“We’ll be able to take care of yer precious roof, Miz Blackstone.” McCluskey shifted to his left foot and took a breath. Even McCluskey had to breathe from time to time. “And it’s not gonna cost ya an arm and a leg. So what’s it gonna cost, ya ask? I tell ya, it’s gonna cost ya no more than just fifteen dollars a month at just eighteen percent compounded interest. And ye’ve got years to pay. No pressure. No pressure at all, Miz Blackstone.”
Still no sound from inside.
“Now I’ll just have ta have ya sign this requisition order, Miz Blackstone. I’ll tell ya what I’ll do, since ya seem to be a bit reluctant ta open yer door. And I don’t blame ya fer a minute what with all that’s goin’ on in the streets this day. I’m just gonna leave this form on yer front porch along with my pen. What I’d like ya to do is, I’ll leave the porch and ya just sign the form and, please Miz Blackstone, yell keep the pen like a nice lady, won’t ya?”
McClusky left the form attached to a clipboard on the floor on the porch near the door.
Mrs. Blackstone sighed. She was being ripped off again. She knew it. She did not even understand how much this would cost her over the long run. They always made it sound like such a little bit. It always became an awful lot.
But, she thought, McCluskey made it clear she had no choice; after all he was from the county.
She opened the screen door a crack and pulled inside the packet McCluskey had placed there. After a moment, the door reopened and the packet was replaced.
McCluskey retrieved the packet.
“Ah well, then, ya didn’t have ta return the pen, Miz Blackstone.”
Even the eyes were gone from behind the screen.
Poor bitch, McCluskey thought as he returned to his shiny red truck, you should have taken the pen. It’s the only thing you’re going to get out of this deal.
“How’d we do?” asked Mulrooney as they drove away.
“Sometimes, Johnny boy, you have to take it in dribs and drabs. Rest assured, we got all we could. And even if we don’t get it all during her lifetime, we’ll have a legitimate claim on her estate when she dies. Some estate!” He chortled. “We might even end up owning that old house.”
“I found it!” exulted a triumphant Don Carlson.
Pat Lennon’s heart skipped a beat. All the pieces were falling into place.
It had always been thus. Even many years back when Detroit had had a third major daily, the Detroit Times, a Hearst publication. When there was a breaking story, the Free Press would send one or two reporters to cover it. The Times would send three to five. The News would sen up to fifteen staffers. The News’ pictorial library reflected this blanket coverage. It was two to three times the size of the Free Press’ library.
Lennon and Carlson had spread the contents of all the folders on The Red Hat Murders across the immense photo desk. For the past hour, they had been going over the pictures with magnifying glasses.
To this point, Lennon had found Strauss’ statuette, on a shelf otherwise filled with uppers and downers in the drug kingpin’s headquarters, and Carlson had just located Harding’s replica atop a bureau in the pimp’s plush pad. The statuette was partially hidden by a framed photo of Harding in full pimp regalia.
“O.K.,” said Lennon, after confirming Carlson’s find by means of her magnifying glass, “on to Rough Rudy Ruggiero and we’ll have a full house!”
They were ebullient. They felt like research scientists on the verge of a major breakthrough.
As the minutes ticked by, discouragement set in. Try as they might, they could not discover another “Exped.” statuette anywhere in the photos of Ruggiero’s base of operations. They even exchanged stacks of photos to scan them all again with a fresh perspective.
It was no use. There was no “Exped.” anywhere, at least not in the photos of the various places of business or pleasure belonging to Rough Rudy.
“Damn!” Lennon said in frustration. “Why isn’t it there? It’s got to be there. It ties the murders together. You’re sure this is the complete file on Ruggiero?”
“I’m sure, Pat. Don’t feel bad. You’re not the first reporter ever to see a pet theory go down the drain.”
Lennon sat, drumming her fingers on the desk top. The photos near her hands did an erratic dance responding to the rhythm of her tapping.
Suddenly, “The house!” she almost shrieked.
“The what?” Carlson seemed jolted by her excitement.
“The house!” she repeated. “Ruggiero’s home. I remember now. The police report: Ruggiero’s home resembled a cockamamie church or chapel. There were statues and votive lights all over the place.”
“So?”
“So, that’s where “Exped.” is. That’s where he’s got to be!”
“Pat, don’t get your hopes up too much.”
“Don, he’s got to be among all those statues. Nothing makes sense unless he’s there!”
Lennon picked up the phone and called Homicide Squad Six. This was her lucky day: she reached Lieutenant Harris.
She explained all she and Carlson had accomplished. She described what she anticipated could be found among the statues, reliquaries, and holy pictures in Ruggiero’s chapel-like home.
In Harris she found a sympathetic ear and responsive action.
She hung up and headed for police headquarters.
The fifth hole at St. John’s Seminary golf course was a very easy par five. The elevated tee led to a marshy valley, then to a gentle upgraded slope; a dogleg to the right led to the green, which was open in the front and rear, with sand traps on either side. It was relatively easy to reach the green in two.
The four clergymen golfers were almost alone on the course this Sunday afternoon. They stood on the elevation preparing to tee off.
“Remember when the barn burned down?” Father Joe Sheehan looked at the vacant area between the tee and Sheldon Road.
“Why that must be nearly thirty years ago,” said Father Fred Dolson.
“Yeah,” Sheehan acknowledged, “but I think of it every time I tee off here.”
“Uh-huh,” Father Don Curley agreed. “Fathers Hubbard and Latham played right through it. Said afterwards, it was a bit warm but they’d got off decent shots.”
“And Father O’Brien up in his room,” Sheehan was beginning to break up over the memory, “kept calling the switchboard to report the burning barn. And Harry kept telling him they were burning leaves. And he said, ‘Oh, O.K.,’ even though he could see the damn barn burning.”
They all laughed as they remembered the barn filled with valuable farm implements and fertilizer going up in smoke while a number of Sulpician Fathers watched it go with no more than academic interest.
“Simply one more indication,” said Curley, “of why it takes seven Sulpicians to confer one sacrament!”
Curley teed up, took a couple of practice swings, and sent the ball whistling down the fairway. The slight fade played the dogleg perfectly. Whatever else one was tempted to say about Curley, he did golf well.
“Nice shot,” said Father Ted Neighbors, Curley’s partner.
“Didn’t any of you guys hear anything about another Red Hat Murder?” asked Sheehan.
“How many times do we have to tell you we didn’t?” snapped a short-fused Curley.
Neighbors’ drive sliced badly. The ball disappeared in a forest that resembled the jungles of equatorial Africa.
“Damn!” Neighbors swore, “can’t you guys think of anything to talk about besides the damn Red Hat Murders?”
Curley guffawed. “That’s right … and how is St. Frances Cabrini?”
“I understand she hasn’t performed any miracles lately,” said Sheehan. “Terrible headache.”
All laughed, save Neighbors.
Sheehan’s drive barely made the top of the hill on the other side of the valley. Not much distance, but he would have a clear shot to the green.
“Well,” said Sheehan, “on the way here I thought I heard a radio news bu
lletin about another murder.”
“There aren’t supposed to be any more Red Hat Murders,” Curley observed.
“That depends on which paper you read,” said Sheehan. “The Free Press says the series is over. The News says there’s more to come.”
Dolson’s drive split the middle of the fairway. With no fade, he would have a long way to the green.
“Personally,” said Dolson, “I think it’s a good way to handle criminals. There’s too much mollycoddling nowadays. The only ones who have any rights are the criminals. You don’t see cops reading their rights to victims, do you?”
The foursome began their descent from the knoll.
“Fred,” said Sheehan, “I think in a former life you were in charge of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Rather than begin a futile search, Neighbors dropped another ball at the base of the marshy valley. If successful, this would be a tricky shot. He would have to bring the ball up sharply and either slice it to conform to the hole’s dogleg or arch it over a tall tree. Neighbors’ confreres stationed themselves behind the ball to help track its course.
Neighbors selected a three-wood.
“Don’t you think you ought to go with a low iron?” Curley asked.
“Silence!” Neighbors suggested.
Neighbors took a mighty swing. Turf, mud, and goop flew in every direction. His confreres peered through the debris trying to trace the flight of the ball. None was able to find it.
Finally, Curley looked at the spot where the ball had lain. A small white object was barely visible. Neighbors had hit the ball on its top and buried it.
Curley began to laugh. He pointed at the white dot. “You took the head right off ’er, Ted!”
The blood slowly drained from Neighbors’ face as his three companions fell to the ground clutching their sides in hysterical laughter.
It was uncertain whether the match could continue.
“They found it.” Harris hung up the phone. He was solemn. He always was when he sensed he was nearing the end of a difficult investigation.
“Where was it?” Pat Lennon had difficulty controlling her excitement. Her theory was proving itself.
In among all the other statues and bric-a-brac,” said Harris. “Bernhard found it after a brief search … funny how easy it is when you know what you’re looking for.”
“How was it delivered?” asked Inspector Koznicki.
The three were seated by themselves in Squad Six’s squad room.
“By mail. The day before Ruggiero’s murder,” said Harris. “Mrs. Ruggiero thought it was from some missionary—she supports so many. She just put it up among the other statues and thought no more about it.”
“Well,” said Koznicki, “that completes the circle. Each of our victims received this particular statuette shortly before his death. Now, what does it mean?”
“Miss Lennon,” Koznicki addressed the reporter, “you’ve led us this far with, I must say, some brilliant observations. Do you know anymore about this statuette? Is it a saint? If so, which saint?”
Lennon was somewhat surprised. “You mean,” she said, “you’d allow me to continue along with you on this case?”
“Certainly.” Koznicki’s huge hands made an open, welcoming gesture. “At least to some extent. As far as Lieutenant Harris and I are concerned, neither of us cares who solves or helps solve a case, only that the case be solved.
“I propose we collaborate now. If and when we are ready to make an arrest, you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, we’ll let you know what is on or off the record and we will trust you to cooperate.”
Lennon was elated.
“Then let me try my primary source.” She picked up the phone. “May I?” she asked.
Harris pushed the button that would give her an outside line.
“Father Clark? This is Pat Lennon again.”
“Good heavens, a few days ago I’d never heard of you. Now I receive a couple of calls a day from you.”
“I’ve got another saint for you.”
“Gracious! You mean there’s been another murder?”
“No, no, Father. This may be a clue that will help us find the murderer.”
Lennon started to describe the statuette. Before she could complete her description, Clark began to chuckle.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “no doubt about it. It’s old St. Expeditus.”
“Expeditus?” That was a new one on Lennon.
“Yes. I’m afraid, Miss Lennon, that Expeditus is a myth. Like Philomena, Christopher, and good old St. George and his fire-breathing dragon. Expeditus is a figment of someone’s fertile imagination.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Lennon’s frustration level was getting a workout.
“No, sorry, not really. I pay very little attention to mythical saints. But feel free to call me when you have a real one.”
Lennon turned to the two officers.
“At least,” she said, “we have a name for our friend here.” She picked up the figure and studied it. “St. Expeditus.”
“Saint who?” asked Harris.
“Expeditus,” said Koznicki. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Let me check with my backup source.” Lennon dialed again.
“Father Koesler? Pat Lennon. I’ve got one for you that Father Clark couldn’t solve.”
“If it baffled Leo, I wouldn’t hold out much hope for me.”
Lennon explained about the statuette and the circumstances under which it had been found. As she continued, she was struck by the difference between the way Clark and Koesler reacted to St. Expeditus. While Clark had laughed at the mythical holy man, Koesler was deadly serious.
“You say Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Harris are with you?”
“Yes.”
“I think I can help you with St. Expeditus, but my explanation may strain your credulity somewhat. Would it be possible for the three of you to drop by the rectory here?”
Lennon checked with her companions.
“We’ll be there in about twenty minutes, Father.”
“Very good. That will give me time to do some research.”
The Lions were playing the Vikings. Football from Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota.
Joe Cox had the game on TV. Only sporadically did he pay attention to it. Even Bud Grant, the Vikings’ stoic coach, did little to establish philosophical tranquility in Cox’s life.
He missed Pat Lennon.
And he didn’t know what could be keeping her. He had filed his story on the latest Red Hat Murder hours ago. And it was a damn good story, if he did say so himself.
If his story was that good and he had finished it so long ago, his roommate should long since have returned to their apartment. He could not imagine her finding that much more to the story than he had.
Minnesota scored. A pass from Lee to Foreman. Pat would have squealed. She always did at a touchdown. Especially a Minnesota touchdown. Pat preferred Minnesota even to the hometown crew.
TV viewers would now be treated to stop-action instant replays from every conceivable angle. Cox used to try to bet with Pat on the replay action. Only if she had been distracted during the live action would she consider wagering on what she didn’t realize was a replay. She was always furious when she realized what had happened.
Cox smiled at the memory.
At times like this, Cox wondered whether it mightn’t be a good idea to join the paper chase and propose marriage to Pat. He had no reason to believe she would accept. But it might give a sense of permanence to their lives which, when there was no Pat Lennon present, he missed.
He decided to make a large salad. It would both distract him and keep in the refrigerator till Pat returned.
The Lions fumbled. A Minnesota lineman picked up the loose ball and, accompanied by what appeared to be a herd of elephants, ran it in for a touchdown.
Pat would have squealed.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
He’d gro
wn accustomed to her squeal.
“You may wonder,” Father Robert Koesler opened his explanation, “why I think I know more about something than Father Leo Clark does.”
He addressed this remark to Pat Lennon, to whom he had given Clark’s name as an expert in just about everything hagiographical.
The two were seated on a couch in the living room of St. Anselm’s rectory. Seated opposite them on an identical couch were Inspector Koznicki and Lieutenant Harris.
Koznicki, having previously experienced Koesler’s attempts at instant coffee, had declined the priest’s offer. Lennon and Harris had tasted the coffee served them. Their nearly filled cups rested on the end table. Koesler was the only one Koznicki knew who could ruin instant coffee.
“The reason I have taken a special interest in St. Expeditus will have to wait a few minutes,” said Koesler. “First, let me give you a hew interesting facts about this saint who probably never existed.”
“Excuse me,” Harris pushed his coffee cup still further away, “but how could someone who never existed be a saint?”
Koesler smiled. It was a source of never-ending surprise to him how much one took for granted if one were born and raised Catholic.
“In the early Christian centuries, Lieutenant,” Koesler leaned forward, “some pious stories and myths became enshrined and retold so regularly they gradually became accepted as fact.”
“Father Clark mentioned St. Christopher as an example,” said Lennon.
“Ah, yes,” said Koznicki, “the saint who adorns so many dashboards.”
“A good example,” said Koesler. “Legend has it that this man carried a small boy across a dangerous stream. The boy was Christ. And the man was dubbed Christopher—or ‘Christ-bearer.’”
“Then what’s he doing in all those cars?” Harris demanded.
“A good example of a myth being taken for a reality,” Koesler answered.
“But now we come to St. Expeditus.” Koesler selected a book from among several stacked before him on the coffee table.
Death Wears a Red Hat Page 23
