by Leo Bonanno
“Mr. Hunt, my name is Detective Walters.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to me. “Do you have any idea what happened here last night?” The word robbery flashed in front of my eyes.
“Oh jeez, a robbery, of course! Well, no one came into my room; at least I don’t think so. All of my belongings are still…” A hand caressed my shoulder. I turned. It was Maddie. She had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy. They filled with water again as she stared at me. “Oh no, Maddie. Did they take something of yours?”
“It wasn’t a robbery, Reevan.” Her voice was small and weak, which is incredibly uncharacteristic. “Wilson was murdered last night.” Maddie tightened her grip and went from crying to blubbering. I turned and hugged her, shocked, utterly shocked at what she had just said. Murder? What is this murder word you speak of? When she reached out and put an arm around Richard’s neck, and pulled him close to us, I suddenly remembered. The shock jerked two tears from my eyes, and the sobs from Richard and my sister squeezed out a few more.
As is usually the case with bitter, crusty, old men who suddenly lose control of their emotions, I responded with anger, and grasped at the only straw I could see. “Why the hell didn’t somebody wake me sooner?” I barked.
“An excellent question,” added Walters, who seemed most perturbed by the appearance of yet another body in McCune Hall. At least this one was still alive.
“Forgot you were here,” Maddie burbled into my shoulder. “Forgot you were here, Reevan.” I hugged her close, and my crusty exterior began to melt away.
“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 m
atter 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.
“One of who?” Detective Sills finally asked.
“There are over a dozen and a half staff members that live on the grounds after their work is done. All of them have the code for the gate, and they can all come and go as they please. Any one of them could have noticed the open window.” We were all entranced by Thomas’ words. Nona had stopped whimpering and had come over to join us. Richard looked up at Thomas in awe. “Don’t you see?” Thomas screamed. “One of those greedy bastards hops in through the window, walks into the study and pockets a few tiny trinkets. On his way out, Mr. McCune starts to toss and turn. Maybe he even called for me. Our thief panicked. If he didn’t think fast, McCune was going to wake up or I was going to walk in. He ducked into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and stifled his victim’s screams.”
Richard let out a disappointed grunt. I knew why and leaned back in my chair. “Thomas,” he began. “The thief would have had plenty of time to just leap out the window and head for the cottages before dad was fully conscious. Dad might have thought it was all a dream if he did see something. How many people who set out to steal a few trinkets end up killing somebody? It just doesn’t work.”
“Not only that,” I added. “If Wilson would have screamed for you it would have woken us all up.”
“It’s a big house. I’m not sure if you would have hea-” Detective Sills tried to add.
“I think Wilson McCune was born with a bullhorn lodged in his throat, Detective Sills. If he screamed, we would have heard it.”
“He’s right,” Cheryl whispered.
“But what if your dad woke up when the bastard first climbed in through the window?” Now it was Nona. Her hands were gyrating wildly. “Knowin’ your dad, he might have woken up but stayed still, wanting to catch the guy with his hands full of loot. Your dad may have been old, but we all know he wasn’t stupid, or deaf. The slightest sound would get him up some nights. I know because I’d usually get stuck fixing him something.”
Thomas wrapped his long fingers around the back of the chair and squeezed until his knuckles were white. “So, it went differently. The robber comes in and heads for the study. On his way out, he spots a few more bobbles on McCune’s dresser
. Your father wakes up, or stops pretending to be asleep, and begins carrying on with his ‘how dare you’ this and his ‘I’ll make sure you never’ that. I know what I’d do if I was the guy; try to shut him up. Maybe punch him or hit him with something. But it’s too late…he saw the guy’s face. The thief gets scared, thinking that when McCune comes to he’ll start screaming bloody murder.” Thomas looked around the table, and then swallowed hard. “Sorry…so to keep his identity a secret, the thief crept into the kitchen after knocking your father unconscious, snatched a knife from the holder and went from petty larceny to murder in a single thrust. Then he left the same way he came. The whole thing probably took less than five minutes.”
I rolled my eyes and began messaging my temples. Detective Sills put down his pen and cracked his knuckles. It looked like he was on one of the last pages in his pad. Nona, Richard, Maddie and Detective Walters had an expression of pure wow on their faces. Cheryl on the other hand held her face in her hands.
A sound escaped Walters’ mouth. After a second, I realized it was a word. A slack-jawed Gomer Pyle of a word. “Golly…” I seemed to be the only person in the room who remained unimpressed, mostly because Thomas’ story had more holes than a golf course and brought up more questions than Alex Trebek. It didn’t seem like the perfect time to mention my findings, but I did so out of frustration. I turned to Walters, his eyes wide and charmed like a bewitched cobra.
“Did you just say golly?” He turned to me, dumbfounded.
“Sorry?”
“I asked you if you just used the word golly, if it is indeed a word at all. I take it you’re impressed with Mr. Freely’s display of deductive reasoning?” Maddie leaned forward and whispered in my ear.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I shouted. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! A man was murdered in this house last night! We are in a room with two police detectives and the only person to come up with a theory is the dead guy’s butler?” They were all looking at me as if I had just grown a second head. Even Maddie inched away a little. “I think we should start over, and this time, Detective Walters and Detective Sills will tell us what they know!”