The Hunt Chronicles: Volume 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

Nona was sniffling.  Thomas was staring at me; had
been for the past ten minutes.  He never liked you the little voice
in my head said.  I never liked him either I saucily replied. 
“You mind staring at someone else, Stretch?  What are you, a butler or an
oil painting?  Go make some coffee!”  Maddie grabbed my arm but I pulled away.  Nona’s mouth opened as if to yell, or
moo, at me.  Thomas just nodded a don’t bother nod and went into the kitchen.  Nona’s mouth closed and her
eyes shrunk to slits.
    “Please folks,”
Walters said.  His accent was way off.  Maddie would later tell me that Detective Walters moved to Connecticut from down
south.  God knows why he chose a Connecticut police force.  He
probably figured the worst thing that could happen up there was a stolen
chicken or a fire at an antique fair.  “Let’s just try to remain
calm.  Now I know this hea is a situation most
folks never have to experience.  However, y’all are experiencing it right
now, and y’all are in it together.  What I’d like to do is get each of you
to…” and I was gone.  Something was bothering me, something besides the
fact that a man was killed only a hop, skip and jump from where I was sleeping
(somewhat) peacefully.
     
    It’s not like on TV
and movies, not at all.  On TV, a crime scene always seems quiet,
contained, and controlled.  A few pretty young detectives uncover almost
invisible clues while various space-filling officers stand and chatter in the
background harmlessly.  It was not like TV at all.
    McCune was a rich
and powerful man, and when rich and powerful men die, his rich and powerful
friends react as you’d expect…overly.  I counted over twenty different police
faces in my first pass through the foyer, and those were just the ones I could
see.  I heard more all over the house, some in a cluster in Wilson’s
study, others in the kitchen, and more upstairs.  The scene was chaotic as
people bumped into each other, shouted for backup, and tossed evidence into
bags.  No one seemed to notice me at all.  No one noticed me veering
through uniformed bodies as my curse of curiosity pulled me towards Wilson’s
study.  I even held the door open as one officer came out with a
half-empty box of donuts in one hand and a handful of coffees in the
other.  He offered me one, and I declined.  He shuffled past me
without another word.
    The scene seemed to
be wrapping up, and as officers slowly made their ways back to the foyer and
the front door, I swam upstream into the study and beyond, always expecting to
be stopped, but never was.  Yellow tape was stretched across the open
doorway to his bedroom.  I peered inside, where a uniformed goon were
still collecting evidence, apparently engrossed in his bagging and tagging
procedures.
    Like a child told
not to touch something, I peeked from afar.  Then a spotted something new
and took a step closer.  Eventually my head was over the tape and my eyes
glancing around the room.  In one last brazen act of subconscious bravery,
I found myself standing on Wilson McCune’s bedroom carpet, holding my
breath.  The goons went on sealing sandwich bags and labeling them with
markers, unaware that I had joined them.  Not surprising as I barely
realized it myself until it was too late.
    The stench of his
room was nothing short of gut wrenching.  I wanted to gag immediately, but
stopped myself.  I stood at the foot of the bed trying not to make a
sound.  Wilson’s body was still in his bed, and that was something for
which I was not prepared.  The man in the room with me, the live man I mean, forensics or something I would guess, was sitting on the bed next
to Wilson.  It looked like he was cleaning under McCune’s fingernails, but
I couldn’t tell for sure.  I started feeling more and more ill, and
suddenly my eyes went up to the ceiling.  I started gazing, absorbing all
of the details of the room; anything to get my eyes off of the old man’s