Death Wears a Red Hat

by William X. Kienzle

  Koesler chuckled. “You’re right, of course. But before the meetings, and before your time, there were convert classes. Twenty years ago and earlier, everybody wanted to be a Catholic.”

  “That’s right,” Clark added, “just about the time you were ordained, Bob, the whole conversion business peaked.”

  “Yes,” said Koesler, “I started with as many as four or five prospective converts each evening, and several during the day. Then there were the marriage problems, family troubles, financial woes. It could and did fill the day and night.”

  “And now?” asked Shanahan.

  “Now there aren’t all that many prospective converts, and most people take their troubles to professionals,” said Koesler.

  “And so,” said Clark, “to fill the time, we meet.”

  Koesler refilled his soup bowl. “Can any of you join Father Clark and me for nine holes after lunch?”

  “No, thanks,” said Ballas, “we’ve all got to get back to our parishes.”

  “Kind of brisk for golf, isn’t it?” asked Shanahan.

  “Got to keep Leo supple,” said Koesler, “or he’ll roll into a little ball and be blown away.”

  “Careful, Bob,” said Clark, “or I’ll resurrect Cardinal Mooney’s old electric golf cart and ride the legs off you.”

  “Ah, the golf cart,” Koesler recalled, “Mooney’s was the only one ever used here. Is that thing still around?”

  “It must be,” said Clark. “Unless they buried it with him in the crypt chapel.”

  When no one laughed, Ballas asked, “You mean Cardinal Mooney is buried here?”

  It was the turn of the other four to be surprised.

  “You mean,” said Koesler, “you’ve been here almost four years and you didn’t know Cardinal Mooney is buried in the crypt chapel?”

  “I’ve never been back there,” Ballas said defensively.

  “There’s no reason for the students to be there anymore, Bob.” Clark’s tone bore a touch of regret.

  “Well, David,” said Landregan, “you are not going to win any Explorer Scout merit badges with that kind of isolationism. Right after lunch we’ll go visit the Cardinal’s grave. You’ll like it. It’s spooky!”

  Clark was right, Koesler thought. The crypt chapel was a memory of the past. In his day as a seminarian, five priest faculty members had offered daily Mass simultaneously, each at his own altar in the crypt. They were called the ‘whisper Masses,’ because the Latin was whispered and the bells barely sounded so as not to distract the others.

  Today, no one but the most staunch conservative would say Mass privately. Community was the central thought in the liturgy.

  Mooney had been buried in the crypt at a time when the chapels there were the hub of early morning activity each day.

  Well, Koesler thought, the best-laid Cardinals often go unvisited.

  “You probably never even knew this, Leo,” he said, “but one day your sacristan, Dick Kulaski, taped the clapper to the side of the little bell. Two or three of us stood in the shadows to watch Ted Neighbors, who was serving your Mass, try to ring the bell. It was all we could do to keep from revealing our presence and disgracing ourselves when Ted first tipped the bell and finally waved it like a flag.”

  “I vaguely remember a Mass without a bell. I had no idea why it had been so quiet.” Clark laughed.

  “Poor Ted and his fractured Cabrini.”

  “Waste no pity,” said Koesler. “Teddy fell in and came up smelling rosy. The sculptor agreed to repair, or if that proves impossible, entirely redo the statue, gratis.”

  “Two Cabrinis for the price of one,” said Clark.

  “Yes,” said Koesler, “I believe Teddy has managed to impress even his parish council.”

  The five rose. Each said a private after-luncheon prayer.

  “What would you say, Bob, if I offered you a nip of wine before we attack the course?” asked Clark.

  “I’d drink to that.”

  Moellmann called Koznicki and Harris into his office. He wanted to speak privately with them before the news conference.

  “The foreign substance in McCluskey’s body proved, as I thought, to be snake venom.”

  Koznicki looked interested; Harris, plainly pleased.

  “Dr. Moody, an expert in the field, has identified it as the venom of the king cobra.”

  “But how—” Harris began.

  “We’re not positive how the venom was introduced into the body,” Moellmann interrupted. “It’s probable it was injected into the back of the right hand. There was an extremely small puncture there.”

  “It looks like we’ve got a homicide!” Harris was very pleased.

  “But that’s not all.” Moellmann gestured at Harris, who apparently was ready to leave.

  “That a small amount of cobra venom was present in McCluskey’s body is one fact,” Moellmann stated. “The other fact is that the venom was not the cause of death.”

  “Not the cause of—”

  “No,” said Moellmann. “McCluskey died of heart failure. Those are the two facts we have. From them, it is possible to make some suppositions, draw some conclusions.”

  “But the death mask, Doctor,” Koznicki asked, “the probable cause?”

  “Fright, most likely,” said Moellmann.

  “If my memory does not betray me, is it not possible for venom to cause a victim to hallucinate?”

  “Yes, that’s true,’’ said Moellmann.

  “Is it possible,” Koznicki pressed, “that the venom caused hallucinations so terrifying that the victim, in this case Mr. McCluskey, would be frightened to death? And that you would then conclude, quite correctly, that he died of heart failure? And the venom thus was the contributing factor, or the initial or primary cause of the heart failure?”

  “Yes,” Moellmann acknowledged, “not only is all that possible, your theory matches mine exactly, Inspector. But it remains a theory. I do not believe a strong case could be made in a court of law.”

  Both Koznicki and Harris were dejected.

  “However,” said Moellmann, “find me another one. Find me another body of a Red Hat victim containing venom and I believe your case will be quite strong indeed. Either, in this as-of-now hypothetical case, the venom will cause death—in which case you have your homicide plain and simple—or the coincidence of two identical deaths will tend to confirm the venom-hallucination-heart failure sequence.”

  “Damn!” said Harris. “We uncover bodies almost every damn day. Not one has been another Red Hat victim.”

  “I say this, gentlemen,” said Moellmann, “only to encourage you. All is by no means lost. Find me another body. Find me another body.” He was almost like a child asking for candy.

  “I think I’ll call your Father Koesler,” said Harris.

  “Why?” Koznicki asked.

  “We haven’t got a body and we need a prayer.”

  With the exception of the specific clinical details of the actual decapitations, Pat Lennon knew as much about The Red Hat Murders as the Detroit police. And so did the readers of the News.

  The delay in Moellmann’s news conference had made it impossible for her to make the late-afternoon edition. But she had interviewed Sergeant Terri Scanlon and learned the wide dimensions of this case.

  Her page-one story was headlined, ‘Red Hat Victims: Hard and Soft Core Crooks.’ It ran with the gruesome photo of McCluskey’s head atop St. Joseph’s statue.

  She had just finished closing her copy on the Moellmann news conference. The story was now locked in the CRT directory for editing.

  “I just wanted you to know, Pat,” said Bob Ankenazy, joining her at the water cooler, “that everybody here has been talking about your coverage of The Red Hat Murders. It’s been terrific. In the finest tradition of the News. You got it first and you got it right.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” said Lennon. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the Moellmann angle in for the four-ball.”

  “Not your fault.
Moellmann’s delays slowed things up.”

  “I know. I guess it just burns me that Joe will beat me on that one.”

  “I wouldn’t let that worry me. You’ve stayed so far ahead of Cox he’ll never catch up.”

  Lennon finished the water and threw the paper cup in the wastebasket. “I’ve had the creepiest feeling ever since the Moellmann conference this afternoon.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just imagine,” Lennon shivered, “what it would be like to be scared to death, literally.”

  “Very probably,” said Ankenazy, “there will be more than a few local businessmen pulling a few fast ones who just might be literally scared of death when they read your story.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Grimes. I’ll be glad to handle the case for you.”

  Charles Lebaron, attorney-at-law, was seated behind his large desk in his office in the CNB Building. Across from him, seated in a wheelchair, was a lovely young woman—no, what had been a lovely young woman. Now, her body was twisted, her skin scarred, her eyes pained far beyond her years.

  Mrs. Grimes, her husband, and their two small children had been passengers in a commercial jet that some months before had crashed, killing most of its passengers and crew and severely injuring most of the survivors, many of whom would be maimed for life.

  Mrs. Grimes and her young daughter were in the latter category; her husband and son had been in the former.

  Even with all the money in the world, life would not be easy for either Mrs. Grimes or her daughter, both of whom faced years of operations, plastic surgery, and physiotherapy, not to mention psychotherapy to combat the recurring nightmares and survival-guilt syndrome.

  It was a cut-and-dried case. A first-year law student could prove liability. The groundwork had been laid by several of the big national law firms who specialized in airline liability cases. The airline had already paid off several of the heirs and survivors; juries were certain to award huge amounts to the remaining victims. And if the airline attorneys were smart—and they were—they would try for an out-of-court settlement. One look at the photos of Mrs. Grimes and her daughter as they had been and as they were now, and there was no doubt a jury would make a record-setting award.

  Lebaron mentally licked his chops. Either way, his share would be magnificent. For a few hours of dictation and paperwork, a few phone calls, some postage, possibly a court appearance or two, he would be on easy street. He made a note to be sure to thank the Galandt Funeral Home, who had buried her husband and son, for recommending his services to Mrs. Grimes.

  “What? Oh, my fee. Well, Mrs. Grimes, a case like yours involves a lot of work—yes, a lot of work. I’ll have to shelve some other matters. There’ll be a lot of documents to file. But I’ll charge only the normal amount. In liability matters, as you know, the attorney gets one-third of all settlement monies—plus expenses, of course—and you will get two-thirds.”

  Lebaron’s gaze dropped to the picture of Tod McCluskey on the front page of the afternoon News. He tapped his finger against the desk’s polished surface.

  “On the other hand, Mrs. Grimes, you have your daughter to think of. And you’ve been through so much. And no amount could ever repay for the loss of your husband and your son. I’ll tell you what: I’ll cut my fee to a straight one-fifth—and I’ll absorb the expenses.”

  Mrs. Grimes wept.

  “My estimate for moving your furniture and belongings to Dallas, Mrs. Tiefer,” said Duane Kelleher, “is $2,500.”

  “It’s going up, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Moving and everything.”

  “I mean, it only cost us $1500 to move here from Kalamazoo last year.”

  “Well, you probably accumulated more things, it’s a lot longer distance, and gas is out of sight. And, of course, no one can promise you a lower price than we can, because all moving companies must operate under the same tariff, according to ICC regulations.”

  “All right. The important thing is, when can we expect delivery? My husband has to report for class Monday. He’s going to teach at the University of Dallas.”

  “Well, let’s see: We can pack you tomorrow, that’s Wednesday, and pick you up on Thursday. If there aren’t any other loads to pick up, we should have your stuff there on Monday all right.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. That will be just perfect. I’ll just phone and tell my husband the good news while you’re filling out your order sheet.”

  Mrs. Tiefer left the room. Kelleher could hear her talking on the phone in the kitchen. He glanced around the room. The photo of Tod McCluskey stared up at him from the newspaper on the table. Drawn by the horror of the picture, Duane Kelleher picked up the paper, and scanned Pat Lennon’s accompanying article.

  He laid the paper down slowly. He thought of the critical gas situation. He thought of the additional pickups he was pretty sure the driver would have to make. He thought of the company’s crowded warehouse. And most of all, he thought of the company computer in Indianapolis—the computer that could withhold trucks and hang up people’s furniture for weeks.

  Mrs. Tiefer reentered the room.

  “Uh, Mrs. Tiefer,” Kelleher said, “I should tell you there is the possibility of a delay on a move like this, a long delay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean as much as a month.”

  “A month!”

  “Or even longer. It’s possible. It would be possible with any moving company at this time of year. I just think it’s important for you to know that. I’d keep it in mind when you pack your car. You might want to take along some extra things, like more of your husband’s shirts, for his new job. And some sheets, towels, and cooking utensils you’ll need until your household goods can be delivered.”

  “Oh, and Mrs. Tiefer, I’d suggest some extra damage insurance. Our people aren’t always as careful as they should be—and things do get broken.”

  “Well, thanks, I guess, for telling me. I don’t know how we would have managed if you hadn’t.”

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars is the very finest we have.”

  Wilson Menard, owner of Menard Funeral Homes, didn’t expect his callers to actually choose a $35,000 funeral. But Louise Seymour had asked about the best.

  Both Louise and her sister gasped.

  “Louise, don’t be an idiot!” said Rose.

  “But,” Louise’s hands and eyelashes fluttered, “you know Loretta never had the best in life.”

  “All the more reason she’ll be satisfied with less than the best in death,” said Rose.

  “Don’t say death!”

  “Why not?”

  “It sounds so final.”

  “It is.”

  Wilson Menard tugged at his vest and cuffs. He knew from years of experience the exact maximum funeral fee he could expect from a couple of spinsters on behalf of their sister.

  “Miss Seymour,” he addressed either or both sisters, “the most popular funeral we have is priced at $2,400. It is not lavish, but it is most respectable. And that price includes everything from transporting the deceased here to the actual burial.”

  “Well, that sounds more reasonable,” said Rose.

  “Do you really think it’s enough for Loretta?” asked Louise.

  Menard’s eye caught the afternoon edition of the News, which he had carefully folded so that sickening picture would not be visible. But he remembered it.

  “Actually, ladies,” he broke into their conversation, “almost the identical service is available to you for $1,600. I recommend it.”

  “Would you excuse us for a moment?” Rose Seymour had grown suspicious. She drew her sister aside for a caucus.

  While they were gone, Menard picked up the News and once more scanned the story of Tod McCluskey’s death, the series of murders, and the wide variety of future possible victims.

  The two sisters returned.

  “Your sister was quite elderly?” he asked.

  They nodded.

  “T
here are not many survivors, are there?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Then I would like you to consider cremation. Four hundred and fifty dollars for a simple sturdy coffin, five dollars for a permission certificate, and a hundred and twenty dollars for the cremation.”

  The sisters looked at each other in wonderment.

  “Father Koesler?”

  “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant Harris.”

  “I thought I recognized your voice.”

  “I know it’s a little late, but do you have a few minutes?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I wonder if you could provide me with a little more information about your friend Ramon Toussaint.”

  “Why, is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, Father. Just an effort to understand everything I can about all aspects of the case we’re investigating.”

  “What can I help you with?”

  “Those Ministers of Service Toussaint created; how do they fit into things Catholic? Are they unique?”

  Koesler chuckled. “Yes, I guess they are, Lieutenant. I’ve never thought about it quite that way. But as far as I know, there’s nothing like them in the world.”

  “And why was it Toussaint got this group started?”

  “Well, there was a program begun about ten or twelve years ago to reestablish a permanent diaconate—men who would not become priests but would remain deacons.”

  “Why wouldn’t they become priests?”

  “They could be married and still be deacons.”

  “Oh. O.K., go on.”

  “They can perform some of the rites that formerly only priests could. They can baptize, distribute communion; they can anoint, they can witness weddings, they can preach. Things like that.

  “Well, anyway, Ramon predicted the black Catholic community simply wouldn’t buy this program, especially since it required two years of rather intense study. And he was right. It became a white man’s program. The black Catholic community would be once again without any black Catholic leaders.

  “So Ramon began, all on his own, the Ministers of Service. He, along with several sympathetic inner-city priests, teaches them, and turns them out in a matter of two or three months.”