“Expeditus,” Koesler paraphrased from the martyrology he held, “was one of six soldiers put to death for their Christian faith. He allegedly died with Caius, Aristonique, Rufus, and Galatas, all of whom were companions of St. Hermogene.”
“I hate to tell you, Father,” said Lennon, “but this is not very interesting.”
“It gets better.” Koesler continued from the martyrology. “Supposedly, they were put to death in Melitene, in what was known as Armenia. Not only is their exact date of death unknown, so is the period in which they lived. With all of that, they do have a feast day, April 19th.
“Now, in about the seventeenth century,” Koesler selected another book from his stack, “a packing case containing human bones from the catacombs was sent from Rome to some nuns in Paris. On the case was inscribed the word ‘spedite.’ Did that mean the case held the mortal remains of St. Expeditus—or that the case was to be delivered with speed and dispatch?”
His guests smiled.
“See,” said Koesler, “I told you it would get better.”
“But what, if anything,” Harris interjected, “does this have to do with The Red Hat Murders?”
“Give him time, Ned.” Koznicki knew how his priest friend needed to build a logical explanation leaning heavily on Aristotelian logic.
Koesler nodded unspoken gratitude to Koznicki. “Along about the eighteenth century, Expeditus became a firm fixture in the religious piety of both Sicily and Germany. He became the patron saint of—what else—dispatch. He was the saint to be invoked against procrastination.”
“The statuettes that were found at each of The Red Hat Murders?” Lennon asked.
“Exactly,” said Koesler, “it’s the traditional depiction of Expeditus. Leo Clark is one of the few who would recognize it. You have a man in a uniform of ancient Roman times. The raven is a creature which, to the Latins, was an emblem of interminable delay. The word coming from the raven’s mouth is cras, Latin for tomorrow.’ All this is intolerable to Expeditus, of course. So he crushes the raven beneath his heel. And points with his sword to the cross on which we find the word hodie, Latin for ‘today.’”
Koesler looked quite pleased with himself. As if he had just successfully completed teaching a very practical course to attentive students.
“That’s very interesting, Father,” said Koznicki, “but it is still not clear to me why anyone would send this statuette to someone who was about to become a murder victim.”
Before Koesler could answer, Harris uttered a muted exclamation. “Oh, my God,” he said, very deliberately. “I think I know.”
The others turned their attention to the Lieutenant, who, in turn, looked very intently at Koesler.
“You think it’s voodoo, don’t you?” Harris asked.
“Yes,” said Koesler.
“Voodoo!” Lennon and Koznicki exclaimed simultaneously.
Koznicki ran with the ball. “Really, Ned,” he said, “we are living in the middle of Detroit in the middle of the twentieth century! You can’t expect anyone to take voodoo seriously!”
“Walt, I don’t care whether you take voodoo seriously,” said Harris. “All I want you to know is that the practice of voodoo is far from dead in beautiful downtown Detroit.”
“He’s right, Inspector,” said Koesler. And now we are getting close, in the circuitous path my ratiocination takes, to the reason for my interest in St. Expeditus.”
For the first time in this conversation, Pat Lennon flipped open her note pad and began scribbling her version of shorthand.
“You see,” Koesler recommenced, “during all those years I was with the Detroit Catholic, I built up strong bonds with Detroit’s black community. That was due partly to the physical location of the newspaper in the heart of Detroit and also to some controversial positions I took.
“In any case, it was through some of my connections in the black community that I was informed of a few of the voodoo cults that are very active in Detroit.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know this was going on.” Koznicki experienced a rare moment of surprise concerning his city. Ordinarily, he made it his business to know everything that was going on in Detroit.
“They don’t advertise, Walt,” said Harris.
“Have you attended any of these voodoo rites?” Koznicki asked Harris.
“No,” Harris answered, “but I’m well aware they’re going on.”
“How about you, Father,” Koznicki persisted, “have you ever attended?”
“No,” Koesler answered. “To be perfectly frank, I find the notion of voodoo worship somewhat frightening. But the knowledge that rites were being conducted in Detroit—and in most other major cities of the country—started me on some research.
“Voodoo,” Koesler self-consciously again cast himself in the role of a teacher, “began in Africa many centuries ago. As the natives were taken to other countries, usually as slaves, they took with them their voodoo faith and practices.”
“Do you have any idea, Father,” Lennon asked, “which countries are most affected by voodoo?”
Koesler consulted yet another volume from his stack. “Well, according to this account, it’s most prevalent among the native populations of Africa, Haiti, and the West Indies, as well as some South American peoples. Also, forms of it are indigenous to Australia, New Zealand, and the aboriginal populations of various Pacific islands.”
Lennon jotted all this down.
“What is truly amazing as one studies this,” Koesler continued, “is the incredible adaptability of these people. Most of the native Africans under slavery were virtually forced to become members of one or another of the Christian denominations. Most were forced to become Catholic.”
An apologetic blush tinted the priest’s cheeks.
“Yet,” he went on, “they were able to blend voodooism with Christianity in ways the early missionaries could not have imagined. And that is particularly so when it comes to the saints. You see, the spirits in voodooism are called loa. And, while not all loa are saints, all the saints are loa.”
“And that,” Harris presumed, “explains your familiarity with good old St. Expeditus.”
“Why, yes, it does.” It was Koesler’s turn to be surprised. “As it so happens, Expeditus is one of the predominant saints in the voodoo loa. St. Expeditus is invoked particularly when an evil curse, perhaps even death, is to be delivered. Expeditus, as we have already seen, does not suffer delay. And when an enemy is to be dispatched, it is essential the curse be delivered with dispatch.”
Koesler was pleased with his pun. The others seemed unmoved by it.
“There’s one more thing I think you ought to know.” Koesler selected a book with a brightly colored dust jacket. “This book, The Mind/Body Effect, by Herbert Benson, M.D., makes, among other things, a strong case for the physical effects, including death, that voodoo can have on people.
“I want to read you one short passage wherein Dr. Benson cites what happened to an Australian who had been marked for death by an aboriginal rite of pointing a bone at him. ‘The man who discovers that he is being boned by an enemy,’” Koesler read, “‘is, indeed a pitiable sight. He stands aghast, with his eyes staring at the treacherous pointer, and with his hands lifted as though to ward off the lethal medium, which he imagines is pouring into his body. His cheeks blanch and his eyes become glassy, and the expression of his face becomes horribly distorted … He attempts to shriek but usually the sound chokes in his throat. His body begins to tremble and the muscles twist involuntarily. He sways backward and falls to the ground, and after a short time appears to be in a swoon; but soon after he writhes as if in mortal agony, and covering his face with his hands, begins to moan … His death is only a matter of a comparatively short time.’”
Koesler’s listeners were silent. The description of an apparently voodoo-caused death had reached them.
“I was particularly impressed,” Koesler said, “with this description of blanched cheeks, gla
ssy eyes, distorted face, and a mouth that seems to be trying to shriek. This pretty well describes the condition of the heads you’ve been finding, doesn’t it? I mean, all I know is what I read in the papers.” He inclined his head toward Lennon.
“Yes, that could well describe the heads,” Koznicki said thoughtfully. “But, with the possible exception of Stud Harding, it is probable that none of the victims even saw their statuette before they died. And, in the case of Dr. Schmitt, it is certain he did not see the statuette. The nurse was going to show it to him tomorrow. “
Everyone seemed to find the word ‘tomorrow’ jarring. So many things had happened since the discovery of Schmitt’s head that is was difficult to keep in mind it had happened only a few hours earlier.
“And, in addition to that,” Lennon observed, “don’t the victims of things like voodoo curses have to believe in their efficacy before a curse can actually work?”
“That’s my understanding,” said Harris. “It’s the power of suggestion that does it. Not some kind of primitive power in voodoo.”
“I must confess,” Koesler admitted, “that is the point Dr. Benson makes in this book. But I have told you all this for a specific purpose. The only connection I can see between the presentation of a statue of St. Expeditus and each of the Red Hat victims lies in voodoo.
“The victims each appear to have died under strange, possibly even ritualistic, circumstances. So much so that when the red herring—who was it, Fitzgerald—was slipped into the picture, only embalming could come close to duplicating what the real killer is capable of accomplishing by some awful natural means. I just read you an eyewitness description of a real voodoo death. It would seem to match the death masks of the Red Hat victims.
“The only argument against these deaths being the result of a voodoo curse is the belief that a voodoo curse can’t happen. As rational people in the middle of Detroit in the middle of the twentieth century,” Koesler nodded toward Koznicki, whose phrase he had borrowed for the rebuttal, “we know there can be no special magic in voodoo. If it works at all, it must work through the power of suggestion.
“Don’t mistake me. It’s not a bad argument. I would probably make it myself if I were not playing devil’s advocate for the moment.
“But if I were you, conducting an investigation or doing some investigative reporting, I wouldn’t totally discount the possibility that voodoo may possess some sort of magic force of which we are simply unaware. These, after all, are the days of psychokinesis and extrasensory perception. I just don’t think we yet know the extent of—whatever you care to call it—psychic or spiritual power. After all, as we in the Church keep reminding people, faith can move mountains.”
A long silence followed. It reminded Koesler of the silence liturgically recommended after the homily of the Mass. He was never sure his homilies were worth silent consideration. Evidently, what he had just said was being seriously considered.
“End of sermon,” Koesler said at length.
His guests stirred and began preparing to leave.
“May I get you more coffee?” Koesler offered.
“Oh, no! No!” Harris protested.
“Oh, please no!” Lennon pleaded.
Koznicki merely smiled.
“As per our deal,” Lennon said to both officers, “is what went on here this afternoon on or off the record?”
Harris and Koznicki exchanged glances.
“It’s on the record,” said Harris. “If there’s somebody or some group out there messing about with voodoo in these murders, it won’t hurt to let them know we’re thinking about them.”
“It might help an intended victim to know about it,” said Lennon.
“Or be the cause of his death, if the power-of-suggestion theory is correct,” added Koesler.
“Come on, Father,” said Harris, “you can’t have it both ways. You just made a convincing argument in favor of the unknown power of voodoo. “
“I also explained,” said the priest, “that I was acting as devil’s advocate.”
Harris shook his head.
“Ned,” said Koznicki, “you said you’ve never been to a voodoo ritual. But could you get into one? I’d like to see it.”
“You do like to live dangerously, don’t you, Walt? O.K., if you’re game, so am I. Let me make a call, and you and I should have ringside seats tonight.”
“You sure there’ll be something going on on a Sunday night?”
“Weekends are the best bet.”
The meeting was breaking up. Pat Lennon was headed back to the News to write the best exclusive she’d ever had. The officers were making their arrangements for an evening of voodoo.
“How about you, Father? Are you game?” asked Harris.
Koesler felt ambivalent. He did not want to be dragged into a murder mystery. He had quite enough to do without adding a measure of amateur detecting. But there was no denying he was into it, and he did find the mystery exciting.
He also knew that until this case was solved, priesting, plans for homilies, and so forth, would be distractions from what would be his principle preoccupation, The Red Hat Murders.
“Now, remember, not a word out of any of you that I’m the Free Press’ Anonymous Gourmet!”
Fathers Joe Sheehan and Fred Dolson greeted Father Don Curley’s admonition with blank stares. Father Ted Neighbors, who had been through this routine before, smiled indulgently.
The profession, made while the maitre d’ was passing the line of people waiting for tables, led to the clerical foursome’s premature seating. Murmured complaints came from hoi polloi as the four were ceremoniously plucked from the line and seated ahead of some ten who were left waiting. Comments heard by an uncomfortable Joe Sheehan as he was whisked along, included, “It’s time for another French Revolution, Ed.” And, “I don’t care, Helen, I believe in the separation of Church and State!” Followed by, “You mean the separation of Church from Privilege, you idiot!”
“What do you mean,” asked Sheehan after they were seated, “by saying you’re the Anonymous Gourmet? You have trouble keeping your golf score!”
“Be gentle with him, men,” said Neighbors, “at least we’re not standing in line anymore.”
“That’s right,” Sheehan heatedly rejoined, “and we’ve antagonized a lot of people who are angry—not with the Free Press—but with the Catholic Church.”
“Take it easy, Joe,” said Dolson. “They’ll get over it.”
Just to be on the safe side, Dolson kept alert for signs of any possible attack. He didn’t have any of his guns with him now. But the fingers of his right hand gripped the handle of the knife beside his plate.
If Joe Muer’s, on the corner of Vernor and Gratiot, was not the finest seafood restaurant in Detroit, it generally enjoyed that reputation. It almost always boasted a line of people waiting to be seated.
“Now,” Curley cautioned, “don’t be too eager to order drinks or the meal. These places are all different. Some give the good old Anonymous Gourmet more than others.”
The waiter attended their table promptly. Curley told him they would study the menu before ordering.
Yet another foursome, two couples, entered Joe Muer’s and took their place at the end of the long line. Larry Delaney checked his watch. His review of the restaurant would include a report on how much time was spent waiting to be seated.
The waiter returned to the priests’ table. There was no offer of complimentary drinks. Curley nodded and he and the others ordered libations.
Muer’s had changed over the years. It had expanded and Delaney did not particularly care for the present decor. He so commented to his attractive date, who agreed.
“Oh, come on, Sheehan,” said Curley, gently stirring his extra-dry martini, “come off your high horse. The people in line will forget about this. Rank, after all, has its privileges.”
The line was moving, but imperceptibly. Delaney checked his watch. He frowned. This was a long holding pattern. But h
e’d wait his turn. Any kind of privileged treatment at this point might end in assassination at the hands of justly aggrieved queuers.
The waiter visited the priests’ table. Joe Sheehan wanted to order dinner. He was outvoted three to one. Each had another drink.
The Delaney party was almost to the head of the line. Delaney conferred with his date and their guests. The foursome determined in general what each would order. Delaney would taste everything served, but he would take the opinions of his fellow diners into consideration in his total critique of the meal.
“I hope somewhere in the annals of golf,” Curley was saying, “there can be enshrined your second shot on five, Ted. There’s got to be an award for burying a ball on the fairway.”
All laughed save Neighbors, whose face reddened in anger. Curley’s tone was a bit loud. He was conscious of being slightly tipsy. But he knew all would be well as soon as the food was served.
The Delaney party was next in line to be seated. Delaney casually looked over the patrons who were already seated and at various courses of dinner. His eye was caught by four priests at a fairly prestigious table. He was particularly taken by the priest who seemed to be doing the most talking. Bald, paunchy, looked as if he might be tall. Wearing thick glasses, he had a habit of cupping his ear when others spoke, as if he were hard of hearing.
“Can you imagine a Ted-Neighbors-conducted funeral?” asked a gasping Curley. “They get to the cemetery and Teddy beats the corpse into the ground with his three-wood!” Curley convulsed with laughter. Smoke was about to escape from Neighbors’ ears.
“Excuse me.” Delaney caught the maitre d’s attention. “Could you tell me if you have the Free Press’ Anonymous Gourmet here tonight?”
The maitre d’ clearly was surprised. “Why, yes; yes, we do. But you’d never guess who it is!”
“Let me try. Is it that bald, paunchy, myopic gentleman over there disguised as a priest?”
“Why yes! However did you know?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
On his way to being seated, Delaney detoured to the priests’ table. He leaned over Curley’s shoulder.
Death Wears a Red Hat Page 24
