Department patrol car, decades old. Inside were a few scraps of uniform fabric, metal badge fragments, and Alicia’s driver’s license.

The vehicle had been deliberately weighted, investigators concluded, rolled off the road, and lodged halfway down the cliff — never reaching the water. Forensic analysis was inconclusive. Too much time had passed. But one fact was clear: this was Jason Murray’s patrol car.

And inside, along with Alicia’s license, were traces of female clothing.

Questions Without Answers

The revelation rocked Lincoln County. How had a police car gone missing in 1990 without triggering alarms? Why was Alicia’s license inside? Why had no one connected Jason Murray to her disappearance, despite his connection to her past and his suspicious behavior?

Jason never faced charges. By the time the car was discovered, he had quietly retired and relocated. Sheriff Hensley also retired, taking with him the unanswered questions of why the investigation was never properly pursued.

Frank Eakins was left with fragments — a yearbook note, a hostile knock at the door, a midnight ritual, a rusted car. Enough to point toward foul play. Never enough to bring justice.

The Man Who Wouldn’t Stop Asking

For nearly 20 years, Frank refused to stop searching. He kept Alicia’s photo taped to his dashboard, her handwriting framed above his desk. He gave interviews, wrote letters to state officials, begged the FBI to intervene.

Each time, doors closed. “Jurisdictional issues.” “Insufficient evidence.” “The case is too old.”

Frank died in 2011, still without answers. His son Kalin has since taken up the fight, demanding a reinvestigation. “My dad believed the truth was buried out there,” Kalin said. “I do too.”

Conclusion: The Ocean Keeps Its Secrets

The case of Alicia Eakins lingers over the Oregon coast like the fog itself — heavy, unresolved, always threatening to roll back in.

Her disappearance was not an accident of nature. Too many pieces point toward orchestration: a hidden note, a hostile sergeant, a buried box, a rusted patrol car with her license inside.

But without a body, without living witnesses willing to speak, justice remains out of reach.

Standing on the bluffs above the Pacific, one can almost imagine the sound of papers rustling in the wind — fragments of a story carried out to sea, secrets the ocean has not yet chosen to give back.