Bryan Gruley: The Hanging Tree

“Agreed,” Dingus said. “What’s your point?”

“Well, it seems like all you have is a body that was hanging in a tree. Is that it? I mean, when you arrested him, Mr. Haskell seemed to think it was about his problems with the IRS, not with some obscure killing up here.”

Normally Dingus would have repeated what he’d said about trying the case in the media. But Philo’s question, more of a well-aimed poke than a question, apparently got to him. He turned to Catledge and whispered something. Catledge left the room. Dingus held up a finger. “One moment.”

It was Dingus’s moment. He had spent the last three days working his way around town councilmen and county commissioners and a coroner who had tried to discourage him from chasing the truth. Now he would show them all.

Catledge returned holding two clear plastic bags that he handed to Dingus. Dingus held them behind the lectern so we couldn’t see them just yet.

“During a routine response call to a chimney fire shortly before midnight last night, the Pine County Fire Department discovered evidence that appeared to be pertinent to an ongoing crime investigation.

“Pursuant to that, the Pine County Sheriff’s Department secured a warrant which was executed on the premises at 72215 North Shore Road, a home belonging to the suspect, Mr. Haskell. We removed a number of items from the premises and have marked them as evidence.”

No wonder Felicia hadn’t gotten much sleep.

Dingus held one bag up in front of him. A white tag on one corner of the bag was marked “2.” Inside we could clearly see a work boot, right footed, ankle high, brown, with a hard black sole. “This is the boot that the decedent, Ms. McBride, was wearing on the night of her death. When she was found, she was not wearing anything on her left foot.”

He moved the bag back and forth and turned it around so everyone could see. He set it down on the table to his left, then lifted the other bag up. The white tag on this one was marked “3.” It, too, contained a shoe. The shoe looked similar, but the surface visible to us was blackened, as if it had been in a fire.

“We believe this shoe belonged to Ms. McBride as well,” Dingus said. He laid the bag on the lectern. “During our legal search of the Haskell residence last night, we found it lodged in a fireplace.” He looked at Philo. “That’s all I can share for now, son, but I hope that answers your question.”

Philo didn’t say anything. Dingus looked around the room, ignored the other outstretched hands. “Or anyone else’s question, for that matter. That’s all I’ll be saying for now.”

“Were there witnesses?” the AP reporter asked.

“No comment. That’s all for now.”

“Sheriff, could you just tell us-”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Reese, we’ve got to get back to work, thank you for coming, I’m sure we’ll be talking again soon. Good afternoon, everyone.” Dingus turned and addressed me: “Stay right where you are.”

I stayed put. Philo stopped on his way out. He kept his voice down. “Meet me at my place after you get out of here.”

“Why?”

He winked. “We have a deadline to meet.”

“So,” Dingus said, “I cannot wait to hear how you ticked off your boss.”

The room was empty, the fluorescent lights humming. Dingus sat facing me on one of the tables.

“Same way you tick off yours, Dingus.”

“Yes, indeed. It’s Starvation Lake, eh? Everybody’s talking, and everybody’s holding out on you.”

“Something like that.”

“So what are you holding out on me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know,” I said. “You’re going after Vend, so Deputy Esper obviously talked to you.”

“You may reach your own conclusions.”

“Got anything else besides the shoe? A witness? A helper? I mean, how the hell did Gracie hang herself in a snowstorm without a ladder or a-”

Dingus held up a hand to stop me. “Off the record?”

“Ha. You heard the guy. I don’t have a paper anyway. Sure, off the record.”

“Got a ladder.”

“From Haskell’s house?”

“Could be.”

“You got lucky with that chimney fire.”

“True,” he said. “And it really wasn’t much of a fire.”

“You got forensics backing any of this up?”

“We will. Takes time. This is a small town.”

“No shit. What about the briefcase? No bomb?”

“No bomb. But some pretty explosive photographs in there, if you know what I mean.”

I knew. “Vend could’ve been involved too, don’t you think?”

“Possible,” Dingus said. “Seems more likely he set Haskell up. If he wanted Gracie dead, looks like he may have sent a boy to do a man’s job.”

“You heard about the woman in Sarnia, right?”

“What woman?”

I had called the Sarnia cop shop on my way to the press conference and the chief still hadn’t returned. But I had assumed that Darlene had told Dingus by now and they were checking it out.

Now I told him.

“Will certainly look into that,” he said.

“So,” I said, “you think you have a motive?”

Dingus shifted on the table, looked away, scratched a forearm. He made a little show of looking at his watch. “She obviously knew some things,” he said. “But that could look a little squishy to some juries. How about you?”

I thought of the burned-up videotapes down in Melvindale.

“Working on it.”

“It’s getting late, Gus. The state police would be glad to give you a ride downstate. The Melvindale police have some questions about a fire.”

I could have handed over Gracie’s blackmail note. But it was the best thing I had that was mine alone. I had no paper, but I hadn’t lost the jealous need to hang on to the scoop.

“What about the Zamboni explosion?” I said. “How’s that fit in?”

“Not sure it does. Maybe a prank, in the end. We don’t have to prove Mr. Haskell had anything to do with it anyway.”

I reached into a pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to Dingus. “This came in the mail the day the bomb went off.”

Dingus looked at it. “‘Build it and they will die,’ ” he read. “Clever. I doubt Mr. Haskell would have sent it.”

“Me, too. But maybe Vend? It came from downstate.”

“That seems a little too obvious.” He smiled and slipped it into a pocket beneath his badge. “I’ll hang on to it.”

“Consider it my get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“For now.”

Philo’s A-frame cottage nestled in a copse of evergreens on the north bank of the Hungry River. I knew the house. In the summer there would be a dock and a pontoon boat and a deck lined with Adirondack chairs painted a green that matched the water. Now everything was draped in white.

“Nice place,” I said.

I was kicking snow off my boots on the throw rug inside his front door. I smelled Windex on the air.

“Yeah,” Philo said. “I rent it from Uncle Jimbo and Aunt Linda. Overpriced, though.”

“Uncle Jimbo?”

“Yeah. I might need another place to stay tomorrow night.”

“What do you mean?”

“This way.”

He led me down a hallway into a small bedroom he had made into an office. Two framed diplomas, one from the University of Pennsylvania, the other from Columbia University, hung over a desk pushed up against a wall. On the desk sat a computer, a stapler, a Scotch tape dispenser, and a Washington Redskins coffee cup holding pens, pencils, and a pair of scissors. A swivel chair sat before the computer, and Philo had brought a straight-backed chair from the kitchen. I watched the photograph on the computer screen change from the Washington Monument to the Capitol dome.

“Take your coat off,” Philo said. “Did you bring your notes?”