But Em did not reply. Her eyes clouded as the massive impact of several ounces of alcohol hit her at once. Then, her eyes rolled back as something more powerful than even the liquor seemed to shake her to her core. The glass fell from her hand and bounded harmlessly on the thick Persian carpet. She crumpled to the floor, then stiffened. A series of convulsions threw her body about as if she were a rag doll. It was a terrifying sight. Some felt compelled to watch; others turned away. A few women screamed. Some men shouted. But there were so many shouts that none could be clearly comprehended.
Ultimately, Emma’s body appeared to be jerked by some invisible force into boardlike rigidity. Then, after a horrible gurgling sound, as if she were drowning, Emma Hoffman fell into deathly stillness.
More screams, more shouts.
Father Koesler dropped to his knees beside Emma’s body and whispered the words of absolution. She was obviously unconscious at best. Bishop Ratigan was certain he would be able to recall the formula for absolution, if it just weren’t for all these damned crises.
Two men joined Koesler on the floor beside the body. One began attempts at mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, the other began rhythmically pumping Emma’s chest.
A well-dressed woman also knelt. She removed one of Emma’s shoes, and with long fingernails, scratched Emma’s sole. There was no response. Then she lifted one of Emma’s eyelids. Next, she removed a hand mirror from her purse and placed it to Emma’s mouth and nostrils as the man who was attempting resuscitation raised up. She then ran her finger along Emma’s eyebrow and squeezed.
“What are you doing?” Koesler asked quietly.
“I used to work in a hospital emergency room. I’m checking vital signs. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure this lady is dead.”
The shouts became more intelligible as they grew less diverse. Some were urging that a doctor be called; others were shouting for the police.
Koesler sat back on his heels. Could it have been a massive heart attack? Even as the thought came, he dismissed it. He could almost hear that frightening disembodied voice as it promised, “Oh, I . . . will see you outside . . . the confessional. I have some . . . mischief planned. I will see . . . you at the scene of . . . the mischief.”
Had Satan been here?
17.
What had been—with the exception of the Hoffmans’ discord—until very recently a jovial party was now the very embodiment of organized chaos. The chaos was being supplied by some of the very important people now confined to the Harvard Room, the scene of Frank Martin’s party. The organization came from a contingent of Detroit police who were conducting a homicide investigation, which, somehow, is never routine. Surely this investigation into the death of a member of Detroit’s automotive society and involving some of the prime movers and shakers of the Motor City could hardly be termed routine.
Some of the VIPs objected to being involved in any sort of police investigation. Others additionally objected to having their pictures taken by police photographers and being subjected to questioning. TV anchor people were anxious to return to their respective stations in time for the 11:00 p.m. newscast.
None of that mattered. This was, or, from all indications, was assumed to be, a homicide. And as such, this investigation took precedence over all other considerations.
The uniformed officers who responded to the emergency call had first sealed off the area so no one could leave. Then they had called the homicide division.
When Detective Sergeants Charles Papkin and Ray Ewing arrived and saw the number of people involved, they had called in the reserves. In addition to the other homicide detectives and technicians now on the scene, there were several from the robbery division and the medical unit.
Emma Hoffman had been taken to Receiving Hospital, where a doctor pronounced her dead. Her body was then taken to the Wayne County Morgue, where an autopsy would be performed the following morning by the medical examiner.
Sergeant Ewing was standing meditatively at the spot where Emma Hoffman had fallen. A chalk outline demarcated where her body had lain. He was mentally recording every detail.
There was a small, square hole in the carpet to one side of where the body had fallen. The dregs of Emma’s final drink had seeped into the carpet. Ewing had ordered that patch of the carpet removed. Along with the still-moist glass, it had been given to the police technicians for analysis. What the technicians might identify in the carpet or glass could prove the quickest route to determining what had killed the woman. The manager of the Collegiate Club had objected strenuously to the violation of his carpet, but, as with so many similar objections, to no avail.
With all the hubbub in the large room, it was a testament to Ewing’s powers of concentration that he could even appear to be oblivious to all but the precise spot of the crime. Gradually, he became aware of another presence. He looked up and smiled at his partner Papkin. “How’s it going?”
“Cast of thousands.” Papkin gestured at the room in general.
“Yeah.”
Each detective stood a fraction of an inch under six feet. Papkin, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, a face that had been tanned too many times so that the lines and creases were etched deeply, and hazel eyes that seemed to see through people, was fortunate enough to be doing the only thing he had ever wanted to do—be a cop. He dressed fashionably. Ewing, on the other hand, usually dressed down. His present outfit of corduroy trousers and ill-matched jacket was characteristic. Sandy-haired, he resembled singer Steve Lawrence, more so when he smiled, which was often. “Whatcha got so far?”
“Mostly bad news. We’ve pretty well ruled out a stroke or any kind of heart attack. The bar was wide open. If what killed her was in that drink, anybody had access to it. Even anybody wandering in from the street.”
Ewing shook his head. “Isn’t that the way of it? Especially when the VIPs gather, you’d think there’d be security up to their eyeballs.”
“But you’d be wrong.”
“How about the waiter who brought the drink?”
“We got him. He didn’t make any attempt to get away. In fact, he stayed right here even after she collapsed. Henderson’s with him now. Claims he didn’t know there was anything wrong with the drink. He’s agreed to take a polygraph.”
Ewing smiled broadly. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie! You and the polygraph. The only people who rely on lie detectors are the people who are trying to sell them.”
Papkin obviously did not share the humor. “They’re not infallible, but they can prove something.”
“Yeah. In this case, whether a little waiter is nervous about the possibility of being a suspect in a murder case. Frankly, if I were he, I would be.”
“I’ve got a feeling he’s not a strong lead, in any case. The bartenders were keeping one drink ahead of the orders. They’d keep a manhattan, a martini, a Tom Collins, a rum-and-Coke, and so forth on the rim of the bar so the waiters wouldn’t have to delay in delivering the drinks.” He shook his head. “These people must be some drinkers!
“Anyway, in the case of guests who had some special kind of drink, like straight gin, or, in Hoffman’s case, a perfect Rob Roy, not only did the bartenders stay one drink ahead, they’d put the special drink on top of the person’s name card.”
Ewing whistled. “So, if somebody wants to fool with Hoffman’s drink, all they have to do is find the drink that’s sitting on Hoffman’s card. Talk about a red carpet invitation to commit murder! But what about the wife grabbing his drink and downing it? What the hell was that all about?”
“Crazy! They were having a quarrel—no mufflers on—a good part of the room was in on it. At the moment his drink is served, she is saying something about what’s good enough for him is good enough for her. With that, she grabs his drink and downs it.”
“Wow! Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time and doing the exact wrong thing.”
“Somebody,” Papkin referred to his notepad, “a Mrs. Louise Chase, said that Mrs. Hoffman herself h
ad said that she was always doing things impulsively. And the others who knew her agree. Doing things impulsively seems to have been a bad habit with her.”
“The worst. It killed her.”
“I’ve impounded all the booze. I don’t know that we’ll find anything, but it couldn’t hurt.”
“Good.”
“By the way, the TV anchor people are trying to get out of here so they can do their eyewitness accounts of this on-air.”
“Tough. They’re staying till we’re done. That’s what they’ve got backups for.”
“That’s what I told them—in a diplomatic way. Oh, and did you know that we’ve got a bishop in the crowd?”
“Catholic?”
“Uh-huh. And another clergyman, too.” He paused for effect. “A Father Robert Koesler.”
“Koesler?”
Father Koesler, having been involved in several murder investigations, was generally quite well known to Detroit’s homicide detectives.
“Think we should tell the Inspector?”
“If we found Watson here, would we tell Holmes?”
Both laughed.
“How about Mayor Cobb? How’s he bearing up through the ordeal?” Ewing asked.
“Just fine. He’s holding court. You can never tell about Maynard Cobb. He’ll surprise you every time.”
For the first time in many minutes, Ewing surveyed the room. It presented the sort of scene with which he was very familiar. Police personnel were scattered about, not unlike football’s specialty teams, each officer doing his or her thing: guarding evidence, gathering evidence, answering questions, blocking all avenues of egress, taking photos, interrogating.
These were highly trained professionals who understood that these minutes were, by far, the most important of the entire investigation. This was The Scene of the Crime. It would never be repeated and could never be precisely duplicated. There were clues here, physical clues as well as questions to be asked and responses given that could and possibly would tell the whole story, reveal the motive and even the perpetrator. The police, then, were carefully carrying out their responsibilities.
“Where’s Hoffman?”
“Over there.” Papkin indicated a man slumped in a straight-back chair against the far wall. “The people around him, as far as I’ve been able to determine, are relatives and friends.”
“We’d better get over there.”
As they crossed the room toward Hoffman, Ewing made a mental note of those surrounding the widower. Many of them he recognized on sight. There was Koesler, of course, and Frank Martin. The sergeant thought he recognized Ratigan and Mercury from their newspaper photos. The others undoubtedly were auto executives and their wives.
Introductions were exchanged and condolences offered.
Ewing did a quick study of Hoffman. Hair meticulously styled, silver at the temples; tanned; handsome; tailored dinner jacket; maybe mid-fifties but holding on to the forties. Ewing could well imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman might have been arguing about.
“Mr. Hoffman,” Ewing began solicitously, “I know this is awfully soon after your wife’s tragic death, but I’ve got to ask you some questions.”
“Of course.” Hoffman remained seated. He was obviously shaken.
“Until we can determine the contents of that glass, we must assume it contained poison—a pretty powerful poison at that, judging by your wife’s reaction.”
Hoffman nodded.
“But what we seem to have here,” Ewing continued, “is almost certainly a case of murder in error. The drink was intended for you, was it not?”
Again Hoffman nodded.
“Then do you have any idea why your wife would have taken it from you and drunk it?”
Hoffman shook his head, but did not look up. “Em was angry—very angry. She had a habit of doing things impulsively, as the spirit moved her. She’d already had a couple of martinis and she was raving. She was saying something about how, from now on, whatever was good enough for me would be good enough for her. And it was just at that moment the waiter handed me my drink. It was as if she were giving some sort of demonstration of what she’d just said. I have this drink that I favor, a perfect Rob Roy. It was as if she were saying that if a distinctive drink were my drink, it could as easily be hers. But that’s only my conjecture. I have no way of knowing what was in her mind at the moment.”
“It sounds as if that would be a pretty good guess, sir,” said Ewing. “But could you also interpret what she meant by that, ‘Whatever is good enough for you will be good enough for me’?”
Hoffman still had not looked at either Ewing or Papkin since the introduction. “No, I have no idea.”
A lie. Good. Always nice to have a lie on record. Later one could always bring it up. As in, “You lied to me when I asked what your wife might have meant by what she said to you. Is this a lie too? When should I start believing you?”
“OK, then,” Papkin said, “let’s say your wife acted impulsively, grabbed the glass before you could do anything about it, drank the contents, and died from the effects of a poison that someone had placed in it. In that case, Mr. Hoffman, you were the intended victim. Whoever put the poison in that drink intended it for you. We are looking, then, for someone who wanted to kill you.”
It was an obvious conclusion, but one that seemingly had not occurred to Hoffman. “Someone kill me?” He appeared stunned at the notion.
“Mr. Hoffman, just a few minutes ago, we talked with headquarters. They ran a check on you and found that just last month there was an incident at your company’s glass plant in which you were nearly killed. The file is still open on that incident. It could have been an industrial accident. Or it might have been attempted murder. With what has happened here tonight, there seems little remaining doubt.
“Mr. Hoffman, it would seem that someone wants you dead. Can you think of anyone who might want to kill you?”
Hoffman did not so much seem to be considering anyone who might want him dead as he seemed to be mentally busy denying the possibility. “Why, no. No one. Perhaps there’s some mistake”
“No mistake, Mr. Hoffman. Your wife is dead. Receiving Hospital has confirmed that. She died drinking something that was intended for you. There’s every indication that if she had not ‘impulsively’ taken the glass from you, it would be your body now resting in the Wayne County Morgue.” Papkin intended to shock Hoffman into facing facts and thus providing some answers that could be helpful in this investigation.
Hoffman appeared to respond to Papkin’s statement; he seemed to be considering any possible assassins. But, “No, it’s no use. I can’t think of anyone who would want me dead, let alone try to poison me. Enemies, perhaps a few. But not mortal enemies. No!”
“Let’s look at it this way then,” said Ewing. “Who would profit from your death?”
Hoffman hesitated. “Well, lots of people, I suppose. Isn’t that the case with almost any relatively well-off person?”
“It would help a lot if you were more specific, Mr. Hoffman,” said Ewing. “As a matter of fact, rather than have you try to think of specific people off the top of your head, a look at your Last Will and Testament should help us find the answers to that question.”
Both Ratigan and Mercury standing nearby, winced slightly. Each had good reason to expect to be favorably mentioned in Hoffman’s will, Ratigan because Hoffman had so informed him; Mercury due to his wife’s being Hoffman’s beloved sister.
For the first time, Hoffman stood and faced the two detectives. Slightly taller than they, he tried to use his height to imply a position of power. “My will is a private, personal document, Sergeant. It contains privileged information between my attorney and myself. And no, you may not see it.”
“I trust there’s a copy of it in a safe deposit box at your bank?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes, well, then you must forgive us, Mr. Hoffman,” Ewing’s tone intimated that the step he was about to take troubled him
more than anyone, but that his was an unpleasant and inescapable task, “but we’ll just have to get a probate court order to have a look at that document. Sorry about that, Mr. Hoffman, but it’s for your own good.”
“For my own good?”
“Mr. Hoffman, somebody out there is trying to kill you.”
For a fifty-one-year-old woman, Emma Hoffman had preserved a good bit of her considerable beauty. Even death had not robbed her of that. But very soon her body was going to be in several pieces.
Sergeant Ray Ewing watched as Wayne County Medical Examiner Wilhelm Moellmann prepared to make the first incision. Most who dealt with Moellmann called him Willie, but not within his hearing. Despite his many eccentricities, Dr. Moellmann ranked among the best in the business.
It was neither a rule nor a law, but most good homicide detectives attended the autopsies of the cases they worked on. Ewing always did. Over the years, he had developed four rules of thumb by which he lived his professional life: Make the scene of the crime; attend the autopsy and examine the body; establish a good relationship with the deceased’s family; and get familiar with the area surrounding the scene of the crime. Presently he was touching the second of these four bases.
“So, what have you got for me this morning, Raymond? No punctures, no bullet holes, no stab wounds! A nice clean corpse for a change?”
Moellmann did not expect a reply. He was beginning a performance. An audience of one was all he needed.
Ewing simply smiled.
“All the organs seem rich in blood,” Moellmann pronounced.
As the medical examiner continued his work and his commentary, Ewing’s mind wandered to other autopsies he’d attended. He recalled the woman who had been beaten to death by her husband. As the autopsy had begun, the medical examiner had been puzzled by strange marks on the woman’s face and forehead. Ewing had been able to solve the mystery when he recalled the tile floor in the kitchen, the scene of that particular crime. The pattern of the tile was the same as the indentations on the woman’s face. The man had hit his wife on the back of the head so hard that the imprint of the floor tile had been impressed on her face.
Kill and Tell Page 18
