“I’ll let you know the moment it goes public.”
She laughed. “Make it a moment before and we’ll stay friends.”
I relayed the news to Milo.
He said, “Boom. That’s the sound of a hypothesis blowing up. Want some pie?”
“Small piece.”
“Really? You’re actually indulging? That’s a switch.”
“Why turn my nose up at fame?”
He was driving back to the city and I was on my phone checking messages when his played something heavy and Teutonic. Maybe Brahms during one of his depressive episodes.
He scanned the screen, switched to speaker.
Basia Lopatinski said, “Hey, guys!”
A woman who cuts up corpses all day and is constitutionally cheerful. I wondered what she thought of Brahms.
Milo said, “What’s up?”
“Good news and more good news. I hydrated your female vic’s fingertips and got enough ridge to send to AFIS. The first AFIS database I tried was kind enough to give me a name. I emailed it to your office computer, you should have it but I wanted to tell you personally.”
“You’re a saint, Basia.”
“Normally,” she said, “I don’t like it when men tell me that, it means they expect too much. But from you, I accept it.”
He pulled over and checked his mail. Said, “Bingo,” and handed me the phone and resumed driving.
Mary Jane Huralnik, fifty-nine years old. Much younger than I’d thought. She’d looked elderly for a decade of progressively sadder mugshots.
No felony arrests but plenty of misdemeanors up and down the state over a thirty-three-year period. Public drunkenness, public indecency, vagrancy, shoplifting, petty larceny, illegal panhandling, trespassing, failure to show on a slew of warrants for many of those offenses.
The most recent charge, an indecency bust eighteen months ago. Defecating on a sidewalk in the Sixth Street tunnel downtown.
I said, “Not that far from where Benny worked.”
He said, “Like we said, someone prowling downtown for vulnerables. I’ll call a Central D and ask if she knows Huralnik.”
This time he phoned while in motion. I continued to read. No jail for Huralnik on the tunnel offense; with the crowding situation, the priority is those who draw copious blood.
Overall, her incarcerations had been limited to days, not weeks. With that type of abbreviated sentence, no probation or parole. Also no address, phone number, or DMV listing.
Milo hung up. “Shireen Walker has no knowledge of her. Her record say anything to you?”
“She entered the system when she was in her twenties, which would fit mental illness. No violence in her history but the indecency busts make me wonder.”
“Uninhibited.”
“The kind of person who would be vulnerable.”
“To what?”
“Attention, food, dope, an offer of kindness.”
“Psychopath lures her and turns her into a prop,” he said. “Same probably goes for Benny. And the dogs. But why the need for props, Alex? If we’re right about Gurnsey inspiring someone’s rage why not just off him and pull out his dick and leave him in a gutter for the world to see?”
I said, “Good question.”
“No, no, bad question. As in neither of us has a clue.”
Chapter 19
We returned to Milo’s office and set to work tracing Mary Jane Huralnik using separate pathways.
Beyond her minor arrests nothing further on any law enforcement database. A Social Security number issued fifty years ago yielded nothing, including disability payments. No claims on money she could’ve gotten. Someone low on self-care.
She didn’t show in my Google search but the uncommon surname provided an edge.
Four Huralniks in the U.S. John in Omaha, Louise in Columbus, Ohio, Hampton in Dover, New Hampshire, a Honda dealer named Randall Huralnik in Stockton, California.
Milo said, “Like the trendoids say, keep it local,” and started with Randall. Forty-two years old, no criminal record. An internet photo showed him corpulent and ruddy with a mop of brown hair and a pendulous nose.
Milo said, “Forty-two. I luck out and he’s Mary’s kid, she was a kid when she had him.”
He phoned the dealership, asked the woman who answered to put him through to Randall Huralnik.
She said, “Randy? Hold on.”
We endured several minutes of Beatles music bowdlerized to easy listening before a hearty voice boomed, “This is Randy! How can I help you today?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. Police Department.”
“L.A.?” said Huralnik. “What’s going on down there?”
“Sir, are you by any chance related to Mary Jane Huralnik?”
“Aunt Mary? She finally got herself in some serious trouble?”
“The worst type of trouble, sir. I’m afraid she’s deceased.”
“Oh. That’s real sad news, Lieutenant.” Randy Huralnik’s sigh sounded like a gust of static. “I guess I’m not surprised. Alcohol poisoning?”
“She was murdered, Mr. Huralnik.”
“Oh. Huh. Well, that’s terrible news. Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What can you tell us about your aunt?”
“Tell,” said Huralnik, as if practicing a foreign word. “Not much to tell. She’s my mom’s younger sister, left when she was young and only came back once in a while. To get money from my parents. Which was crazy, there were all kinds of benefits she could’ve gotten but she claimed the government would hunt her down and put her in a cage.”
“Mental issues.”
“To say the least.”
“Did she have kids of her own?”
“Nope, never married, no kids.” A beat. “There was a thought that she was, you know, gay. My dad used to say that but my mom disagreed. I couldn’t tell you who was right.”
“Any family connections beyond your parents?”
“Nope, that’s it,” said Randy Huralnik. “I guess you’d call her a loner.”
Milo said, “How often would she visit to get money?”
“Not often. Maybe... two times a year, three? And not every year.”
“Any idea how she supported herself?”
“Dad said she was probably prostituting, Mom said no way. Again, can’t tell you. She hasn’t been back in a real long time, sir. Since before my dad died, which was twelve years ago, so, say... fourteen? Couple years later, Mom passed. I would’ve invited Mary to the funeral, but I had no idea how to reach her.”
“What’s your last memory of her?”
“Last one... okay, I was at the house helping my dad, he was sick with the Alzheimer’s. Suddenly Mary’s there, didn’t even hear her. Dad was on a walker but she didn’t ask how he was, just went in to see Mom. She looked terrible. She had problems.”
“Alcohol?”
“Sure, that,” said Randy Huralnik, “but I always thought she was off even without the drink. She was just... you know, different. Never looking at you, walking around with her lips moving.”
“Talking to herself.”
“That’s what it seemed to me. My dad called her the wolf the pack would’ve left behind. I know that sounds mean but I respect his opinion.”
I mouthed, Mom.
Milo said, “Your mother didn’t agree with him?”
“It was an issue between them, yeah,” said Huralnik. “But not a big one, she wasn’t around much.”
“Did Mary ever talk about friends, acquaintances, people she hung out with?”
“Not that I heard, sir. She and Mom would have conversations but I stayed away from them. Life’s hard enough without bringing extra problems on yourself.”
“That’s for sure,” said Milo. “So she never asked you for money?”