The Hunt Chronicles: Volume 1

by Leo Bonanno

  “Myron?” I said aloud. I felt two large hands grab my shoulders and shove me backwards against the far wall in the foyer. Niki was barking somewhere off to my right.

  “Get inside, Professor!” The voice boomed again. He let me go, and I heard the front door close. The big hands returned to my shoulders, but held me gently this time. “Are you alright?”

  “Myron? I’m seeing spots. Is that you?”

  “Just relax and take a breath; you’re fine.” I took a deep breath and rubbed the spots and sleepiness from my eyes. I opened them and stared right at a sheriff’s badge reading SHERIFF TUTTLE. I tilted my head up to meet the eyes of the largest man in Pendleton, who was also the largest student I ever had.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked angrily. “Where’s Niki? Niki!” I called, and a sloppy tongue licked my right hand. I turned to her. “Where the hell were you?” I snapped, and the licking stopped. Myron laughed and walked into the kitchen. He turned to me and pulled the window blinds up.

  “Don’t yell at her, Professor,” he said. “No guard dog can face that.” He pointed out the window, and all of a sudden more flashes, this time filling the kitchen. I stayed back a bit, leaning over to peer out the window. A sea of news vans and TV reporters covered the street, surrounding the lonely police car in the middle of the road. Reporters came right up to the window and started snapping pictures through the glass like I was a new panda at the zoo. I stepped back and Myron dropped the blinds back in place, darkening the room again. I looked up at him again with an open mouth and wide eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him. “Those news vans were from out of town, weren’t they?” Myron nodded. “Why are they here? The big stations stopped caring about me days ago. Only the local losers still find me interesting.”

  “Your life just got a lot more interesting, Professor,” Myron said, walking past me and into the living room. Niki and I followed. I turned off the television and headed for my chair, then sat in it and kept silent for a few moments.

  “What now, Myron?” I finally asked, terrified at the answer. “What do they want with me now?” Myron didn’t answer right away. He took a deep breath and held it a few seconds, then spoke very slowly as he let it out.

  “They want to know if you can tell them who killed Arnold Medley last night.”

  “I still can’t believe this,” I said, handing Myron a cup of coffee. “He was fine when we left last night. I only met him yesterday, but he seemed like a decent guy. Who would do such a thing? Leon must be in pieces.”

  “Mr. Kinney didn’t take the news well. I tried to get his statement, but he was too upset to talk. He’ll be coming down to the station later. It’s the same story with the others.”

  “And you’re sure it’s murder? It wasn’t an accident? He didn’t fall or slip or something?” Myron took a sip of coffee and nodded.

  “Not from what the coroner tells me. He got a massive blow to the back of the head. At first I thought he might have tripped in his office and hit his head on his desk something else. That room is cluttered with all sorts of stuff. Hell, I’ve seen them go cracking their skulls on a doorknob on the way down. Anything’s possible.”

  “But not this time?”

  “Coroner says negative. The blow bashed in his skull, and judging by the force and angle this was no slip and fall. Someone had it out for Medley.”

  “That’s where you found him? Oh my God.”

  “What, what is it?” I started to feel weak and shaky. I took a deep breath and explained to Myron how Arnold’s office was open when we left the night before.

  “I offered to go back with him, but he insisted I leave. He said he would be fine. Myron, if I had gone in with him, I might have been able to-“

  “What time was this? What time did you leave?” He asked.

  “It was eleven, almost exactly. We talked in his office for a few minutes, then walked out together. If only I had-“

  “Cut that out right now, Professor. You couldn’t have helped him at all.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Medley was killed a little after midnight according to the coroner.”

  “That can’t be right,” I said, rubbing my temples with my fingers. “He said he was leaving right after us. He just needed to lock his office. What was he doing in there for more than an hour? All of the party guests were gone. We were the last to leave.”

  Myron took another sip from his cup and held it on his saucer. He looked at me and spoke words that sent a shiver down my spine. “You were the last to leave, Professor, but someone else came back.”

  It was 10 a.m. when the pounding woke me up that morning. By 11:30, I was in the back seat of a police cruiser on my way to the Pendleton Museum of Science.

  “I appreciate you doing this, Professor.” Myron shouted back at me. “Dennis Trago found the body this morning. I tried to get him to stay but he just cracked. Wasn’t much help at all.”

  “I don’t mind helping out, but I don’t see what bringing me to the crime scene can do for you,” I shouted up at him. “I was only in his office a few minutes.”

  “Exactly. I need to know if anything looks weird or out of place. If anything is missing, it might mean that Medley surprised a thief. I know you were only in there a few times, but right now you’re the only suspect I can talk to who doesn’t start crying like a little girl.”

  “Did you just call me a suspect?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “Witness! I meant witness, Professor. Of course I don’t think that you-“

  “It’s alright, Myron,” I said, falling back into my seat. “Just doing your job. I appreciate you getting rid of those reporters this morning, by the way. I still think you should have fired a few shots into the air.” Myron laughed a big booming laugh.

  “No dice! They get scared and run, but they always come back, like ducks or pigeons. Of course, none of this would be necessary if the museum had working security cameras.” I sat up again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, before Ms. Tilson lost it, I asked her if the museum had a security system. She told me that Medley had just invested in a new system a few weeks ago. The old equipment was removed last Saturday after the museum closed, and the new equipment was supposed to be installed today. I shut down the museum for the next week so my guys can do their thing, and I told Dolores I would let her know when we were finished so she could have the new cameras installed before re-opening the museum.”

  “Day late and a dollar short,” I mumbled.

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “Who else knew the security system was out of commission this week?” I asked.

  “All of the employees, of course. They had to temporarily re-arrange their exhibits to give the contractor room to work. I don’t see how anyone else would know.”

  “Actually, I guess anyone could know, Myron. The city has to bid out a job like that before the work can be done. That’s all public information after the job is awarded, including the schedule for the work. Anyone could have asked to see the bid submittals and an installation timeline.”

  “No dice, Professor. That job was never bid out. Dolores told me Medley was paying for everything himself.”

  “What? An entire security system? There was no stopping that guy,” I said with surprise.

  “What do you mean?” Myron asked. I explained that Arnold not only payed for the fountain and the chandelier in the great room, but he also financed his own retirement party. “I didn’t know that,” Myron said. “He must’ve been well-off before he came here. The Curator job is cushy, but it doesn’t pay that kind of money.”

  A few minutes later we were pulling into the parking lot at the museum, except there wasn’t any yellow tape or news vans there the night before. Myron opened the door for me as shouting started from across the lot. People holding notepads and microphones were screaming my name and snapping pictures. “Oh, Myron…when will these fifteen minutes of fame end?
” He shut the cruiser door and laughed as we made our way up the walk.

  “The cart is missing,” I said almost immediately when I reached the doorway to Arnold’s office.

  “What cart?” Myron asked.

  “The dessert cart. We unloaded it in the boardroom after dinner and I personally pushed the empty cart back in here. Arnold was going to return it to the caterers today, I think. It’s gone now.” Myron said nothing, but pulled a small pad out of his breast pocket and jotted something down.

  I looked around the room some more. Several people were still in it, dusting for fingerprints and bagging what they hoped was evidence. Besides the dessert cart, I didn’t see anything out of place. The office was just as tidy as it was when I left it the night before, though what I saw as culture Myron had earlier described as clutter. The guest chairs were in the same place, the photo on Arnold’s desk was untouched, the art on the walls was still there. “Are we done on the carpet yet, Dean?”

  The man dusting behind Arnold’s desk turned around, gave a thumbs up, then returned to his work. “Depending on the carpet,” Myron explained, “sometimes we can get shoeprints out of the plush. We vacuum it too for any other evidence. You can step in here, but don’t touch anything.”

  I stepped inside and was filled with an intense feeling of nausea. The room, once cozy and welcoming, now reeked of death and decomposition. I’m sure my heightened sense of anxiety was exaggerating the odor, but it was nevertheless unbearable. Arnold’s body was gone, but a white tape outline lay on the carpet. An obvious puddle of blood had once occupied the space near the tape man’s head, but now the carpet there was dark and disgusting. I rubbed my temples and stepped around it. When I found a spot in the office that gave me a good field of vision, I stopped moving. “How was he found, Myron?”

  “Just like you see there,” he answered, pointing to the outline on the floor. “On his stomach, facing the door. Might have been running from his attacker.”

  “Could be,” I mumbled, and continued to peruse the room.

  I stood in silence a few minutes hoping that the answer to this tragedy would jump out at me. Myron was talking to Dean and then walked over to another man working behind the office door. “Hey Professor, do you remember these?” He asked, closing the office door, then bending down and pointing to its base. Several scratches and scuffs adorned it.

  “No, I didn’t notice the back of the door at all. Arnold held the door open for me when…we…” I trailed off.

  “Professor, what is it?” My eyes had left the door and happened on the coat rack behind it. A long black overcoat hung solemnly in the corner’s fading shadows.

  “What was he wearing when you took the body?”

  “What?” Myron asked, then confused.

  “Was he wearing a blue sweater?” I asked. I saw Myron shoot a glance to Dean, who looked at me and nodded yes.

  “What is it?” Myron asked again. “Wasn’t he wearing it last night? How else would you know?”

  “He was wearing it, yes” I replied, “but he took it off. Before we said goodnight, we came in here. I saw him take off his sweater and hang it there before he put on that coat!” I pointed to the black overcoat.

  “Because he was planning on leaving with you.” Myron added.

  “Right, but then he came back here, and a little over an hour later, someone kills him.”

  “So why did he take off his coat and put the sweater back on?” Myron asked the room.

  “I think I know why. I bet if you ask the employees they’ll tell you he kept that sweater here all the time. He complained about his office being like an icebox, so he probably wore it whenever he was planning on working in here.”

  “So why did he want to make himself comfortable if he was leaving, Professor? Why would he take off his coat and hang it up if he told you he was going home too?”

  “Don’t you see, Myron? You thought he may have surprised an intruder, but how many people stop to change their clothes when they’re being robbed. No, someone surprised him before he could leave. He must have been doing something in here before he was killed. That would explain why he stayed here so long after I left, and that would explain why he took his coat off and put the sweater back on.”

  “But who would come to the museum so late at night?” Myron asked, his pen poised over the pad.

  “Answer that question and you’ve got your killer.”

  “But what about the dessert cart. You said this wasn’t a robbery. Who the hell would steal a dessert cart with all of this artsy-fartsy stuff hanging on the walls?” I didn’t have an answer, and I didn’t have time to come up with one.

  “Sheriff, take a look.” Dean said. Myron hastened to Arnold’s desk and in my excitement I did as well. I stood between the desk and the guest chairs and leaned over. Dean pointed a gloved finger at an empty space of desk next to the golden giraffe. The desk was dusty, but only slightly, yet there was a round space to the left of the giraffe that was perfectly clean. “Something’s missing.” The giraffe stood there staring at the empty space with the rest of us, seeming to miss his golden companion.

  “Rhino.” I said, flatly.

  “What rhino?” Myron asked.

  “There was a matching rhino sitting here; gold, like the giraffe. It was heavy too. Arnold let me hold it.”

  “Heavy enough to kill someone?”

  “God, I don’t know. Maybe, if the person were strong enough.”

  “So where is it now? I thought you said this wasn’t a robbery.” We stood in silence for what seemed like forever.

  “I’m not a detective, Myron. I’m shooting in the dark here. Okay, say an intruder came in and tried to fill his pockets. He grabbed the rhino, but Arnold walked in after he remembered he left something behind. The intruder bashes Arnold on the head, panics and runs. How’s that?”

  “That makes sense to me,” Myron said, taking more notes.

  “But not to me,” I mumbled, arguing with myself. “When did Arnold take off his coat in that scenario, Myron? Until you find out who was here after we left, you can’t be sure if this was a robbery, a murder or both.” I backed away from Arnold’s desk and looked down at my shoes.

  My heart was pounding since my mind brain acknowledged the fact that this was the second murder investigation to which I have been a party. Wilson McCune’s death was ghastly enough. You’re cursed my little voice exclaimed. Everyone that met Angela Lansbury on Murder She Wrote ended up dead. You’re cursed, like Angela Lansbury’s character. You should lock yourself in your house before more people die. I shut my eyes in an attempt to smother the thought out of existence. When I opened them again, they caught something under the right guest chair. “Myron, what is that?” I pointed to a little yellow object with the number 3 printed on it.

  “Oh, that’s an evidence marker. One of the guys must have found something of interest there. They put down a marker, then bag the evidence and label it.”

  “What would you find under a chair?” Myron glanced over at Dean again, who spoke up without hesitation.

  “There was a flower petal under there.” My heart dropped into my stomach.

  “A what?”

  “Oh yeah, the flower,” Myron added. “A white flower petal. Still looked alive and fresh. Any ideas how that would get in here?” I stood in silence. I knew damn well how that flower petal found its way into Arnold’s office. I had given Emily a white orchid that night. The petal wasn’t there when I left Arnold’s office at the end of the night, I’m sure of it. “This center has a garden,” Myron offered. “It could have come in on the bottom of somebody’s shoe any time, I guess. Probably nothing.”

  “That’s true,” I spoke up. “Arnold gave me a tour of the building before we ate, including the botanical garden. It’s possible it came in with one of us.”

  “Or anyone else that day, for that matter,” Myron added.

  “Yes,” I said. “Could’ve been anyone.”

  The ride to the Pendlet
on precinct was a long and quiet one. Myron kept trying to make chit chat but my mind kept wondering back to Arnold’s murder in mid-sentence. I think he picked up on my preoccupation because he finally gave up and succumbed to the silence. “Anybody give you an alibi for last night?” I finally muttered.

  “Well, actually they-”

  “Asleep,” I interrupted. “Obviously they were all asleep. It was late, and everyone was at the party alone, so I assume no one has a spouse at home to verify when they arrived.”

  “Well not exactly. Dolores Tilson is married but her husband is away on bus-”

  “I guess I can vouch for Leon, of course. He parked in his driveway and I walked home from his house. I guess he could have gone back out after I fell asleep. I wonder how far the others live from the museum. Are they all in Pendleton too?”

  “Well actually, no. I know that-”

  “The Scribbs woman probably doesn’t live here. She runs the Boyhan Center, so she’s probably closer to her facility. That would explain why she was the last to arrive. She probably lives the furthest away. She seemed surprised by the extravagance of the museum too. The fountain, the chandelier, the marble tile was hard to miss. You said it yourself; Curators aren’t exactly rolling in the cash. Have you checked out Medley’s financial situation yet, Myron?” Myron did not respond, but simply stared out through the windshield breathing through his nose. I looked out the windshield myself, saw nothing of interest on Beech Street, and turned back to him. “Myron, what’s wrong? Did you hear me?” Myron stopped the cruiser at the light at Beech Street and Bires Road and turned to me.