Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  One of Moellmann’s assistants leaned through a doorway. “Call for you, Ray.”

  “Thanks.” Ewing stepped into the nearby office, and picked up the phone. “Ewing.”

  “Papkin here.”

  “Yeah, Charlie. How’s it goin’?”

  “I’m at Manufacturers Bank.” It had been a simple process both to ascertain Hoffman’s bank and to get the court order. “I’m about to make a photostat of Hoffman’s will. And I just talked to our technical guys.”

  “They find it?”

  “Yup. Nicotine.”

  “Nicotine! I’ve never had a nicotine poisoning before.”

  “And I’ll bet you thought you’d seen everything. Well, what next?”

  “Let’s meet back at the office. I’ll be there as soon as Moellmann finishes the autopsy.”

  “You got Willie? Enjoy the show.”

  Ewing returned to the examining room. “It was nicotine, Doc.”

  “Nicotine! That’s different.” Moellmann prepared a section of liver and kidney plus a blood sample for his toxicology department. “You just saved us all some time, Sergeant.”

  “Yeah.” Ewing well understood the time factor. The medical examiner’s technicians undoubtedly would have found the traces of nicotine poisoning. But without knowing what they were looking for, it easily could have taken them a week. Now that they knew what had caused the woman’s death, it would still require two or three days before they would be able to isolate the poison from the specimens Moellmann would give them.

  Funny, Ewing thought as the autopsy proceeded, how we each have our own little kingdom.

  The medical examiner eventually would officially determine the cause of death. Then he would pronounce the category: murder, suicide, natural causes. Of course he would incorporate in his own analyses the information contributed by the police. But, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t murder unless and until he declared it so.

  The police had their kingdom. A murder investigation had begun last night when the police had arrived at the Collegiate Club. It became somewhat more “official” when the police toxicologists established the presence of a lethal dose of nicotine in the glass and carpet sample. No way would the police delay their investigation until the medical examiner had made his pronouncement. The police knew that. The medical examiner knew that. But they all played the game.

  The final point in the triangle in the crime of homicide was the prosecutor’s office. The medical examiner could pronounce, the police could investigate, but until the prosecutor decided to make the charge and bring to trial, the game was not complete.

  The autopsy concluded with a “negative” finding, at least until the toxicologists inevitably found what they were now looking for.

  It was only a few blocks from the morgue to police headquarters at 1300 Beaubien. Ewing walked it. He arrived in his squad room to find Papkin studying the reports that had been filed after last night’s investigation. He had collated the findings of the various officers who had been at the Collegiate Club.

  Ewing took a seat opposite Papkin at a long wide table which, with several other similar tables in the room, also served as a desk. He commenced sifting through the reports. He had read them all earlier, before the autopsy. But that was before they’d been collated.

  “I think,” said Papkin, “we’ve just set a new record for raw material gathered in the shortest time.”

  Ewing chuckled and hefted the huge pile of paper—reports that had been turned in by the many officers who had participated in last night’s investigation. “I suppose so. But how many times have you found that many people present at the scene of a crime?”

  “And very articulate people, at that. I mean, if you had your pick, who would you rather interrogate for juicy details than some gossip columnist?”

  “Right!” Ewing laughed again. “Plus all those media people. It certainly was a short cut to a lot of information. I hadn’t known, for instance, about the feud between Hoffman and Chase.”

  “It was in the business section of the paper. I keep telling you, you’ve got to start reading more than the sports pages.”

  Ewing smiled broadly. “OK, OK, let’s get on with it. Remember when Hoffman claimed last night that he couldn’t think of anyone who might want to kill him? Enemies, maybe, but no mortal enemies?”

  “Maybe,” Papkin responded, “he just wasn’t thinking of half the people in that room.”

  “With the possible exception of Chairman Frank Martin and Hoffman’s sister. But when you’re looking for the strongest motives, it pretty well comes down to a tight little group of four, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re thinking of Charles and Louise Chase, Angie Mercury, and Jacqueline LeBlanc. Right?” Papkin lit a cigarette. He was trying to quit smoking and was using the slow, painful method of cutting back on his daily allotment of cigarettes.

  “That’s right.” Ewing consulted his notes, partly taken from his own investigation and partly a potpourri of the findings of other officers at the scene. “Charles’ motive is revenge. Hoffman seems to have damn near deep-sixed Chase’s career. Ditto to Louise Chase. Revenge for her husband’s disgrace plus getting rid of somebody who was after her husband’s position in The Company. Angie Mercury would have gotten rid of the embarrassment of having to accept virtual handouts from his brother-in-law. Plus, he could have been pretty sure Hoffman would have amply taken care of his sister in his will.” He paused. “He did, didn’t he?”

  Papkin, who had read and made a copy of Hoffman’s will, nodded.

  “So,” Ewing continued, “if Mercury takes out Hoffman, he gets rid of a major league nuisance while not losing the cash value. Then, there’s always the mistress. In this case, she’s sure he isn’t going to make an honest woman of her, plus she shows up at the scene just in time to pull it off.”

  “There’s more.” Papkin exhaled through his nose. He was the more serious smoker who inhaled down to his toenails. “She, also, is not only mentioned in the will, but gets a healthy sum. Two hundred thou, to be exact.”

  “So, she not only gets revenge for his using her, she also profits.”

  “And you may have to add one more suspect to your list.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  Papkin shoved the photostat of Hoffman’s will across the table. His finger pointed to an underlined name.

  Ewing whistled softly. “Bishop Ratigan!”

  “Like Miss LeBlanc, the good bishop collects two hundred grand, passes Go, and it remains to be seen whether he gets sent to jail.

  “This estate, Ray, is worth one point two million dollars.”

  Ewing whistled again.

  “From what I’ve been able to learn,” Papkin continued, “Frank and Cindy Hoffman come from a middle-class home. The bond between them is remarkably tight. Frank got a job with The Company as an engineer. For most of his career, he climbed the corporate ladder steadily but slowly. Until he finally attracted the attention of the right people. Then the career really zoomed.” Papkin extinguished the cigarette and resisted the urge to light another. “Recently—well, for about three years—he was in the hundred-thou-a-year category. But, for the past two years, he’s been in the two-hundred-grand-a-year group.

  “He’s always taken care of his sister. But since he came into the bucks, he’s really been supporting her—and by association, her husband—in a style she could never maintain without him.

  “There’s a minimal trust for his wife. And that wouldn’t be significant because she came from money and was wealthy in her own right. Except . . .”

  “Except,” Ewing continued Papkin’s line of thought, indicating they were in agreement, “that Hoffman and his wife were on the outs. And when Jackie LeBlanc shows up, Emma Hoffman lets the world know there’s trouble in paradise.

  “Say,” Ewing rubbed his chin, “it comes down to Hoffman’s having plenty of motive for killing his wife. Everybody thinks he is the intended victim while he turns the tables and offs h
er.”

  “That’s right, except for a couple of things.”

  “Yeah, I know. How could he get her to grab a glass out of his hand at just the moment he was holding a poisoned drink? She had to do that spontaneously. How did Louise Chase put it—on impulse. Hoffman couldn’t have controlled that. And if somebody doesn’t grab it, he ends up holding onto a drink he knows is poisoned.”

  “Right, plus one more thing.” Papkin, losing his private battle, lit another cigarette and promised himself he would make up for the indulgence later. “Hoffman may have had a motive for killing his wife, but he lacked the opportunity. And here we come to another consideration. By actual count, the poisoned drink was Hoffman’s fourth perfect Rob Roy last night. So, the poison had to be put in the drink the bartender set up after Hoffman’s third drink. That’s the crucial time: between the third and fourth drink. That’s when the killer had to act.”

  “So?”

  “So, between the third and fourth drink, the only people who remained together and thus had no opportunity to fix the drink were Hoffman, who doesn’t figure in the picture; his wife, who becomes the victim; Hoffman’s sister and Father Koesler, the only two in this little group who had nothing to gain from Hoffman’s death and who are not suspects.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  Papkin took another deep drag. God, it was good. Why was smoking so bad? “OK. Take Charles and Louise Chase.” He was consulting the notes he had collated from the general investigation to date. “Neither of them was a part of Hoffman’s group last night. Nor were they together at all times during the party. Either of them could have slipped over to the bar at any time and deposited the poison in the glass that had been placed over Hoffman’s name. Then, there’s Angie Mercury. Between Hoffman’s third and fourth drink, he went over to talk to that TV executive—”

  “Jeanne Findlater.”

  “Right. That gives him the opportunity to go to the bar, and drop the poison. Jackie LeBlanc: Between drinks three and four, she makes her first appearance with the group. She could have entered the room, registered, dropped the poison, then joined the group.

  “Finally, there’s the good bishop. He’s been standing with the group throughout. Then, between drinks three and four, he goes over to talk with J. P. McCarthy. The big thing is, he’s away from the group. After he talked to McCarthy, he could easily have wandered over to the bar, deposited the poison, then rejoined the group.

  “So, all our suspects had not only motive but also opportunity. The only ones who had neither motive nor opportunity were Koesler and Cindy Mercury. So, we end up with five bona fide suspects.”

  Ewing shrugged. “We’ve started with better and we’ve started with worse. By the way, what about the waiter?”

  Papkin frowned. “He passed the polygraph.”

  Ewing smiled. “Not such a nervous little fellow after all.”

  “He’s been at the club a few years.” Papkin consulted his notes. “Before that, he worked at just about everything—a short-order cook, night watchman, manager of a hotel, a few stints as an extra in some local theater and nightclubs, and, off and on, a waiter in local restaurants and hotels. No motive for attempting to kill Hoffman. Matter of fact, Hoffman always tips him pretty good. He’ll finally get his name in the papers only because he happened to deliver a poisoned drink.

  “Well, what next?”

  “I suggest we start visiting some of these nice people and ask some more questions. And, while we’re at it, look around for a source for this nicotine poison.”

  “Want to stop off and get some search warrants?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Ewing smiled one of his more charming smiles. “If I can’t wheedle my way into the confidence of these five people, one of whom is undoubtedly our murderer, I’ll turn in my Dick Tracy two-way wrist radio.”

  “It has been too long!” Inspector Walter Koznicki rose to greet Father Koesler.

  The gesture was typical of Koznicki, head of the Detroit Police Department’s homicide division. A student of modern police work and methods, indeed, avant garde in his use of modern technology, when it came to religion, he was old world, a conservative, in the best sense of that word, to the core. It was natural for him to stand at the entrance of a priest, even though the priest happened to be an old friend. He reverenced the priesthood and he expressed this reverence through courtly manners.

  Koesler smiled and grasped the outstretched hand, or rather, lost his hand in Koznicki’s.

  They were seated at a table in the Kingsley Inn on Woodward in Bloomfield Hills. Once they had taken their places on the upholstered banquette that ran the length of the wall, the hostess gently eased the table close to them—or rather, close to Koznicki. At which point, it was still several inches away from Koesler.

  Koesler was a large man. But Koznicki was one of those rare people who are metaphorically described as bigger than life. He wasn’t fat. He was big. When Koesler saw the table stop as it reached Koznicki and noted the distance still remaining between the table and himself, the priest placed both palms against the underside of the table and continued the movement of his side of the table. They would dine with their table on the bias, as they had many times before.

  “How are things at St. Anselm’s?” Koznicki moved the ashtray to a neighboring table. He had never smoked. Koesler had quit smoking several years before.

  “In general, quite well. In particular, not so good.”

  Koznicki ran a large hand through his full head of dark hair. “You would be referring to the murder. Terrible thing!”

  The waitress brought bread, butter, and water. They would study the menu later. Meanwhile, Koesler would have a bourbon manhattan, Koznicki sherry.

  “It’s hard to imagine that last night at this time there was a party going on at the Collegiate Club and Emma Hoffman was alive,” said Koesler.

  “I know how you must feel, Father. It must have been particularly shocking to you since you were present.”

  How did Koznicki know that, Koesler wondered. The Inspector caught his inquiring look. “One of the detectives investigating the case knew of our friendship and informed me of your presence. Normally, at this stage of the investigation, the detectives would not make any report. But when you asked that we meet, I asked Sergeants Ewing and Papkin to brief me. It is only the first day, but they have made considerable progress. Of course, this is to be desired. As we have discussed before, the more time elapses the less chance there is that the case will be solved.”

  The waitress brought their drinks. The small glass of sherry looked as if it were a miniature in Koznicki’s meaty fingers.

  “Will the funeral be held at St. Anselm’s?”

  Koesler nodded. “Thursday morning. Bishop Ratigan will be the main concelebrant of the . . . Mass.” He smiled. “I almost said ‘funeral Mass.’ Sometimes it’s hard to remember it’s called the ‘Mass of Resurrection’ now.”

  “Bishop Ratigan? Are you certain?”

  “Why, yes. It’s at the request of Frank Hoffman. They’re friends, you know. I’ll concelebrate and there should be other priests concelebrating. The Hoffmans are prominent Catholics so we’re expecting quite a few priests. But Bishop Ratigan will be the principal concelebrant.

  “You seem surprised.”

  Koznicki took a sip of wine. “Bishop Ratigan was interrogated today by Detectives Ewing and Papkin.”

  “Interrogated!” Somehow the word sounded more ominous than “questioned.” “Why in God’s green world would they interrogate Bishop Ratigan?”

  Koznicki explained in detail the finds and conclusions reached by Ewing and Papkin that morning.

  As the explanation proceeded, Koesler recalled the events as they had transpired. He remembered standing with Hoffman, Mercury, and Ratigan as they were joined by Emma and Cindy. He recalled Hoffman’s complaining that his empty glass had not been replaced with a fresh drink. He had not been aware that he had joined the group during Hoffman’s se
cond drink. Now that Koznicki had so informed him, Koesler thought of the lucidity of Hoffman’s speech and marveled at the way the man could hold liquor when not groggy from medication.

  Cindy had left the group for a short while to fetch a waiter. The waiter had first removed Hoffman’s empty glass—that would be drink two—and brought him a fresh drink—that would be number three.

  At this point, the bartender would make up the fourth perfect Rob Roy and place it on the bar atop Frank’s name card. While that fourth drink rested on the bar, someone would pour poison into it. Who?

  Neither Charles nor Louise Chase had been present in the Hoffman circle. Nor, according to Koznicki, had the couple been together at all times last night. Either of them could have had the opportunity. But Koesler could not imagine either of them, especially the gentle Louise, doing it.

  As Koznicki continued his explanation, Koesler continued to display his self-made motion picture against the screen of his memory.

  This was the crucial time. The Chases were off somewhere in the room. Was one of them poisoning a drink? He could see Angie Mercury depart from the group. He could see Mike Ratigan leave. A bishop poison a drink? Impossible. It was medieval! He could see Jackie LeBlanc join the group. Where had she been?

  Koesler could agree that each of these people might have a motive for murder. But, with the exception of Miss LeBlanc, whom he didn’t really know, he could not imagine anyone actually doing the deed. It was one thing for a civilized person to consider murder—anyone could think of anything. But it was quite another thing to actually take someone’s life.

  As he mentally rewound this imaginary film, Koesler recalled that the only ones not to leave the scene during this crucial span were Frank, the intended victim; Emma, the actual victim; himself—and God knows he had nothing to do with it; and Cindy, who would be the last to try to harm her brother, and who certainly had no reason to.

  For a moment, Koesler pitied the police. Everyone who would not have committed the crime also could not. While everyone who might have committed murder also could have.