The Man in the Tree

Chapter Five

Cooley heard the shot, swore, and butted his way out of the tree house. He saw the kid at the base of the tree, but had only a glance to spare him, because Jerry was lying on the slope a few yards away, spread-eagled on the ground, jerking and twitching like a rag doll on a string. Cooley got down the tree as fast as he could and knelt beside him. Jerry's eyes were rolled back in their sockets; his skin was turning blue. The jerking of his limbs stopped with a final shudder. His face turned darker until it was indigo blue, the color of ink, color of venous blood. His pants-leg was wet, and there was a fecal smell. Cooley had seen dead men before, and knew better, but he unbuttoned Jerry's shirt and put his hand on his chest.

After a minute he stood up and looked at the kid. Blood was pulsing out through the wet spot on his shirt and there was more of it spattered over the brush behind him. His eyes were closed, mouth open. His skin was yellowish-white. Not dead yet, but soon.

"Jesus Christ." said Cooley, and hit the tree with his fist. He sat down and put his head in his hands; warm tears were leaking out of his eyes. What the hell was he going to do now, leave both bodies there and just walk away? Pretend he didn't know a thing about it? That would be too much of a coincidence. What a hell of a time for a heart attack. They might not find the bodies here for years, maybe never, but he couldn't count on that. Then there was Steve Logan, the mailman -- would he keep his mouth shut?

He took a deep breath and stood up. He leaned over and got his revolver from the ground where he had dropped it, put it away in the holster. He knelt beside Jerry's body again, buttoned up his shirt. He reached into Jerry's jacket, found the Police Special, flicked the safety off, and stood up. Supporting his wrist with his other hand, he aimed straight down at Jerry's chest and pulled the trigger. The body jumped once more. Cooley turned away, hiccuping. When he could see straight again, he went to the boy's body and dipped up some blood on his finger. He smeared the blood carefully on the ragged little hole in Jerry's shirt and on the chest underneath. He wiped his finger on the dirt and leaves at the base of the tree, then put the safety back on the revolver and wiped it all over with the tail of his shirt. Holding the gun by the barrel, he put it carefully into the boy's left hand, then his right, closing the index finger over the trigger, thumb on the frame. He wiped the barrel again, nudged the safety off, and dropped the gun beside the boy. Blood was still welling from the kid's chest, but more slowly.

Cooley walked out of the woods, got into his car and drove to the nearest farmhouse to telephone. The Memorial Hospital sent an ambulance and four men with stretchers. When they got to the tree house a little after two, Jerry's body was still there but the kid's wasn't: there was nothing under the tree but a roll of magazines tied up with string, and a splatter of blood in the brush. One of the men knelt over Jerry's body. "He's dead."

"Well, leave him there for the sheriff. Help me find the other one, would you?"

The four of them and Cooley hunted up and down the slope, but they didn't find a thing, not even a drop of blood on a leaf to show which way the kid had gone.

Cooley went back to the farmhouse again to telephone. Old Mrs. Gambrell, who owned the place, was quite excited; Cooley had to put one hand over his ear because she kept saying in a loud voice, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" He called the sheriff's office and was told that they had already been notified by the hospital and the sheriff was on his way out. Cooley hung up and called the state police. He described the missing boy and said, "I need some road blocks, west and east of Dog River and south on route thirty-five." The duty officer said he would see what he could do.

Cooley, fretting, went back to the county road and waited until Sheriff Beach turned up. Beach was a tall, pale-eyed man in his early fifties, running a little to fat. He nodded to Cooley when he got out of his car. "Is it Jerry?" he asked. "How'd it happen?"

"Kid was living in a tree house in the woods. We staked it out -- he shot Jerry. Jerry shot him, too, but he got away."

"Uh-huh. How'd you know the kid was there?"

"Got a tip from Steve Logan."

"Uh-huh," said Beach. When they got to the tree house, Beach gave it one curious glance and then hunkered down beside Jerry's body. He looked at the bullet wound. "Shot in the heart."

"That's right."

"And where were you?"

"Up in the tree house, waiting for the kid."

"'Bout what time was that?"

"Little after one."

"Uh-huh. So you heard the shot, come down and the kid was gone?"

"No, he was laying there too, shot, and I thought he was dead. But when I come back from phoning, he was gone."

Beach took several photographs of the body, then turned. The revolver lay beside the splatter of blood in the bushes: a short-barreled Smith & Wesson, blued steel, with a brown grip. It was an old gun; the bluing was partly worn off around the cylinder. "And that's where the kid was?" said Beach. "Jerry shoots him, he falls right there, drops his gun. Now, where's Jerry's gun?"

Cooley looked around. "I never thought," he said. "Jesus, this is an awful thing."

They found the rifle suspended muzzle down in a stand of young vine maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it, then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.

"Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over there -- you be the kid, Tom."

Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver. "Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"

"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..

"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera, took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"

"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.

"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right in the chest."

"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."

"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up there?"

"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."

"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later, he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it, and lowered it to the ground.

He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said. "Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down the slope.

"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said. After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"

"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first thing."

When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns carefully in the back seat.

"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said. "Check with you later, Wayne."

"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from there."

"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"

"That's for me to say."

Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."

"Hello, Stan."

"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach. "Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating the other things with one finger.

"She'll be right over," the deputy said.

"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable, Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife?"

"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better from you."

"Maybe so. Stan, get me the State Police."

The deputy dialed and brought the phone over.

"Beach, in Dog River. Let me talk to Mullen." Beach tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Camels and lit it. "Hello, Hal? Tom Cooley call you about some road blocks awhile ago? Yeah? Hell, I don't know -- till tomorrow night, I guess. I know it. Well, it's a homicide. Yeah, all right." He hung up. "They'll get the road blocks up in about an hour."

Cooley's hands clenched into fists. "They haven't got off their butts yet?" he said. "That kid could be halfway to California by now."

"Probably not. Shot, lost some blood -- we'll probably find him in the woods tomorrow. Want this?" He shoved the telephone across the table.

"Yeah, I guess so." Cooley dialed Jerry's number. An unfamiliar voice answered.

"This is Tom Cooley -- is Alma there?"

"Just a minute." A pause. "If it's about Jerry, she knows it already, and she don't want to talk to you right now." The line went dead.

"I should of called her before," Cooley said, rubbing his hand across his face. "Somebody at the hospital must have told her. That makes me feel like hell."

"It's a tough business," Beach said. "Stan, call Thomas Funeral, ask them to get out there and collect the body, will you? See if they can get one of the ambulance guys from the hospital to show them the way. And then call Doc Swanson about the autopsy."

The door opened; a dark-haired young woman came in. "Eileen, you know Tom Cooley?" She nodded, her eyes bright and curious. "Let's go in the back. Eileen, bring your book."

In the back office, Beach sat down behind the desk, Cooley to his right, the secretary on the other side. "Now let's start from the beginning," Beach said. "Just tell it your own way, Tom."

Cooley began, "About a week ago, Thursday I believe it was, Steve Logan called me and told me there was something funny going on out on route one. . . . " Beach sat back, smoking and listening. He asked an occasional question. When Cooley was finished, the sheriff took him back over it again. About six o'clock, he sent the deputy out for sandwiches. Shortly after seven, Beach said, "All right, Eileen, type that up -- just the statement, three copies. Then you can go home." She left with her book, and in a moment they heard the clatter of her typewriter.

"Now, Tom, there's one or two things about this that don't add up to me. One is the gun -- where did he get it?"

"Must of stole it somewhere."

"Maybe. Another thing is, here's the kid coming back to his tree house. He doesn't know there's anybody there, but he's got the gun in his hand? Or else he can pull it out quick enough to get the drop on Jerry? That doesn't make sense. Wait a minute." He held up his hand, pressed down the third finger. "Next thing is, the kid shoots him in the heart while Jerry's aiming a rifle at him. Doesn't hit the gun, or Jerry's arm, or even his sleeve. Pretty amazing." Beach sat back and folded his arms. "But the main thing is, here's two Dog River police officers pursuing a felon out in the county, in my jurisdiction, Tom. What I ask myself is, why did you and Jerry go out there without a word to me? The answer I get I don't like."

"You accusing me of something, Wayne?"

"No, because if I did how would I prove it? Jerry's dead, the kid's gone, and you're a liar."

Cooley stood up. "Well, at least we know where we stand."

"That's right."

Cooley stopped in at the Idle Hour for a shot and a glass of beer and then drove out to Jerry's place. He found Alma in the kitchen with a woman he didn't know, who gave him a hostile glance and left the room.

"Alma, I'm sorry as hell about this."

"You didn't even call me for four hours. I had to find out from strangers."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I got so tied up -- "

"For all I know, you killed him yourself. I wouldn't put it past you."

"That's a shitty thing to say, Alma."

"Shitty thing to do, too. I know one thing, if he hadn't of gone with you, he'd be alive this minute."

Volunteers searched the woods for four days. The State Police manned road blocks on the highways until Tuesday night, stopping every car, but the boy was gone.

Beach spent a few hours tramping through the woods on Tuesday. He couldn't rid himself of the idea that Cooley and Jerry Munk had killed the boy and got rid of his body somehow, and that Cooley had then shot Jerry to keep him quiet. He found himself looking for traces of a recent excavation, even though he knew that was unlikely; to dig in these woods you would need not only a pick and shovel but an ax to cut through the roots and a crowbar to hoist out stones, and when you were done, if you buried anything, it wouldn't be easy to hide the dirt. He knew there was some essential thing he didn't know; he knew he was guessing wrong, but he didn't know how wrong.

The FBI office in Portland put together a complete set of Gene Anderson's fingerprints except for the left little finger, and these prints were duly entered in their files together with a photograph of the boy furnished by Chief Cooley.

Beach went out to talk to Alma Munk when she had had a day or two to pull herself together. He asked her where Jerry's revolver was, and she said she didn't know. Beach sent the serial number of the gun to the manufacturer, and eventually learned that it had been sold in 1939 to a sporting goods store in Laramie. Beach knew there was no point in trying to trace it through the store's records; the gun had probably had three or four owners since then.

The "Gazette" ran an unprecedented two-column front page story about the "Tree House Murder"; reporters from the Portland and Salem papers came out, and there was even a photographer from "Time," but his pictures never appeared in the magazine. Souvenir hunters climbed the tree and pulled off boards to take home. A psychic in Corvallis claimed to have seen in a vision that Gene Anderson was living in a mountain cabin, "in a Western state, near running water."

John and Mildred Anderson drove down from Chehalis as soon as they heard. They talked to Sheriff Beach, and he showed them the books, games, and papers he had taken from the tree house. There were letters from correspondents in Switzerland, France, and Italy. "How did he ever get to writing all those people?" Donald Anderson asked.

"Pen pals. They advertise in magazines for kids. I've written letters to all those addresses, asking them to let us know if they hear from Gene, but I'd guess he's too smart for that." There was also a letter to his parents, never mailed.

"He was afraid to let us know where he was because Tom Cooley might find out and kill him," Mildred said. "Is that what happened? Do you think he's dead?"

Beach shook his head. "No telling. If he's alive, maybe he'll turn up."

"Can't you find him? -- can't the police -- ?"

"Mrs. Anderson, I know how you feel, but there's thousands of missing kids every year. Runaways, mostly; they don't want to be found, and there's just too many of them. If he happens to get picked up and fingerprinted, then they'll identify him."

Beach would not give them their boy's belongings, but he allowed Mrs. Anderson to copy down the names and addresses of his correspondents, and when she got home she wrote them urgent letters. Eventually she got three replies; the writers all said that they would certainly let her know if Gene wrote to them again. After that there was nothing.

The coroner's jury met in late November; they listened to Cooley's account of the incident, and Sheriff Beach's report, and they heard Dr. Swanson testify that the victim's injuries were consistent with death caused by a .38 revolver bullet, fired at short range, and passing through the left ventricle of the heart. The jury brought in a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown.

Cooley went up to the district attorney's office afterward. "What the hell do they mean, persons unknown, it was the damn kid!"

The district attorney, Quentin Hoagland, gave him a cold look over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mr. Cooley, that was a responsible verdict in my opinion, and I'm a little surprised in fact, because this is a one-horse county. I'll tell you this, too, there are things about your testimony that I personally find hard to believe. I'm issuing a warrant for Gene Anderson as a material witness, in case you're interested. But there's something about this case that smells, and I don't mind telling you that if I had a little more evidence I'd be putting out two warrants, not one."

Early in March of the following year, word came back to Dog River that Mr. and Mrs. Donald Anderson had died in a house fire of undetermined origin in Chehalis, Washington. It had happened on a weekend when Chief Cooley had been away on one of his trips, and the rumor went around that the fire had been set by an arsonist.

Chief Cooley noticed during the following weeks that some people were avoiding him on the street; even old friends, when he sat down beside them at the Idle Hour or the Elk Tavern on route thirty-five, sometimes sat in embarrassed silence for a while and then got up to play a game of pinball or make a phone call.

Cooley was not surprised when Mayor Hilbert came to see him one Friday evening. "Hello, Gus. Come on in. You can throw those magazines off the chair."

Hilbert sat down. "Good Christ, Tom, this place is a damn pigsty."

"That what you came about?"

"No, Tom. It's about the Anderson business."

"Goddamn it, Gus, are you going to bring that up again? I was in Sacramento -- I showed you the motel receipt."

"I know it, Tom, but people talk anyway. And, you know, there's some bad feeling about what happened to Jerry. Well, maybe they're right or maybe they're wrong, but people are telling me things like that shouldn't happen in Dog River. You know what I'm telling you, Tom."

"Sure. You're not going to renew my contract."

"That's it. I'm sorry, Tom, that's the way it has to be."

"All right. Got anybody else in mind?"

Hilbert shifted uneasily in the chair. "Nothing definite. Walt Barrett has an uncle, a police sergeant in Portland, he's retiring next month -- he might be innarested."

"Contract isn't up till September, Gus."

"I know that. Nobody's rushing you, Tom."

"Want a beer?"

"No, thanks -- well, all right."

Cooley brought two bottles from the refrigerator and a glass for Hilbert. "Down the hatch," he said. "You know, Gus, I want to make this easy on you if I can."

Hilbert wiped the foam off his upper lip. "You do?"

"Sure, I do. Let's make a deal. Suppose I resign, whenever you say -- May first or whatever. I'll show the new guy the ropes, break him in and so forth. I been thinking of moving on, anyhow."

Hilbert looked thoughtful. "You said a deal, Tom?"

"All I want is two months' salary and a letter of recommendation. A good letter, Gus. And if anybody asks you for a reference, I want you to tell them I resigned to look for a better job, and I'm the best damn chief of police you ever saw."

"That letter you can have, no problem. About the two months, I'll have to talk to the town council."

"You do that. And, Gus -- "

"Yeah?"

"You tell them if I don't get it, I'm going to be the meanest son of a bitch north of Mexico."

Cooley sold his house, auctioned off the furniture, and put everything he had left into the trunk and back seat of the Buick. He closed his account at the bank, took a few hundred dollars in travelers' checks and cash, and got a cashier's check for the rest.

It was his belief now that the kid was alive, and he was still convinced that he had gone south. The only thing he had to go on, besides a hunch, was something Mrs. Anderson had said: "He likes to draw." Cooley got into the Buick early one morning in May and headed for Los Angeles. If he drew a blank there, it was his intention to work north again -- San Francisco, then up to Salem, then Portland, but he didn't think the kid would have stopped that close to home. He wouldn't feel safe until he was as far away as he could get without leaving the country. Los Angeles: that was where he'd find him.