boots, exposing only grubs and snakes. They walked arm's length abreast into the field of pale flowers, staring down, until they were so deep into the field that no major league pitcher could have flung a gun so far. When they finished each search sector, they tied bright plastic ribbons to mark where they had been, mocking snippets of color in the wind. When the land gave them nothing, Kershner and his two
divers--Ned Heasty and Earl McMullen--slipped into the Mo|hawk itself, the icy chill quickly penetrating their black rubber ^its. The water was clear near the banks but midstream current churned up the bottom. Light and shadow mixed together as the aisturbed silt exploded like dust. It was an eerie quest. The root i alls beneath the water were as gnarled as a witch's grasping
' .In8ers' ^ter-logged sirens waiting to snare and hold a diver fast
, n111 his lungs emptied of air.
They found no gun. Th»s should have been the most likely 68 ANN RULE
spot to dispose of it; the casings had been at the one spot along Old Mohawk where the road came nearest to the river. When they didn't find it there, they knew they would have to go in the river at Hayden Bridge.
Even for experienced divers, there are few more treacherous sites than "The Chute" under the bridge.
"It's fast water," Kershner explained. "Half the water goes downstream, and half goes upriver."
The current is so swift there—there under the bridge where Christie Downs "stopped choking"—that it rips off face masks, dislodging muscular men off ropes like leaves snatched from a thin branch in a wind storm. It is forty-five feet deep, and there are boulders twenty feet high beneath the surface.
"You can only release yourself and fly through the water . . . and it seems like you're going a hundred miles an hour as you go past the boulders. If you don't gauge exactly, you'll get trapped. Once you're caught under the water there, no one can get you out."
Kershner and his fellow divers found a number of thingsincluding a motorcycle—but they did not find a gun. In the end,
they would have put in 1,149 manhours.
For nothing.
Reporters scattered throughout Lane County to get quotes from people who had known Diane Downs before.
"You could tell she really loves those kids, just by the way she used to talk about them," Floyd Gohn, the Cottage Grove Postmaster, told them. "I think she is probably as good a mother as an employee, and she's a number-one worker as far as I'm concerned!"
Superintendent of the Cottage Grove Post Office, Ron Sartin, was furious. "When the hell are the law enforcement agencies or the people going to do something about all the dopeheads in this country?" he fumed to reporters. "Here's a gal with three kids and something like this happens out of the blue. You can't even drive your car down the streets at night!"
Sartin pretty much spoke for the citizens of Lane County, appalled that such a tragedy could happen to a young mother and three little kids.
Diane's room at McKenzie-Willamette Hospital had begun to fill up with floral offerings and cards; cut flowers, potted plants, and tastefully subdued sympathy cards covered every available
SMALL SACRIFICES 69
surface. Room 322 had a funereal odor, a too-heavy clotting of fragrance. Although Diane had lived in Oregon for such a short time, she had her parents there, and she'd made friends at the nost office where she worked. She'd trained with Heather Plourd at the main branch.
Post office officials said Diane had transferred to Cottage Grove because she wanted a smaller facility where she could learn all aspects of the postal business. She had shown great ambition.
Cottage Grove, Oregon, is twenty miles south of Eugene and Springfield. Fewer than 5,000 people live there, and all of them seemed to have heard about the Downs shooting. Diane's fellow postal workers were particularly distressed.
Diane had no great love for cooking. She and the children ate dinner at Willadene's table almost
divers--Ned Heasty and Earl McMullen--slipped into the Mo|hawk itself, the icy chill quickly penetrating their black rubber ^its. The water was clear near the banks but midstream current churned up the bottom. Light and shadow mixed together as the aisturbed silt exploded like dust. It was an eerie quest. The root i alls beneath the water were as gnarled as a witch's grasping
' .In8ers' ^ter-logged sirens waiting to snare and hold a diver fast
, n111 his lungs emptied of air.
They found no gun. Th»s should have been the most likely 68 ANN RULE
spot to dispose of it; the casings had been at the one spot along Old Mohawk where the road came nearest to the river. When they didn't find it there, they knew they would have to go in the river at Hayden Bridge.
Even for experienced divers, there are few more treacherous sites than "The Chute" under the bridge.
"It's fast water," Kershner explained. "Half the water goes downstream, and half goes upriver."
The current is so swift there—there under the bridge where Christie Downs "stopped choking"—that it rips off face masks, dislodging muscular men off ropes like leaves snatched from a thin branch in a wind storm. It is forty-five feet deep, and there are boulders twenty feet high beneath the surface.
"You can only release yourself and fly through the water . . . and it seems like you're going a hundred miles an hour as you go past the boulders. If you don't gauge exactly, you'll get trapped. Once you're caught under the water there, no one can get you out."
Kershner and his fellow divers found a number of thingsincluding a motorcycle—but they did not find a gun. In the end,
they would have put in 1,149 manhours.
For nothing.
Reporters scattered throughout Lane County to get quotes from people who had known Diane Downs before.
"You could tell she really loves those kids, just by the way she used to talk about them," Floyd Gohn, the Cottage Grove Postmaster, told them. "I think she is probably as good a mother as an employee, and she's a number-one worker as far as I'm concerned!"
Superintendent of the Cottage Grove Post Office, Ron Sartin, was furious. "When the hell are the law enforcement agencies or the people going to do something about all the dopeheads in this country?" he fumed to reporters. "Here's a gal with three kids and something like this happens out of the blue. You can't even drive your car down the streets at night!"
Sartin pretty much spoke for the citizens of Lane County, appalled that such a tragedy could happen to a young mother and three little kids.
Diane's room at McKenzie-Willamette Hospital had begun to fill up with floral offerings and cards; cut flowers, potted plants, and tastefully subdued sympathy cards covered every available
SMALL SACRIFICES 69
surface. Room 322 had a funereal odor, a too-heavy clotting of fragrance. Although Diane had lived in Oregon for such a short time, she had her parents there, and she'd made friends at the nost office where she worked. She'd trained with Heather Plourd at the main branch.
Post office officials said Diane had transferred to Cottage Grove because she wanted a smaller facility where she could learn all aspects of the postal business. She had shown great ambition.
Cottage Grove, Oregon, is twenty miles south of Eugene and Springfield. Fewer than 5,000 people live there, and all of them seemed to have heard about the Downs shooting. Diane's fellow postal workers were particularly distressed.
Diane had no great love for cooking. She and the children ate dinner at Willadene's table almost
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