Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  “Besides,” he continued, “the kind of help I was able to come up with was mostly a fluke. As it turned out, you would have solved those crimes with your police work.”

  Harris admired the honesty. Koesler’s summation was accurate. But with the kind of publicity he had received at the time, it would have been very easy to develop a bad case of swollen head.

  “You should not dismiss your contribution so quickly, Father,” said Koznicki. “You discovered the ultimate clue and prevented a couple of murders.”

  “Believe me, Inspector,” said Koesler, “I’m just a guy who likes to read mystery novels, knows more about Catholicism than the ordinary person, and got lucky.”

  “We,” said Harris, leaning forward, “would like you to lay a little of that luck on us again.”

  “I’ll be glad to do what I can, you know that. Just don’t depend on the sort of luck we had before.”

  “Don’t worry, Father,” said Harris, “we’ll be doing our job. But you may be able to help with this crazy Catholic angle.”

  “Yes,” Koznicki said, “there are few similarities and many differences between these two cases. We are not now dealing with the murder of innocent men and women. We have here the apparent murders of two of Detroit’s most notorious hoodlums.”

  “At this point,” said Harris, “we have plenty of motives and plenty of suspects. Any number of hoods out there want guys like Ruggiero and Harding out of the way so they can move up in the rackets.”

  “What stymies us,” Koznicki continued the thought, “is the heads being placed in churches, inside a hat, in the first instance, and on the shoulders of a statue, in the second.”

  “Any ideas?” Harris asked.

  Koesler pondered a moment, twisting the ubiquitous toothpick between his lips. “Well, all I can think of is something one of my confreres said, that maybe it has something to do with a pun on the word ‘capital’.”

  “‘Capital’?”

  “Yes. The way my friend has it figured, caput is Latin for ‘head.’ It is also the source of our word ‘capital’ as in capital punishment. Thus, it would be appropriate for someone who is guilty of serious, or ‘capital’ crimes, to have his head, or caput, removed. And,” Koesler rhetorized, adding a few thoughts of his own, “where better to put the caput than in a hat or on a body, even if the body is a statue?

  “Plus,” Koesler was warming to the subject, “you must remember, gentlemen, that it wasn’t too many years ago that when criminals were executed, their heads were placed on poles or posts. And it wasn’t too many years ago that this was a most common, if barbaric, practice.”

  “Not bad,” Harris commented.

  “But not much, I’m afraid.” Koesler sighed, silently coming down from a self-induced high. “The hypothesis tells nothing of why Cardinal Mooney’s gigantic red hat should be chosen for one head and St. Cecilia’s statue for the other.”

  “That may be true, Father,” said Koznicki, tipping his chair back against the wall. Both Harris and Koesler wondered how the chair’s two rear legs could sustain all that weight. “But it remains the first solid theory we’ve had about the heads. So you see, you’ve made a contribution already.” Koznicki smiled at Koesler.

  “Tell me, Inspector—or Lieutenant,” Koesler nodded at each man, “is it possible that this case is anything like the other one, The Rosary Murders? Remember, you told me, Inspector, that some killers, when there is a series of murders, want to be stopped almost as much as they want to complete their task. So they intentionally leave clues for the police.”

  “Yes, that’s true, Father,” Harris answered. “That sometimes happens. Like the ‘Son of Sam’ murders in New York a few years ago. The killer always used the same caliber revolver, sent notes to newspaper people, and established a pattern that allowed the police to tighten their surveillance until they caught him.”

  “It’s a language the killer creates.” Koznicki tipped his chair forward to an upright position. “The language—a shorthand of clues. The trick is to break the code. Once we understand what the killer intends these clues to represent, we’ve broken the code and should have our man.”

  “But you see, Father,” said Harris, “we’re not even sure that what we have in The Red Hat Murders is that classic conversation with clues. For all we know, the killer may be a maniac. Or someone who has some deep negative feelings about religion. Or both!”

  The three were silent for a few moments.

  “Well, Father,” Koznicki stood, indicating the conversation was at an end, “what we’d like you to do is give this some thought. If you come up with anything—anything at all—please let us know. Here are numbers where we can be reached at any time, day or night.”

  Both Koznicki and Harris handed Koesler their business cards.

  “All right.” Koesler tucked the cards into his wallet. “I’ll certainly do what I can, and I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Please do,” Koznicki called after Koesler as the priest left the squad room.

  Koznicki and Harris looked at each other.

  “Well, that’s different,” Harris commented.

  “What’s different?”

  “Prayer added to police procedure.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Harris glanced at an ashtray at one end of the squad room table. It contained several chewed-up toothpicks. “What,” he asked, pointing to the pile, “is that all about?”

  “Father Koesler recently gave up smoking,” Koznicki explained.

  “Someone will probably discover that toothpick chewing can be dangerous to one’s health,” said Harris, sardonically.

  “Yeah, instead of dying from lung cancer, he’ll probably die of Dutch Elm disease,” Koznicki retorted.

  Koesler began the walk down the exit staircase, his thoughts mixed. He was trying to chance upon even a single reason why the heads had been found where they were. Nothing of consequence occurred to him. Finally, he decided to shop a bit at Hudson’s and drop into St. Aloysius rectory for lunch. Have lunch with the boss! Koesler smiled as he thought of Father Brendan from Dearborn. Some people were actually impressed that Father Brendan was able to lunch with the boss. Almost at will. After all, how many of his Dearborn parishioners were able to lunch with Henry Ford II?

  Nelson Kane drummed a pencil against his desk blotter. He felt something like a waiter forced to serve a dinner that has been badly prepared by a chef who is safe in the kitchen.

  It was at times like these that Kane gave serious thought to chucking it all, retiring to an island off the Irish coast, and just writing.

  However, becoming an author required not only skill, but a great deal of determination and, as frequently as not, a healthy dose of luck. Kane was not sure if he could count on all three.

  Short of that, he was nearing fifty. And, he reflected, something happens to a man on reaching his fifties. Even with the growing phenomenon of the “midlife change,” most people, especially men, who had a job where the pluses outweighed the minuses, held on. Even when the margin of difference was slight.

  He’d given nearly his entire professional life to the Free Press. There had been many exultant times—chief among them when the paper, with him in the lead, had won a Pulitzer Prize for its coverage of the 1967 riots.

  Now was one of the low points. Kane, his pencil drumming, his stomach churning, decided it was useless to further delay the inevitable.

  “Lennon!” he called out. And, after a moment’s hesitation, “Cox!”

  The two reporters arrived at Kane’s desk feeling very good. Finally, they were able to work together and were proving they were good at it. The knowledge had brightened their already happy lives.

  “Lennon ...” Kane hesitated. “Lennon, you’re off the story.”

  Lennon’s smile dissolved into a look of disbelief. “Off … off what story, Nellie?”

  “The Red Hat Murders.” Kane, standing, dropped his gaze to his desk. He could no longer meet her eye
s.

  Lennon’s lips began to tremble ever so slightly.

  “For the love of God, Nellie, why?” Cox was livid.

  “It’s been decided,” Kane looked at Cox, but without the accustomed animation in his eyes, “that this is a one-man story. We are not going to waste our personnel on something one man can cover.”

  “Bull!” shouted Cox. Several reportorial heads in the vicinity raised and glanced briefly at the three.

  Lennon put her hand on Cox’s arm. She was very near tears. “I know you can’t say it, Nellie, but tell me if I’m wrong. It’s Lowell, isn’t it? He doesn’t want me on this story.”

  Kane said nothing. He continued studying his desk blotter.

  “Well, who’s running this chickenshit outfit, anyway?” Cox looked as if he were ready to take on the entire administration of the Free Press one by one.

  “Ease off, Joe,” Lennon said. “Nellie, is it O.K. if I take the rest of the day off?”

  Kane nodded.

  “I’ll go with you,” Cox said.

  “Like hell you will.” Kane for the first time took the offensive.

  “Shall we straighten this out in the hall?” Cox moved a step or two toward the glass partition. It was ridiculous. Although Cox had Kane by almost twenty-five years, Kane had Cox by nearly one hundred pounds. And Kane was still in sufficient shape to end an altercation with Cox decisively.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Lennon. “I don’t want you to come with me right now. I think I’ll just go contemplate at Belle Isle for a while. See you later at the apartment, Joe.”

  She returned to her desk, picked up her tote bag, and left.

  Cox and Kane stood riveted.

  “Sorry, Nellie,” Cox said finally. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s O.K., Joe. I know how you feel. If it were my woman, I’d feel the same.”

  “That guy,” said Cox, motioning toward Lowell’s office, “is going to make a shambles of this paper yet. “

  “I know, “said Kane, sitting down behind his desk. “I know.”

  Father Joseph Sheehan had been the first to enter St. Aloysius’ dining room for lunch. He had served himself some chicken broth and taken a seat directly across from the high-backed chair Archbishop Mark Boyle would occupy should he appear at this luncheon.

  Sheehan had just begun to sip his soup when the ornate door opened and Father Bohdan Borucki entered. Borucki had just been appointed assistant to Sister Ann Marie Schultz, the Vicar for Religious. Thus, he was now Assistant Vicar for Religious.

  Borucki was beginning to ladle some soup into his bowl, when Sheehan stood and, adopting the words of the popular spiritual, intoned, “Sometimes I feel like a vicarless nun … ”

  Borucki looked up, expressionless, paused a moment, then finished filling his bowl. He took a seat kitty-cornered from Sheehan.

  At this point, Archbishop Mark Boyle entered and, as usually happened when the Archbishop entered a room, conversations either ceased or were reduced in volume.

  Boyle selected several pieces of fresh fruit and took his place. After saying Grace, his intense blue eyes briefly studied Sheehan and Borucki.

  “Well, Father Borucki,” Boyle said, “has there been any decision as to when the vicariate workshops for our religious should be held?”

  “The other sisters and I feel as if the best time would be in May,” said Borucki.

  Sheehan guffawed. Boyle reddened slightly. Borucki stared at Sheehan briefly, then resumed spooning his soup.

  Father Robert Koesler entered, nodded to those already seated, and created a hamburger sandwich. He seated himself next to the Archbishop. After several moments of continued silence, Boyle spoke.

  “Have you been back visiting the Detroit Catholic lately, Father?”

  “Not for several weeks, Excellency.”

  “What do you think of the job Irene Casey is doing?”

  “First-rate. I think she’s making the best possible use of the very limited space she is given. But how about yourself? After all, you are the publisher.”

  Father Adrian, a Jesuit who occasionally helped out with Masses and confessions in St. Aloysius, entered. He began with a glass of milk. The luncheon crowd was beginning to build.

  “Oh,” replied Boyle, “I am very pleased with Irene. The paper seems to have a nice balance. And I am especially pleased that she likes her job.”

  “I’m just glad you agreed to make her my successor,” said Koesler, “there aren’t very many lady editors-in-chief, especially in the Catholic press.”

  Father Paschal, a large round Dominican, who also helped occasionally at St. Aloysius, entered. He was vested in his black and white Dominican habit.

  “I see,” said Father Adrian, a bit more loudly than necessary, “that the Dominicans are still among us.”

  Paschal began to fill his plate with hash browns. “That’s right, Father Adrian. We’ve never been suppressed.”

  Moments earlier, Sheehan and Borucki had begun a conversation that had steadily increased in volume. They were so loud now that the others stopped their own conversations to watch the two at the far end of the long table.

  “What I’d like to know, Bohdan,” Sheehan said, flourishing a stalk of celery like a crozier, “is how it feels under Ann Marie Schultz?”

  “Basically, you see, Father,” answered Borucki, ignoring or perhaps missing the double entendre, “we feel we are in parallel positions.”

  “I suppose,” persisted Sheehan, “that since men wrote all the rules for nuns, it’s only natural that they couldn’t have just a woman vicar without having a man about?”

  “It is generally felt,” Borucki droned while tilting his soup bowl to scoop the last few drops, “in most dioceses that men are a stabilizing influence.”

  “Well, then,” Sheehan was beginning to feel that he would never reach Borucki, “you are sort of convinced that you are, at least in the archdiocese, God’s gift to nuns?”

  Borucki stared across the table at Sheehan, a look of comprehension spreading over his face. “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “You’re being perceptive,” Sheehan shot back.

  “You did it again!” Borucki flung his napkin on the table.

  Meanwhile, across the street from St. Aloysius, a black, late model Chevy pulled into the parking lot on the corner of Washington Boulevard and State Street. In the car were three deacons from St. John’s Seminary. They had a 1:30 P.M. appointment with Bishop Arthur Kenny to receive their fall assignments. Each would be sent to a parish somewhere in the Archdiocese of Detroit where, for the next several months, they would act out their role as deacons and accustom themselves to parochial life. Unlike permanent deacons, these men were using the diaconate as a step toward ordination to the priesthood. Already attired as priests, each wore a black suit and clerical collar.

  Unbeknownst to his two companions, Deacon Ed Landregan had prepared for this special day with intensive prayer and fasting. So severe had his self-imposed penance been that he was now physically very weak. But he resolved to conquer this weakness as he had subdued most demands of the flesh—by sheer will power.

  As the three began to walk across Washington Boulevard, Landregan faltered, then almost collapsed.

  “What is it, Ed?” asked a startled Deacon Mike Shanahan.

  “What’s the matter, Ed?” asked Deacon Dave Ballas, equally startled.

  “It’s nothing,” Landregan said, “I’m all right.” He focused all his energy on the door of the chancery, determined to reach at least that goal and not make a fool of himself in the middle of downtown Detroit.

  They walked on. But, with each step, Landregan grew weaker.

  As they reached the front of St. Aloysius, Landregan stopped and leaned against a light pole. His head was swimming. He fought the dizziness with dwindling will power. He knew he was about to faint.

  “Don’t you feel well?” asked Shanahan, now near panic.

  Landregan slumped to the ground,
unconscious.

  Immediately, Shanahan knelt on the pavement and cradled Landregan’s head in his arms.

  A middle-aged woman coming out of St. Aloysius took in the scene of what was apparently one unconscious priest being cradled by another priest. She hurried to them.

  “Can I do anything to help, Father?” she asked, with genuine concern.

  “Yes!” Shanahan looked up at her and noticed the gathering crowd. “Get a priest!”

  She was not sure she’d heard correctly. But, willing to follow any authoritative direction, she looked about and spied another apparent priest standing not more than fifteen feet away in frozen inaction. She rushed over to him.

  “Father wants a priest … Father,” she finished lamely, pointing to the clerical tableau on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll go get one,” said Ballas, leaving her and entering St. Aloysius.

  The would-be Good Samaritan walked away, muttering to herself.

  St. Aloysius was one of Detroit’s more interesting parishes.

  If not for its location, the Summit restaurant undoubtedly would not have enjoyed its reputation as the place to see and be seen. The quality of the food was unpredictable, drinks were ample but on the whole weak, and service ranged from slow to nonexistent. But it was THE Summit, atop Renaissance Center, that cluster of buildings that had become a relatively safe enclave on the border of a high-crime area. The view, from the slowly rotating dining area, of Detroit, Windsor, and the Detroit River, was magnificent.

  Three priests in clerical garb had just been seated near the center of the room. A very poor spot from which to enjoy the view. The trio studied their menus in silence as the busboy briskly poured ice water into their large glasses. He was filling the third and final glass when the balding, paunchy priest spoke.

  “Now, don’t any of you let on,” stage-whispered Father Donald Curley to his two companions, “that I am the Free Press’ Anonymous Gourmet!”

  The busboy stopped in mid-fill of the third glass, and, as if carrying a message to Garcia, hurried from the table and headed toward the maitre d’ at a brisk clip.