According to witnesses, young Cooley and Gene Anderson, 9, were playing in the upper story of an unfinished house under construction by the Anderson boy's father, Donald R. Anderson. The two quarreled, and young Anderson pushed the Cooley boy out the window.
The witnesses, two youngsters who were also playing in the house, ran for help. An ambulance from the Memorial Hospital was dispatched at 3:50 P.M., but young Cooley was found dead of a broken neck and internal injuries.
Gene Anderson has not been seen since Sunday afternoon. He is tall for his age and gives the appearance of a boy of 12 or 13. When last seen he was wearing a blue sweater and dark pants.
A reward has been offered for any information as to his whereabouts.
Chief Cooley ran into Frank Buston, the carrier who delivered the mail to town, at the Idle Hour Billiard Parlor, where he could usually be found after work. They took their beers to a table in the corner behind the pool tables. Two cowboys from eastern Oregon were playing eight-ball, with loud whoops of triumph or defeat. "Frank," Cooley said, "you know I'm hunting for the boy that killed my kid."
Buston nodded sympathetically. He was a man in his fifties, with gray strands of hair combed sideways over his bald head. "Terrible thing, Tom," he said. "I heard Ellen was all cut up."
"That's right," Cooley said. "Now, Frank, there's a little something you could do for me if you was a mind to."
"What's that, Tom?"
"The Andersons might be getting a letter in a kid's handwriting, or maybe a postcard."
"From their kid," Buston said, nodding.
"Right. Now, all's I'd want you to do is just let me see that letter before you deliver it."
Buston was shaking his head. "Can't do that, Tom, no. That's against the law. Federal law, Tom, can't do that."
"All right, how's this?" Cooley said. "If they get a letter like that, you just write down the return address. Or, say there isn't any return address, then just tell me the postmark. I'll make it worth your while, Frank, and I'd sure appreciate it."
Buston hunched his shoulders. "Well -- guess there's no harm in that. All right, sure."
Cooley had sent out a flyer about Gene Anderson to police departments in seven states. California was his choice; he thought the boy would have hitchhiked down there where it was warm and nobody knew him. Two or three times a month he got a report of some kid picked up for vagrancy, and he would get on the phone and talk to somebody in Modesto or Stockton, but the description never came near matching. Cooley had some friends on the police force in Portland and, Seattle, and one in Austin, Texas, and they were keeping an eye out for him. It was not enough.
Cooley sometimes closed his eyes and tried to imagine where the kid was. He was in a pickup truck rolling through the desert; or he was in a flophouse in San Francisco being hustled by a wino. None of these images satisfied him. A nine-year-old kid traveling alone was too conspicuous, even if he was over five feet tall. It didn't make sense that nobody had seen him;. he must have found a hiding place, or someone to protect him. Maybe even right around here.
The novels Gene had brought from the Boy Scout camp were "David Copperfield," "Treasure Island," "The Count of Monte Cristo" and "The Benson Murder Case," by S.S. Van Dine. He found the murder mystery incomprehensible, but he read it anyhow. The others he read over and over. His favorite parts were David's school days, so much worse than anything he had suffered; Jim Hawkins climbing the mast to get away from the pirate; and Edmond Dantés being thrown into the sea from the Chateau d'If. All these scenes were so vivid to him that he felt he was living them.
There were many words he did not know in these books, but he was satisfied to guess at their meaning. When he did look up a word, as often as not he could not find it. The "Handbook for Boys," for instance, advised him to talk frankly to his doctor about masturbation. "If it has happened, don't let it scare you into being blue and ill. If it's a habit, break it for your own peace of mind." But "masturbation" was not in the dictionary. And in "The Count of Monte Cristo," he was puzzled' by the scene when mysterious veiled women seemed to come into the room where the two men were eating hasheesh. He looked up "hasheesh," and found that it was something that made you drunk; but that did not explain the women.
He read the "Handbook for Boys" with close attention, especially the parts about knots and woodcraft. With his yardstick as a guide, he made a six-foot rule marked off in quarters of an inch, and by using this he was able to fill in the blanks in the section on "Personal Measurements":
My height is 5 feet 2 inches Height of my eyes above ground 4 feet 8-1/2 inches My reach up to tip of outstretched fingers 6 feet 6-3/4 inches My reach across, from outstretched fingertips 5 feet 2-1/4 inches Span of my hand, from thumb to little finger 0 feet 8-1/4 inches Length of my foot 0 feet 11 inches Length of my step 1 feet 6 inches
One afternoon, lying on his bed after lunch with the door-flap open, he fell into a doze and dreamed, or half-dreamed, that he was floating invisible over the treetops, down the hill to his own street, moving easily and weightlessly to the kitchen window and then through it like a sound too faint to hear. His mother was sitting at the table with one hand on an open cookbook and the other holding a red-and-white checked napkin against her chin. He whispered, "Mom, I'm all right." She heard him without knowing it. "It's so hard to hear," she said.
"I can't come back now, but don't worry, I'm okay." She wiped her eyes with the napkin, gave a deep sigh, and put the napkin down. She began to read the cookbook.
He went out as he had come in, and found himself drawn unwillingly up the slope to the unfinished house Where Paul had died. He expected to see Paul's body still on the ground, but even the bloody two-by-four was gone. Gene's father and his father's helper were sitting on the sill of the doorway with their hands hanging over their thighs. The fine sawdust that clung to the hairs on their hands was pale orange in the sunlight.
"Dad, I'm sorry," Gene said.
"Takes the heart out of a man," said his father. His mouth twitched. He rubbed his face for a moment, then let his hand fall again.
"Sure is tough on you and the missus," said the other man. "Maybe he's safe somewheres."
"I'm safe," Gene said. "It's all right, Dad, I'm okay."
His father took a deep breath and stood up. "Well -- this isn't getting the job done." He and the other man turned and walked into the house.
Early one morning in October Gene heard gunshots in the woods, and when they continued through the day he realized that the hunting season had begun. He was afraid of being surprised by a hunter, and he stayed in his house in the daytime except for visits to the latrine.
For the next two weeks, in spite of the rain, he continued to hear occasional gunshots; then they stopped, and since it was now the first week of November, he concluded that the season was over. When he ventured out, he found the woods transformed, all their color gone. Tree trunks and branches were black with moisture, every leaf dripping; the ground squelched underfoot. Down the middle of the valley, the little stream had expanded into a sluggish, muddy river, widening in places into a pool black with fallen leaves and debris.
He kept up his calendar, marking off each day in pencil before he went to bed. On weekends he stayed in his house or close to the tree. One Thursday in November, he was returning from a walk when he heard voices down the valley. He climbed the slope hastily and worked his way diagonally up to his house. When he looked at the calendar, he realized that it must be Thanksgiving; he had forgotten about that.
He celebrated with a special meal of all his favorite things: Spam, beef stew, kernel corn, and canned peaches for dessert.