The Madman Theory (4 page)

Red Kershaw said wearily, “He put the keys in the bumper-guard. I saw him do it.”

“It might be dangerous traveling the trail by night,” Vega said dubiously.

“Not that dangerous,” said Buck. “There's starlight. I'll lead the way, if you like. I'm for going in.”

“That's my feeling,” said Retwig. “Everybody feel up to it?” He glanced at Kershaw and Vega.

“I'm game,” mumbled Kershaw. “I don't want any part of these mountains.”

Vega nodded dumbly.

“I didn't think of it till now,” said Kershaw in a sick voice. “Somebody will have to call Opal and break the news.”

“Let's get going,” said Retwig brusquely. “The longer we wait the darker it gets.”

Once more they set out, aching with fatigue, back and forth down the switchback. In daylight they might have negotiated the distance in an hour; in the dark, it took them two.

Finally the trail made its last turn and swung out on the flat. Stumbling, the four men covered the last two hundred yards. Genneman's big white Buick glinted ahead in the parking area; it grew large and substantial: a mocking symbol.

The four men dropped their packs with groans of relief. Kershaw found the key and unlocked the car.

Twenty minutes later they swung into the Cedar Grove compound, dark except for a single light on a pole and a few glimmers from tents among the trees.

The headlights illuminated a redwood sign: CEDAR GROVE RANGER STATION, a log cabin half-hidden under four tall cedars. Buck James pounded on the door, Retwig at his shoulder. Almost immediately a light sprang up inside. The door opened; a sleepy young man looked out. “Somebody got troubles?”

Retwig spoke in his careful voice. “One of our party was shot and killed from ambush a few miles past Persimmon Lake.”

3

Inspector Omar Collins, standing in the same cabin at ten o'clock the following morning, heard the essential circumstances of the case, mostly in Myron Retwig's dry monotone. He asked only a few questions: “The shot was fired from the trees—not, say, from the mountainside?”

“Definitely,” said Retwig.

“Then where did the killer escape to?”

“The trees continue along the trail for—actually, I don't know how far. The forest is rather thick; he could have run north a hundred yards or so and returned to the trail without our knowledge.”

“He certainly didn't go down the mountain,” said Buck James. “It's practically sheer rock.”

“You were closest to him?” Inspector Collins asked Retwig.

“I was, as I recall, about ten feet behind him. The others were strung out behind me. I'm not sure in what order.”

“I was behind you,” said Bob Vega. “Then Red, and Buck was last.”

“And none of you caught any glimpse of the murderer?” He received a general negative response. Collins turned to Ranger Superintendent Phelps. “What steps have you taken so far?”

“The obvious ones. I've alerted the fire lookouts by radio. I've ordered a watch on the trails, and everyone coming down from the mountains, especially men by themselves, will be asked for identification and questioned. The park exits will be watched and any single man driving out will also be questioned.”

“I suppose there's no point trying to track anyone down?”

“It would be absolutely useless. An army couldn't find a man in there who wanted to make himself scarce.”

Collins turned back to the four men. “We're going to fly in after the body. I'll want to talk to you again, so perhaps you'll all be good enough to wait here.” He received an unenthusiastic assent. “One other matter,” said Collins. “Has anyone notified Mr. Genneman's family?”

Retwig gave a curt nod. “I did.”

The helicopter flew east, up Kings Canyon. Superintendent Phelps said, “We'll make directly for Persimmon Lake, then follow the trail to Lomax Falls, where they say the shooting occurred.”

At the road's end the helicopter swung north and flew up the valley, the Copper Creek Trail a crazy zigzag alongside the mountain.

Phelps pointed out a wooded notch to the inspector. “That's Suggs Meadow, where they spent the first night. And see that notch ahead? That's Dutchman's Pass.”

“Do you lose many campers out here?”

Phelps shook his head. “Most people are pretty sensible. Once in a while somebody gets lost, or breaks a leg. Then we've got to go in for them. But that's about the size of it. We have more trouble keeping the wilderness wild. You'd be surprised at the number of nature-lovers who want to take motorcycles or motor scooters over the trails.”

“You don't allow it?”

“Strictly forbidden.” Phelps blew out his ginger mustache. “Likewise outboard motors, electric generators, and so forth. We even discourage shouting, yodeling, and general raising hell. A man who takes the trouble to hike into the wilderness wants peace and quiet, and he's entitled to get it.”

Dutchman's Pass slid below, snowbanks gleaming; ahead lay Persimmon Lake. Phelps pointed out the trail to the pilot. “The falls are about two miles long. There's a meadow just this side, where you can put this thing down.”

“Keep your eyes open,” said Collins. “It's just possible we might surprise somebody.”

But the trail seemed empty of life.

Then they saw Lomax Falls, and the wooded flat below.

“That's it,” said Phelps.

The pilot examined the meadow with a sad expression. “I thought you said there was a place to sit down.”

“Sure. In that meadow.”

“I'm glad there's no wind. We've got about ten feet to spare.” He settled slowly. The downwash thrashed through the foliage. The helicopter landed with one wheel in the stream.

The five men descended and stood in the bright green growth that covered the meadow—tarweed, fern, sorrel, miner's lettuce, watercress in the stream—while they assessed the dark forest all about. Then they crossed the meadow to the trail. A hundred feet north they found Genneman's body, apparently as his friends had left it, wrapped in plastic and suspended from a tree.

Collins, in the lead, said, “Everybody stay on the trail. There just might be tracks.” He proceeded slowly, and stopped where the dust was stained an evil reddish black. He looked about him. Trees grew on both sides of the trail. To the left, after twenty feet, they gave way to the rearing mountainside, its granite glaring in the sunlight. To the right, the trees grew in a belt, perhaps sixty or seventy feet across, extending parallel to the trail. Then the ground sloped sharply and became granite once more, with occasional areas of loose scree.

From the puddle of dry blood, an avenue about five feet wide led to a copse of four young cedars thirty feet from the trail. The shot which had killed Earl Genneman had obviously been fired from these cedars. There, on a heavy outsprung branch, the shotgun had undoubtedly rested.

It required half a minute of peering among the tree trunks before Collins could rid himself of the conviction that malevolent eyes watched his every move. He dismissed this fancy impatiently and appraised the terrain. The ground here, yellowish sand and crumbled granite sprinkled with needles, showed no footprints. The four cedars outlined a square, with a small space at the center where a man could stand. Here the ground showed signs of disturbance—a scuffing of needles, a scraping into the dusty gravel. From within the area a waiting man had a view of the trail and could have watched without fear of detection.

Collins reconnoitered the area with great care, while the others lowered the plastic-swathed corpse and carried it to the helicopter. He went to the edge of the slope and looked down into the valley. Far below a little river ran, among great boulders, trees, vines and scrub. The mountainside offered no cover; the assassin could not have escaped by sliding downhill; he would have been seen—if he could have avoided breaking his neck. Likewise he could not have escaped to the south. He would have met the dead man's companions. A single avenue of escape lay open: north, behind the screen of trees. A few seconds would have been ample. Collins moved north, searching for traces of such a flight.

Almost at once he found a disturbance among the needles, indentations in the ground. He called Sergeant Easley over, instructed him to photograph the marks, and to look around for others. Collins himself returned to the four cedars from which the shot had been fired.

He inspected the branch on which the gun apparently had rested. The bark showed a faint bruise or two. Collins cut away a strip of the bark with his pen-knife and dropped it into a cellophane envelope. Then, on hands and knees, he scrutinised the ground. But he found nothing remotely resembling a clue. He scooped a sample of dirt into another envelope, and for good measure added a few dead cedar fronds.

He walked out to the trail and reconnoitered. In a tree a few feet off the trail he found several pellets which had missed Genneman's head. Sighting back from this tree across the bloodstain on the trail, he once more saw the clump of cedars—corroboration, if any were needed, that there the killer had stood.

Was it Genneman he intended to kill? Or anyone who came along the trail? Was the motive robbery? Lunacy? Hunger? Was the killer the lone man who had presumably followed the group and camped at a discreet distance across Persimmon Lake?

Collins closed his mind to speculation, pending more facts.

Sergeant Easley returned with photographs taken by his Polaroid camera. He had tracked the footprints—if that was what the marks were—back to the trail, where they disappeared. Otherwise he had found nothing of significance.

Collins summoned Dr Koster, the pilot, and Superintendent Phelps. “I'll be the killer. Phelps, you play Genneman. Easley, you bring up the rear. I want you all to go back along the trail, strung out like a group of back-packers. Walk this way. Don't look at me, but observe whether I'm noticeable. When I say ‘bang' drop to the ground, and after a reasonable interval come looking for me.”

The four men came along the trail. Phelps stepped into the little clearing. “Bang!” shouted Collins. Phelps dropped, avoiding the clotted blood on which flies were feasting.

Collins took his imaginary shotgun, retreated through the trees, and regained the trail a hundred yards north. He returned to find the others still cautiously reconnoitering the forest. “That's enough,” said Collins. “Did anyone see me?”

Only Phelps, playing Genneman, had done so. “Frankly, though, I was looking for you. I wouldn't have seen you otherwise.”

“Well,” said Collins dubiously, “that seems to be the story.”

He went back to examine the four young cedar trees. The limb was rather low to make a comfortable gun-rest. Of course, the killer would not have worried about mere comfort. Perhaps he had been a short man.

Another thing, he thought. There was very little room to maneuver. With a shotgun resting on the low branch, the killer, stooping or squatting to aim, must have been crowded back into the foliage. Unless he had allowed the gun barrel to show … Once again Collins examined the cedars, hoping to find a hair, or thread, or a wisp of fiber, but without success. He returned to the trail.

Phelps looked at him quizzically. “Well, what do you make of it?”

Collins gave a grunt. “About the same thing you do. I want to locate the man that came up-trail behind Genneman's party.”

“Anything more you want around here?”

“No.”

Phelps kicked loose sand over the blood. Then they walked back to the helicopter.

The motor roared, the blades swung, the helicopter eased up and away from Lomax Meadow, and Earl Genneman began his journey home in a manner he would certainly have deplored.

Persimmon Lake was only two miles distant; they barely had got up into the air, it seemed, than they settled again on the flat. This was a different type of landscape entirely: a valley surrounded by snow-covered peaks, almost treeless, with the blue oval lake at its center.

Phelps led the way to where Earl Genneman and his party had camped, the site marked by the ashes of their campfire.

“As best I can gather,” said Phelps, “the lone man had his camp around the shore at the northern end of the lake. That's how Mr. Retwig describes it, and he seems pretty observant.”

“Let's go take a look,” said Collins. “Come along, Easley; get some exercise. You're growing fat in the public service.”

At the north end of the lake, near an outcrop of rock, they found a bed of fresh ashes. Collins and Easley inspected the terrain; again no material clues. No paper, no discarded articles, nothing that might have retained fingerprints.

They walked around the site in widening spirals, until at the lakeshore Collins came to an abrupt halt. Here, in a patch of mud, was a half-obliterated footprint. Easley puffed back to the helicopter for his case, while Collins took a sample of the lakeside mud as well as the dirt around the campfire. Easley returned and set about making a plaster cast, while Collins stood looking here and there, pondering the curious circumstances. Why had the lone man followed so cautiously and then allowed himself to be seen? For the second or third time Collins considered the possibility of a murder-conspiracy among James, Kershaw, Vega and Retwig, but he dismissed it again as improbable.

The plaster cast solidified; Easley wrapped it in cotton and packed it in his case. With nothing more to be seen, photographed, or sampled, they returned to the helicopter, the motor roared, the blades buffeted the air; Persimmon Lake became a chilly blue oval below.

Dutchman's Pass and the gleaming snowfields approached, receded. The helicopter drifted down Copper Creek Canyon toward the gash of Kings Canyon. Copper Creek Trail angled and jerked down the mountainside, at last unkinked and led into the parking area.

The helicopter settled on the meadow. Collins, Sergeant Easley, and Superintendent Phelps alighted; the helicopter with Dr Koster and the body of Earl Genneman rose once more and flew off down the valley toward Fresno.