Drago #2a. Art LLC Spinella
We followed him across a strip of fairway-to-be to the center of the onlookers. Most of the faces I recognized, some grunted greetings, others simply nodded.
As we walked, Forte explained, “The course designer wanted a bit more rough along the east edge of hole 12 so that meant removing about a dozen trees.” He nodded toward the far side of the fairway. “He called in a tree service and they started removing some of a stand when one of the guys found this.”
A large Madrone lay on its side, the remaining stump roughly three feet high. In the middle of the stump were skeletal remains of what looked like foot bones, pale white and lacking any apparent flesh or remnants of clothing. Chainsaw marks sliced across the bones a few inches above the ankles.
In the tree now prone, what appeared to be the stub ends of two shinbones.
“That’s a guy in a tree alright,” I said to Forte who was standing quietly nearby, hands on his hips. “Any guess how old the tree is?”
“The arborist is on his way.”
“Jeffries?”
“Yeah.”
“Good man.” I walked the length of the fallen Madrone. From the cut to roughly seven feet up, the tree had an unusual bulge then returned to a narrower trunk.
“Odd growth pattern,” I said to Sal.
He nodded, “As if the tree grew around the body. Looks like an elongated onion, sort of.” To Forte, “Are you sure it’s really bone and not some sort of practical joke?”
“One way to find out,” he said, waving over one of the plaid shirted men standing nearby lugging a chainsaw. “Want to cut off a three foot chunk for me, Jacob?”
“No problemo,” he said nodding a greeting in my direction and hoisting the chainsaw in his right hand, giving a tug on the starter rope with his left. The raucous burrr of the two-stroke engine hit high C and Jacob tipped the chain into the Madrone. 20 seconds later, a three foot section lay on the ground. Two deputies lifted it on end. Jacob hit the kill switch on his chainsaw.
The men crowded around Sal, Forte and me to get a clear look at the section of trunk.
“Looks like a rib cage to me,” Forte said, leaning over the log. Using a pencil as a pointer, “Rib, spine. Whoever it was, he was standing upright when he was, uh, treed.”
A reporter from Western World newspaper who had been hovering around the perimeter of the group stepped close to the tree and snapped three quick photos.
Forte pointed at him and ordered “Enough, Karl.”
“This is too good to pass up, Chief.”
“Until we figure out who this is and notify any kin, let’s keep those pictures locked up.”
The reporter grinned. “Not gonna happen, Chief. Let’s face it, this guy’s been dead a long time if that tree grew up around him. Have a statement for me?”
“Yeah. The Bandon Police Department has enlisted the services of Nick Drago and Sal Rand to assist in determining…”
“You did?” I interrupted.
“Does ‘enlist’ entail payment?” Sal asked.
“Question 1, yes. Question 2, no,” Forte continued, “…in determining the identity of the victim and how he or she became encased in a Madrone.”
“Good enough for now,” Karl said.
A dually Ford pickup nosed down the road its diesel rattling as it pulled onto the grass, Warren Jeffries Tree Service painted on the doors. A tall thin man climbed from the cab and ambled toward us, head down, hands in pockets.
“Hey Chief,” he said, finally looking up. “Nick, Sal. Howyadoin. Whatchagotgoin?” He looked at the Madrone. “Too bad you cut it down. Don’t see many 100-plus year old Madrones around here.”
“That old?” I asked.
“Easy. Grows fast, needs perfect climate and weather and drainage to stay alive.”
He walked along the length of the tree.
“Probably wouldn’t have lasted another 100, though, with the golf course nearby. Change in environment almost always kills ‘em off.”
He poked at the trunk with a pocket knife, peeling away flaps of the shedding bark, revealing a clear, smooth wood face.
“Yeah, pretty healthy. Odd configuration, though.” He ran a hand along the trunk. “Limbs were twisted when the tree was young. Left a cage of sorts. Never seen that before.” He continued prodding the Madrone. “See here? You can just make out the different limbs. Most of the gaps have filled in after all this time, but no doubt, it was woven into a vertical cradle when the tree was just a pup.”
Focused on the tree, he suddenly realized there were bones inside the trunk. “Holy macaroni. There’s a body in there, Chief.”
“Reason I called, Warren.”
“Jumpin’ Jesus. That’s really odd.”
“Ya think?”
“Can you give me a better guess on the age of the tree?” I asked.
Nodding, Jeffries crouched down and stared at the stump, picking at the wood with his knife.
“Field guess, 120 to 125 years old. No more, not less.”
He stood, closed the knife and slipped it back into his jeans’ pocket. “Could give you a better estimate if I had a slice of the stump without the feet, though.”
“Probably not necessary,” Forte said. “We can start with that.”
Looking once more at the stump and felled tree, “Damn peculiar. Too bad you cut it down, though.” Jeffries turned, stuffed his hands back in his pockets, hung his head and went away muttering to himself. Climbed into his truck and drove back toward the highway.
With the exception of two deputies, the rest of the gathering began to dissolve as if to say “Seen one skeleton in a tree, seen them all.” That’s Bandon folk for ya. Takes a lot to hold their attention.
“Now what, Chief?” I asked. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much I can do.”
“Maybe not. I’d sure like to know what this is all about, though. Mind looking into it, just for the mental exercise? As usual, I can’t afford the manpower.”
“Sure.”
“What do you need?”
“It would help to get an idea of the race of the tree guy. Could be an Indian, in which case the Coquilles would want to take a look and see if it’s an historic site. Or it could be a 100 year old murder case. Maybe a satanic voodoo thing.”
“Voodoo thing?”
Sal chuckled. “Right. A voodoo thing in Coos County in the early 1900s. And herds of unicorns lived happily in the river valley, peacefully coexisting with lions and tigers, caribou and sheep.”
Jacob, still holding his chainsaw, interrupted. “Chief, you need me for anything else?”
Forte looked at me for an answer. “Well, what can we do to remove the skeleton from the tree?”
“Maybe the state police forensic people have some magic,” Forte said.
Sal cleared his throat. “Uh, guys. No magic needed. Who’s up for a bon fire?”
“Think we need some clearances or something,” I said. “Besides, we’re not in the Chief’s jurisdiction out here.”
“No sweat. I’ll call the Sheriff. Make a deal. The way the county’s budget is, he can’t afford the manpower either. Especially for a 100 year old dead body.”
He