Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  There was the lady who, on entering, always removed the sopping sponge from the holy water container and threw it against the wall. Or, Father McInerny reflected, the bum sitting in the confessional distributing outrageous penances. Or the woman who, at this moment, and many times previously, moved seemingly aimlessly through the church endlessly crossing herself.

  Actually, very few of the considerable number who visited St. Aloysius Mondays through Fridays stayed long enough to attend an entire Mass.

  One of the few who occasionally dropped in to attend the 7:30 morning Mass, and who was in attendance now, was Inspector Koznicki. Ordinarily when Koznicki attended Mass—or for that matter a movie or a concert—he tried to find a place in the rear of the church or theater. Conscious of his size, he was considerate enough to avoid blocking the view of others. However, at St. Aloysius, so few came to attend weekday Mass that he would be an impediment to another’s vision only if the other were to plan it that way.

  This Thursday morning, he was kneeling in the second pew, thus purposely missing most of the distractions behind him. But he was unable to avoid the self-made distractions that buzzed through his brain.

  For a brief time as a boy, Koznicki had toyed with the idea of becoming a priest. That plan had quickly given way to the desire to be a policeman. From that time on, he had never swerved. After becoming a policeman, he had wanted to be part of the Homicide Division. When he became a homicide detective, he had hoped he would one day become Inspector of Homicide. Now that he was, he wanted nothing more.

  Koznicki was never sure of all the reasons that contributed to his love for homicide detection. He prized life, all life, especially human life. When human life was taken by violence, he always experienced an insatiable curiosity to learn who had done it and why. He was good at his work. Many would claim that if he were not the best there was none better.

  While Detroit probably suffered unjustly from its popular description as The Murder Capital of the World, there was no serious lack of homicide within the corporate limits of the city. Morticians would not run out of customers, and Homicide would not run out of cases.

  Koznicki’s thoughts turned to some of the current cases being investigated by his seven squads. The most intriguing, currently, was the killing of two of the city’s most notorious criminals. The special problem here was keeping a serious attitude toward the solution of the murders. The most natural reaction of most law enforcement officers when a known criminal was killed was relief. Even euphoria. But these cases easily deserved as much serious work as any other homicide.

  Besides, if there were no breakthrough soon, the public might be led to believe, mostly by the news media, that the police were uninterested in solving the case. It was never good to allow the reputation of police unconcern to be established.

  Father McInerny was nearing the Greeting of Peace.

  Koznicki consciously drew his attention fully to the ritual.

  “The peace of the Lord be with you always,” Father McInerny intoned.

  “And also with you.” The response came cacophonously from isolated sections of the church.

  “Let us,” McInerny said from memory, “offer each other a sign of peace.” He turned and shook hands with the little old man who was acting as altar server.

  Koznicki looked about. There wasn’t anyone within even his wingspread to shake hands with. So he kept his peace to himself.

  “Lamb of God,” McInerny continued, “who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us.”

  Some movement in the basement of the church caught Koznicki’s eye. A small blue-haired woman was dropping coins in a votive receptacle. Her attempts to light a candle were so awkward that Koznicki couldn’t take his eyes offer. She knelt before the shrine of St. Raphael the Archangel and made the sign of the cross over and over and over.

  Koznicki smiled at the varieties of human idiosyncracy.

  About to return his attention to the altar in front of him, he became aware of something amiss. He looked again at the crossing lady, then at the shrine, then at the life-size statue.

  It indeed resembled the popular artistic rendering of St. Raphael, except for the head. A real human head rested on the statued saint’s shoulders.

  The lady continued to cross herself.

  For once, in this series of crimes, no one had to phone and inform the Inspector of Homicide about a suspicious death.

  4

  St. Frances Cabrini

  It was one of those rare mornings in the city room. No one at the coffee machine, no one at the water cooler, no clusters of people standing around in idle conversation.

  The three exceptions to this scene of unrelieved labor were Nelson Kane, Joe Cox, and Pat Lennon. They were standing around Lennon’s desk, which she was cleaning out.

  “Lennon,” Kane was saying, “don’t you think you’re being precipitate?”

  “Nope!”

  “I mean, you’ve been here—what is it, five years now? You’re at top scale. This is no time to let some personal problem interfere with your work here. And besides, you haven’t given the customary two weeks’ notice.”

  “Nellie …” Lennon continued fitting her personal belongings into a cardboard box, “My ‘personal problem,’ as you so winningly understate it, is practically a denial of the First Amendment as far as I’m concerned. I could continue to work here at scale and not a dollar more, writing nice fluffy stories and here and there an obit until I don’t mind the cobwebs growing between my ears.

  “As for your ‘notice,’ I have four weeks of a long-overdue vacation due me. I am taking it starting today, and you are herewith formally informed,” she bowed in Kane’s direction, “that I am thereupon terminating my employment with Knight-Ridder’s Detroit Free Press. “There,” she straightened up, “you now have four weeks’ notice!”

  “But—”

  “It’s no use, Nellie,” Cox said, dejectedly, “I spent all last night trying to talk her out of it. I couldn’t. In the end,” he added, “I can’t say I blame her.”

  “Nellie,” Lennon’s voice was insistent, “they offered me more money. Loads more money. Scale is higher there than it is here anyway. And, on top of that, they offered me a merit increase before I even start. And I’ve got practically carte blanche on the stories I want to develop outside of regular assignments.”

  “And,” she added triumphantly, “that includes The Red Hat Murders!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, but this is where you cut your teeth. The Free Press will always be home to you.” Kane was not known for giving up easily.

  “Your argument would’ve made more sense a few years ago,” Lennon said. “Then it wouldn’t have made any difference what the News had offered, I would’ve had enough loyalty and esprit de corps to stick it out here. But that’s all changed now.” She tossed her head in the direction of Karl Lowell’s office.

  Nelson Kane’s broad shoulders slumped slightly. He suddenly felt older than his years and tired.

  The phone on Kane’s desk rang.

  “City desk!” he barked. His voice and whole being became suddenly animated. “What? Where? When? Who?” Furiously, in his own peculiar shorthand, he was taking notes.

  He’s asked just about all the questions they teach in basic journalism class, Cox thought.

  Kane slammed the receiver to its cradle. “Cox,” he turned to the reporter, “they found another one—another head— another Red Hat Murder! In St. Al’s up the street. Preliminary identification says it’s Dutch Strauss—”

  “Dutch Strauss!” Cox whistled.

  “Looks like the same M.O. Drag your ass over there right away!”

  “Breslin! McNaught!” Kane called out to two more of his best staff writers, who had been working at their desks, but who now looked up ready to move. “There’s been another Red Hat Murder. Breslin, check with the Medical Examiner. McNaught, check in with Homicide Squad Six—what’s his name?—Harris. And see if you can talk to Koznicki. Go!”


  The two jumped from their chairs, grabbed their coats, and left the city room at nearly a run.

  There was nothing, thought Kane, to get the old adrenalin going again like a lurid murder—unless it was a series of lurid murders.

  Cox had already reached the rack of elevators.

  Lennon fished through the box she had packed, found her notebook, and turned to leave.

  “Where d’ya think you’re going?” Kane almost roared.

  “To cover the latest Red Hat Murder,” she said over her shoulder.

  “But …you got that lead from me!”

  “Thanks! You owed me several!” As she turned toward the elevators, she gave an elaborate wink and a toss of her hip in the direction of Lowell’s office. She knew he’d been watching from behind his Venetian blinds.

  In his office, behind the blinds, Karl Lowell recoiled as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on him.

  Lieutenant Harris was cooling his heels aboard the bench outside Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann’s office. The Medical Examiner was doing just that—examining the remains of the decapitation that had been delivered a short time earlier.

  Harris had divided his squad. One group he had sent to St. Aloysius, the other to Strauss’ headquarters.

  While Harris waited for Moellmann’s findings, Marge, the Medical Examiner’s red-headed Texas transplant, first offered Harris coffee, which he politely declined, then regaled him with the tale of her latest tribulation, an offering impossible to politely decline.

  It seemed that earlier in the week, the small dog owned by Marge’s small son had managed to squeeze under the fence into her neighbor’s yard, where, according to Marge, little damage had been done. The neighbors, however, had called the police, who then ticketed Marge. Now she had a court date.

  Harris was sure her story would culminate in a request to fix her ticket. He was therefore pleasantly surprised when Marge concluded what was literally and figuratively a shaggy dog story with the simple comment, “Ah jes’ thank it wuz dawnrot tacky of mah naibuhs to call the fuhzz!”

  Harris admitted it was indeed tacky and admired her figure as she returned to her office.

  Ned Harris was more than a police officer. He was a student of his profession. He read all the law enforcement publications and studied the serious literature and texts on the subject. He never read mystery novels. Mistakes in police procedure, common in novels, disgusted him. He was even more angered by the macho big city cops who single-handedly solved even the most difficult mysteries, invariably bringing in either a dead malefactor who should have been taken alive, or a live one whose case would never stand the test of trial.

  Harris could not remember a time when he had not wanted to be a police officer. His constant state of physical fitness and his lively, inquisitive, and retentive mind had pushed him through the ranks at far greater than average speed. Like many others, his prime goal after being inducted into the force had been to become a member of the Homicide Division. This he had achieved, leapfrogging many other candidates.

  Once in Homicide, it had been his great good fortune to become the partner of Walter Koznicki. The two had operated almost as Damon and Pythias, becoming the best of friends. Harris was proud that he was a lieutenant in Homicide and almost equally proud that his close friend was the Inspector.

  From time to time, Harris tried to pinpoint the reasons for his strong attraction to this division. There were almost as many reasons as there were occasions devoted to trying to ascertain them.

  Danger surely was high among his motives. All law enforcement involved a certain level of danger, from the precinct desk to traffic control to the classic domestic disturbance to the ultimate gun battle. But in murder, the highest stakes had already been established. A murderer had already committed the ultimate physical crime. Having done so, he usually had little hesitancy in repeating the act, even against a police officer.

  Harris’ reverie was interrupted by the appearance of Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann. Moellmann startled him. Harris had no idea how long the Medical Examiner had been standing there, only that he suddenly was aware of a vulturine shape, slightly stooped, hands locked behind his back, glasses nearly ready to fall from the edge of his nose.

  “Were you waiting to see me?” Moellmann asked, needlessly.

  “Yes.” Harris sighed softly. “Lieutenant Harris, Homicide Squad Six.” He decided to obviate the usual routine of repetitive identifications.

  “Ah, yes.” Moellmann’s tone might have indicated he was recalling an old friend. “Homicide Squad Six. Or the Head Squad, as we refer to them in the autopsy room.”

  Moellmann strode through the anteroom that was his secretary’s office and into his own spacious office, hands still clutched tightly behind his back. He did not invite Harris to follow. The Lieutenant took the invitation for granted and followed. As they passed through Marge’s office, she dramatically raised her eyes heavenward. Only Harris noticed. He grinned.

  Moellmann sat in the straight-back leather chair before the desk. Harris settled into the overstuffed leather couch. He waited for the explosion. Everything was going far too urbanely. Still, Moellmann was ever the histrionic, and master of the unexpected.

  “So, Lieutenant Harris, you found another head. How interesting.” He might have been speaking to a grade school pupil who had handed in a satisfactory paper.

  There was a long, pregnant pause.

  “Uh,” Harris determined he might just as well break the ice, “did you find anything new?”

  “No! No! No! No!” Moellmann shouted, throwing his head back and covering his eyes with both hands. “No! No! No! No!”

  Outside the office, Marge could barely be heard. “Y’all jes’ gonna rise your timpercheer.”

  Inwardly, Harris enjoyed the exhibition. But he needed to plow ahead. “Well, then, did you find anything old?”

  “Old? Old? Old?” Moellmann was taken slightly off balance.

  “Is it the same M.O.?”

  “Ah.” Moellmann rubbed his hands together. “Yes, it is the same M.O. The neck was severed at shoulder level; the same bent handsaw was used; despite the decedent’s rather thick muscular neck, it was severed in four or five strokes, and there was a genuine look of horror on the mask. The head was drained of blood.”

  “Have you established a time of death?”

  “Between two and five P.M. yesterday.”

  “Anything else, Doc?” The interview, all things considered, was going quite well.

  “Yes!” Moellmann shouted, flinging his arms wide as if to embrace the world with all its problems. “My colleagues and I at the Wayne County Morgue have a question. Has it occurred to the Homicide Division that those heads you’ve been bringing us originally had bodies attached to them? We can work on the bodies even if you bring them in after you bring us the heads. Is anyone out there looking for those bodies?” Moellmann’s volume had been rising throughout this tirade. The last sentence rose in a crescendo worthy of Richard Wagner.

  “We’re trying, Doc,” Harris said mildly. He tipped his finger to his forehead in semblance of a salute, got up and left.

  “Verdammt!” Moellmann shot after him.

  As Harris passed through the outer office, Marge beckoned. Stopping at her desk, he leaned over it since it was apparent she wanted to whisper.

  “Ah’d ’preciate it if y’all would brang him an intahr body. He’s gettin’ to be a certifahd bastard to work with.”

  Harris winked broadly and, once again, rendered his version of a salute.

  Detective Fred Ross’ blue pinstripe was spanking clean and sharply pressed. “Can you give me any reason why the head was not found earlier?” he asked.

  “You’ve got to understand St. Aloysius,” explained Father Thomas McInerny, the pastor. “This place, especially on weekday mornings, is a madhouse. The janitor opens the church at six. We have a six-thirty Mass, then a seven-thirty Mass.”

  “I understand that, Father.” Ross was recording
times and events in his note pad. “But my question is why the head wasn’t discovered until almost eight o’clock. And possibly would not have been discovered even then if it hadn’t been for the prescence of Inspector Koznicki.”

  “Well, see, when the janitor opens up, he lights the church and arranges things for Mass. But he hardly ever goes into the basement church until later in the day. Nor, generally, does anyone else, since the two morning Masses are offered on the main level. Then there is a constant flow of people, just hundreds of distractions. You’re probably right: if it hadn’t been for Inspector Koznicki, we might not have found the head even now.”

  Although the doors at St. Aloysius had been locked and the general public excluded, the church was living up to its reputation for bedlam. Six members of Squad Six were interrogating various functionaries, from the janitor to the pastor. Other specialists were taking pictures or dusting for prints. In addition to Lennon, three reporters from the News and one—Joe Cox—from the Free Press were interviewing everybody but each other. Television and radio crews were busy filming the story.

  Ven Marshall, longtime reporter for TV’s Channel 7, flagged down Father Bohdan Borucki, who was en route to his office. After a few words, Marshall nodded to his crew. The lights made the scene stand out in unreality as the cameraman began filming.

  Marshall: I have with me Father Bohdan Borucki, who is Vicar for Religious—

  Borucki (interrupting): Actually, I’m Assistant Vicar for Religious.

  Marshall: Damn—sorry, Father. (To his crew): Let’s take it from the top.

  Marshall: I have with me Father Bohdan Borucki, Assistant Vicar for Religious.

  Borucki smiled.

  Marshall: Father, your offices are in the adjoining Chancery Building, but you say Mass here in St. Aloysius regularly, isn’t that right?

  Borucki nodded. Fortunately, they were not on radio.