The Hunt Chronicles: Volume 1 (4 page)

“And how did you
manage to sleep through a few Nona Bronson’s screams this morning, Mr.
Hunt?”  Walters prodded.

“So tired,” I
offered, and it was the truth.  “The night was…” and I stopped.
 
A name floated behind my eyes and I did my
best to brush it away.  It would not go easily…
Donald
.

“The night was
what?”  He egged.

“Long,” I finally
said.  “The night was very long.”

“Well,” I began,
“I’m not actually a full-time resident of this house, and so I’m not sure what
constitutes normal around here.”  Detective Walters seemed annoyed and
turned to
Maddie
.

“Did you see or hear
anything unusual last night?”

“
‘
fraid
not,” she answered.  The other man, named Detective Sills, jotted down
what must have been every word of our conversation.

Eventually we all
collected in the dining room.  Detective Walters had wrapped up the
investigation.  He and Sills were now the only law enforcement officials
in the house, but it was enough to make us all a little uncomfortable. 
Somewhere in that palace turned dungeon, a grandfather clock quietly gonged
eleven times.

Maddie
, Cheryl, Richard, Thomas, Nona and I were scattered
throughout the dining room.  Thomas and Nona stood together in the corner
by the kitchen.  Nona was sniffling.  Thomas was staring at me; had
been for the past ten minutes. 
He never liked you
the little voice
in my head said. 
I never liked him either
I saucily replied. 
“You mind staring at someone else, Stretch?  What are you, a butler or an
oil painting?  Go make some coffee!” 
Maddie
grabbed my arm but I pulled away.  Nona’s mouth opened as if to yell, or
moo, at me.  Thomas just nodded
a
don’t
bother
nod and went into the kitchen.  Nona’s mouth closed and her
eyes shrunk to slits.

“Please folks,”
Walters said.  His accent was way off. 
Maddie
would later tell me that Detective Walters moved to Connecticut from down
south.  God knows why he chose a Connecticut police force.  He
probably figured the worst thing that could happen up there was a stolen
chicken or a fire at an antique fair.  “Let’s just try to remain
calm.  Now I know this
hea
is a situation most
folks never have to experience.  However, y’all are experiencing it right
now, and y’all are in it together.  What I’d like to do is get each of you
to…” and I was gone.  Something was bothering me, something besides the
fact that a man was killed only a hop, skip and jump from where I was sleeping
(somewhat) peacefully.

It’s not like on TV
and movies, not at all.  On TV, a crime scene always seems quiet,
contained, and controlled.  A few pretty young detectives uncover almost
invisible clues while various space-filling officers stand and chatter in the
background harmlessly.  It was not like TV at all.

McCune was a rich
and powerful man, and when rich and powerful men die, his rich and powerful
friends react as you’d expect…overly.  I counted over twenty different police
faces in my first pass through the foyer, and those were just the ones I could
see.  I heard more all over the house, some in a cluster in Wilson’s
study, others in the kitchen, and more upstairs.  The scene was chaotic as
people bumped into each other, shouted for backup, and tossed evidence into
bags.  No one seemed to notice me at all.  No one noticed me veering
through uniformed bodies as my curse of curiosity pulled me towards Wilson’s
study.  I even held the door open as one officer came out with a
half-empty box of donuts in one hand and a handful of coffees in the
other.  He offered me one, and I declined.  He shuffled past me
without another word.

The scene seemed to
be wrapping up, and as officers slowly made their ways back to the foyer and
the front door, I swam upstream into the study and beyond, always expecting to
be stopped, but never was.  Yellow tape was stretched across the open
doorway to his bedroom.  I peered inside, where a uniformed goon were
still collecting evidence, apparently engrossed in his bagging and tagging
procedures.

Like a child told
not to touch something, I peeked from afar.  Then a spotted something new
and took a step closer.  Eventually my head was over the tape and my eyes
glancing around the room.  In one last brazen act of subconscious bravery,
I found myself standing on Wilson McCune’s bedroom carpet, holding my
breath.  The goons went on sealing sandwich bags and labeling them with
markers, unaware that I had joined them.  Not surprising as I barely
realized it myself until it was too late.

The stench of his
room was nothing short of gut wrenching.  I wanted to gag immediately, but
stopped myself.  I stood at the foot of the bed trying not to make a
sound.  Wilson’s body was still in his bed, and that was something for
which I was not prepared.  The man in the room with me, the
live
man I mean, forensics or something I would guess, was sitting on the bed next
to Wilson.  It looked like he was cleaning under McCune’s fingernails, but
I couldn’t tell for sure.  I started feeling more and more ill, and
suddenly my eyes went up to the ceiling.  I started gazing, absorbing all
of the details of the room; anything to get my eyes off of the old man’s body.

Wilson lay in his
king-sized bed on his back, a large knife in his chest.  His pajama top
was stained with a dark red splotch, and there was blood on the sheets around
him, but it was considerably less than you might think.  That knife looked
awfully close to his heart.  I would have expected blood to hit the
ceiling. 
Maybe because the knife is still in him
Little Reevan
suggested, and I cringed.  My forte was Literature, not Biology or
Forensics.  Unless Wilson died reading Tolstoy’s
War and Peace
, I
probably wouldn’t be of any help to anyone.

To the right was an
open window and a cool breeze blew in through it. 
A bag
that was too near the edge of the bed flickered and fell, landing on the furry
red carpet with a flop.
  The examiner turned to pick it up.  I
held my breath as he moved, afraid to make a sound.  He picked it up
briskly, put it in his pocket, and turned back to the body.  I noticed a
dresser to the right of the window.  Its drawers were open and articles
hung out of them like tongues. 
Somebody was looking for something
the
little voice said.  I concurred.

Two tables flanked
Wilson’s bed, each with a fancy-pants lamp on it.  The one on the left,
however, was littered with some other items: a crystal clock, a small Hummel
figurine, the silver tray Thomas brought in the night before.  The tray’s
companion, the glass with a slightly chipped edge, was also there.  The
water was gone; swallowed, no doubt, by McCune along with his pill before he
slipped into eternal sleep.  Sitting under the window was Wilson’s
wheelchair like an eerie glistening tombstone.

Coughing.
  The examiner was finding it hard to catch his
breath. 
Can’t be around that smell too long
, I thought,
no
matter how many times you’ve done it.
  I had the urge to upchuck
myself, but I stifled it once more.  The examiner rose and began to turn,
no doubt heading for the door and some fresh air.  I panicked and leaped
forward, falling flat on my face to the left of McCune’s bed.  I stayed
there, motionless, until I could hear the man’s footsteps outside of the room.

You’re over fifty
years old!
  Little Reevan
shouted from inside my brain.  His voice reverberated off the walls of my
skull and racked my eyeballs in their sockets. 
Probably busted a hip
you stupid old fool!
  I grunted and propped myself up on all
fours.  I stayed there for a minute, on my hands and knees, afraid to move
anymore. 
I’m okay
I told myself. 
No harm done
,
I
knew I’d be fine.  Just call me Indiana Hunt in the Temple of
…of
nothing.  My thoughts vanished.  Then I spoke out loud not even
realizing it.  “Well, hello…”  A tiny speck of brown shone in the red
carpet beneath me.  I reached for it with my right hand.  As I
grabbed it, I noticed the rug near the speck was moist, though my knees and
left hand were touching dry carpet.  I brought the speck closer to my
eyes. 
OXIZALE
was engraved on it.  My mind went back to the
window across the room, and then to the wet spot on the floor.

I got up and sat on
the left edge of McCune’s bed, thinking. 
Thomas would know if that
window was open when McCune fell asleep
I thought to myself.  Then my
heart skipped a beat when I realized I was sitting in a dead man’s bed…with the
dead man.  I bounded up and out of the room.  I reached the hall and
composed myself, walking like a man who was supposed to be walking. 
Maddie
was in the dining room, and I joined her.

My little adventure
beyond the police tape lasted all of three minutes.  When the noise
finally died down, we saw men in gloves wheel McCune out.  He was not in
his coat on his wheel chair.  He was on a gurney in one of those long
black bags.

 “Of course I’m
sure!”  Nona was screaming.  I came back to myself in time to see
Nona enter a state of dangerous irritation, the state of mind animal observers
describe when they’re videotaping an angry rhino.

“I’m sorry,” I
interrupted.  “You’re sure of what, Nona?”  She set her gaze on me.

“That knife…” 
Her bottom lip started to tremble.  “It was ours, I mean Mr. McCune’s,
from my kitchen.”  Nona ventured from her corner towards the serving
window.  She pointed through it and our eyes followed her finger.  It
led us to a wooden knife block on the counter by the sink.  Among the
forest of knife handles was one empty slot.  It was most likely the home
of the blade that had been jammed into Wilson’s chest like a flagpole into the
earth.

Thomas’ head
suddenly appeared in the window, scaring a gasp out of us all.  “Sorry,”
he said flatly.  “There is some lunchmeat, but I assume no one is in the
mood.”  Most of us ignored him.  Walters and his associate gave a
curt no, thank you.  It was almost eleven-thirty by the clock in the
dining room, but all we really needed was some nerve-calming coffee.

“Where is the coffee
coming from? Columbia?”  I blurted out.  Thomas shrugged and
disappeared.  He entered the dining room through the adjoining doorway
carrying a large silver tray (much larger than Wilson’s medicine tray). 
Seven cups and seven saucers were dispersed.  Thomas actually made eight
people, but I assumed he didn’t have the guts to drink his own sludge. 
Thomas put down the tray and assumed his place next to Nona.  He gently
caressed her shoulder.  Her saucer and cup rattled in her hands.  She
looked like a scared little girl.

“Mr. Hunt,” Walters
said sharply.  “What do you have to tell us about last night?”  Sills
sat quietly, pen poised over his pad.  “I want to hear everything; usual,
unusual, and otherwise.”  I said fine and began.  I started with
dinner and the argument between Donald and his father.  I mentioned the
tiff between Wilson and Cheryl, not going into its detail though.  I also
proclaimed that it was the last time I saw Wilson alive.

I brought up the
meeting between Nona, Cheryl and myself the night before in the kitchen, as
well as the circumstances surrounding it.  I was sure to mention all of
the times I had noticed the events of the night, including when I woke up to
the sound of Donald’s homecoming.  Then my story was done.  I did not
mention the fact that my sister had disappeared from her bedroom, or that
Richard was walking towards Wilson’s part of the house at the same time. 
I still had some things I wanted to find out on my own before I incriminated
someone I cared about. 
My name is Reevan Hunt.  It’s a pleasure
to meet you, Obstruction of Justice.

“Is that it?”

“Yes sir, at least
for now.  It’s been a very long night and an even longer morning.” 
Walters nodded and started around the table towards Cheryl and Richard. 
Then he turned and stared right into
Maddie’s
eyes.

“How
‘bout you, ma’am?
 
Anything to add to what you said earlier?”
 
Maddie
took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t feeling
too well.  Went in early, took some pills and conked out around ten.”

“Stay in bed all
night?”

“Yes,” she
answered.  I turned to her. 
Liar
liar
I
thought.  She looked at me, head cocked.

“You slept through
all of last night’s shenanigans? 
Through the clanging
in the kitchen and Donald McCune’s noisy arrival?”
  Walters didn’t
believe it.

“Strong pills,”
Maddie
answered and turned away.  Walters’ expression
was one of disbelief.

“But Ms. Hunt, do
you really mean that you-”

“She’s answered your
question, Detective,” A strong, protective tone uttered, and it didn’t come out
of me.  Thomas had stepped forward.  “Wilson’s window was open all
night.  He had me open it when I brought in his medication.  His room
was rummaged through like a box at a garage sale.  His watch is missing
from the top of his dresser, and some crystal pieces and figurines aren’t in
the study.  I think it’s obvious what happened.  The only question is
which one of them did it?”  Thomas was standing at the head of the table
then.  I leaned forward, as did the pair of sleuths.