CRYSTAL LAKE—McHenry County sheriff’s police arrested a 42-year-old man Wednesday evening on charges of second-degree murder, drug-induced homicide, and delivery of a controlled substance after his terminally ill wife, Katherine Hunt, died on October 16 of a drug overdose.
Paul Hunt of 4300 Partridge Lane in Turnberry entered a plea of not guilty to all charges and was released on $50,000 bond.
The McHenry County state’s attorney’s office alleges that Hunt administered a lethal dose of the drug diazepam to his wife, Katherine, who had been diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS). ALS, commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, is a neuromuscular disease that causes the largest of the body’s nerve cells to degenerate, leading to muscle weakness, paralysis, and eventually death.
“Based on the testimony of a star witness, the state’s attorney’s office believes that Paul Hunt is guilty of homicide,” said John Fisk, assistant state’s attorney, during a press conference outside the courthouse. “Paul Hunt wasn’t a compassionate and loving husband dutifully carrying out the last wishes of his wife. Kathy Hunt’s tragic illness stripped her of her ability to communicate those wishes. Her husband stripped her of her life.”
The state’s attorney’s office alleges that Hunt deliberately dismissed his wife’s primary caretaker when she objected to his plan to deliver a fatal dose of the sedative that had been prescribed to ease muscle spasms associated with his wife’s ALS.
Hunt’s attorney, Thomas Reiss, dismissed the state’s charges as “baseless.” Referring to Fisk’s campaign for the position of state’s attorney, Reiss stated, “My client is being railroaded so Fisk can grab headlines. He should be ashamed of himself for political gain and that’s unconscionable.”
“The state’s attorney’s office filed charges based on the evidence against the defendant,” Fisk said. “We cannot become a culture of disposability in which anyone can determine the value of the lives of the terminally ill.”
Hunt is scheduled to appear in court February 25.
I never thought I’d say this, but thank God for the Crosstown tonight. It’s the only thing that’s stopped most of the gossip at school. Since Rob’s still not back, everyone’s acting like I’ve got the inside dirt on what really happened.
Dude, how many pills did he have to give her? How long can they put Mr. Hunt away for? I heard he ground them up and put them in chocolate pudding. How come she didn’t choke? No, bro, So-and-so says she totally choked. Puked even, so they, like, made her eat more. She kept telling them to stop. C’mon, that’s crap. She did not. She was a vegetable before they killed her. How was she gonna fight back? By drooling? I heard Rob was in on it, too. Like he held her mouth open and stuff.
It made me sick. Thank God for Bink. Any time he heard someone asking me a question, he’d tell ’em to leave me alone. If they didn’t lay off, Bink’d pull ’em aside and explain that if they didn’t shut their damn mouths, he’d be forced to do it for them in a manner that’d require a trip to the emergency room, jaw wirings, and eating through a straw.
Anyhow, I’m two hours away from strapping on the jock, tying a bandanna around my face Lone Ranger–style, and trying to make it across town before my nuts climb into the back of my throat from the cold. If Marshall hadn’t shot his mouth off this afternoon, I wouldn’t be worried that Mr. Five-Incher was crawling into my abdomen and turning me into a human Ken doll.
We were supposed to be doing some AP Bio lab. Marshall was useless, as usual. He kept babbling about the Crosstown Classic.
“So, what are you doing with the socks?” Marshall asked, looking up from the microscope. He was only pretending to do something class related, ’cuz Mr. B’d walked past us.
“Make hand puppets. I thought I’d sew some button eyes on ’em, give ’em little yarn wigs.” Steve looked at me like he thought I was serious. “I’m wearing ’em, dork. Why?”
Marshall looked at his crotch, then down at mine. I knew what he was getting at. Neither of us was packing like porn stars.
“Well,” Steve said in a whisper. “I’m stuffing. I wanna look my best for the honeys, if you know what I’m saying. Half the school’s gonna be at the finish line. Once all the babes check me out, they’ll all want a piece of Steve-o.”
“Yeah, ’cuz every girl wants an enormous sock cock. She can diddle herself with it and keep her feet warm.”
“Screw you, Stewart. You’re such a fag. The guys are freaked you’re gonna try and get their dicks up your Hershey Highway.”
“Nice,” I said.
I should go. Maybe try calling Rob again. I’m supposed to meet Bink and Steve at Bink’s place in about an hour. Marshall wants us to go over the course he’s mapped out—what a dork.
Saturday, October 27
Christ, Rob didn’t have to take it out on me. I wasn’t the one who killed his stupid gimp mom—that was his dad. Get it fucking straight. The bastard should’ve beat the crap out of him, not me.
Anyhow, Rob didn’t turn my face into hamburger until after I finished the Crosstown Classic. I should’ve known last night was gonna be awful when Marshall picked me up at Dad’s place.
Even though he’s shorter than me, Steve and I have similar builds, which means on a good day we look like human tapeworms. And yesterday wasn’t a good day. It was, like, two hours before the race, and there was Marshall, way too ready. He looked like an anorexic chick pretending to be a Green Beret for Halloween—bandanna tied above the forehead, black body paint creasing his chest, arms, and legs.
“Close the door already,” Marshall said, “I’m freezing my nuts off.”
I couldn’t tell from looking at his crotch. Marshall had stuffed like he’d said he would. He didn’t look bigger. He looked sick. Freakishly sick. Eight-pound-tumor-in-the-’nads sick. I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I looked out of the passenger side window ’cuz if I looked at the 16-inch softball between Marshall’s toothpick thighs, I’d lose it.
Things got worse for Marshall when we pulled into Bink’s driveway. Bink’s Ps weren’t home—they’d skipped temple to go to some washed-out, ex-hippie, antiwar rally. Bink’s little sisters and an army of neighborhood girls were in the front yard, trying to put a tutu and tiara on a golden retriever. They probably would’ve tried lipstick, too, if they could’ve found any. When Marshall realized he’d have to walk past all these five-, six-, and seven-year-old girls wearing only his jock-turned-bowling-ball-bag, he had the same please-shoot-me-now-and-end-the-misery look as the dog.
“Give me your coat. I can wrap it around me.”
“No.”
“C’mon, give it to me. How am I gonna get inside?”
“Not my problem,” I said, getting out of the minivan.
“Dickweed.”
I left Marshall pouting and walked to the front door. Part of me wanted to tell the girls that Steve’d take them for ice cream if they got in. The only thing that stopped me was knowing Steve would freak, slam into reverse, and back over a few kids and the cross-dressing mutt before he made it to the end of the driveway.
In his kitchen, Bink couldn’t stop ranting. And not ’cuz Marshall made Bink scrounge up a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. No, Bink said, nails scraping his scalp, foam at the corner of his lips, he was pissed ’cuz Marshall’d been too worried about the size of his posing pouch to figure out how we’d get our frozen butts from the finish line at Twin Ponds back to the start of the course where the car was parked. If Marshall hadn’t wasted so much time stuffing, Bink bitched, we could have parked his car at the finish line and been done with it. Marshall, Bink said, was forcing him to do the one thing he didn’t want to. Call Dana.
Needless to say, that was a big mistake. Dana was about as supportive as a training bra on a four year old. She didn’t even stop bitching when we got to the country club. This is total crap, Neil. You didn’t think I’d find out? What were you thinking? That’s right, you weren’t. Ooohhh, look at me,
I’m Neil Binkmeyer and I’m in a jockstrap. I’m Mr. Big Man. Jesus Christ, why am I dating a guy who’s running in the Crosstown Classic? Blah, blah, blah.
Bink finally shut Dana up by shoving his tongue down her throat. I wanted to retch. They went at it like they were trying to chew each other’s jaws off. They probably would’ve kept going, but Kyle Weir came up to the Bug, spread his ass cheeks against the driver’s side window, puckered his rosebud, and in this girly voice, said, “Kiss me, Dana. It’s my turn. Kiss me.” Dana looked up and Weir farted. Dana gagged like she was about to puke. I jumped out of the car, trying not to piss myself laughing.
With the exception of the sweaty guys at the end, the Crosstown Classic was lame. Dana was right—running through Crystal Lake in the middle of the night in a jock wasn’t this earth-shattering rite of passage. It was pointless. It wasn’t like scandalized citizens lit up the 911 line, demanding something be done to stop the teenaged boys streaking through the city’s backyards. Sure, I saw some cop cars while we were running, but why they bothered was beyond me. If they’d had any sense—I know, we’re talking about Crystal Lake’s finest here—they’d just wait along Route 14 to pick up the lard-asses on the football team as they struggled to get their man-boobs across the finish line. Even if they busted nothing but stragglers, they’d make their quotas.
Still, the end of the race was way hot. I don’t know who won, but it didn’t matter. I’ve got enough spank-the-monkey material to last me until graduation. Bob Collins—down, boy, down—that butt, I swear, if it was a pillow, you’d wanna drool in your sleep. Weir—yeah, he pissed on me, but I’d be lying if I said I still wouldn’t lick the sweat out of his armpits. Jon Bales’s jock was so sweaty it was practically Saran Wrap—clingy and nearly transparent. He’s got this incredible chest—a total V-shaped torso that tapers to a thin waist—and his legs are totally covered with reddish-blond hair that looks like wisps of cotton candy.
I didn’t notice Rob right away, and it would’ve been better if I hadn’t. He was leaning against his BMW, arms folded across his chest like he was waiting for me. Dana was next to him, trying to cheer him up. They seemed trashed, like they’d been doing keg stands all night. Bink didn’t think that Dana should be driving and was yelling at her to give him the keys to the Volkswagen.
Rob rocked off the fender and I walked toward him, hoping we’d go somewhere and talk. He stepped into the Beamer’s headlights. A silhouette. Everything went to hell.
My nose crunched. It felt like I’d been knocked blind and my head’d been split open. I staggered backward. Blood was everywhere—around my mouth, streaking down my neck, on my chest—hot and runny. I could taste it in the back of my throat. My eyes burned.
“You fucking knew he was going to kill her, didn’t you, bitch?” Rob fanned his fingers and massaged his knuckles.
“I swear. I didn’t.”
“Bullshit.”
Rob swung again, splitting my lip and knocking teeth loose. I fell, skidding bare-assed across the parking lot’s gravel. The stones tore my skin. My head slammed against the ground. Something smelled like chlorine. My nose throbbed like a second heart. I couldn’t breathe. I could barely see. Rob glared at me with dead eyes. A circle of kids closed around us. Vultures waiting for Rob to make the kill.
“Rob—”
“You fucking let him kill my mom!”
I tried not to cry, but it just happened. I cried so hard my ribs hurt and I gasped and gagged. Blood and snot, spit and tears were all over. Rob laughed, kicked me in the gut, called me a faggot, kicked me in the nuts. I almost puked. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see Rob staring at me like I was a sideshow freak. Like I was nothing.
He kicked the ground. I winced, trying to shield myself as gravel machine-gunned my chest and arm. Dust was everywhere—my nostrils, my face, my eyes. I coughed. Blood splattered my chin and my front teeth moved.
“Leave him alone,” someone said. My eyes were swelling shut. My body ached. I wiped the dirt and crap from my face and curled into a ball, hiding my face. More pain. “Leave ’im alone, Hunt,” the voice repeated. It was Bink. “Or I swear I’ll—”
“Or you’ll what?” Rob asked.
A squad car’s siren blared close to Twin Ponds’ entrance. I strained to open an eye. Bink and Rob stood toe-to-toe, eyes locked, daring each other to move. Red and blue lights cut across the treetops. Kids scrambled like a fire alarm had been pulled in a home for the permanently spastic. People shoved past each other to get to cars that weren’t even theirs. A girl started bawling about how her mother was sooo going to kill her. A few guys bolted for the woods beyond the driving range. Steve Marshall, out to win the award for Best Achievement in Stating the Obvious, kept shouting “The cops! The cops!” before diving into Rob’s car. Rob backed down and walked toward his car, Bink keeping a bead on each step.
Rob climbed into the BMW, shoving Marshall across the seat. Bob Collins claimed shotgun, scurrying in after them. Shannon Debold, Dana, and a pair of legs I didn’t recognize crammed into Rob’s backseat all asses-over-elbows. I ran to the Beamer. If I could stop him, make him understand, then maybe things could go back to normal. I grabbed for the door and Rob triggered the power lock, leaving me tugging a dead handle.
“Rob—”
I slapped the window, smearing it with blood and dirt. Marshall reached an arm across Bob and flipped me the bird. Rob peeled away, practically taking my arm off. Bink hurled a handful of rocks, shouting, “Asshole!” The rear window cracked, but Rob kept driving. Other cars screeched after him.
I stood there, numb. Maybe I blacked out. My chest wasn’t moving. My body felt cut off from my brain. “Charlie, move it,” Bink said, “we gotta go, ’less you wanna get busted.”
Bink touched my shoulder and it was like I’d been jump-started with heart paddles.
A cop car pulled into the parking lot, blocking off the entrance. We weren’t getting out until they were gone. Bink jerked my arm and dragged my ass, stubborn-puppy like, toward the mini-putt course. Cops’ flashlights chased us past hokey mock-ups of European “culture”—a scaled-down Eiffel Tower; a Big Ben that chimed every time someone sank a putt; a matador whose red, sheet-metal cape swatted balls from the hole. We collapsed behind the Dutch windmill on the twelfth hole.
When the cops left—probably headed back to Country Donuts—Bink shouted, “Ollie ollie oxen free free free,” shoulder-checked me, and helped me off my ass. I caught a whiff of him—grass stains on musky skin and Ivory soap that’d just about given up. He smelled humid, if that’s even possible. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted him to hold me more. We trudged back to his car.
I grabbed the passenger side door handle and found that the Bug was locked with my clothes inside because…’cuz…why’d Dana have to go and lock the car? What the hell was she thinking? That the moment the Beetle was out of her sight, it’d be stripped and sold for parts by a gang of shop-class rejects? That some sophomore girl, hopped up on Dexatrim and Chloroseptic Slurpees would pry the glove box open with a crowbar, steal the Triple A road map of Lake Geneva, and sell it to score her next fix? Stupid, stupid bitch.
Bink pulled a key from his sock and unlocked and opened the door for me. I reached across the front seat and popped the lock for him. We grabbed the clothes from our bags, dressed, and then took off. Cheek resting on the window, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. I looked like hell—purple and black bruises, raccoon eyes, nose busted, cheeks caked with dirt and blood and sweat. Worst of all I was pouting. I sucked in my lip and stopped.
Bink dropped me off at Dad’s, but I knew I couldn’t stay. Call me a baby, but I wanted my mom. I grabbed some of my stuff and biked over to The Cottage to catch her.
She’s been pretty cool so far. More on that later.
Sunday, October 28
So, the rest of Friday night.
When I sneaked into Dad’s place, he was on the couch, dead to the world, head snapped back and snoring, fingers
barely clutching the cable remote. His wristwatch rested on his stomach like he’d been waiting to bust me for breaking curfew. Some black and white movie with a bunch of bad actors from the ’40s was on TV.
It felt strange watching Dad sleep. In a weird way, watching him snore made me kinda feel what parents have gotta feel when they check in at night on their kids. I wrote a quick note saying I was at Mom’s. Since Dad had tried waiting up for me, I felt like I owed it to him to let him know I wasn’t dying in a ditch somewhere. I headed out, leaving the boob tube on to camouflage my escape.
Why Mom decided to work at a bar like The Cottage is beyond me. The place is a joke. The only people who go there are really sad South graduates, the get-on-with-your-life-alreadyand-stop-showing-up-at-every-home-football-game-trying-to-convince-yourself-that-you-aren’t-a-washed-up-loser types. There wasn’t any “catching someone at a good time” at The Cottage. Friday night was no exception. The bar was packed, the usual rejects hammered, the waitresses with those pissed-off, constipated looking faces that made them seem like they could burp shit.
Looking for Mom, I pushed my way through a group of ex-JV jocks reliving the glory of getting off the bench (And then Coach was, like, “Johnson get in there. Game’s riding on you.” So I’m, like, grabbing my helmet, and the field lights, bro, they were so damn bright, and…Dude, fuckin’ watch it. That’s my goddamn beer, asswipe.), past a table of flabby-thighed skanks sucking down Capri Ultra Lights and dollar pulls of Pabst Blue Ribbon (Puh-leaze, that’s sooo gay, Abbie! Oh my God, ten o’clock. He’s sooo hot. Where? Which one? Christ, Abby. Ten o’clock! Way awesome bod! Not you, you freak. Yeah, freak. Damn, Bridget, didja see that kid’s face? Yeah, what’s up with that?). I finally shoehorned a spot between a drunk whose lips seemed like they were melting off his face and some broad French-inhaling a thin cigar. Drunk nodded at me. I smiled, even though it hurt to move my face, and returned the nod. The broad turned away like she couldn’t be bothered.
The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second Page 19