by R. L. Stine
The wineglass nearly slipped from his hand. Something was wrong. Hulenberger’s Audi was still in the drive.
Mark stepped out onto the stoop and squinted into the evening light. Yes. Hulenberger sat behind the wheel. Not moving. And his head . . . it was tilted back, way back.
Wrong. All wrong.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Richard? Hey! Richard?” he shouted.
Hulenberger didn’t move.
“Richard! Hey—what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He shouted louder with his hands cupped around his mouth.
No. The man didn’t move.
Mark started to jog toward the car. But he stopped halfway. Hulenberger’s head . . . it wasn’t right.
He spun away, his mind whirling. From the wine. From the headache. So hard to think clearly.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
What has happened here?
“Richard? Can you answer me?”
A tightness gripped Mark’s chest. A wave of cold washed over his body, a cold he’d never felt before.
He lurched to the car. What was splattered over the windshield? “Richard? Richard?” Breathing hard, he gazed into the open window. Grabbed the bottom of the window with both hands. Leaned toward the wheel.
And screamed. A long, shrill scream of horror from somewhere deep in his throat.
“No! Fucking no! Oh my God! Oh, shit. Oh my God!”
Dark blood splattered the windshield, as if someone had heaved a can of paint over the glass. And Hulenberger . . . Hulenberger . . . The blood had run down his shirt, his suit . . .
Like a sweater. A sweater of blood.
His head tilted back. His throat . . . it had been torn open. Ripped open?
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Fucking no!”
Fighting the tide of nausea, the drumming of his heart that made the blood pulse at his temples, Mark pushed himself back, away from the car. He turned to the house. He saw the twins standing at the top of the driveway.
“Get back! Go back! Don’t come down here! Go back!” He waved them away with both hands. They turned and ran.
Had they seen anything?
His hands felt wet. He raised them to his face. They were covered in blood. Hulenberger’s blood. He shook them hard as if trying to toss the blood away. Then he staggered into the house. Through the living room, to the kitchen where Roz was tilting the tomato sauce pan over a big bowl of spaghetti.
“Roz! Call the police.” So breathless she didn’t hear him.
He grabbed her shoulder, startling her. Her eyes locked on his hands. “Mark? Oh my God! Is that blood?”
“Roz—call the police! Hurry! Call the police! Call the police!”
30
“It’s a ten-eighty-four, Vince. We’re on the scene.”
“I gotta learn those numbers, Chaz. I never know what Vince is talking about.”
“Forgetaboutit, Andy. No one knows what Vince is talking about.”
Pavano peered out the window as his partner, Chaz Pinto, eased the car up the gravel driveway. “Where are we? Why does this look familiar?”
“John Street, dude. You took the call ten minutes ago, remember?”
A dark Audi stood in the drive. Chaz stopped the black-and-white a few feet behind it.
“It’s taking me awhile to get oriented, you know. We’re by the water, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. The bay is over there.” Pinto pointed out the side door. They both gazed at the car in front of them.
“The caller was a woman. She didn’t say what the problem was. Something about a car in the driveway. The driver . . .”
“I see him. The back of his head. Not moving.”
“Heart attack?”
“Hope so. That would make it easy.” Pinto leaned toward the radio. “We’re going to check out the car, Vince. You there?”
“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be, Pinto? Don’t sit there holding hands, you two. Get out and take a look.”
“The driver appears to be in the car.”
The front door to the house swung open, and a dark-haired man in jeans and a white polo shirt stepped out.
Pavano’s eyes went wide. “Hey, I know that dude.” His breath caught in his throat. “Oh, wow. Oh no. I don’t believe this.”
“What’s your problem, Andy?”
Pavano pushed the car door open, flipped his half-smoked Camel to the driveway, and lowered his feet to the ground. “I’ve been here. That night. Remember? The rain? I had the wrong house. I told him his wife was dead!”
Pinto let out a hoarse wheeze of a laugh. “We’re still talking about that one. Behind your back, you know. It’s classic. We’ll be talking about that asshole move for a long time.”
“Thanks, partner.” Pavano stretched his lanky body, adjusted his black uniform cap lower over his eyes. Maybe the guy won’t remember me.
Yeah, sure. What are the chances?
Pinto was approaching the driver’s side of the Audi. Pavano followed, boots crunching on the gravel driveway, eyes on the man inside the car.
“Hello, sir? Sir? Are you all right?”
The man from inside the house came running down the driveway. “I’m Mark Sutter,” he shouted. “This is my house.”
Pavano waved him back. “Please stay there.”
The driver’s side window was down. “Hey, sir!” Pinto shouted loudly into the car even though he was just a few feet away. “Sir? Are you okay?”
“He’s not okay. He’s fucking dead!” Sutter cried. He didn’t heed Pavano’s instruction. He ran up beside them, breathing hard. “He’s dead. I saw him. It . . . it’s horrible.”
Pinto and Pavano both stooped and leaned into the window at the same time.
“Oh, my God!”
“Oh, fuck no! Fuck no!”
“I . . . can’t believe it,” Sutter stammered.
Pavano frantically waved him back. “Please stay back, sir. Let us do our job.”
A pair of blond boys were watching from the front door. “Get the kids away, sir. Please!”
The boys stepped out onto the stoop. “Is he sick?”
“Please, Mr. Sutter. Get those boys inside.”
“Oh, fuck. This is impossible!” Pinto gasped. “His whole throat . . .”
“It . . . it’s open. Opened up. Like ripped open.”
“No. It’s burned. Totally burned. See the black skin around the hole? The skin is charred. It’s flaking off.”
Pavano turned away, his stomach tightening into a knot. The man’s throat had been cut or ripped open. He shut his eyes and still pictured the dark red flesh inside, blackened. A hole, a gaping hole in the man’s neck. Thick, dark blood caked down the front of the man’s suit, puddled in his lap.
Someone opened his throat and let him bleed out.
“How did this happen? How could it happen? Here in my driveway,” Sutter said, shaking his head.
“Mr. Sutter, please go in your house. Wait for us. And keep those boys away from the window. You don’t want them to see this.”
Sutter started to turn away, then stopped. “Hey, I remember you!”
Pavano ignored him and turned back to his partner. Pinto reached for the door handle, then thought better of it. “Fingerprints. Look. There’s blood smeared on the door here. Might be good fingerprints. We need backup here. We need an ME. We need the crime scene guys.”
Pavano raced back to the patrol car, flung the door open, and grabbed the radio. “Vince, we have a homicide here. We need backup. We need someone with a strong stomach.”
“I take it you don’t need an ambulance?”
“No. We don’t need an ambulance. This is a murder scene. We need CS guys. We have a man with a giant hole in his neck and—”
“Save the details, Andy. I’m eating my dinner. Ten-four.”
“Just hurry, Vince. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“You haven’t seen much—have you, Andy?”
Who told him he always has to have the last wo
rd? And who told him he couldn’t be serious even for a crime this horrible?
Pavano slammed the patrol car door and made his way back to Pinto. The big, older cop leaned with his hands on his waist, peering into the victim’s window. Finally he turned, removed his cap, and scratched his thinning flattop.
“It’s like a horror movie, Andy. The skin is all scorched. The hole is as big as a grapefruit. And it looks empty inside. Just burned skin.” He swallowed. His teeth clicked.
Never realized he has false teeth, Pavano thought. And then, why am I thinking about Chaz’s teeth when I’m staring at a guy with a giant knothole in his neck?
Pinto pulled Pavano back from the car. “Stop looking at him. Your face is green. No shit.”
Pavano nodded and turned his back on the Audi. It didn’t make him feel any better.
I came out to Sag Harbor to take it easy, get away from all the fucking crime in the city, maybe get back with Sari. What the hell happened here?
“We can’t do anything,” Pinto said. “Not till the crime scene guys get here. Let’s go inside and talk to that Sutter guy.”
Pavano nodded. “He acted totally innocent. That’s the first sign he did it, right?”
Pinto patted him on the back. “Too much TV, Andy.”
The sun had almost disappeared behind the house. The sky darkened to gray, and a cool breeze rattled the still-bare trees.
They stepped onto the front stoop. Pinto leaned close. “Andy, tell Sutter this time you got it right—the victim really is dead.”
“Shut the fuck up, will you?” Pavano could feel his face turn hot. That rainy night on this doorstep had to be the worst moment of his life. And now here he was, ringing the doorbell again.
It took only a few seconds for Sutter to pull open the door. He had a glass of white wine in his right hand. Pavano saw the hand tremble. A few drips of wine spilled to the floor. “How did someone do that to him? Can you tell me?”
“Hard to say,” Pinto replied softly, eyes narrowed on Sutter.
Pavano didn’t see the blond boys, but he saw another boy, dark-haired, small, peering down from the top of the stairs.
“Dad, is everything okay? Why are the police here?”
“It’s okay, Ira. Go back to your room, all right?”
“But aren’t we going to finish dinner? My spaghetti’s getting cold.”
“We’ll finish dinner in a short while. Please—get up to your room. And tell Elena to stay up there, too.”
Sutter can’t hide how tense he is. Tense because he murdered the guy?
“Sir, I’m Officer Pinto. He’s Officer Pavano. As you can see, we’re from the Sag Harbor Police Department.”
Sutter gazed hard at Pavano. “We’ve met,” he said quietly.
“Sir, can we go somewhere more private?” Pinto had Sutter by the elbow.
“Sure. Come into my office. I can’t tell you much about Richard, but—”
“Is that his name? Richard? Do you know his full name?”
They stepped into the book-lined office. Pavano admired the dark wood, the big desk, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
“Well, yes. His name is Richard Hulenberger.”
Pavano pulled out his phone. He brought up the memo app and typed in Richard Hulenberger. The phone had replaced the little black notebook that cops used to carry in their shirt pockets. Pavano missed his notebook. But he was grateful. He could never find a pencil to write with.
“Is he a friend of yours?” Pinto asked.
Sutter motioned for them to sit on the green leather couch. “A friend? No. First time I ever met him.” Hand still trembling, he set the wineglass down near the edge of the desktop.
The two cops remained standing. Pavano typed Not a friend into his phone.
Pinto shifted his weight. He gazed around the room. “Mr. Sutter, before we talk about anything else, I need to ask you one question.”
Pavano watched as Sutter jammed his hands into his jeans pocket.
“Yes. What?”
Pinto took a breath. For dramatic effect? “Mr. Sutter, do you own a blowtorch?”
Sutter blinked. “Why, yes. Yes, I do.”
31
A heavy silence for a moment.
Sutter lowered himself to the edge of the desk, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “I . . . don’t understand. Why are you asking me about a blowtorch?”
“What kind of blowtorch do you have?” Pinto crossed his arms over his chest. Pavano noted on his phone: Blowtorch.
“Um . . . let me think. It’s a fifteen-liter flame gun. I think that’s what it’s called. It’s propane. Do you want to see it? It’s in the garage.”
Pinto motioned for Sutter to sit still. “The crime scene officers will want to see it. Thank you. But I’d like to ask a few more questions first.” He rubbed his chin. “Fifteen-liter? That’s a pretty big mother. Why do you have it?”
Sutter twisted his face. Was he confused? Struggling to figure out why he was being questioned about his blowtorch. Or was he pretending?
Pavano admired Pinto for thinking of a blowtorch. It was a good notion. That man’s scorched neck wound could definitely be caused by a blowtorch.
“I use it for melting ice,” Sutter said. “You know. In the winter. Ice covers the front stoop. It gets treacherous. I melt ice off the driveway with it, too. Why are you asking me—?”
“So tell us, who is Richard . . . whatsisname?” Pinto interrupted.
“Hulenberger. He’s from the Blakeman Institute. In the city.”
Pavano typed rapidly on the phone keyboard. He let Pinto ask the questions. Pinto was doing a good job. Pavano could see the Audi in the driveway from the office window. So far, the other cops hadn’t shown up.
“And you never met him? He drove here from the city because . . . ?”
“He wanted to meet with me. I’d applied for quite a large grant.”
“And he came to tell you . . . ?”
Sutter lowered his eyes to the floor. It took him a few seconds to answer. “He came to tell me they were turning me down. No grant.”
The bitterness in Sutter’s voice brought Pavano to attention. He felt his heart start to pound a little faster.
“He brought you bad news,” Pinto said softly. “Very bad news.”
Sutter nodded. He didn’t raise his eyes.
“And how did that make you feel? Angry? Fucking angry?”
Sutter raised his eyes. His face showed a new intensity. He pulled out his hands and held them tensely at his sides. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“I’m just askin’,” Pinto replied with a shrug. “Somebody brings me bad news, it makes me angry. You know? Kill the messenger? Know what I’m saying?”
“I’m a psychologist, Officer,” he said heatedly. “I think I know how to control my anger so that I don’t murder anyone who brings me disappointing news.”
“You’re a psychologist with a blowtorch?”
“I explained the blowtorch.” He uttered a cry of frustration. “Is that what happened out there? Are you telling me Richard was murdered with a blowtorch? He left my house, sat down in his car, and someone took a blowtorch to him in my driveway?”
Pinto made a calming motion with both hands. Pavano could see this guy was strung tight. But the situation would make anyone a little tense. And, he didn’t have much of a motive for killing Hulenberger. Not if he was telling the truth.
But was he hiding some things? Did he know Hulenberger better than he was letting on?
We should advise him to call his lawyer.
“It’s definitely a homicide, Mr. Sutter,” Pinto said, his hands still raised as if warding Sutter off. “The guy didn’t take a blowtorch to himself. The crime scene guys will want to see your blowtorch. And they’ll have a lot more questions. If you’d feel more comfortable with a lawyer present . . .”
“Yes. I’ll call my lawyer. No. Wait. I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. Why do I need a lawyer?”
&n
bsp; “Mr. Sutter, please take a deep breath,” Pinto said softly.
Pavano could see the turmoil in Sutter’s mind. His eyes were darting from side to side. He was thinking hard about something.
“I . . . have to tell you one thing,” Sutter said, clasping his hands together in his lap. “There are fingerprints. I mean, I touched the car.”
Pinto raised one eyebrow. “Fingerprints?”
“I grabbed the side of the car. You know. The window. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know. I . . . got blood on my hands. Blood from the side of the car. I was still washing it off when you drove up.”
Pinto gave Pavano a quick glance. Pinto was suspicious of this guy. “Thanks for telling us,” Pavano said, typing on his phone.
The doorbell rang. Pavano and Pinto followed Sutter into the hall. A woman carrying a little boy on her shoulder opened the front door. Pavano remembered her from the first time he was here.
A tall African-American man stepped into the entryway. He had a noticeably big, melon-shaped head, shaved bald, and a silver ring in one ear. He wore a baggy brown suit, wrinkled and frayed at the cuffs. He had a dark brown dress shirt underneath and a blue bow tie tilted under his chin.
“Can I help you?” Sutter motioned the woman away. “I’ll take care of this, Roz.”
The man ignored Sutter and approached Pavano and Pinto. “Are you the officers who discovered this?”
Both cops nodded.
“I’m Harrison. The ME.”
Pinto squinted at him. “You’re new?”
“I haven’t been new for thirty years. I’m from Riverhead. You’ve heard of it?”
“You’re an ME or a comedian?”
“I’m not as funny as your face. Let’s start again. There are CS guys dusting the car right now. Then they’ll sweep for fibers. You know. Stuff for the DNA lab guys. You’re familiar with that, right? Or are you new?”
“Pavano’s new,” Pinto said, motioning with his eyes. “He’s out here from the city.”
Harrison had one brown eye and one blue eye. He focused the blue eye on Pinto. “Am I going to get his thrilling life story now, or are we investigating a goddamn homicide?”
“Sorry, Dr. Harrison,” Pinto said. “We’ve been questioning Mr. Sutter here. He—”
