Authors: David Bishop
“The woman thinks he might be … dead.”
“Dead,” I repeat. “Come on, June, I just saw the guy yesterday. He looked healthy to me. Hunter probably just had one too many.”
“It’s not my theory, boss. I’m just passing along the information.”
I watch a few young patrons heading toward the parking lot. “So who’s this mystery woman who just happened to be strolling around Hunter’s neighborhood?” I ask with interest.
“Some local walking her dog?”
“Here’s the strange thing, Hank. She wouldn’t leave her name.”
“Doesn’t sound like a local to me.”
“And she insisted that I call the paramedics before it was too late.”
I start the car engine. “Doesn’t sound like a disinterested party, either. You get the number she was calling from?”
“A blocked call. Anyway, you might want to have a look.”
I nod into the phone. “Call the county.”
“I already did. They’re on their way.”
“I’ll call in later,” I say, glancing back at the bar. Paddy must have already headed inside. I flip on the overhead light bar, make a quick U-turn, then gun the engine, hoping my drinking buddy is only fast asleep.
I’m relieved to find a Suffolk County Fire-Rescue and Emergency Services vehicle parked in Hunter’s driveway, but as my eyes shift to an unmarked car parked across the street, I get a knot in my stomach. Inside, I find a couple of jock-types snapping pictures, collecting evidence and joking like they’re at a frat party. Upon seeing me in uniform they give me a polite hello.
“Say, Hank.”
I turn, and after recognizing the short, balding detective with a Dunkin’ Donuts gut, offer a thin smile. “Earl, it’s been a while.”
He smiles back. “Too long. Never thought I’d see you on your turf. Not on business, anyway.”
“Me neither,” I agree uncomfortably. “What’s going on?” I motion to Hunter, who is deadpan on the sofa, his head facing the ceiling, his right hand hanging motionlessly. My drinking buddy, a handsome GQ guy, is wearing a white t-shirt, which is dotted with vomit, and a pair of jeans stained from who knows what.
Earl approaches, extends his hand. “First, let me apologize for jumping the gun before you got here. The front door was open when we arrived.”
I shoot a look at the door, then back to Earl.
“We were hanging around when the call came in. It sounded like someone died.” He pauses. “Guess they were right.”
I shake his hand quickly as my eyes study Hunter, whose once-animated dark brown eyes are now dead like the rest of him.
“You would have called us anyway,” he says, his tone friendly.
My eyes remain on my friend. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“So technically, you’re in the middle of a crime scene.”
I regard his remark and turn back to him.
“That’s the way we found him,” Earl adds. “Normally, with all that shit around him, it would appear that he just choked on his own vomit.”
We exchange looks. “I’m not sure I follow. It wasn’t an accident?”
He motions me away from the others. “Your neighbor here killed himself.” He waits for my reaction. In spite of my homicide days, I’m struggling to accumulate enough brainpower to let Hunter’s apparent suicide sink in.
“You sure?” I finally ask.
He offers me a pair of elastic gloves, and when I snap them on, hands me a single sheet of copier paper.
Two thoughts strike me as I begin reading Hunter’s last message to the world: I know John Hunter isn’t suicidal; he’s too egotistic. And vain. But if he were suicidal, his would be Eastpoint’s first. I know this because I was born here. People don’t kill themselves in Eastpoint!
“As you can see, he didn’t have much to say,” Earl says with a shrug. I nod after reading it for the second time. “It’s his signature,” I tell Earl, glancing around for a computer. Earl must sense my interest and tells me it’s in the study.
“Interesting,” I say, handing back the note.
“What’s that?”
“The note. It’s short and to the point, nothing like his flowery romance columns.”
“No way! He’s that Hunter?” Earl blurts out. “Shit, I read the guy all the time. He’s good.”
“Was,” I correct.
“Right.”
“He was a good friend,” I add with a touch of sadness. “I just saw him yesterday.”
“Never hinted about doing himself in?”
I shake my head. “He was always upbeat.”
“Sounds like he was good at hiding whatever was troubling him.” Then Earl adds, like one of Hunter’s columns, “If it was about a woman, he didn’t heed to his own advice. No one is worth killing themselves for.”
“Guess not, but I knew him pretty well. It wasn’t about a woman.”
Earl smiles. “Maybe that was the problem.”
I need to find solace, and I tell Earl I want to search the premises.
“Sure, Hank,” he says. “It’s your crime scene.”
My crime scene. I remove my hat, wipe my brow, then step out of the room and find the stairs leading to the second floor. Hunter’s suicide has baffled me because it’s inconsistent with his philosophy on life, which he wrote about with passion and humor in his syndicated romance columns. Hunter was seemingly happy and successful without the romance. Looking back, I realize that the subject never entered our conversation; he never talked shop or relationships, and I never brought up my own less-than-ideal marriage.
Reaching the landing, I glance around, still unsettled. With morbid curiosity, I open the door closest to the landing and begin my quest, searching for Hunter’s demons. I flip on the light and find what appears to be an art studio, though there aren’t any paintings or signs of acrylic paint, only a metal folding chair facing an easel and a few clean brushes sticking out of a kid’s beach pail.
I cross the room and gaze out the window. It’s dark, but the waxing moon guides my eyes toward a densely wooded area lined with oak trees. I shrug. Maybe Hunter was into nature, though quite frankly, he never mentioned he had an interest in art.
I turn to leave and glance up at the ceiling. My eyes fix on white rope hanging innocently from a trap door that leads to an attic. I study the rope a moment, then slide the metal chair under it, step up and steady myself. I give the rope a gentle tug, the ceiling opening just a crack. I hop off the chair and yank the rope toward me.
A ladder attached to the back of a hatch leads me to a black hole. I remove a flashlight from my belt and search for a light switch. When I find one, a room emerges, stretching the entire length of the house; one big room divided by a king-size bed, a night table and lamp, and a ceiling mirror positioned strategically above the bed.
I scratch my head and wonder: what in the world is this place? The bed is neatly made with a red comforter and matching pillows. I snicker to myself, stepping over an Oriental rug and work my way to the other side of the room, where I find a door, open it, and switch on another light.
Unlike the room below, this one is filled with canvases scattered about in different stages like an assembly line. At first glance, the wavy textures and rich colors appear to be nothing more than oils of copulating couples, Hunter indulging himself in every scene. I grin to myself. No wonder you didn’t date, my friend. You were too busy getting off here.
I remove a finished canvas and study it, my expression suddenly turning cold. I blink hard, testing my vision, but there is no doubt what’s going on here. I pick up another painting, then another. Then, as though a light bulb goes on in my head, I clumsily rifle through Hunter’s private collection. My chest tightens. Hot, stale breath ricochets off the back of my hands as I race through his sordid works.
I stop and give my eyes a good rub, relieved that my worst nightmare is not a part of Hunter’s repertoire. I poke my head outside into the room and get this chilling feeling that Hunter’s sordid passion for art somehow had something to do with his demise.
I need to get back downstairs before Earl and his boys decide to check up on me. The last thing I need is for Hunter’s suicide to turn into a public display of his artwork.
I approach the door and discover another painting leaning casually against an easel, only this one had been sloppily X’d out, as though the artist was in a rage. I instinctively touch it, a black residue staying on my finger. I point my flashlight into a space between the lines of the X, struggling to identify the couple. The guy is Hunter, all right, the telltale sign a tattoo he’d gotten on a dare during his college days. The head of a slithering green boa is needled to his upper right arm. He’s sitting at the foot of his king-size bed like a preacher, face cocked, eyes closed, head tilted upward toward the sky, his hands outstretched. I shift the light from my flashlight to get a better look at his lover, her head tilted slightly toward the artist, toward me. Those dark eyes and long black ponytail. Hunter’s lover is kneeling seductively between his legs, her accentuated crimson mouth devouring the remains of her lover.
I raise my flashlight then catch myself. You bastard! I want to smash the painting into pieces and burn it along with the rest of Hunter’s artwork, only Earl is shouting my name.
I turn to leave, but I know I’m not finished here.
Later that night, I’m driving west on Harbor Drive, my boot pushing the accelerator as my cloudy brain tries to make sense of Hunter’s artwork, including the one of him and my wife. Were those paintings just a part of Hunter’s twisted imagination? Or was he Eastpoint’s celebrity stud, preying on the minds and bodies of small-town women?
I reach Locust Road, ease up on the gas pedal, and take a hard right, shutting off my headlights in the process. There are three houses on Hunter’s dead-end street. His is a two-story colonial that sits at the end on two acres of land. I hang a left into his driveway and turn off the engine. As I emerge, the cool October air smacks me in the face, which I find refreshing under the circumstances. I jiggle the doorknob open, then fold my six-foot frame under the crime scene tape and let myself in, locking the door behind me before flicking on my flashlight.
I own the place now that Earl and his investigators are gone, which, according to my watch, is about four hours after finding Hunter’s body.
I retrace my steps and enter Hunter’s sex chamber, my breathing erratic. It’s not from the climb, but the thought of removing that painting. The room is technically part of the crime scene and off limits, though in my capacity, I wouldn’t be challenged unless Earl found me burning the stuff in Hunter’s backyard. But since there isn’t a soul around and the investigators never discovered Hunter’s treasure trove, I’m not about to reveal my little secret.
At some point the public might feast its eyes on Hunter’s artwork, minus the one I’m after. I can’t risk destroying all of the paintings. It’s my own moral dilemma.
Inside Hunter’s upstairs studio, I aim my flashlight on the easel and keep it there for a few uncomfortable moments before bouncing the light wildly around the room.
“Where the hell is it?” I hear myself shouting as I drop to the floor and start crawling around on my hands and knees, knocking over a few copulating couples. Who knew about this room? “Who?” I demand, upset with myself for not being able to destroy the painting earlier.
Then, as though Hunter’s spirit had been set free, I hear the sound of rapid movement coming from downstairs. Within seconds the back screen door slams against the house.
I spring for the ladder and charge downstairs, listening for a car engine to turn over, but the only sound is coming from my breathing. I race out the back door waving my flashlight at the trees, but it’s too dense to see anything.
The metal sound of a car door echoes through the trees, followed by a roaring engine. I sprint for my patrol car and grit my teeth. The keys are missing!
I pop open the hood and retrieve a spare key, then peel out, spitting up dirt.
Arriving home I block the driveway and dash inside, stopping at the kitchen table to catch my breath. I casually enter the living room, where I find my wife, Susan, sitting comfortably on the sofa reading a Patricia Cornwell paperback. She glances up and smiles faintly.
I give her a quick hi and ask, “Been reading long?”
“Ah-huh. Almost finished. I know who did it.”
I’m wondering if she’s referring to the painting. “The butler?”
She smiles. “Not in Cornwell’s books.”
Our eyes stay on each other for a few moments before Susan returns to her reading. I gaze at my wife of fifteen years, who is as beautiful as the day we met, her black silky hair draping over her shoulders, not bound in her usual ponytail. Susan’s soft, pallid skin shows few signs of aging. When my eyes stop at her lightly painted crimson lips, the knot in my stomach returns and I trudge off to the kitchen.
“Your stomach again?” Susan asks.
I don’t turn, but sense her standing at the door. I nod and pop a few antacids into my mouth, chewing with a vengeance.
Susan approaches quietly, her warm breath hitting my neck. The scent from her favorite Zinfandel fills my nostrils. It’s a little too close, but I can’t move. She gives my rear a quick squeeze. “Not bad for an old guy, Hank.”
I turn abruptly. “Like John Hunter?”
She recoils, throws me a confused look. “Hunter?”
“Yeah, him. Only he’s dead.”
“How?” she asks, her voice lacking emotion.
“Overdose. Evidently, he swallowed too many pills with his booze,” I say straightforwardly.
“What a horrible way to go,” she says, shaking her head.
I search my wife’s face for signs of infidelity or guilt, but Susan is good. She can be cold and withholding, especially when it comes to sex, which is one of the issues that has been dragging our marriage down for the past few years.
“Did he leave a note?” she asks, suddenly interested in my dead friend.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
She shrugs. “Just curious. What did it say?”
I’m debating whether to tell her, but since the suicide is cut and dry, I say, “Only that he couldn’t live with himself anymore.”