The Inverted Forest

by John Dalton

  As if she—or anyone—had such command over her emotions: to feel an unexpected ache and be able to steer it back from where it came. There was something about the waning moments of a holiday party—the house emptying of people and a charged stillness filling the rooms—that turned her into a conductor for certain feelings. Before she knew it the full weight of her longing was upon her. She missed Christopher Waterhouse. She ached to commune. Mostly she’d gotten over the way he’d died, the particular and awful death he’d suffered. But in place of this shock she had, fifteen years after the fact, a much larger capacity to imagine the life-moments Christopher had missed out on. He would absolutely have loved this holiday party, the downstairs game room, the rowdy company of the young interns. The trick, of course, was to remember that he’d be nearly forty years old—a boyish forty, most likely, an alert, happy, physically vital man. Maybe he’d like the artichoke dip she’d made or the shuffleboard game, because these small pleasures, thousands of them over the course of life, were what you missed out on if you died when you were just twenty-two. No Sunday morning breakfasts on the patio. No Caribbean vacations. No movies, either. How awful to miss out on going to the movie theater. Sometimes she and Dr. Lammers saw such outstanding movies at the eighteen-screen cineplex, the kinds of movies in which opposite-minded people fell in love or showed unexpected kindness to homeless men or idiot savants. These were the movies that buoyed you up on a wave of good feeling and made you want to turn to the person next to you, even if it was a stranger, and say, “Oh, that was cute! That was just darling!”

  For some reason she always imagined Christopher being a father (though not necessarily married). He’d have a handsome, good-natured teenage son. She could imagine the deep pleasures parenthood would bring Christopher Waterhouse, whereas, childless by choice, she’d not been able to do the same for herself or Dr. Lammers.

  Really, if she let herself, she could get awfully moony over the path Christopher Waterhouse’s life might have taken. She could bring a wave of sorrow down upon herself. Dr. Lammers would notice it right away. There’d be a shift then. They’d sense an off-kilter loyalty in one another, and they’d spend several days or more being wary and removed. For Marcy this would be almost unbearable: to even for a few days not have the steady pulse of Dr. Lammers’s affection. She loved him so very much. Stranger yet, she could long for Christopher Waterhouse and somehow love her husband all the more. It wasn’t normal, of course. She’d never heard of such a thing or seen it acted out in a movie. She could spend an evening aching privately for Christopher Waterhouse, and the very next morning, at the kitchen table, serving Dr. Lammers his coffee and low-fat Danish, she wanted to throw herself in his lap and squeeze him until they were both breathless. The warmth of him, the softness; it was a more nourishing pleasure than sex. (It was cleaner, too, thank you very much.) She wouldn’t have been able to endure this unlikely divide—the longing for a dear dead friend, the affection for her husband—if she and Dr. Lammers hadn’t reached a hard-won understanding.

  This had happened the previous year during a very miserable period in Marcy’s life. There’d been several months, maybe a whole winter, when she’d been nothing but moony. Moony every day. Every night. At last Dr. Lammers had sat her down and said, “Look here, Marcy darling. We have to get past this, don’t we? You need to see someone and talk things over. Either that or the two of us need to take some time and consider the facts of what happened to Christopher Waterhouse, the objective evidence. We need to look at the evidence and reach a conclusion.”

  It was impossible that she would see someone. She wasn’t in the business of talking to strangers.

  So instead Dr. Lammers had proposed what he called a “fair-minded deal.” He knew a very good legal researcher, a former paralegal for the state of Missouri, and he’d have her go back a decade and a half through the records and assemble all the evidence of Christopher Waterhouse’s murder. The investigation. The prosecuting and defending attorneys’ notes. The trial that hadn’t really been a trial at all. Once Marcy and Dr. Lammers had a chance to look everything over, they’d make a decision. Either they’d realize that a reasonable effort had been made to honor Christopher’s life and bring his murderer to justice—Marcy might not like the results of this effort, but she’d have to accept what happened. She’d have to make peace with the way things had turned out—or they’d decide that the investigation and pretrial and the sentencing of Wyatt Huddy had diminished or been neglectful to Christopher Waterhouse. If this was the case, Dr. Lammers would spend a little money to try to set the record straight.

  Set the record straight? But what did he mean exactly?

  There were people, Dr. Lammers explained, who could be hired to help bring the story of Christopher’s life and murder to the public’s attention. An article might be published in a newspaper or magazine—a fond remembrance. There might just be a place and time to honor Christopher with a memorial.

  It caught her by surprise, this suggestion; it nearly took her breath away. A wonderful idea. At once the possibilities for this memorial assembled themselves in her mind. Christopher’s family could be invited up to St. Louis from their home in the Missouri Bootheel. All the counselors at Kindermann Forest who’d once thought so highly of Christopher could be tracked down and invited. They’d come together, all these years after his death, and honor him in a way that would be solemn and touching.

  The picture of it was so clear in her imagination; she agreed right away to Dr. Lammers’s “fair-minded deal.” Even so, she knew it was a serious undertaking. Pledges were made. She and Dr. Lammers both vowed to honor the objective facts.

  And as it turned out there were quite a few things—powerful things—that she didn’t know about Christopher Waterhouse’s murder. She’d been so young at the time. Maybe her reaction to his death hadn’t been thoughtful or orderly. How could it have been? There was no time for clear thinking. One day she was a lifeguard at Kindermann Forest and the next she’d lost her dear friend and was sent home, where her mother, Coco Bittman, insisted that Marcy enjoy what remained of her summer break. She couldn’t possibly. Her head was spinning. In the fall she’d been exquisitely relieved to pack up her things and drive back to college. Every once in a while her mother would send her a news clipping. A trial date had been set. A plea for change of venue denied.

  One thing had caught her attention right away. In her dorm mailroom one afternoon she’d read a confounding sentence from an article in the Springfield News-Leader:

  Wyatt Huddy of Jefferson City, Missouri, age twenty-three, a camper during the Kindermann Forest State Session, awaits trial in Shannon County on second-degree murder charges.

  Not a camper! A counselor, for goodness’ sake! Wyatt Huddy had arrived the same day as Marcy and the other Kindermann Forest counselors. He’d been assigned a group of state hospital campers to care for. For two weeks he’d accompanied these campers to every event and activity. All day. Every day. He’d sat with them at every meal.

  Two months later in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, the same mistake.

  Wyatt Huddy, age twenty-three, a camper . . .

  For Marcy this had been a source of sharp but fleeting irritation at the time. She remembered being amazed at the sloppiness. The professional world—or at least the world of journalists—was supposed to be more capable than that. In retrospect, she realized she should have done something right away. She should have contacted the other Kindermann Forest counselors and made a fuss.

  Several months after Marcy and Dr. Lammers had agreed to their “fair-minded deal,” the first packet of evidence arrived. Inside was a note from the paralegal. “Pay special attention to this,” she’d written and clipped the note to a folder of affidavits that had been gathered by the defense on Wyatt Huddy’s behalf.

  Affidavit number one: a statement from Terry M. Throckmorton, a captain in the Salvation Army and the director of the depot and thrift store in Jefferson City, Missouri. He’d employed Wyatt
Huddy for four and a half years, and during that time Wyatt had proved himself to be hardworking and honest—a very dependable employee. He was capable of independent work, as long as the directions for that work were clear and given to Wyatt incrementally, which was to say, one task at a time. Mostly he unloaded trucks and made simple repairs to furniture. He was not able to operate the cash register or reliably answer the telephone. It was very difficult for Wyatt to deal with more than one customer at a time. But he was consistent. In four and a half years he hadn’t missed a single day of work. Of all the depot employees, Wyatt Huddy was the most deserving of a vacation. To that end Captain Terry Throckmorton had contacted Program Director Linda Rucker and inquired as to whether or not Wyatt Huddy might be allowed to attend the June 17–29, 1996, session at Kindermann Forest. Linda Rucker, in consultation with Camp Director Schuller Kindermann, gave her consent, and Wyatt Huddy was added to the list of campers. But this didn’t mean that Wyatt was eager to go to Kindermann Forest. According to Captain Throckmorton, he had to be persuaded. He needed a certain amount of encouragement to leave the familiar world of the Jefferson City Salvation Army Depot.

  Affidavit number two: a sullen and somewhat disjointed statement from Wyatt Huddy’s sister, Caroline Huddy, explaining that she’d raised Wyatt after the death of their mother. He was neither a smart nor a reliable child. Often he was stubborn and slow, and these qualities, Caroline Huddy guessed, might have been signs of his diminished intelligence. She wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t have been involved in a murder, she believed, if he’d remained under her supervision at the family farm. But that hadn’t happened. He’d been encouraged to leave their home and go to camp. She seemed to despise anyone who’d taken an interest, professional or otherwise, in the tragedy, including those who had helped solicit her statement.

  Affidavit number three: a statement from Harriet Foster, R.N., explaining that, in accordance with her duties as camp nurse at Kindermann Forest, she had examined Wyatt Huddy, along with dozens of other state hospital campers, on the first day of the session, Monday, June 17, 1996. She had determined him to be healthy and able enough to meet the physical requirements of a two-week session at Kindermann Forest. This had been a quick examination, Nurse Foster noted. Her other encounters with Wyatt Huddy over the course of the two-week session were similarly brief, in most cases no longer than the few moments it took to dispense his medications. At no point did she have access to his complete medical history. Therefore she didn’t know for certain the exact nature of his disability. But she did observe in Wyatt Huddy a lack of awareness and a difficulty understanding ordinary social cues. In this way, she could say that he seemed to have the same diminished IQ abilities as many of the other state hospital campers.

  Affidavit number four: a statement from Kindermann Forest Program Director Linda Rucker explaining that she’d received a request from Captain Terry Throckmorton of the Salvation Army regarding Wyatt Huddy. She’d considered this request. She’d talked it over with Camp Director Schuller Kindermann. They’d both agreed to allow Wyatt Huddy to attend the June 17–29 State Hospital Session along with other disabled campers from the state hospital. They’d done so because Captain Throckmorton had assured her that Wyatt would be easy to manage. This turned out to be entirely true. In the broad and often unsettling range of disabled behavior, Wyatt Huddy’s conduct had been calm and accommodating. Linda Rucker had seen ample evidence of these qualities because the counseling staff of Kindermann Forest—especially the male counselors—had been stretched thin, and most days she’d had to step in and act as de facto counselor for Wyatt Huddy and the other campers in his group, Leonard Peirpont, Jerry Johnston, Thomas Anwar Toomey. According to Linda Rucker, they were all likable and obedient campers, though Wyatt may have been the most even-tempered and cooperative. He was frequently helpful. In the course of the two-week session, Linda Rucker couldn’t recall a single instance in which he’d been angry or upset or uncooperative. She could not imagine Wyatt being violent, unless deliberately or cruelly provoked.

  What a startling experience it was for Marcy Bittman Lammers to hold these affidavits in her hands. Could she call it a conspiracy? Yes, she thought she could. At the very least it was an effort to disguise the facts. It was so very important that Dr. Lammers understand. Wyatt Huddy had been hired as a counselor. He’d been assigned campers. He’d attended every staff meeting. He wasn’t retarded. But what was he then? Disfigured maybe. He had a queerly shaped head, a sloping face. Each afternoon he’d guided his campers, one by one, down the pool steps and then sat cross-legged on the deck while they tottered around the shallow end. He wouldn’t take off his shoes and dangle his feet in the water. An odd young man—hulking and private. But he was as aware and as capable as any other member of the Kindermann Forest staff.

  Not everything the paralegal sent them could be called a revelation, but each item was, in its own way, interesting to Marcy. The Kindermann Forest camp van was a 1992 GMC Rally Wagon with 112,000 miles on the odometer. The air temperature the night and approximate time of the murder was seventy-eight degrees. The sky had been clear, the moon in its waxing crescent phase. Insignificant details maybe, but they stirred her imagination. Then came the coroner’s report. Christopher Waterhouse’s recovered body had weighed one hundred and eighty-three pounds. At least six of his ribs had been broken. Two of these broken ribs had punctured his lungs. His abrasions numbered in the dozens. He’d died of traumatic asphyxiation. There were details from the coroner’s report that Dr. Lammers said he’d better keep to himself. (Though he did tell her that the attack on Christopher Waterhouse was mostly likely an act of rage, and not anything sexual.) At the very least Marcy wanted to know where and in what condition Christopher’s body had been found. In a shallow creek bed, Dr. Lammers explained. A quarter mile deep into the forest. He’d been dropped into the creek and covered with large slabs of flagstone. Most likely he’d been dead prior to this makeshift burial.

  How horrible it was to know this. Now she had to strictly guard her thoughts. If not, her anxious mind would pull back the screen of forest branches and see Christopher’s pale and muddied body mounded with stones.

  She was more cautious then about which documents she allowed herself to look at. Court petitions and pretrial motions? Yes, fine. No problem. The crime scene reports from Ellsinore Chief of Police David Pressy and from the Missouri State Highway Patrol? No thank you. Over the course of three months the evidence kept coming. It wasn’t exactly an orderly progression. Several of the bureaus and departments to which the paralegal applied gave up their documents in miserly increments.

  Sometimes Marcy wondered: Were they being purposefully obstructed? She phoned and asked the paralegal if someone might be working behind the scenes to keep this evidence from reaching them.

  No, no, the paralegal said. Any difficulties they’d encountered had to do with authorizations and filing procedures. The remedy for this was always the same: time and persistence. For example, the paralegal had needed to use a delicate brand of persuasion when it came to the case files belonging to Shannon County Prosecuting Attorney Henry Masner. And for good reason. Henry Masner had died in office three years earlier. Portions of his files were stored in the Shannon County Courthouse, the town hall basement, and Mr. Masner’s home office. He was still, fortunately, an admired figure in Shannon County. On his behalf, the county’s single records clerk, Mrs. Denita Medlock, was willing to do a respectful search of his files. She was seventy-nine years old. Her search took time.

  But what riches Mrs. Medlock discovered. In one of Mr. Masner’s files was a time allotment sheet that detailed the work hours he’d put in building a second-degree murder case against Wyatt Huddy. This would have been an almost inconsequential document, yet it revealed that during the spring of 1997 he’d had five meetings with Camp Nurse Harriet Foster at the Shannon County Courthouse. Five meetings! This meant that Harriet Foster had driven down from St. Louis on five separate occasions to speak with M
r. Masner, the attorney assigned to prosecute Wyatt Huddy. You had to wonder what topics had been discussed at these meetings. Or, the better question, what agenda Harriet Foster had been pushing.

  It took six weeks for the records clerk Denita Medlock to uncover and pass along a document that answered this question: a typed statement from Harriet Foster seven pages long, signed and notarized and submitted in the early summer of 1997 to both the prosecuting and defending attorneys.

  And what had she, Marcy Bittman, been doing while Harriet Foster met with attorneys and composed her elaborate statement? Marcy had been away at a private college in rural Illinois earning a degree in public relations. This was a very fortunate thing. She adored her school. And she loved the other young women who were her sisters at the sorority. But she was also a changed person. Most evenings she’d pack up her school textbooks and climb to the higher floors of the college library and find a window-side table from which to look out over the darkening campus. It was as if she were receiving, for the first time in her life, a strange, one-of-a-kind feeling. If she’d known how, she would have drawn a bleak picture or written a sad song for Christopher Waterhouse. But that was an absurd notion. She wasn’t a singer or an artist. She’d always known herself to be an extremely positive person—a bright personality, happy-go-lucky, caring, purposeful, full of joy. And there she was those evenings at the library window receiving the first stirrings of a lonesome ache she’d later learn to call “getting moony.”