The Navy Wife: 7 years after she disappeared, 'perfect' officer takes a secret to his grave
Child
secret to his grave
By M.L. LYKE
SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER REPORTER
OAK HARBOR -- His wife described him as Mr. Perfect.
The Navy man organized clothes by color, photo albums by year, Tupperware
lids by size. He cleaned his stove by dismantling it, and unbolted and
removed seats from his car before vacuuming.
"When he made his bed, you could actually bounce a quarter off it," said
Mike Haskovec, a retired sailor who lived with Derek Hunter in the Whidbey
Island Naval Air Station barracks when both were still second-class petty
officers.
Haskovec thought the fastidious loner who preferred gun magazines and
true-crime books to socializing "kinda strange."
"Meticulous was an understatement for Derek. He was a neat freak."
It was in keeping, then, that Hunter, 47, planned his death as carefully as
he planned his life.
After putting goods in storage and affairs in order, the retired Navy
lieutenant -- medically discharged in 1998 -- downed booze, popped pills,
sat on a wooden bench swing in his parents' back yard in Florida, put a
handgun to his temple and, in a curiously choreographed bit of timing,
pulled the trigger.
The "neat freak" had carefully placed two towels -- one blue, one white --
on either side of him to catch blood spatters.
The date was Sept. 2, 2003, seven years to the day after the mysterious
disappearance of his 35-year-old wife, Mary Frances Hunter -- a
disappearance that led to a maddening multiple-agency murder investigation,
with Lieutenant Hunter as the prime suspect.
Homicide cases with no bodies are legal hair-pullers, and this one came with
few clues, a tangle of hearsay, nagging questions and an uncooperative
suspect.
Hunter was chased, but never charged, to the anger of his wife's father,
Joseph Tremblay, a former Mount Vernon entrepreneur now living in rural
Hanceville, Ala., near the ornate Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament
monastery where he draws daily inspiration.
"As far as the criminal justice system goes, it has really let my daughter
down," said Tremblay. "This case could have been solved a long time ago."
For more than seven years, he has bulldogged the case, compiling volumes of
records, clippings, correspondence and transcripts of covertly recorded
phone calls in an attempt to find out what happened to the warm, lively
woman known to friends and family as "Fran" or "Francine."
Like key investigators in the case, he is convinced Hunter -- the ambitious,
clean-cut son-in-law who once called him "Dad" -- took her life.
But convictions don't convict. Reasonable doubts can defy conventional
reason.
And dead men don't talk.
Even tracking the Hunter case is a challenge. The investigation remains
open, and most legal and military records remain closed. Interviews turn up
as many questions as answers. "It's complicated. You don't know how many
nights you don't sleep. You end up in knots," said Francine's little sister
Nadine.
Derek Hunter's father, for one, raises the question of whether Francine
might still be alive. "Her demise has never been confirmed," said Bill
Hunter, a retired Air Force man who served as a volunteer reserve deputy
sheriff in Polk County, Fla., for 18 years.
The senior Hunter was undergoing cancer treatment at the time of his son's
suicide. He said he has yet to look at the various suicide notes, letters
and computer disks Derek left for family members, including one addressed
specifically to him. "I'm not ready to read them yet," he said.
In the writings, reviewed by investigators and released through
public-disclosure requests, his son apologized for his "selfish" act of
suicide, and asked God "to forgive me of all of my sins."
He talked about his deteriorating physical and mental state and said he
feared the loss of his sanity. "I am freaked out, terrified," wrote the man
once decorated with military ribbons, stars, medals and commendations.
He wrote that awful memories were starting to return, but didn't say what
they were. "I have recollections of having done lots of evil stuff."
And, in a computer document left for his two grown children, he described a
disturbing scenario that Labor Day weekend in 1996, a secret involving guns
and graves and desperation.
It was a secret Francine's family members would call a "final thumbing of
the nose," an "insult," a "sin," and, finally, "a crock."
A compelling portrait
Mary Frances Tremblay was just 17 when she met Derek Hunter in 1978. He was
attractive, sharp, a do-right sailor in his early 20s who had graduated near
the top of his high school class in South Carolina.
Their romance started on a stumble. Francine's older sister, Christine,
played matchmaker. She had just met Derek and Navy mate Haskovec while
cruising a Mount Vernon hamburger joint. Derek took her number. It was Mike
who called and asked for a date. Christine decided to make it a foursome and
set her little sister up with Derek.
He didn't show.
"Nobody stands up my sister," said Christine, who now lives in Seattle. "We
drove to the base, she knocked on his door and told him to put on a fresh
shirt, 'We're going out.' "
He did. After several dates, Derek announced he was going to marry the
5-foot-3 beauty with the lush mane of dark hair, deep-dish brown eyes and
olive skin.
The relationship ran hot and cold. Francine's family joked that the
engagement ring he gave her was made of rubber, it bounced back and forth
between them so much. Roses he brought her went flying.
Still, after dropping out of school at Mount Vernon High her senior year,
Francine eloped with the polite young sailor who always addressed elders as
"Mr." and "Mrs."
"She wanted to be a wife and mother yesterday," said Francine's mother,
Theresa. She describes her daughter, one of seven Tremblay children, as a
funny, feisty girl with a flair for drama and writing. "Dear Sister Lucy,
you asked me to write a poem. But all my thoughts seem to want to do is
roam," Francine wrote for an assignment in Catholic elementary school.
In high school, she showed a rebellious streak, hiding trendy clothes in a
backpack and changing at school -- in defiance of strict dress codes set
down at home. Family members, now scattered from East Coast to West,
describe her as someone who wouldn't back down.
"She hated people who were mean to other kids. She wouldn't stand for it,"
says her little brother David.
After marriage, Francine became a poster mom, with ship-shape home and
fresh-baked cookies waiting after school for son Michael and daughter
Nadine. Both Francine and Derek doted on the kids. He took them to the park
to play, bought them fancy toys, marked off special time for each, despite
the demands of his fast-forward military career.
Derek had enlisted in the Navy after graduating from high school in 1975.
The military was a good fit for a man who liked cleanliness and order, and
he quickly rose through the ranks. "His career was very important to him. He
did not want any smears on it," said longtime family friend Marge Wade.
In less than 10 years, he ascended from petty officer to master chief,
stationed first at Whidbey, then at California Navy air bases in China Lake
and Lemoore. In the early '80s, he enrolled in a training program to become
a non-flying, limited-duty officer.
The aircraft maintenance specialist was one of a small percentage of
enlisted men to make the cut. "When you consider that he became a
commissioned officer without a single college degree, it's quite an
achievement," said his father, Bill Hunter, who described his son growing up
as "balanced," "normal" and "average," a good-looking boy who grew into a
fiercely independent sort.
Navy men who served under Derek at Whidbey knew that determination. They
describe the lieutenant as an excellent officer, someone who knew the ropes,
commanded the respect of the ranks and liked things done his way -- or else.
"He always planned everything to a T," said Tom Hess, who served as a senior
chief under Derek in the VAQ-140 squadron, working on radar-jamming EA-6B
Prowler jets. "If he was in charge of planning an exercise, he never missed
anything. He had everything taken care of. Always."
Derek took care of everything in the neighborhood, too. The man who
manicured his lawn to a salutable buzz-cut was fast to help with the odd job
next door. "They were probably one of the better neighbors I ever had," said
Melinda Egging, who lived next to the Hunters at the Whidbey seaplane base,
on a street with sweeping views of downtown Oak Harbor, the bay, marshlands
and a densely wooded 100-acre nature preserve that would play its own eerie
role in the criminal investigation.
The handsome family of four made a compelling Navy portrait. But behind
closed doors, below the public radar, the picture wasn't so pretty.
Francine, say her sisters, was in trouble. The relationship was faltering.
And the girl who wouldn't back down was backing into corners.
"At one point, Derek said he should move out. She told him to come home and
she'd have his bags packed. That was the Francine we knew," said her younger
sister Nadine.
"What happened, how that deteriorated, none of us know. At some point,
something turned the corner, and she chose not to share it with us."
Why, she wonders, wouldn't her sister call out for help?
'A future without me'
Derek liked to describe Francine as a "good Navy wife."
Was she good enough for Mr. Perfect?
Friends said the health-conscious jogger, marathoner and kayaker began to
rag on his wife about gaining weight and smoking, even turning a garden hose
on her when she lit up. Francine was already self-conscious about her
vitiligo, a skin condition she'd developed in the California desert lands.
Every morning, she rose in the early hours of morning to slather heavy
makeup on the white blotches that covered her olive skin.
Derek's criticisms set Francine in a spin, according to friends. He would
tell her he didn't love her anymore, that she no longer looked like a "Navy
wife," that he wasn't sure they should stay married -- then retract it all
the next day, the friends said.
Derek imbibed little, but could be a lousy drunk. One afternoon in
California, after tipping too many, he became enraged when Francine's pal
sprayed beer on his shoe and Francine laughed about it. He poured his beer
over his wife's head, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her into the
house, according to Francine.
His temper rarely flared in public, but when it did, the image stuck. His
barracks mate described how Derek's face would turn red, how the veins on
his face would pop out, how his body would shake. "It scared me," Haskovec
said. "This is the type of person you felt could just explode."
At home, friends said the "neat freak" showed signs of becoming a "control
freak." He screened calls and mail, didn't want his wife to socialize when
he was home. According to one story, he threw pots and pans in the back yard
when the copper bottoms weren't polished to standards.
After the Hunters returned to Whidbey in the early '90s, friends began to
notice changes in Francine. Instead of sipping drinks, she would guzzle
them. She went on Prozac. Her leg tapped the floor nervously -- a new tic.
She would avoid going to squadron picnics and social events.
Longtime family friend and baby sitter Marge Wade said the bright, quiet,
pretty girl she'd known as a child would disappear into bedrooms if anyone
showed up at the house. "She seemed so different ... withdrawn."
In 1993, Francine wrote in a letter to her close friend, Denise Curtis: "I
am starting to think that Derek and the children would have a better chance
at a good future without me. ... I believe I am a terrible mother in Derek's
eyes."
She said she had considered jumping off Deception Pass Bridge -- the
182-foot-high span that stretches over a turbulent channel dividing Whidbey
and Fidalgo islands. She couldn't, she said, because she refused to leave
her children with "the scars of suicide."
"I have nowhere to go that they would not feel I abandoned them."
Afraid to reach out
Family members describe Francine as "proud." While pride can fuel the
atta-girl, can-do spirit that marks the exemplary Navy wife, it can also
lead military spouses to hide signs of serious depression, says journalist
Sarah Smiley, who tackles tough military social issues in "Shore Duty," a
syndicated column for civilian and military readers.
"Military wives are afraid to reach out, because they fear they'll be
labeled a failure," said Smiley.
Francine finally did reach out. In 1994, she turned to a mental-health
counselor at the Navy hospital in Oak Harbor. Friends and family say the
counselor, Lynn Jorgenson, began helping Francine recall repressed memories.
According to Francine's testimony, he also began meeting her in secret and
making inappropriate advances.
It was Derek, said friends, who insisted his wife sue the counselor for
malpractice. The suit for $350,000 in damages was filed in December 1994 and
later settled for $200,000. Jorgenson, now working at a veteran's hospital
in Utah, did not respond to requests for interviews.
The suit took its toll on Francine. During legal proceedings, her private
allegations of childhood abuses were aired in public. Family members were
deposed. There were painful accusations and denials.
Familial tensions already ran high. Two years earlier, Francine and Derek
had a falling-out with the Tremblays over religion. Francine's parents said
they insisted the Hunter grandchildren be brought up Catholic. Derek, a
Baptist, balked.
The split was hard on Francine. "Derek would not let her write to her
parents, not let her call them or take their calls," said Denise Curtis. "It
was very painful for her."
Francine, said friends, was eventually worn thin, exhausted. Twice during
the counselor fiasco, friends said she was hospitalized in a mental health
facility in Bellingham -- once for a reported overdose of pills, once for
threatening suicide.
Still, by the fall of 1996, the year of her disappearance, Francine was on
the "up and up," according to Christine.
"She was so happy about the money from the suit," said Christine. "She said,
'You know, Chrissy, I had my kids young, and now I don't have to worry about
their college education.' She said, 'I hold the purse strings now.' That
drove him nuts."
So apparently, did the idea of another man in Francine's life.
"The therapist thing put a huge obstacle in their relationship," said
Francine's friend Denise. "It was never anything physical (with Jorgenson),
but Derek could see feelings for someone else in her eyes."
Derek was reportedly facing physical as well as emotional challenges. In
1995, he began telling people about strange fainting spells, later diagnosed
as "syncopal episodes," a temporary loss of consciousness caused by
diminished blood flow to the brain.
Francine's father would come to question the diagnosis. Derek's dad stood by
it. "He'd just collapse ... it was very distressing for him," said Bill
Hunter.
A cause was never determined.
But whatever was happening to Derek, it was clear his world was not
unfolding according to plan. It was not perfect. It could not be controlled.
Military old-timers say that when Navy officers slip, it can be a steep
slope down a rocky precipice.
Derek appeared to be poised on the edge.
HOW TO HELP
Anyone with information on the Hunter case is asked to call the Naval
Criminal Investigative Service at 800-479-9685.
a.. The NCIS Web site on Hunter:
www.ncis.navy.mil/special/missing/Hunter/Hunter.html.
P-I reporter M.L. Lyke can be reached at 206-448-8344 or
m.l....@seattlepi.com
Volfie
Giselle (the blue and white towels for catching the blood was really creepy)
CBZ
"Volfie" <vol...@ccrtc.com> wrote in message
news:10e1f5o...@corp.supernews.com...
> Interesting story. Thanks for posting it.
>
> Giselle (the blue and white towels for catching the blood was really
creepy)
>
sounds like the guy had to control everything, maybe even his wifes death,
and his own
Rlb...@att.net
When Derrick was 17, he ran away from home. He hopped on his small Honda motorcycle and rode from Omaha to a ranch in Texas. He worked there for a time until he threw a gas can into a bon fire. The fumes ignited back to Derrick and he was severely burned on his stomach, neck, arms and face. He was flown to Augusta Burn Center in Georgia. When he was released, he moved in with my Grandmother in Williamston, SC and graduated from high school. During that time, he was dating a girl but her parents didn’t approve of him and ended the relationship. So he burned their home to the ground. After graduation, Derrick joined the Navy and I didn’t see or hear from him for almost 20 years.
My Mom passed away in 1997 and I receive a phone call from Derrick. He shared his story of his missing wife and told me that she had left with another man. He said the police didn’t believe him and had dug up his entire yard in search of her. When I hung up the phone, I decided to never have contact with him again.
Seven years later my Aunt told me that he committed suicide in my Uncles back yard. A year or two later, his younger brother Sean also committed suicide. This was not a normal family and I believe that my Uncle was the underlying cause of it all. I pray that one day Francine will be found, and maybe she will be found alive. But it seems doubtful, as she was living with a monster created by a horrible Father who battled demons of his own.
