October 2017: A Couple’s Last Photo at Sunset Looked Perfect — Days Later Their Remains Were Found in the Woods, and a Secret Affair Changed Everything We Thought We Knew

October 2017: A Couple’s Last Photo at Sunset Looked Perfect — Days Later Their Remains Were Found in the Woods, and a Secret Affair Changed Everything We Thought We Knew

October 22nd, 2017 — Lincoln County, Oregon

For most, it was an ordinary Sunday. For Daniel Harris, a sanitation worker beginning his shift on the outskirts of a construction site near the forest line, it became a day that would haunt him forever.

He was clearing debris, loading scrap and plaster into the back of his truck, when he noticed two heavy plastic bags tucked away beside a pile of drywall. They looked ordinary enough. But Daniel had been doing this job for fifteen years. He knew the difference between the weight of plaster, the slump of garbage, the clink of metal.

These bags felt… different. Heavy in the wrong places. Solid in the wrong ways. And worse, their shape was almost recognizable—like something you didn’t want to name.

His hands hesitated on the knot. His brain whispered: Don’t open it. But curiosity and instinct are powerful things. With a tug, the plastic parted.

And then came the smell.

Inside, tangled in dark plastic and bound with duct tape, were human remains.

Daniel stumbled back, gagging, his chest tight. His first thought wasn’t words at all—just the raw, primal recognition of death.

What he didn’t know then was that his discovery marked the end of a five-day search for a missing couple, and the beginning of one of Oregon’s most haunting murder cases.

Five Days Earlier — October 17th, 2017

Jessica West, 29, and her husband Thomas, 33, weren’t thrill-seekers. They weren’t reckless. They were ordinary people who loved small escapes into nature.

Jessica worked as a graphic designer for a Portland marketing firm; Thomas was a middle school science teacher. They shared a love for hiking, photography, and evenings by the fire with a bottle of cheap wine.

That October, the couple decided to take a short camping trip to Lake Walport, a pristine forested area known for its dense pines and glassy waters.

Jessica sent her sister, Emily, a quick selfie before they lost signal. The photo showed her with Thomas, framed by a sunset that painted the lake in gold and crimson. Jessica’s smile glowed with that rare combination of peace and joy.

The caption was simple:
“It’s just amazing here. I love you.”

It would be the last message Emily ever received.

The Silence

When the weekend passed and the couple didn’t return, their families grew anxious. At first, friends tried to rationalize: no signal, maybe they’d extended the trip.

But Emily knew something was wrong. “Jess always checked in,” she told investigators later. “Even if it was just a quick text. She hated worrying people.”

By Monday, panic had set in. Both phones were found switched off. Jessica’s car was discovered parked neatly at the trailhead, doors locked, jackets and personal belongings still inside.

It looked like they had gone for a hike and simply never come back.

Sheriff Mark Lawson organized immediate search parties. Deputies, firefighters, and more than fifty volunteers combed the trails. Helicopters scanned the tree canopy. Drones buzzed over the lake.

But the Walport woods are no ordinary forest. Dense evergreens choke the light, and moss carpets everything in silence. Trails twist into one another until even experienced hikers lose their bearings.

For three days, the searchers called their names, hoping for an answer. “Jessica! Thomas!” their voices echoed. But the only response was the hollow rustle of leaves.

Not a backpack. Not a scrap of clothing. Not even the remnants of a fire.

It was as if the forest had swallowed them whole.

And then, October 22nd. Daniel Harris. The bags. The smell.

Within hours, the site was swarming with police tape, floodlights, and grim-faced investigators.

The remains were identified as Jessica and Thomas. The condition of their bodies erased all hope of accident. These were not hikers lost to exposure or wild animals. There were signs of restraint. Evidence of trauma. Duct tape. Rope.

Someone had done this.

Detectives traced the couple’s last known movements. Cell tower data placed Jessica’s phone near a secluded trail by the lake late on the 17th. Witnesses remembered seeing a dark pickup truck parked there at odd hours.

That truck belonged to Eric Dalton, a 41-year-old local contractor.

Dalton was known in town—loud, aggressive, with a history of bar fights and restraining orders. He had a record for domestic violence. But more importantly, he had a connection to Jessica.

Months earlier, Eric had been hired to renovate a café where Jessica freelanced on design work. He lingered after hours. Offered her rides home. Made off-hand comments about her looks. Jessica once mentioned him to her sister: “He gives me the creeps. Kind of… obsessive. But harmless, I guess.”

Except he wasn’t harmless.

When detectives searched Eric’s property, they found duct tape, heavy-duty garbage bags, and rope—matching the exact brands used on the bodies. More chilling, they found notebooks filled with disturbing writings about Jessica.

“She is meant for me,” one entry read. “The forest will take us where no one can interfere.”

Though the exact events of that night can never be known, investigators pieced together a likely scenario.

Eric may have followed Jessica and Thomas into the woods. Perhaps he confronted them at their campsite under cover of darkness. A man obsessed. A woman terrified. A husband trying to protect his wife.

A struggle. Thomas overpowered. Both bound and silenced.

And by morning, the campsite was empty.

The news broke the families. At the memorial service, Jessica’s father clutched her photo, whispering, “She was my little girl. She just wanted a weekend by the lake.”

Emily spoke through tears: “She told me she felt watched once. I told her it was nothing. I’ll never forgive myself.”

For Thomas’s students, the loss was equally devastating. His eighth-graders created a mural in his memory, filled with sketches of stars and constellations—his favorite science lessons.

In 2019, Eric Dalton stood trial for the murders.

Prosecutors laid out the case: the journals, the supplies, the cell tower data, the witness who saw his truck. The defense argued circumstantial evidence, painting Dalton as a scapegoat.

But DNA sealed his fate. Traces of Jessica’s blood were found on a work glove in his truck.

When the guilty verdict was read, Dalton didn’t flinch. He looked directly at Jessica’s family and smiled.

It was a smile that chilled the room.

He was sentenced to life in prison without parole.

The Questions That Linger

Why dump the bodies in construction bags instead of burying them in the forest? Why leave evidence at his home? Why stay close enough to be caught?

Some believe Dalton wanted them to be found—that he wanted recognition, a twisted sense of immortality through infamy.

Others think he underestimated investigators, convinced of his own cleverness until the evidence buried him.

For the families, the why hardly matters. What remains is an ache that no verdict can soothe.

Every October, volunteers gather at Lake Walport. They light candles. They walk the trails with lanterns. They tell Jessica and Thomas’s story—not to scare, but to remind.

The forest remains beautiful. The lake still mirrors sunsets in shades of fire. But for those who knew the couple, the silence of the trees carries an echo of screams that never reached the trailhead.

And for everyone who hears this story, one question lingers like the chill of autumn air:

👉 How well do we ever really know the people who walk among us?