Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  “Can I get you anything to eat on your way back to Dearborn Heights?” asked a seemingly solicitous Emerenciana. “A toothpick?”

  Both men broke up in laughter.

  “No,” said Koesler, recovering, “I think I’ll be able to make it. But if worst comes to worst,” he reached into his shirt pocket, “I always have these.” He pulled out several rounded wooden toothpicks.

  At the door, Koesler turned back, a questioning look replacing his smile. “Say,” he said, sniffing, “Is that incense I smell? Are you two running a family-style religion? Isn’t St. Cecilia’s big enough for you anymore?” he added, half in jest.

  “Another fact of life you’ll learn about if you ever do get your inner-city assignment, Bob,” said Toussaint. “The pest control people come and fumigate and give us temporary relief from the cockroaches. But it’s anybody’s guess which is worse, the roaches or the odor left by the fumigators. So, we burn a little incense.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” It was all Koesler could think of to say as he left and drove with an added measure of discomfort toward his virtually pest-free Dearborn Heights rectory.

  Garnet Fitzgerald was a big man, physically and in the numbers racket. And he was rapidly getting bigger in the rackets. It was a simple matter of invasion: invading a numbers territory once completely controlled by Muhammad Yaphet and his cohort. The method was direct. Fitzgerald’s men would discredit, threaten, or physically abuse Yaphet’s runners. As Yaphet’s men disappeared, Fitzgerald would send his own runners in to replace them. In only a few months, Fitzgerald had made great inroads into Yaphet’s kingdom.

  Fitzgerald had finished lunch at the Machus Red Fox. He had eaten with and gotten reports from three of his top lieutenants. All was going well. Nothing had been heard from Yaphet. Evidently, he was absorbing the financial beating he was taking.

  Fitzgerald expected no more trouble from the man he had once known as Tyrone Jones. Only a few years before, there had been no one tougher or meaner than Tyrone Jones. But Fitzgerald had sensed a soft underbelly when Jones had gotten religion. Religion—any religion—did not mix with the toughness needed to advance in the rackets.

  After being assured that it was only a matter of time before he would have the entire Detroit numbers scene sewn up, Fitzgerald signed the meal check, left his men to finish their drinks, and emerged from the restaurant. He was careful to stay under the brief canopy. It was still raining. Not hard, but enough to discourage him from dampening his suit or shoes. He tugged at his vest, making sure it covered his ample middle, as he waited for Henry to fetch his car.

  Henry hit the brakes and the Eldorado rocked gently to a stop in front of Fitzgerald. Henry solicitously kept the umbrella over Fitzgerald’s head as they circled the car.

  “Here ya go, Henry.” Fitzgerald slipped a five-dollar bill into the young man’s free hand.

  “Oh, thank y’all, Mistah Fitz,” said a grateful Henry.

  Fitzgerald slid in behind the wheel and swung the Cadillac into Telegraph Road traffic.

  As he drove, he was conscious that something was not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was definitely something strange going on. There was an added scent in the car, something that clashed with his Brut.

  In his haste to get out of the rain, he had failed to check the back seat. Damn! Someone was in the back, he was sure of it. He scanned the rear-view mirror for some sign of whomever was crouched on the floor behind him. His right hand eased toward the glove compartment.

  “It ain’t there,” a soft, menacing voice declared.

  Sweat began to flow down Fitzgerald’s armpits and back. He could feel the moisture seeping into his white-on-white shirt. Something cold and round was pressed against his neck. He checked the rear-view mirror again. This time it reflected the image of a black man wearing sunglasses and a dark hat. He held a revolver against Fitzgerald’s neck.

  “It used to be there,” the man said, referring to the glove compartment, “but now I got it! So suppose you keep both hands on the wheel and just drive.”

  “Where we goin’?” Fitzgerald wished he could make his voice sound more confident, but he couldn’t mask a slight tremor. He was frightened. And with good reason.

  “Never mind, you jive turkey. Just drive. Hang a right on Northwestern. You got a date with Muhammad.”

  There was no doubting it, Fitzgerald had bought a lot of trouble. How much, he was at this moment unable to predict. His only hope was that he would emerge from this plight alive.

  Father Leo Clark was concluding a class in Sacred Scripture at St. John’s Seminary. He saved the last few minutes of the allotted time to review the answers to a test he had recently given his students.

  Clark, of medium build, with receding dark hair, was bespectacled and usually bemused. A good teacher and a genuine scholar, he was not happy when his students gave incorrect answers. But when they were bizarrely wrong, he couldn’t help enjoying and sharing the more humorous aspects of their efforts. He was doing just that as he wrapped up this mid-afternoon class.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, adjusting his glasses and peering at one test paper, “Paul circumcised Timothy; he did not castrate him!”

  Laughter. Except for the student who had authored the surgical blunder.

  “And,” Clark continued as the laughter subsided, “the Red Sea is not red because of the orgasms on the bottom!”

  Again, general laughter, except for one red-faced student.

  As the hilarity subsided, a bell sounded, signaling the end of class. Clark gave the students the assignment for Monday, led them in prayer, and dismissed them.

  En route from the classroom to his suite, Clark stopped at the switchboard and picked up his messages. He noted a request for a return call from one Pat Lennon of the Detroit News. Scribbled on the slip was, “Wants to know about Saints Cecilia and Raphael.” He mulled that over as he walked slowly through the cloisters.

  On entering his study, he went directly to one section of the bookshelves that lined the walls. Having occupied this same room for the past thirty years, he knew the exact location of every book, much as he would the whereabouts of many good friends. He selected one specific volume, made his way to his desk and dialed Lennon’s number.

  “Mr. Lennon, please.”

  There was a slight hesitation. Then, “This is Pat Lennon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I simply assumed you’d be a man. This is Father Clark at the seminary returning your call.”

  Lennon smiled. If there were any question of whether a man or a woman was doing important work, such as reporting for a major newspaper, the assumption favored the former.

  “Oh, that’s perfectly all right, Father. Think nothing of it,” she lied lightly. “Did you get my message and what I called about?”

  “Yes. You want to know something about St. Cecilia, and Raphael the Archangel.”

  Lennon explained the purpose of her call. Fortunately, Clark had read about The Red Hat Murders, so she did not have to go into undue detail. She merely explained the theory Father Koesler had given her earlier regarding the Cardinal’s hat.

  “Rob came up with that theory all by himself?” Clark asked, in an incredulous tone.

  “I suppose he did. I didn’t think to ask him.”

  “Well, that just proves that behind that bland expression all those years in class, there was something going on after all.”

  “You taught him?” It was Lennon’s turn to be incredulous.

  “That’s right! I’m a crazy old duck, huh?”

  “No, not at all, Father,” she said, recovering.

  “By the way, if I may ask, are you a Catholic? You’re ‘fathering’ me to death.”

  Lennon sighed and wondered if all priests dabbled in detective work.

  “Yes, uh, no, Father,” she said. Then, correcting herself, “Well, not anymore anyway. Old habits are hard to break. Rut can you tell me anything about Cecilia and Raphael?”

  “O
h, yes. Indeed I can. The trouble is that I may tell you more than you want to know. Please feel free to cut off my water at any point during the flood.”

  Lennon tucked the receiver between her shoulder and ear and prepared for vigorous note-taking in her own version of speedwriting.

  “Regarding Cecilia,” Clark began, “I thought I would read you a paragraph from one of my favorite little books. It’s St. Fidgeta and Other Parodies, written by John Bellairs and published by Macmillan. The paragraph explains the sanctity of a fictitious St. Pudibunda, who, on her wedding night, decided that God had called her to a life of spotless virginity, and I quote: ‘The causes of her death that very night are not known, but the pious may guess at them.’”

  Lennon was laughing uncontrollably. Clark waited for her return to sobriety.

  “Well,” he continued, “that’s pretty much the way it was with Cecilia. She let her husband in on her rather unusual calling somewhat earlier and she wasn’t martyred until many years after her marriage ceremony. But her husband could go around introducing her as ‘my wife, the Blessed Virgin Cecilia.’ She gave much to the poor, but is probably somewhat more famous for living what many would call an extraordinary life of sublime purity. Is that enough?”

  Lennon acknowledged that it probably was.

  “Now, as to Raphael. He is a bit of Midrash, a bit of myth. He appears in the book of Tobit in the Old Testament. He leads Tobias to Sarah, who has lost her seven previous husbands on seven consecutive wedding nights.”

  Clark paused. “Now that I think of it,” he said, “that could well be the connection. There was not an awful lot of what you’d expect going on during either Cecilia’s or Sarah’s wedding nights.”

  Lennon said nothing, merely continuing her note-taking as she underlined Clark’s latest point.

  “In any case, Raphael urged Tobias to marry Sarah. He did and, to make a long and fairly interesting story short, they lived happily ever after. Is that enough?”

  Lennon, running a couple of phrases behind Clark, caught up to his conclusion.

  “I think so, Father. If I need to call you again, it will be all right, won’t it?”

  “Certainly. Oh, by the way, it just occurred to me: Raphael is the patron saint of apothecaries.”

  “Druggists? Why? What’s the connection?”

  “I forgot to tell you. On the journey to meet Sarah, Tobias is attacked by a huge fish while he bathes. Raphael tells Tobias to remove the fish’s gall, heart, and liver because, according to Raphael, they make great medicines. Well, Tobias drives the evil spirit away from the nuptial bed with the heart and liver. And he cures his father’s blindness by rubbing the fish’s gall on the old man’s eyes.”

  “Is that all, Father?”

  “Yes, that’s all I can think of at the moment.” He hesitated. “You’re trying to figure out why those heads are being left where they are and you hope to establish the identity of the killer by knowing why he is doing this. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Lennon admitted, “that’s right. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I think you’re on the right track.”

  Lennon drummed her fingers on the desk. She thought she might take a quick trip to Belle Isle and contemplate all those wasted wedding nights. And, perhaps, study the names of passing ships.

  The doorbell rang in the trim two-story house on Stoepel Avenue.

  A minute or so after the single ring, Emerenciana Toussaint opened the front door. Two well-built, well-dressed white men stood on the porch. One, who looked as if he had stepped out of a World War II Nazi recruitment poster, showed police credentials as he introduced himself and his partner.

  “I am Detective Dietrich Bernhard of Homicide Squad Six. This is my partner, Sergeant Fred Ross. Is this the residence of Ramon Toussaint?”

  “It is.”

  “Is Mr. Toussaint at home?”

  “He is.”

  “May we speak with him?”

  “You may.”

  Emerenciana turned and called her husband.

  Toussaint came from the kitchen area. After the officers again identified themselves, Toussaint invited them into the living room. They declined Mrs. Toussaint’s offer of coffee and came right to the point of their visit.

  “Mr. Toussaint,” Bernhard asked, “can you account for your whereabouts between the hours of two and five P.M. on Wednesday, the day before yesterday?”

  The Toussaints looked at each other, a hint of amusement in their eyes. Apparently, Bob Koesler was not the only clergyman to be questioned by the police. It was now Toussaint’s turn to come up with an alibi.

  The building on East Columbia near Beaubien was quite close to the periphery of Detroit’s downtown. It had housed everything from vaudeville to legitimate movies to skinflicks. Now to all appearances vacant, it blended well with the block’s other ancient, dusty buildings. Very few Detroiters knew it was headquarters for Muhammad Yaphet. Even fewer knew of the room directly beneath the old stage that had been especially outfitted to dispense punishment to Yaphet’s enemies.

  The current scene inside this room was not pretty.

  Garnet Fitzgerald’s inert body lay in a metal tray that was tipped at a thirty-degree angle. Rivulets of his blood trickled down the tray, emptying into a tank of fetid water.

  Borrowing their skills from the executioners of yore who would hang, draw and quarter their victims, Yaphet’s henchmen were expert at sensing the point at which the subject of their torture was about to pass from this life to the next. And, as often as they wished, they would cease afflicting the subject, allow time for sufficient recovery, and then recommence, usually alternating tortures.

  All of which had happened to Fitzgerald throughout this afternoon. Several times he had wished to die, indeed had tried to die. Each time he had been revived.

  For the past forty-five minutes, his torturers had been pumping sodium pentothal into him. The so-called truth serum had finished the job of eliciting from Fitzgerald the names of the top men in his organization as well as the location of the key documents detailing his numbers empire.

  It seemed near the end now. Yaphet had been summoned from his executive office elsewhere in the building.

  Yaphet viewed the scene dispassionately. So, Fitz, he thought, you figured old Tyrone Jones had gone soft when he got religion. Well, Fitz, you never were long on brains. Tough, but not much gray stuff. Too bad. If you’d stayed in your own back yard, if you hadn’t invaded my territory, you’d be healthy and gettin’ fatter instead of lyin’ in that tray like a stuck pig.

  “We got the names and places from him, chief.” Yaphet’s number-one aide stood just behind Yaphet and spoke just loudly enough to be heard only by his employer.

  “Can you get anything else?”

  “Nah. He’s been doin’ nothin’ but vomiting and hallucinating for the past half hour.”

  Yaphet nodded. The aide glanced meaningfully at two of his men. They flipped Fitzgerald’s bulky body over. His head turned from side to side as if fighting off a bad dream.

  The aide stepped forward, calmly removed a .38-caliber revolver from his holster and fired five shots into Fitzgerald’s chest. Fitzgerald’s body jerked with each impact. Then it lay still.

  “Take him over to Billy Bates’ Funeral Home on West Vernor,” Yaphet ordered. “He’ll know what to do with him.”

  Yaphet turned and left the room. He would sleep well this night. The integrity of his empire had been restored.

  All twelve members of Homicide Squad Six were assembled in their squad room. Adding measurably to the sardine can configuration was the presence of the entire person of Inspector Koznicki.

  Those officers who had spent the major portion of this Friday questioning designated clergymen had just completed their reports.

  “So,” Lieutenant Harris summed up, “it seems that each of our clergymen has an established alibi for the times at least one or more of these men were murdered.”

  “Yes,” sai
d Sergeant Ross, glancing again at his note pad, “Monsignor McTaggart was visiting his sister in Lansing all day Monday. “And the deacon,” he checked the name, “Ramon Toussaint, was with his wife on all three occasions, one of them corroborated by a neighbor.”

  “I think,” Detective Bernhard added, “we can pretty well forget about that monsignor from here on out. He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on.”

  There was scattered laughter. Since neither Koznicki nor Harris had joined in, it was short-lived.

  Sergeant Dean Patrick concluded for himself and his partner, Sergeant Bill Lynch. “Father Fred Dolson, over at the cathedral, was giving instructions to a prospective convert during the critical hours on Wednesday. The rest of the cathedral staff are all accounted for during at least one of the times of death on Saturday, Monday or Wednesday.”

  Patrick, nearly six feet tall, was strikingly handsome, with a heavy head of salt-and-pepper hair, sooty eyebrows, and deep blue eyes. Lynch, angular, well over six feet tall, sported a dark brown mustache and, generally, a bemused expression.

  “It’s the same at St. Aloysius,” reported Sergeant Dan Fallon, brushing cigarette ashes from his shirt. “Father McInerny, the pastor, was in the church, and seen by many, practically all Saturday afternoon and evening. The priests who work in the chancery all were in their offices, each with an appointment for at least one of the times in question.”

  “Well, that pretty well wraps it up, doesn’t it?” asked Charlie Papkin. “Since we’re dealing with identical M.O.s in the three killings, one rainout and there’s no ball game.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “But,” Harris grimaced, “it leaves us with maybe the biggest hole to fill in this entire case. Why the Catholic churches? Why that damn red hat and those statues? And how is the killer able to enter these places without breaking in? And how did he know about the pulley that lowered and raised that damn hat?”

  “Maybe,” Koznicki interjected, “we are presuming too much.”