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,shewas 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’sterriblenews. 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 muchtotell. 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 areallong 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.”
