The Hunter House Tour

He crossed the road and, after a prolonged glance at Sherrie, extended a hand towards Eric and said, “Deputy Smith.”

Smith was a short, 32 year old man who had been a deputy for three years. He got his job, according to most county residents who cared about such things, because of his assistance during the sheriff’s stunning election victory over a long-time incumbent.

“Hello,” Eric answered and shook the officer’s hand. “I’m Eric James and this is Sherrie Carlyle.”

“You called from Clearview?” Smith asked Sherrie.

“That’s right. Is the sheriff coming?”

“Oh, yes. He’s about five minutes behind me. Where’s the body?” the deputy asked abruptly.

“Down the path--maybe thirty yards,” Eric replied.

“We’ll wait for Sheriff Jackson,” the deputy said. “He was right about it being on Bill Steadman’s land. The old man’s house is down on the other side of this hill behind the trees. Everything on this side of the road for about a half mile in each direction is his. We’ve been up here often enough responding to his complaints that people were prowling around. Usually ends up being nothing at all or young kids messing around. How old did you say the guy was you found?”

Eric and Sherrie looked at each other. Eric spoke first. “Maybe 50, 55. Definitely not a kid.”

The sound of an approaching car made their heads turn in unison. They saw the flashing emergency lights crest the hill before they saw the body of the black and white sheriff’s car. Sheriff Jackson pulled in behind the deputy’s car, put on his hat, and emerged into the heat.

As he approached, Eric was taken aback by the relative youth of the officer. He guessed the man to be in his late thirties or early forties. Not at all the overweight, aging sheriff that he usually saw portrayed on TV and in the movies.

“Good morning,” Sheriff Jackson said with a polite tip of the hat to Sherrie.

She smiled and, this time, she was the first to speak. “Are you Sheriff Jackson?”

“Yes. You must be Sherrie Carlyle.”

“Yeah. And this is Eric James. I hope we were correct in calling you about this,” she said apologetically.

“Yes. This is our jurisdiction. Is he back there?” the sheriff asked, pointing down the path.

“That’s correct,” Deputy Smith said immediately. “Thirty yards. We haven’t been back there, yet, though.”

“OK. I think what I’d like to do is take one of you back there to show me the body,” the sheriff said, nodding to both James and Carlyle. “I don’t want to disrupt the scene any more than it already has been. After that, we’ll seal off the area, call the coroner--I assume you’re certain that he’s dead--and then take your statements. That’s just normal procedure, you understand.”

Eric and Sherrie nodded without comment.

“I’ll go,” Eric volunteered.

He and the sheriff started down the path, the sheriff looking down and on either side as they walked. Eric, himself six feet tall but weighing only 170 pounds, felt small next to the man he judged to be three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier. With his sheriff’s hat on, the officer was an impressive figure. Very electable, Eric thought.

As they approached the body, the sheriff touched Eric’s arm and said, “Stay over here in the grass, off the soft ground. We may be able to get some tracks. Damn rain last night washed them away, probably.”

The sheriff reached the body and stood over it.

“Well, I’ll be. It is John Sanders,” Sheriff Jackson said almost to himself. “Damn.”

He put his hands on his hips and looked into the woods, then down the path to where it disappeared.

“Damn,” he muttered again.

Sherrie Carlyle and Deputy Smith watched the two men walk back in silence. The sheriff said, “Smitty, call Dr. Weaver. Have them bring a squad. No rush. Tape off this area two hundred yards on either side of the path, all the way back through to the end of these woods,” pointing away from the main road.

“Yes, sir,” the deputy said turning towards his car.

The sheriff, James and Carlyle silently surveyed the site--Eric and Sherrie because they didn’t know what to do next and the sheriff for no apparent reason. The awkward pause was broken by the sheriff’s audible sigh and he asked, “How long can you two stay here?”

“All day, I guess,” Eric answered for them. “We have to get back to my car up at the fairgrounds in Sherman at some point.”

“Where you from?”

“Columbus,” Sherrie said. Eric nodded.

“You two married?”

Carlyle and James smiled and nearly in unison said, “No.”

Deputy Smith rejoined the others carrying a black notebook. “They’re coming,” he told them. “We’re lucky we were able to reach Weaver before he hit the golf course.”

“Yeah. This will screw up his Saturday for sure,” the sheriff said. “Let’s get a quick statement from these folks so we can let them go as soon as possible after Doc gets here.”

“OK,” the deputy said, letting out a deep breath. “Let’s sit over here in the shade,” pointing to the same spot Sherrie and Eric had staked out earlier.

The deputy, Carlyle and James headed for the grassy bank, while the sheriff took a few steps down the path, hands in his pockets.

“OK, who wants to start,” Deputy Smith asked as soon as they were seated.

Eric recounted the story up to the discovery of the body and Sherrie added her version of the visit to The Hunter House.

“Ah, yes, good ol’ Dorothy Hunter,” the deputy interjected at that point. “It’ll be all over Clearview now, and half of Sherman. I bet the phone hasn’t been back on the hook since you left,” he said looking at Sherrie.

She was finishing her recollections of the call to the sheriff’s office when a car pulled onto the berm across from the two officers’ vehicles. A white haired man with a striking, walrus-like mustache got out carrying a dark leather bag. Coroner Weaver was met by the sheriff and they held a short conversation.

“Well, let’s go see what the coroner needs,” the young deputy said, getting up to his feet slowly.

After formal introductions, the party of five proceeded back down the path, once again urged by the sheriff to keep in the grass near the edge of the woods.

Upon reaching the body, the coroner opened his bag and took out a small camera. He took a half dozen shots of the body and immediate surrounding area before placing the camera back in the opened bag. He pulled out a pair of white plastic gloves and slowly inserted a hand in each one, meticulously pulling the glove tight over each finger.

“Did anyone touch the body?” the coroner asked.

“Yes, I checked for a pulse on his neck,” Eric answered.

“Nothing?” the coroner asked him without looking up.

“Nope.”

The coroner kneeled down next to the body. He looked up at James and Carlyle and said softly, “I’m going to inspect the body for a minute. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

The two cyclists shook their heads and didn’t move.

The coroner put one hand under the dead man’s left arm and his other hand under the man’s left leg. He gently lifted the body and peered underneath. As if on cue, his four witnesses each lowered their heads at various angles to see for themselves. The ground was a dark reddish-brown, in sharp contrast to the green grass and weeds around the body. The back of the man’s shirt and pants were solid with the same dark hue. Several small slits could be seen in the man’s shirt.

“Don, do you mind holding him up for a second so I can get a shot,” the coroner asked Sheriff Jackson.

The sheriff did as instructed and the picture was taken. From behind the group, an approaching vehicle could be heard coming to a stop. The squad parked behind the coroner’s car and two uniformed medics got out. They opened the back of the squad and pulled out a wheeled stretcher.

“No,” the sheriff shouted to them quickly. “Bring a bag. I don’t want any wheel tracks over here.”

The medics nodded and soon joined the others with a large green body bag. Quick greetings were exchanged and, after determining that the coroner had all he needed for the moment, the body was unceremoniously inserted into the bag. Each medic grabbed an elastic handle at opposite ends of the bag and, without further comment, carried it back to the squad and were gone in the direction of Sherman.

Sherrie Carlyle was fascinated by the cold suddenness of it all. She stood looking down at the darkened indentation in the overgrown brush in front of her. She was conscious of alternating feelings of grief, excitement, and, above all, curiosity. Her eyes caught those of Eric and they communicated without speaking.

Eric looked back down at the ground, then at the coroner closing his bag. It was all so unreal.

The sheriff broke the silence with a question directed at both James and Carlyle. “Can you two be in my office on Monday to sign statements and answer any other questions we have by then?”

Eric and Sherrie looked at each other. Sherrie shrugged. “Sure.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Eric added.

“Good. Anytime will be fine,” Sheriff Jackson said, as the group started walking towards the parked bikes and cars.

“What happens now?” Sherrie asked.

“Well, I’ll be meeting with my deputies to start the investigation here. We’ll need to talk to Steadman. This is his land. Sanders lived right over there,” the sheriff said, pointing back over his shoulder to the left of the path. “Dr. Weaver will do the autopsy this afternoon, I assume,” he said, looking at the coroner, who nodded.

After a pause, the sheriff looked at the cyclists and asked, “Do you guys need a ride anywhere?”

“No, we’re alright,” Eric said.

“Does Smitty have both of your addresses and phone numbers?”

“Yeah,” Eric answered.

“Then I’ll probably see you Monday.”

“OK,” James and Carlyle answered in unison.

Sheriff Jackson, Deputy Smith and Coroner Weaver offered their thanks and walked together to the coroner’s car.

Eric and Sherrie waited at their bikes for a moment before Sherrie said softly, “Well, not your normal rest stop, was it?”

“What time is it?” James asked, ignoring her attempt at humor.

She punched a couple buttons on the cycling computer mounted on her handlebars and said, “11:45.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Eat.”

“Where?”

“Let’s head for Clearview, I guess. I didn’t make it all the way into town, so I’m not sure what’s there,” she said.

“Can’t be much,” he said dryly.

“Even if it’s just a corner store, we can buy something there.”

“OK. And something cold to drink. I’m dyin’ of.... Sorry.”

Sherrie giggled as they finished putting on their helmets and gloves and pulled out towards the road. They could hear the sheriff tell his deputy, “Get Danny, Carl and Joe. Meet me back at the office at...two o’clock.”

James and Carlyle waved as they passed the officers and headed down the hill towards Clearview. No words were spoken between the two, as was often the case when they rode together. They rode for five or six minutes in silence before Eric pulled up beside Sherrie.

“I’ve got a wild idea and, uh, I know you won’t want to do this, but that’s OK,” Eric half stammered.

“What are you talking about?” Sherrie asked with a puzzled look on her face.

“Well, I’d really like to know what the sheriff and, especially, the coroner find out in the next couple of days,” Eric said between breaths as they climbed a small hill. “I’d like to stay down here and kind of hang around them for a while.”

Sherrie didn’t answer.

“Didn’t you get a strange feeling about what was going on back there?”

“You better believe it. Seemed mighty neat and clean. But, that was a first for me. So how do I know?”

“Listen. If you just want to come down Monday, that’s fine, but I might look for a place around here to stay in the meantime. A small vacation wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“How much work you got?”

“Susan can take care of it. I’ll be less than an hour away if something happens,” he said assuredly. “Besides, it’s my company, I can leave it whenever I want to.”

“Sometimes I think Susan is the company and you just pay the bills.”

“No, she does that, too.”

They rode for a few more minutes until the edge of Clearview could be seen.

“How long you gonna stay here?” Sherrie asked him.

“Oh, just a few days I guess. I just want to find out more about what happened. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” she answered quietly. After a lengthy pause, she said, “If I said I knew the owner of a great place to stay, would you be interested?”

“Only if you join me,” he said, looking across at her with a small smile.

“Separate rooms!” she demanded.

Chapter 3

“Right here,” Sherrie said as they approached The Hunter House’s front yard. “You’re gonna love this place.”They pulled into the driveway and rested their bikes up against the side of the red brick house. They walked along a stone sidewalk leading to the front steps and then up to the porch. Sherrie entered the house first and waited for Eric to follow.

Her eyes were dancing. “What do you think?”

“Not bad, so far,” he answered, still taking it all in.

Almost before the sound of the door bells had stopped, Mrs. Hunter could be heard at the top of the steps, “Coming.”

Sherrie Carlyle gently stuck her elbow into Eric James’ ribs and winked at him.

“Well, I’ll be,” the old woman said with a beaming smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Hunter,” Sherrie greeted her.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Come in and sit down.”

They followed her to the area in front of the fireplace--an area Sherrie now took as one of the woman’s favorites. Mrs. Hunter took one of the big chairs and the two guests shared a couch. Eric awkwardly caught himself when he sank further into the seat than he had expected.

“Mrs. Hunter, this is my friend Eric James.”

The two exchanged smiles.

“We’re thinking of staying here for a few days. Is that possible?” Sherrie asked.

“Of course it is, dear. Nobody else has come in this weekend, so you have your choice of rooms.”

“We’ll need two,” Sherrie quickly added. “How much is that?”

“Two rooms? Well, it’s normally $75 per night, per room, and you get a full breakfast every morning. But, listen. This isn’t any of my business, but are you having to stay here because of the Sanders thing?” the woman asked, lowering her voice.

“Kind of,” Eric said, who exchanged questioning glances with Sherrie.

“OK,” Mrs. Hunter said energetically. “Then how about $100 per night for both rooms and breakfast each morning, as long as you let me know the night before when you expect to get up.”

Sherrie looked at Eric, nodded, then told the owner, “It’s a deal.”

“Lovely, lovely. You can have the two front rooms upstairs. They have the best views. I’ll go get the sheets ready,” the woman said, bounding for the stairway.

“‘The Sanders thing’,” Eric repeated softly.

“Yeah, I know. She probably knew before we left the scene. My money’s on the sheriff’s dispatcher.”

“Could be. You know what else I think?” Eric continued without allowing her to answer. “When the sheriff and I were walking back to view the body, he said something about the rain last night washing away tracks. He didn’t know at that point how long the body had been there. I don’t know. That whole scene just spooked the hell out of me.”

“I think you’re reverting back to your investigator days,” Sherrie smiled at him, referring to his days at the state Bureau of Workers’ Compensation. “But, I didn’t think murders were your specialty.”

“Well....”

“It was a murder, wasn’t it?” she asked sincerely.

“I don’t think too many people stab themselves in the back until they die. And I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble getting some background on this guy from the old lady here.”

Sherrie giggled. “If she doesn’t have the answer, I bet she knows who does.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the front door bells. They turned to see a young woman wearing a tee-shirt tucked into cut-off blue jean shorts enter the house. She took a couple of steps before noticing the pair of visitors.

“Oh, hi. I was looking for Mrs. Hunter,” the woman said.

“She’s upstairs, I believe,” said Sherrie

“Is that you, Lisa?” they heard Mrs. Hunter shout down the steps.

“Yes. Do you need any help?” the young woman shouted back.

“No. I’ll be right down.”

Lisa McAdams smiled at Eric and Sherrie as they introduced each other. Sherrie knew from past experience that this was a woman Eric would be talking about when they were alone. Cute though not beautiful; nice figure though not a goddess; tanned; and no wedding ring.

They were joined by Mrs. Hunter. “Have you all met?” she asked the group in general. “Lisa comes over every Saturday and we go to the grocery store together. I really enjoy the time we get together. She’s my adopted daughter, I tell people.” The old woman laughed.

“Well, your rooms are ready,” she continued, looking at her two guests. “One is the first door on the right at the top of the steps and the other is the first door on the left. The bath is in the center of the hallway on the opposite side. You can’t miss it. There are plenty of towels. If you need more blankets or sheets let me know, but in this heat I wouldn’t know why.”

She stopped to catch her breath and Sherrie took the opportunity to thank her. “I guess we’ll be riding back up to Sherman to get Eric’s car,” Sherrie said looking at Eric for confirmation. “Then we’ll grab some clothes at home and be back later this afternoon or early evening. Is that OK?”

“Of course it is, dear,” Mrs. Hunter said soothingly. “You’ve had a long day already, haven’t you? That will be fine.”

Eric and Sherrie excused themselves. As they headed for the front door, Sherrie saw Eric glance back at the two women.

“Hell. We’ll never leave this place now,” she said in a mock disgusted voice.

“Yeah, I could really get to like that Mrs. Hunter,” Eric said, winking at her.

Chapter 4

Coroner Richard Weaver’s office was in a small two-story brick and stone building built in the late 1800’s. It overlooked the town square in Sherman and, from the outside, could have been mistaken for private offices except for the County Coroner sign hanging beside the front door with Dr. Weaver’s name and the county seal on it.

Inside, the reception area retained the old flavor of the building. But, beyond that, nearly all connections with the past were replaced with modern medical conveniences. At the end of the long middle hallway on the first floor was a large room resembling a hospital operating room. In this room on a hot July Saturday afternoon was the coroner and two assistants, a man and a woman, huddled over a body bag lying on a silver table in front of them.

The male assistant helped Doctor Weaver extract John Sanders’ body from the bag, while the second assistant pulled away the empty bag. She then grabbed a yellow legal pad and moved to the opposite side of the table from the doctor.

The procedure began in earnest with a stripping of the body. As each item of clothing was removed, it was labeled and put on a second long table near the dead man’s head. Within minutes, the coroner was viewing the nude body.

“No visible scars or bruises,” the white-haired official said without looking up. The female assistant wrote feverishly on her legal pad. The coroner ran his gloved hands over the dead man’s temples, down both sides of his throat, along the ribs and arms, and finally the legs and ankles.

“No indication of fractures,” he said curtly. “Let’s get him over.”

The body was lifted and turned in one swift, smooth motion by the coroner and his male assistant. The back of the man’s body was caked with dark, dried blood from under the shoulder blades to the back of the knee. As the coroner washed the body, he was supplied with clean, damp cloths from a large sink. When Sanders’ back was cleaned, the assistants heard the coroner let out an audible “Humph.”