Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  “Conduct a what?” Korman asked.

  “Vote,” McAvoy explained.

  “You are not a Pope!” Dowd noted.

  “And you are not a College of Cardinals,” Neighbors noted back.

  “I think Father should be encouraged to do what he thinks best for the parish,” said McAvoy, supportively. “After all, he has the overall view of the parish.”

  “I want to go on record as being totally opposed to the statue!” Korman was standing and pointing at Mrs. Nowicki’s pad, encouraging her to record his opposition in the minutes.

  Mrs. Kurlick pounded her small fists on the table. “I may be old-fashioned, but—”

  Neighbors removed his glasses and buried his knuckles in his eyes. He wished he were able to return to the infant defense mechanism of denial and pretend none of this was happening. But he wasn’t. And it was.

  She hit him with the large frying pan. He howled. She had aimed at his head but he had raised his arm in time to take the blow on his elbow. The only possible good news was that if she had connected with her target, he would now be unconscious.

  The weather was unpleasant this early Friday morning in September, and so was Margarita Gonzales’ disposition.

  “Juan Gonzales!” She stamped her foot on the kitchen’s tile floor. She was furious. “You stupid man! We owe two months’ rent! The kids need clothes to go to school without wearin’ rags! We are eatin’ the cheapest food in the market! We are eatin’ leftovers so often it might as well be garbage! And you try to take our welfare money and give it to that loafer Malcolm to play a number!”

  She had caught her husband with his hand literally in the cookie jar. He hadn’t even had time to remove the remaining few dollars.

  “That’s all you know, old woman.” Gonzales was vigorously rubbing his elbow. “Malcolm ain’t even here no more.”

  “He’s dead, ain’t he? Somebody knife him? It’s about time!”

  “No, he ain’t dead. He ...he left town.” Gonzales was unwilling to volunteer the information that Malcolm had fled, taking with him their neighbors’ winnings. He was certain his wife would only use the knowledge as an additional argument against his playing the numbers.

  “That don’t make no difference. You still was gonna take our money and play the numbers, wasn’t you? If Malcolm’s gone, there’s gotta be somebody else on the street. You was gonna do it, wasn’t you? After all your promises!”

  “Oh, old woman, leave me alone. I wasn’t gonna take any money. I was just gonna see how much we got, is all.”

  “That’s a pretty good idea. I shoulda thought of that myself.”

  She reached in front of him, took the cookie jar from the shelf and placed it on the kitchen table. Removing a small roll of bills from it, she quickly counted them.

  She turned on him with the frying pan again raised on high in righteous vengeance.

  “Damn you for a thief! You took twenty-five dollars from here! You musta done it yesterday!”

  Again she swung at his head. Again he was able to raise his arm in time to absorb the blow with his elbow.

  He screamed in agony. It occurred to him that if she swung again, he might well take the blow with his head. Otherwise, he might lose his arm.

  Besides, by now he could use the anesthesia.

  It was Pat Lennon’s first full day of employment at the Detroit News. There was a lot of getting-used-to to be done.

  Least among these was a transfer of allegiance from the Free Press VDTs (video display terminals) to the News CRTs (cathode ray terminals). A terminal, Pat thought, is a terminal is a terminal. In either case these were the computer instruments that staff writers were expected to master. The VDTs and CRTs had replaced the Linotypes and their operators. The introduction of these computer machines also marked the transition from “hot” to “cold” type. A transition that Lennon, among other print purists, regretted.

  At that, she was fortunate she had, on her own accord, learned to operate the VDTs in the Free Press feature department. Free Press city room staffers were not yet using terminals, though there were terminals in their future.

  It was strange, she thought, with these two major media competitors separated by only a couple of city blocks, that there was so little visiting done. Today was only the second time she had ever been in the News building. She had been very surprised at the security measures in the main lobby. No one got past the guard without an appointment with or approval of staff personnel. Only the Minneapolis Star and Tribune, in her experience, had tighter security than the News.

  This was quite a shock after the Free Press’ open entrée. There, anybody could go anywhere, and frequently did. That, in her opinion, was how a newspaper should be run.

  Although such openness did occasionally lead to peculiar incidents: she recalled a story regularly told by Nelson Kane about a man who showed up in the city room one day. The stranger explained to one of the staffers that years previously the Free Press had run a front-page story reporting he had been declared criminally insane. Now, he said, he had a doctor’s certificate stating he was sane, and he wanted the paper to publish that fact—again on the front page.

  The then city editor had told the staffer that the Free Press would not comply but added that the man should be treated with the utmost respect because, of all the people in the building, he was the only one who could prove he was sane.

  Pat smiled as she thought of the story but then became serious again at the thought of Nelson Kane. She had become sentimental over the old bear. Now he was on the enemy’s team.

  One more thing she’d have to get used to. The News didn’t have a city editor. Years before, they had abolished that title in favor of news editor. She and the other reporters did not have direct access to the news editor. She was assigned to an assistant news editor, Bob Ankenazy. A nice enough man, about ten years her senior with plenty of reportorial experience and, seemingly, an open attitude toward new ideas. She felt she would work well with him.

  Pat Lennon, thirty years old, was a graduate of Mercy High School and College, both Detroit Catholic institutions. Shortly after college, she had entered into a disastrous marriage that had been doomed from the honeymoon on. However, it had been officially witnessed and blessed by the Church. She knew enough of Church law to realize she had no chance of ever having her marriage declared null.

  As frequently happens in such cases, she had drifted away from Mass attendance. This caused her mother grief and her father to wonder why he had spent so much money on a Catholic school education.

  For the past two years, she had been living with Joe Cox. This was the first long-term relationship with a man since her divorce. So far, it was working well. Only, she figured, because neither she nor Cox had attached any strings. She was certain that if they joined the paper chase, the wedding license would be tantamount to a death certificate.

  Like many other nonpracticing Catholics, Lennon was unable to shake her Catholic past. She still attended Mass at Christmas and Easter. If asked her religion, she automatically admitted to being Catholic.

  It was a combination of her Catholic background, her inquisitive mind, and her usually dependable intuition that had drawn her attention to the sites where the heads had been found in The Red Hat Murders. A Cardinal’s hat and two statues, each in a Catholic church. She was convinced that if she could crack the mystery of the placement of those heads, she could go a long way toward solving the mystery of the actual murders.

  But she would not get anywhere daydreaming.

  As she searched the Yellow Pages for a phone number, she was conscious of the guarded stares of several of her new confreres. She thought she knew what they were thinking. The latest refugee from the Free Press. The first general reporter from that paper who knew how to operate a CRT. Has her own special desk on her first day. Already working on an important story. If, she thought, they knew what she was being paid, their noses would really be bent. She dialed.

  “Father Koesl
er, please.”

  There was a pause as she was put on hold while Mary O’Connor located Koesler in his study. Each of the few times Pat had talked to priests in recent years she had felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps, she had thought at one point, that was because she had not paid her dues lately.

  “Koesler.”

  “Father? My name is Pat Lennon. Maybe you remember me? I was with the Free Press, now I’m with the News.”

  Koesler thought a moment. The only image that came to mind was curves. As they assembled themselves to his appreciation, he recalled meeting her some years back at the Press Club and enjoying her beauty from afar several times since.

  “Yes, I do remember you. So you’ve gone to the News …is it true they make you promise to vote Republican?”

  “No.” She smiled. “Only that you never again will make a left turn.”

  He laughed. “What can I do for you, Pat?”

  “I’m calling about The Red Hat Murders, Father. I’m trying to get a line on why the heads were left where they were.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help.”

  “Well,” she persisted, “let me ask you, for instance, about Rudy Ruggiero. Do you have any idea at all why his head would be attached to Cardinal Mooney’s ceremonial hat?”

  Without reflection, merely in a spontaneous effort to be helpful, Koesler began explaining the hypothesis that had originated with Father McNiff. Midway through the explanation, it occurred to Koesler that perhaps he should not be sharing this with a reporter. But he quickly dismissed the caution. It did not seem important to keep the hypothesis secret and, besides neither Inspector Koznicki nor Lieutenant Harris had so admonished him, and he knew from experience both officers were inclined to be specific about information they wanted withheld.

  “…so you see,” he concluded, “the reason for using the Cardinal’s hat may spring from a pun on the root meaning of ‘cardinal’ as well as the Latin derivative of the word for ‘head.’ And thus the intent could be a statement that this is ‘capital’ crime or ‘capital’ punishment.”

  There was a pause while Lennon, who had been taking notes furiously, caught up with the conclusion of Koesler’s explanation.

  “That’s a marvelous lead, Father.” She continued to write with the receiver pressed between her shoulder and ear. “Now, how about Saints Cecilia and Raphael?”

  Koesler chuckled. “I’m afraid that’s out of my league. Maybe it would help if you talk to someone who specializes in, or at least is more familiar with, saints and hagiography and the like.

  “Any suggestions?”

  Koesler thought. “Maybe …maybe Father Leo Clark out at St. John’s Seminary in Plymouth. Basically, he’s a moral theologian—”

  “What’s that?” she interrupted.

  Koesler laughed. “Well, love me, love my jargon. I keep forgetting not everybody is plugged into things Catholic. What I meant is that Father Clark’s specialty is morality—moral law. But he also teaches Scripture, about the Bible, and, on top of all that, he has an abiding interest in the lives and legends of saints.”

  “He must have a mind that doesn’t quit.”

  “That’s about it. If Leo Clark can’t tell you more than you ever wanted to know about almost any religious subject you could think of, then don’t bother looking it up. It probably hasn’t been written.”

  “Thanks, Father. You’ve been a big help. I’ll get in touch with Father Clark right away. “

  They hung up. Koesler fished a toothpick from his shirt pocket and began chewing on it absently. St. Cecilia. Raphael the Archangel. He decided to walk over to St. Anselm’s school, visit the library, and see what he could find on those two very disparate creatures. What possible connection, he wondered, could there be between a martyred woman, an archangel, and a Cardinal’s hat?

  It was the kind of fickle weather that Michiganders are accustomed to. A light rain combined with a steady strong breeze chilled the pedestrian to the bone. It seemed that winter had arrived out of due time. However, the natives knew that in mid-September there was plenty of summer remaining. Not to mention the anticipated and especially desirable Indian Summer that had been known to linger even into November.

  The white Eldorado glided into the Machus Red Fox parking lot as if eager to escape the pell-mell traffic of Telegraph Road.

  There were those who thought the Red Fox’s enormous popularity would be diminished if not destroyed when it became known as the scene of Jimmy Hoffa’s abduction. Such people were mistaken. Reservations at the Red Fox continued to be coveted as unabatedly as if Hoffa had never made his last public appearance there.

  A tall, distinguished figure emerged from the Cadillac. He stood a minute to let his expensive three-piece gray suit settle into shape, then ran a manicured hand through his wavy black hair as a parking attendant sped to raise an umbrella over his head protectively.

  “I’m just having a quick lunch, Henry. So keep my car up front, ready to go.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Fitzgerald!” The attendant accompanied Fitzgerald to the restaurant’s entrance, all the while being careful to keep the umbrella directly over his charge’s handsome head.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Ray,” said Father Koesler. “I mean, I thought a good night’s sleep would take care of it—the embarrassment—but I didn’t get a good night’s sleep and I’m still angry.”

  Ramon Toussaint lowered himself gingerly into a worn chair opposite Koesler. “That’s all right, Bob; every once in a while everyone needs to talk to someone. I am fortunate I have ’Ciane, and,” he added with a touch of diplomacy, “you and I are fortunate we have each other as friends.”

  Emerenciana entered the living room carrying a tray of coffee servings. “But why would the police question you, Bob?” she asked.

  “Apparently because the only clue or unaccounted-for evidence they uncovered in Dutch Strauss’ bedroom was an ashtray filled with chewed-up toothpicks.” Koesler felt himself reddening. He knew his was a ridiculous habit.

  “Bob,” said Toussaint, “you cannot be the only person in Detroit who worries toothpicks to death. They must be among the most available instruments, or playthings, in the world. Why, some of them are even flavored. And that alone would tempt people to keep using them—at least as long as the flavor lasts.”

  Toussaint was trying very hard to stay serious. In reality, he found it difficult to understand Koesler’s concern. After all, the priest had neither been arrested nor even accused of any crime, merely questioned.

  “I know, I know,” Koesler said. “I’ve gone over all those rationalizations and more. But nothing like this ever happened to me before. I guess I resent even being suspected of a crime.”

  “Why don’t you look at this as a learning experience, Bob?” Emerenciana handed the priest a cup of black coffee.

  “A learning experience?”

  “Yes. This, at least in part, is what it is like to be black or sometimes just poor.”

  Koesler looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “It’s not as bad in Detroit as it used to be,” Emerenciana continued, “because now the police department is nearly fifty percent black. But in the old days, if something went wrong or there was a disturbance, it was always the black community that suffered.”

  “The police,” said Toussaint, “would round up all the usual suspects. All of whom would be black.” He grimaced wryly. “The ‘nearest-available-nigger’ school of police philosophy.

  “Then, after scaring the black neighborhoods half to death, the lawmen would drive out to their nice white suburbs for a pleasant night’s sleep.”

  “So you see, Bob,” said Emerenciana, “you’ve had just a small sample of what less fortunate folk have had to suffer over the years.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way,” Koesler confessed. “But now that you point it out, I can see it more clearly. All of a sudden, I begin to feel grateful to the police department for humanizing me.”

  All w
as quiet as the three sipped coffee.

  “Why don’t you get out?” Koesler asked at length.

  “I beg your pardon?” Toussaint seemed puzzled.

  “Why don’t you get out of the inner city?” Koesler clarified. “You two would be accepted anywhere in this archdiocese: Grosse Pointe, Rochester, Bloomfield Hills, Birmingham, Dearborn, you name it. Any parish would be happy to have you. And think of the good you would accomplish among the suburbanites. You two would be excellent at consciousness-raising!”

  “And why,” Toussaint countered, “don’t you stop trying to get assigned to the inner city, Bob?”

  Koesler smiled self-consciously. “That’s different, Ray. I believe I’d feel more comfortable in the city. I just haven’t been able to convince Archbishop Boyle yet. Besides, if there was ever a good argument for an unmarried clergy, it’s a core city ministry. If I make a commitment to the city, it involves only my choice. You have ’Ciane to consider.”

  Emerenciana spoke up. “Don’t you think we have shared our decision to remain, Bob? This is where we belong. This is where our people are.”

  “From our experience,” Toussaint continued, “we regard the constant race consciousness of most people in this country as somewhat backward and uncivilized. We are more amused at it than outraged by it.”

  “And it is really not as much a risk as it seems.” Emerenciana, who had been sitting on the arm of her husband’s chair, let her hand drop across his shoulder. “The people here in Ceciliaville have accepted us and our ministry. We are as safe here as we would be anywhere.”

  “And,” said Toussaint, “we are nobody’s token.”

  The three were quiet again with a silence that could be shared unembarrassingly only by close friends.

  Koesler looked at the couple. “Thanks,” he said simply. “Thanks very much. As usual, you two have been a big help.” He rose, picked up his hat and prepared to leave.