Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  Paul Burk eventually took charge.

  “Back! Get back!” he commanded. “Give her air!”

  Burk knelt and cradled Clotilde’s head in his lap, and fanned her face with a handy hymn card.

  Air, indeed, was what Clotilde needed to return to consciousness. Little by little, her eyelids fluttered and then opened tentatively.

  “Someone get some water,” Burk ordered.

  Slowly, as her focus grew more clear, Sister Clotilde became aware that she was looking at a head. One that wore a mask of horror. The lips seemed to be shouting a silent ‘NO!” And the head had no body.

  Sister Clotilde screamed and returned to unconsciousness.

  Chills ran up and down everyone’s spine.

  And that was without their even having yet seen the head.

  6

  St. Joseph’s

  “What can I say after I say I’m sorry?” asked Lieutenant Ned Harris.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Inspector Koznicki reassurred him.

  The two were quite literally huddled in Koznicki’s small office.

  “Besides,” Koznicki added, “the fact that this is another in the series of Red Hat Murders has not yet been established.”

  “No, I know that,” said Harris. “But my squad is on the scene at the seminary. Especially after having been fooled before, they were very careful with all the details before sending the head on to the Medical Examiner. They’re sure it’s the Red Hat murderer.”

  “But you say the head was found on the floor of the chapel?” Koznicki asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, doesn’t that deviate from our killer’s M.O.?”

  “No, no, Walt. You see, the head of this statue had been carefully removed and Schmitt’s head placed on its shoulders. Sometime before its discovery, probably due to the heat, the head must’ve softened slightly and rolled off the statue and fell to the floor where it was found. The head seemed drained of blood and there was no sign of embalming.”

  “We’re still going to have to wait for Moellmann,” Koznicki observed.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You want me to go down and get the verdict?”

  “Oh, no, Walt. If Moellmann was interested enough in this to come downtown on a Sunday, the least I can do is go over and get his findings in person.”

  Harris shoved his chair back to the wall. There still was not room for him to rise.

  “You know,” Koznicki said, “this is going to upset Lieutenant Bourque.”

  “Bourque? What’s this got to do with Bourque?”

  “Squad One was just about to collar Schmitt for two counts of homicide.”

  “No kidding!” Harris looked surprised. “I knew Schmitt was giving abortion a bad name even among those who favor it. But I didn’t know we were ready for a collar. Did it look good?”

  “Excellent case. Witnesses, records, evidence. A nice strong case. Bourque himself went out to Schmitt’s home in the Farms to make the arrest. Waited till early evening, then put out an all-points.”

  “By that time, our Red Hat killer probably had him.”

  “Probably. We’ll see if Moellmann can give us a time.”

  “Oh, yes, Moellmann,” Harris remembered. “I think I’ll just run over to his office and take my medicine.”

  “You do that.” Koznicki smiled, pulled in his stomach, pushed his chair back against the wall, and pulled the desk toward himself.

  Only thus did Harris have room to rise and leave.

  “What can I say after I say I’m sorry?” Joe Cox asked Nelson Kane.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Kane reassured him.

  “After all,” Kane continued, “I agreed with your guess that The Red Hat Murders was a series that was finished.”

  “Yeah, but it was my idea,” said a disconsolate Cox.

  The two were talking with each other by phone. Cox had heard a WJR news bulletin that another suspected Red Hat Murder had been discovered during a liturgical service at Sacred Heart Seminary.

  First Cox had apologized to Pat Lennon and acknowledged that her theory that there would be more murders had been correct. Then he called Kane, who hadn’t heard the news.

  Lennon, at times descending to charades, kept urging Cox to get off the phone and leave it open. She wanted to get to the seminary and get on this breaking story. But she was sure her assistant news editor would call and make it all official.

  “Are they sure it was another Red Hat Murder?” Kane asked.

  “I don’t know, Nellie. All I know is what I’ve heard on the radio so far.”

  “Now,” Kane cautioned, “don’t get sucked in on another red herring. Remember the Fitzgerald murder!”

  “I know, Nellie, I know. I have Fitzgerald’s name pinned to my desk like an idiot card.”

  Lennon was standing in front of Cox, waving her arms semaphorically.

  “Nellie,” Cox’s voice was rapidly taking on an urgent tone, “don’t you think I should be getting over to the seminary? I’ll bet the News has heard about this by now. And besides, you’ll be wanting to call some more of your crack staff to get on this one.”

  “Are you trying to tell me my business?” It was the good old aggressive tone filled with hostility.

  “Did Moses advise God on how many plagues it would take to free His people for the Promised Land?”

  “O.K., Cox, get on it!”

  “Right, Nellie,” said a relieved Cox.

  “And Cox—”

  “Nellie?”

  “Get a little luck.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me to break a leg.”

  “No,” said Kane dryly, “I’ll do that to you if you don’t get a little luck.”

  Lennon had been correct. No sooner was Cox out the door than the phone rang.

  As she lifted the receiver, she noted it was hot. Either the pressure of Joe’s ear, she thought, or the blistering heat of Kane’s words.

  “What can I say after I say I’m sorry?” asked assistant news editor Bob Ankenazy.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Lennon reassured him.

  “Well,” said Ankenazy, “I was the one who pulled you off The Red Hat Murders and put you on another assignment. I was the one who thought that series had been canceled. You were the one who insisted the option would be picked up again.”

  Lennon was growing to like Bob Ankenazy. Almost to the point of being fond of him. He had an engaging ability to laugh at himself, as well as a lively wit. If it weren’t for Joe Cox …

  “That’s not important now, Bob,” she said. “We don’t even know for sure whether this might not be another Fitzgerald imitation.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know, Pat,” he said, “that if there’s any flak about this in the city room, I insist on taking it and handling it.”

  “It’s good of you to tell me this, Bob.”

  “Not at all, Pat. I also wanted to tell you your series on Hines Parkway is superior. But I’m going to put somebody else on it. From here on until the end, The Red Hat Murders is your baby. And I’ll back you every step of the way.”

  “It’s really super great of you to say so, Bob,” she said warmly. “Now, let me get over to the seminary where I will, as they say in show biz, break a leg.”

  “Don’t,” he said, “they’re too pretty.”

  She couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was serious or kidding.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Where, she wondered, was all this leading?

  “Lewtenant,” Marge drawled, lilting the final syllable as if it were a question, “do yew thank it wood be at all poss’ble for yew to fahnd yore hayuds on weekdays instead of weekinds? Ah wood shorely ’preciate it.”

  “We can surely try, Marge.” Harris grinned. He could not think of anyone who did not predate Marge. Not only was she dependably efficient and strikingly attractive, her Texas accent simply wouldn’t quit. To the point that there were ti
mes when the northern ear could not comprehend what Marge was trying to communicate. But she never tired of repetition till she’d gotten the message across.

  “But,” Harris continued, “it’s not so much that we are finding these heads on the Sabbath as it is this killer is leaving them around town on weekends.”

  “Ah weeyul except theyat explanaition for the tahm bean. But ah weeyul remahnd yew theyat the Lord mint the Sabbath for rest, and ah intind to git mahn!”

  “Gotcha. “ Harris made an imaginary pistol out of his right hand, aimed at Marge and fired his thumb.

  Down the hallway, Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann trudged from his second-floor laboratory. His hands were clutched behind him, his head bowed.

  Harris, saying nothing, positioned himself in Moellmann’s path, much as a basketball player on defense would get position on a charging offensive player in hopes of drawing a foul.

  Moellmann stopped just short of bumping into Harris. The doctor stood inches away, staring at the watch chain on Harris’ vest.

  “Do I know you?” Moellmann asked, looking up.

  Harris sighed. “Harris, Lieutenant, Squad Six, Homicide Division, Detroit Police Department.”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I wonder why it is I never can remember you.”

  “Because,” Harris explained, “you’re getting old now, approaching senility, and it’s hard for you to remember names.”

  “That must be it,” said Moellmann without really listening to Harris. Wordlessly, the doctor led the way into his inner office.

  “Now what is it you want?” Moellmann asked.

  Harris could never be sure when the doctor was being droll, when absentminded, or when merely irritating.

  “The head,” said Harris.

  “The head,” Moellmann echoed.

  Harris sighed again. “The head of Dr. Robert Schmitt.”

  “Oh, yes.” It was as if Moellmann were recalling a distant memory. “I was meaning to ask you about that.”

  “Ask me?” said Harris, “ask me about what?”

  “Why you brought me the head of a distinguished German physician of this community?”

  “Distinguished—!” Harris was almost speechless. “Why, that guy ran an abortion mill.”

  “Abortion is legal,” Moellmann reminded.

  “Abortion is legal,” Harris agreed, “but your friend Schmitt was about to be arraigned on two counts of homicide. And the case against him was very strong.”

  “Ah, that explains it better.” Moellmann seemed inwardly satisfied.

  “Well,” Harris prodded.

  “Well, what?”

  “Is it another Red Hat Murder?”

  “Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed. Same M.O. Same drained head. Incision in the same place in the neck area. Same remarkable strength in the removal. And same saw. Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.”

  “Well, thank you, Doctor. That’s what I came for. Could you establish a time of death?”

  “Sometime between 11 A.M. and 3 P.M. yesterday.”

  “Thank you once again, Doctor.” Harris turned to leave.

  “I would like to mention one thing more about this series of murders,” said Moellmann.

  It was rare that the Medical Examiner volunteered information. The offer took Harris by surprise. He turned back to give Moellmann full attention.

  “It occurred to me after the Fitzgerald incident,” Moellmann said. “One of the ways we determined that Fitzgerald’s death did not fit the pattern established in the Red Hat series is that the head was embalmed.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it occurred to me at this time that the reason Fitzgerald’s head was embalmed was to enable it to appear to have a look of great terror.”

  “Yes.”

  “This—this visage of ultimate fright—appears to be achieved by the real Red Hat murderer naturally. He doesn’t need the artificial aid of embalming. It appears his victims are scared out of their wits by the time they die.”

  “And the conclusion?” asked a very interested Harris.

  “If my conclusions prove correct, you are looking for a young, extremely powerful, meticulously planning, dedicated, very spooky fellow.”

  The pickup truck was freshly painted red and apparently in excellent condition. So good was its condition, it seemed out of place in this neighborhood. Stenciled on the doors and back paneling on either side of the truck were the words, ‘McCluskey Roofing and Repair.’

  The truck slowed to a stop in front of a well-kept house on Pulaski Street near Joseph Campau in Hamtramck, a city entirely within the boundaries of Detroit. Once known for its near one hundred percent Polish population, Hamtramck had become increasingly black.

  The home on Pulaski Street belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Krawczak. The Krawczaks had lived there forty years, nearly all their married life. Krawczak was retired from the Dodge Main plant and the couple lived on a meager fixed income.

  As the familiar old neighborhoods changed, most of the Krawczaks’ friends had moved, many to the nearby suburb of Warren. A number of Polish parishes, with enormous church buildings, closed. The storefront ministry was the wave of the present, both for Baptists and Catholics.

  The Krawczaks, after attending Mass this Sunday morning, had come home to a modest breakfast. Now they were seated on their front porch. Stan Krawczak planned a quiet afternoon listening to the familiar voice of Ernie Harwell broadcasting the Tigers game on sturdy WJR. Margaret Krawczak was knitting. She planned to start the stew shortly.

  The Krawczaks had always taken meticulous care of their house and lawn, as did most of their neighbors, black and white.

  They were surprised that a repair truck had stopped in front of their house and even more surprised when the driver and his companion, after a careful study of some papers resembling blueprints, approached their home.

  “Well, now,” said the middle-aged, slightly paunchy blond man who wore coveralls and a facsimile of a Tigers baseball cap, “you two young folks would be Mr. and Mrs. Krawczak, wouldn’t you? And isn’t this a spankin’ nice day?”

  The Krawczaks exchanged glances, wondering how this stranger could possibly know their names.

  “Name’s McCluskey, Tod McCluskey,” the man continued. “This here’s me assistant, Mulrooney,” he said, indicating the shriveled, venal-looking man standing on the front lawn. “And that,” gesturing toward the vehicle, “would be me truck.”

  The Krawczaks remained bewildered.

  “Now you’ll be wonderin’ what it is brought us here,” said McCluskey. “We—Mr. Mulrooney and meself—would be contractors for the county. Which, of course, as you both well know, includes the city of Hamtramck, where we find ourselves this very moment.”

  “But what—” Krawczak began.

  “But what,” picked up the garrulous McCluskey, “would we be doin’ at yer fine house this day, ye’re askin’ yerself. Well, ya see, Stan—I can call ya Stan, now, can’t I, Stan?” McCluskey peered up at Krawczak from beneath the visor of the Tigers cap. “Ya see, Stan, county records show it’s very likely that yer roof may have some trouble, what with the age of the house and all.”

  “But we—” Krawczak attempted to enter the one-sided conversation.

  “I know, Stan, I know. Good people like yerselves try to keep up yer property like God-fearin’ folk. Not like yer niggers.”

  “But we like—” Krawczak tried to protest his affinity with his neighbors.

  “But face it, Stan,” McCluskey plowed on, “how often is it a man yer age is able to get up on his roof and really carefully study its condition?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Not often, God help us. And whose fault would that be?”

  “Certainly not yers, Stan. But the county is after wantin’ homes like yers to stay in its right good shape. Keep the neighborhood on its toes, as it were.”

  “Well—”

  “So if there’s no objection on anyone’s part, I’ll just ask Mr. Mulrooney here,” McClusk
ey motioned his sidekick into action, “to climb up and give a look at yer roof.”

  Mulrooney wrestled a ladder against the side of the Krawczak house and clambered toward the roof.

  Mrs. Krawczak had dropped several stitches during this monologistic exchange. As Mulrooney crawled about the roof, Krawczak rose from his rocker, came to the railing and looked up, craning his neck in an attempt to locate the elusive Mulrooney.

  “Now look here—” said Krawczak.

  “I know, I know how ya feel, Stan,” McCluskey assured him. “Here we are, perfect strangers, disturbin’ yer Sabbath, as it were. But I can promise ya this: if there’s any work to be done to yer roof yell bless the day McCluskey Roofing and Repair came into yer life. That ya will.”

  Mulrooney descended. He and McCluskey caucused near the truck. There was much head-wagging and mumbled argument. Finally, the huddle broke and McCluskey returned to the apprehensive couple.

  “Well, Stan, old friend, I’ve good news and I’ve bad news. The bad news is that ye’ll need major work done to yer roof to bring it up to county code.”

  The Krawczaks instinctively drew close to each other. They felt as if a tidal wave were about to engulf them.

  “The good news is that McCluskey Roofing and Repair is here to help. Well I know what it’s like to be on a fixed income. Isn’t me own mother suffering the same financial burden.”

  “Well,” McCluskey continued, after honoring the mention of his mother with a respectful pause, “Mr. Mulrooney and I agree we can take care of yer roof, bring it up to code, and remove all yer worries for just $5,000.”

  With this, a beatific smile appeared on McCluskey’s face.

  “Here, then.” He presented the Krawczaks with an order form that needed only a signature to become an official contract. “Ya just sign this, Stan, and let McCluskey take on yer worries.”

  Obviously overwhelmed, Krawczak hesitated. He looked at his wife, who now stood close to him clutching his arm. She nodded. Signing seemed their only choice. He scribbled his name on the bottom line.