In 1984, a father of three disappeared while working at a mysterious Cincinnati plant. It turned out he’d met a gruesome fate: Pieces of bone, his eyeglasses and walkie-talkie were uncovered inside a vat that reached 1350 degrees Fahrenheit. Five months later, the Fernald Feed Materials Production Center was revealed to have been processing uranium – and polluting the region. The dead man’s children believe their father was murdered because he intended to expose how the plant had been releasing thousands of pounds of uranium dust into the atmosphere. We’re hoping to figure out: Did 39-year-old David Bocks kill himself, as Fernald officials alleged, or was he more likely killed?
A 39-year-old father of three goes to work and disappears. That’s strange enough. Adding in where he works makes this case more than strange. It’s the stuff conspiracies are made of.
Testing the Theory
Police dismissed the 1984 disappearance of David Bocks as a suicide, but the physics of the death make that theory seem unlikely.
The Cold War Creeps
As the world was embroiled in a race to stockpile nuclear weapons, little towns throughout the U.S. became hubs for cancer-linked plants.
The Truth about Fernald
While managers and government officials outwardly assured Fernald workers that everything was safe at the plant, internal documents show many knew that wasn’t the case.
A variance in views
Two coworkers tell police that David Bocks seemed depressed on his last day of work. Or is it just one?
The king of conspiracies
In the 1990s, an indie reporter tried to expose Fernald and link managers to David Bocks’ death. His theories sounded outrageous, but some of them proved true.
The nuclear wrap-up
Long after David Bocks’ children and grandchildren are dead, the legacy of his employer will remain, encased in concrete and buried deep beneath the earth.
Last day laid bare
David Bocks’ final shift is pieced together through police statements and time cards.
Death, lies and uranium
Read the story: How an Ohio man’s mysterious disappearance in 1984 still haunts family, friends