Split (Chapter-3)

At ten minutes to noon, Ian pulled the Crown Victoria up in front of a two-story bungalow on Marion Street. A stereotypical white picket fence enclosed the manicured front yard. On the porch, two wooden rocking chairs and a bench swing beckoned guests to take a load off. A holiday wreath with a big red bow adorned the front door. Real estate agents would call the place “quaint and charming.”

Before he had a chance to press the doorbell, an overweight woman with mousy brown hair opened the door. “Come on in. I just need to grab my coat.”

No need for introductions, then. “Have you had lunch, Cheryl? Because I was planning to hit the drive-thru at McDonald’s on the way.” He didn’t mention that once they got to the morgue his appetite would most likely be ruined for the rest of the day.

“I haven’t felt much like eating. I might just get some fries.” Cheryl Hunter stuffed herself into a grey woollen coat and belted it at the waist. She resembled a dirty snowman made out of two big, round snowballs.

“While I’m here, do you have a recent photo of your mom I can borrow? I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can.”

Cheryl waddled over to the fireplace, selected a framed photo, and slid the picture out. The eight-by-ten showed her mother posing on the front porch of the house. Although Gail Hunter was also heavy, and not overly attractive, she radiated confidence. She looked as if she'd had a lot of life left in her.

“When was this taken?” he asked.

“Last spring. The dogwoods were blooming. My mother’s favourite.” Cheryl sniffed loudly and pulled a tissue out of her coat pocket.

When they arrived at the red and yellow menu next to the McDonald’s drive-thru window, Cheryl changed her mind. “Can I have a large fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a hot apple pie?”

Ian added a Big Mac, fries, and a large coffee for himself. Cheryl juggled the bags of food and the drink tray in her lap while Ian drove, handing him his food item by item as she chowed down. He had questions to ask her, but eating was his first priority. There’d be plenty of time for the interview on the way home.

The morgue was housed in a squat brick building off 9W, about forty-five minutes north of Nyack. Dr Yeager’s administrative assistant smiled as they entered the office.

“Hi, Ian,” she said, taking a break from typing on her keyboard. “You look very dapper today.” Since his photo had been plastered across all the local papers in November--along with articles proclaiming the heroic nature of his capture of yet another serial killer--women everywhere suddenly seemed to find him more attractive. Odd and unfamiliar, the attention was not completely unwelcome.

“Thanks, Kathy,” Ian replied. “Can you let Paul know we’re here?”

She depressed a button and spoke into the square intercom on her desk: “Ian McDaniel to see you, Dr Yeager.”

The plastic box squawked in return: “Send him in.”

Although brightly lit, the morgue was as cold as a grave. The air was artificially chilled, the floor was tiled, and the tables and instruments gleamed stainless steel, all were designed to suck the heat out of every living organism that entered. Ian felt an involuntary shiver run through his body as he stepped inside the chamber of death.

“Paul, this is Cheryl Hunter. I asked her to join me today in order to do the official identification.” Ian gestured toward Cheryl, who harboured a lingering smudge of ketchup on the side of her mouth.

“Thank you for coming.” Dr Yeager removed a latex glove in order to shake her hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Cheryl nodded, eyes glistening.

The medical examiner gestured toward a wheeled tabled behind him. A draped sheet covered the body underneath. “Why don’t we get this taken care of first?”

Cheryl teetered forward on unsteady legs. Ian wasn’t feeling so solid himself. Somehow, even cleaned up and sanitized, corpses always got to him. The smell was especially hard to take: antiseptic and bleach over putrid notes of decay.

Dr Yeager drew the sheet back to expose Gail Hunter’s face. The sallow tint of her tightly drawn skin was a hue only seen on the dead.

Cheryl spoke right away. “That’s her. That’s my mother.”

Ian thought the tears might start up. Instead, she held her breath and looked away.

“I haven’t completed the autopsy yet, but there are a few things I can tell you at this juncture.” Dr Yeager draped Gail Hunter’s face with the sheet once more.

“Cheryl, would you mind waiting in the hall for a minute? This shouldn’t take long.” Ian tilted his head toward the door.

She turned and hurried from the room.

Ian pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket. “Whatcha got for me?”

“Your victim was almost certainly hit by a car. She sustained a severe impact on the pelvis, abdomen, and base of the ribcage. Her pelvic bones were fractured, along the anterior superior iliac crests. The lowest ribs were broken, two on each side. She also sustained a fractured cranium. The symmetrical pattern of injuries suggests the car hit her head. She didn’t turn to either side to escape the impact. Her legs and arms sustained no injuries.”

“I guess she didn’t have time to react. If you saw a car coming straight at you, wouldn’t you try to run?”

“I would imagine so,” the ME admitted. “But you know my job is not to imagine. I’m the Fact Man.” Ian had teasingly coined this superhero moniker for the ME.

“Of course. Sorry, Fact Man. Do you think there’s any way to narrow down the type of vehicle which hit her?”

“I can give you specific measurements such as the height of the front bumper based on where she was hit. That should give you a place to start.”

“I don’t suppose she got any paint from the vehicle on her clothing? Or any type of fibres? Anything at all?” He was grasping at straws.

“No paint. The clothing is being tested for fibres or residue of any kind. I’ll let you know when those results come in. We did notice an odd smell on her clothing. A smoky scent, but is perfumed. Not cigarette smoke. It could have been some type of incense.”

“Really? I guess it’s possible she burned the stuff. I’ll ask Cheryl.”

“I should have more for you in a few days, including the tox screen.”

“Thanks, Paul.”

As Ian escorted the bereaved daughter out to the parking lot, she seemed calm. Once they were buckled in, he turned to her. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some questions on the way home?”

“No, that’s fine.” She gave him a brave smile. “I know it’s your job.”

He smiled in return. “Not always the most pleasant job. But I need to know what your mother was doing in that alley.”

“Oh, she’s been going to a yoga class in that new studio. She was all excited about it. Apparently, the teacher is some hotshot from Woodstock. She teaches students to channel their inner light. Or something like that.” Cheryl rolled her eyes.

“You’re not a believer?” Ian didn’t have much experience with yoga. “She also had a smoky scent on her clothing. Would that be from the yoga class?”

“Yeah, she always came home from class stinking of that stuff.” Cheryl was sending out a whole new vibe now.

“How was the relationship between you and your mom?” He tried to keep his tone light.

Cheryl turned to look at him. Her expression hardened. “Why? You can’t possibly think I did this to her?”

“Of course not. I just need to know as much as possible about your mother’s state of mind.”

“Oh.” She took that in. “Things have been kinda rocky between us, ever since she asked me to move back home.”

“Your mother asked you to move back in with her?” Ian wasn’t sure he had ever heard of this before. “Why?”

“Money, basically. After the divorce, my mother wanted to keep the house. She could’ve sold it for a bundle and split the profits with my dad. Do you know what those historic bungalows in Nyack go for now? But no, she had to stay in the house. And she couldn’t afford it on her occasional commissions. So she asked me to move back home and cover the mortgage payments.”

“She asked you to cover the whole mortgage?” Ian sputtered in disbelief. “And you agreed?”

“I felt sorry for her. My dad was being a total shit. He moved in with his new girlfriend over the summer. So I agreed, like a dunce. It’s a huge chunk of my paycheck.”

“And the house will go to you now?” Without putting too fine a point on it, Ian figured he might have discovered a motive for murder.

“I guess.” Cheryl sounded disinterested. "But my dad will still want his share."

Could the husband have wanted his wife out of the picture? "Was your father angry with your mother? Did he push her to sell?"

"Nah. He's on cloud nine. His lawyer made sure he got away with paying zero alimony to my mom. And his new girlfriend is loaded. She owns a bunch of apartment buildings in the city. They're living like kings." Cheryl shook her head. "My mom was the angry one."

Sounded like there was no motive there. Ian tried another avenue. “Did you know your mother was carrying three hundred dollars in cash in her pocketbook?”

“She always carried cash. The woman loved to spend.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” He slipped this in.

She gave him a shrewd look. “A Rabbit. It’s almost ten years old.”

“Color?”

“Burnt orange.”

He nodded, filing that bit of information away. “Just to eliminate you as a suspect, I need to ask where you were last night around nine?”

“I was home, watching TV, walking on my treadmill.” She stared straight ahead. “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

“Can anyone verify this? Did you see or speak to anyone around that time?”

“The sergeant called at like nine-thirty to let me know about the accident. Before that, a telemarketer called at eight-thirtyish. Does that count?”

Ian didn’t think so, but he wanted Cheryl to continue to cooperate. “Can you come back to the station with me and sign a written statement? It’s standard procedure.”

Cheryl nodded. They rode the rest of the way in silence.

The next hour was spent in the interrogation room, getting Cheryl Hunter’s full statement down on paper. When they were finished, he offered to drive her home, but she told him she’d prefer to walk. She needed some fresh air. More likely, she just wanted to get away from him.

Returning to his desk, Ian reread the statements taken the night before. There were a few details that bothered him.

First off, Gail Hunter had been hit full-on, almost as if she had tried to tackle the oncoming car. This made no sense. Why wouldn’t she turn away? Try to escape the impact.

Second, Aaron Brown heard a squeal of tires, a thud, and then a second squeal. The initial squeal came immediately after the revving, probably indicating a very fast acceleration. But why the second squeal?

Third, the Haitian baker saw a car leaving the alley in a rush, with the headlights off.

If the car struck the victim with its headlights off, this suggested a murderous intent rather than accidental manslaughter. And the second squeal of tires told him the driver must have slammed on the brakes after impact.

If the intent was to murder Gail Hunter by running her over, why hit the brakes at all? Why not zoom out of the alley and put as much distance as possible between the murder weapon and the body bleeding on the pavement?

If Gail Hunter knew her killer, it was possible she recognized the vehicle and didn’t fear for her life. Maybe she thought the oncoming car was just trying to catch up to her, to say hello or offer her a ride. This could account for the head-on collision. On the other hand, perhaps Gail didn’t have time to turn away. With the headlights off, she might not have had sufficient warning that the car was coming straight at her.

As for the braking after impact, maybe the killer got out to assess the damage. To make sure she was dead? Since the pocketbook wasn’t stolen, it seemed unlikely that something else was taken. But it wasn’t out of the question. If the killer knew the victim, it was possible he or she removed a piece of incriminating evidence. Something that could tie the victim back to her assailant.

He needed to get over to the yoga studio and get a list of students in the Sunday evening class. Gail Hunter might have stepped on somebody’s toes. Literally or figuratively. He also needed to visit Lydecker’s Real Estate office on Main Street and interview her co-workers.

Glancing up at the clock, he realized he had planned to call Janice at the rehab centre a half hour earlier. He could only catch her at certain times of the day when she wasn’t participating in her various meetings, therapy sessions, and meals. He hoped it wasn’t too late.

The number rang five, then six times. He was about to give up when he heard her voice. “Hello?” She sounded breathless.

“Janice? I thought I’d missed you.”

“You almost did. I gave up waiting for your call and went next door to talk to a new girl. I heard my phone ringing so I ran back in here.”

“You sound good.” This was a surprise. “How are you feeling?”

“Great. Better than I have in years. This place has been such a blessing.”

Ian didn’t think he had ever heard his wife use that word before. “I’m glad. Has your mom decided if she’s going to visit?”

Janice’s family was a touchy subject.

“She says she will, but I’m not sure when. I think she’s taking it one day at a time right now. And that’s fine. She’ll come when she’s ready.” Janice’s mood was so upbeat he found himself smiling.

“Maybe I’ll get up there to see you, too.” When he booked her stay at the centre, he was focused on getting rid of her. He requested transportation rather than driving her up there himself. She had been more of a burden to him than a partner or a wife. Now, it was like speaking to Janice from the past. The woman he had originally fallen for.

“Really, Ian? I think we could have a lot of fun together. There are hiking trails and an indoor pool. We could even do some cross-country skiing if it snows.” He could hear her lighting up as she spoke. Realizing he had the ability to make her happy again, after all this time, made his heart feel full.

“I don’t think I’ve taken an actual vacation since I started on the force. I must have some time built up.”

“Not that I can remember,” she agreed. But then, Janice had spent the past few years binge drinking every night until she passed out. Her memory might not be the most reliable.

He needed to keep all of this in perspective. “It’s really great to hear you sounding so happy. Whatever you’re doing, it seems to be working.”

“Thanks. I’m just working on the program. With the help of everyone else here. And Jesus Christ, of course.”

“Right.” He had never heard his wife mention the son of God in a conversation. Janice came from the type of family that might believe in God, but would never mention His name in front of company. Whatever it took to keep her on the wagon, he vowed to support it. Whether it be Jesus, group therapy, or snowshoeing. “Can I call you again next Monday?”

“Of course. I’d love that. Or sooner, if you want. I have a break every day from three to five.”

“I'll talk to you soon. Take care, Janice.”

“You too, babe.” There was tenderness in her voice.

Ian continued to hold the receiver against his ear for a moment. Trying to wrap his mind around Janice’s transformation, he pictured all the times he had wished her gone from his life, wished he’d never met her. The few happy months they spent together ended abruptly with the stillbirth of their baby son.

Buried in the tiniest coffin made of oak, barely bigger than a shoebox, their baby boy weighed just eight pounds three ounces. That little blue face, covered with Janice’s blood, still haunted his worst nightmares. His son’s death had flattened both of them like a steamroller. The difference was: Janice never got up again.

Her depression was an all-pervading weather system raining steadily on their marriage for over three years. Until today. For the first time since the death of their son, Ian saw a glimmer of sunshine behind those clouds. A peek at the exuberant, chatty beauty that had once been his wife.

He carefully hung up the phone, afraid to break the enchantment. As soon as the receiver clicked, it immediately rang.

He snatched it up. “Detective Ian McDaniel.”

“Hello, handsome,” Angelica purred into the phone.

“Hey.” He tried to sound casual. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” She instantly dropped the seduction, sounding suspicious.

Knowing her propensity for mindreading, Ian did his best to think of something harmless. Blue skies. Puffy, white clouds. Seagulls flying. “How’s your day going?”

“Not bad. You sound weird.”

“I had to go to the morgue today. You know how that messes with my stomach.” He hoped this was a convincing excuse.

“Hmm. I just called to invite you over for dinner tonight. Bruce and Felix are coming. But it sounds like you might not be up for it.”

“Well…” he hesitated. There was nothing in his fridge at home. His stomach rumbled. “I think I can probably make it. What time are you eating?”

“How is seven for you?” She was roping him in.

“Sounds great.” And he was sticking his head right through the noose.

Ian checked the clock. A little after four. He still had time to run up to Lydecker’s and have a chat with Gail Hunter’s boss and coworkers.

Kyle Lydecker, a former Nyack High School football player, managed the real estate office on Main Street, handed down to him by his father and his grandfather before that. The Lydeckers had owned land here in the Hudson valley forever. Or close. Kyle, a few years older than Ian, still exuded the confidence of the high school team’s star quarterback.

Ian introduced himself as he unbuttoned his overcoat and shrugged it off. “I’m investigating the suspicious death of one of your employees. Gail Hunter.”

“Good grief. Maybe you should come back to my office.” Kyle led the way past a half dozen desks lined up in the front room. Ushering the detective in, he offered coffee or tea.

“Nothing, thanks.” Ian sat across from Lydecker’s desk. “So what can you tell me about Gail Hunter?”

Kyle rubbed his chin. “Let’s see. She’s been working with us for about five years now, I’d say. Not one of our top-sellers. And overall, I’d have to admit she’s not the most popular agent around here, either.”

“Why’d you keep her on?” Ian extracted his notepad from his pocket.

“No skin off my back. My agents work on commission. If she sold a house, she’d make a percentage. The only thing I gave her was a desk and a phone.” Kyle gestured to the room they just left. “To tell you the truth, I was thinking about giving her the boot, but then her old man left her. She really needed the money.”

“Did the rest of the gang complain about her?”

“As I said, she wasn’t gonna win any popularity contests around here.”

“Why was that?”

“She had an attitude. Never made a pot of coffee. Didn’t buy doughnuts for the gang. Expected to be handed the plum properties, then screwed up the sales when she got them. Gave a lot of unsolicited advice. Basically, she was a stuck-up bitch. Thought she was better than everyone else.” Kyle shrugged. He wasn’t pulling any punches.

“Did anyone, in particular, have a problem with her?” Ian had his pen poised, hoping for a name or two to add to his suspect list.

“Nah. People gave her the cold shoulder, but nothing worse. I really can’t see any of my agents harming her.”

No, it wasn’t always possible to see hatred bubbling beneath the surface. But someone must have cultivated a red-hot hatred for this real estate agent, and tended to it like a witch stirring a cauldron. Fed the fire beneath it, helping it to burn strong. Until it boiled over last night in that alley. The dark alley where Gail Hunter had nowhere to run. Where they mowed her down in cold blood.