“And are they the equivalent of deacons?”
“Yes and no. They can’t witness weddings. They would not be recognized by either civil or Church law. But by and large, at least from time to time, they do pretty much everything else a deacon does.
“The Church in Detroit—that would be Archbishop Mark Boyle—sort of lets them be. The problem of attracting black Catholic leadership for black Catholics is so desperate, the thinking seems to be, ‘Don’t rock the boat.’”
“And does it work?”
“Better than anything anyone else has developed.”
“And Toussaint?”
Koesler chuckled again. “The Archbishop ordained him a deacon without making him go through the entire deaconate training. Sort of a reward for helping to solve an enormous problem.”
“Then you would say that Toussaint was not the type to wait around interminably for the solution to a problem?”
Koesler thought a moment. “Yes, I think I would agree with that statement. And add that I find the quality admirable.”
“Good! Thanks for your time, Father.”
“That’s all?”
“Pray for us.”
An odd way, Koesler thought, for a police officer to conclude a phone conversation.
He poured a nightcap and sipped it slowly, thinking of his years of friendship with the Toussaints and all Ramon had done for the blacks of Detroit’s Catholic Church.
That night, Koesler had an odd dream. He dreamed of Ramon Toussaint garbed in the ancient uniform of Imperial Rome. He was walking on the heads of white deacons who were shouting, ‘Cras!” And he was brandishing a sword and marching toward a group of black Ministers of Service, who were chanting, ‘Hodie!'
Larry Ranger was not a prayerful man. But he prayed his four-year-old Lincoln Continental would make it to a garage or service station. He felt a special sense of gratitude then, when he saw the large sign, ‘Dessalen’s Garage.’ He pulled into the service area.
A small black man approached Ranger. Dessalen tried to personally determine the etiology on luxury cars. It was his philosophy that anyone who could afford gas for those guzzlers could afford a whopping repair bill.
“Troubles?” asked Dessalen, chomping on a fresh cigar.
“Damn car didn’t start this morning,” said Ranger. “I’m just lucky my neighbor had jumper cables.”
“That’s trouble,” Dessalen affirmed. “Nothin’ worse than when the damn car won’t start. “
Dessalen opened the hood and began poking about among the wires and engine parts. Finally, he emerged, wiping his hands on a rag.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said.
Ranger was more concerned with the time he was losing than the possible cost. He continued shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Looks like your starter is shot and I don’t like the look of that battery. Have to test it, though.”
“Listen,” said Ranger, “do what you have to to make the damn thing run. I’ll have my secretary call later today and find out when it’ll be ready.”
Dessalen got the necessary information and completed the service slip. Ranger flagged a cab and headed for downtown Detroit.
“Big mother,” Ben Jones commented.
“This one’s gonna pay for a couple of vacations,” said Dessalen. “Inside there you’ll find a loose cable. Tighten it so the damn car will start. Then replace the starter, battery, and just about anything else that doesn’t look new.”
“Man must be made of money.”
“Not when we get done with him.”
Blood was splattered nearly everywhere. The dead chicken, whose blood it was, lay on the floor. A heavy cloud of incense hung high against the ceiling. The ceremony was nearly over.
“Adia ban moin zui poto tou félé,” the Mambo sang, “Adia ban moin zui poto tou félé. “
“Placeat tibi, sancta Trinitas, obsequium serυitutis meae,” her assistant chanted, “et praesta, ut sacrificium, quod oculis tuae majestatis indignus obtuli, tibi sit acceptabile.”
“Adia bon moin zui zui y a ma qué félé. Adia ban moin zui poté tout félé.”
“Mihique et omnibus, pro quibus illud obtuli, sit, te miserante, propitiabile.”
The assistant bowed low and left the room. He carried a statuette of St. Expeditus. He would bury the statue head downward in a Catholic cemetery.
“Lady, you don’t understand. We don’t make house calls.”
“But, sir, I’m old and crippled and can’t get out of the house. I can’t even lift the television set. And it’s supposed to be portable.” Her tremulous voice broke with a combination of worry and desperation.
“I can’t help that, lady. You gotta bring your set in. If I have to come and get it, I’ll have to sock you with a big service charge.”
Mark Owens, proprietor of Owens TV and Radio Repair, was losing his patience and time trying to convey to this old lady the idea that her TV set had preceded her to the grave.
“No, sir, please, I don’t want you to take my TV. Please sir, couldn’t you come and fix it here? It’s not so bad. The picture just keeps flipping. I think it must be the vertical hold button. Please, sir, I’m going to miss all my programs.” It was as if she were pleading for the life of a loved one. In reality, her TV set was her only companion. It was very ill.
“Look, ma’am, I really don’t have time ...” In boredom, he had been drumming on the desk with his fingers. Well, not directly on the desk. He’d been drumming on his copy of the morning Free Press. He looked at the story he’d read earlier about the Red Hat murderer and about the type of person who could be his next victim.
“… uh, wait a minute, ma’am. Did you say it was just your vertical hold? Listen, give me your address. I think I can fix that for you at your apartment.”
“Right here? You won’t have to take it away?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Oh, God bless you!”
“I hope so.”
In the Detroit area, used cars find their way to Livernois Avenue the way elephants find a burial ground.
In the Paulsen Used Cars lot, some extraordinary activity was going on.
Arnold Paulsen, owner of the lot, armed with wet sponge and grease pencil, moved from auto to auto slashing prices.
Earlier in the morning, he had consigned three of his vehicles to the junk heap.
In the wastebasket of Paulsen’s office was a rolled-up copy of yesterday’s News.
A decree had gone forth to the meat department that henceforth there was to be no more wrapping of fresh ground meat around stale hamburger.
Stanley Pace, manager of the supermarket at Cass and Seldon, and author of the decree, sat at his desk with the morning Free Press. For the third time, he was reading Joe Cox’s latest account of developments in The Red Hat Murders. Pace slowly shook his head.
Fred Roper tucked a copy of the morning Free Press in his saddlebag and mounted his impressive Harley Davidson. He was about to kick the monstrous motorcycle into life and spend a few moments revving it with ear-splitting bravado. He followed this routine at least once a day.
Roper paused and looked at the nearby convalescent home. For the first time he thought of the patients whose tranquility he was about to shatter.
He walked the motorcycle out of the driveway and into the street. He started it and drove away without a single varroom.
Leo Richmond, corporation executive, sat near the window of his suite in St. Paul’s Commodore Hotel, where he was staying while attending a business conference.
He had just read the early edition of the Pioneer Press. As had nearly all the nation’s newspapers, this one carried a wire service account of the latest developments in The Red Hat Murders.
Richmond looked out the window contemplatively. In his mind’s eye, he could see the tons of taconite tailings his company was accused of dumping into Lake Superior’s Silver Bay daily while the farce dragged on in the courts.
> For the first time, he felt ashamed—and nervous about the charges.
“I’ve got to hand it to the guy,” said Harris. “He sure started at the top.”
“Absolutely,” Koznicki agreed. “I wonder how he ever got through to them.”
Koznicki had not only every available Detroit police officer on the Red Hat case, he also had the full cooperation of the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department, and was now himself actively involved in the investigation.
He and Harris, in Harris’ car, were en route to a meeting of local black clergymen, mostly Baptists, who might give the officers a lead toward that elusive voodoo ceremony for which they were searching.
“I’ve got a hunch,” said Harris, “we’ll have to find him in order to learn how he got to people like Ruggiero, Harding, and Strauss.”
“Sensational!” Koznicki commented. “I must admit I couldn’t duplicate his feat at least as far as a Ruggiero and Strauss. Not only was his ability to kill and decapitate them amazing, but his timing was exquisite.”
Harris shook his head. “So a guy who can touch the untouchables is now working on a comparative small fry.”
“Yes. He probably did not know that we were about to collar Dr. Schmitt. So he probably thought he was eliminating an evil man who operated above the law. That certainly was true with McCluskey. One of those small-time crooks who operates within the law. And if he uses the same M.O., he’ll kill again today.”
“But who?” Harris asked. “The world is filled with business people who are at least morally dishonest with their customers, their clients. I can’t help it, Walt, for some reason I feel very vulnerable.”
“It is a feeling, I assure you, that is shared by many, many people in our city this day,” said Koznicki, as they passed Dessalen’s Garage.
It was late in the afternoon. Father Koesler sat at the desk in his small office at St. Anselm’s.
All through the day, he had been monitoring the hourly news bulletins on WJR radio. No news yet of another Red Hat victim.
Koesler had been almost dragged into this case. But now he could not avoid his involvement. From the time he had offered Mass this morning, he had pondered virtually nothing but The Red Hat Murders.
The series of killings was a statement, of that he was convinced. A statement on sin. Sin as the using and misusing of people.
Ordinary citizens, parishioners, tend to think of people like the king of vice, the top pimp, the head of the drug empire as criminals, rather than as sinners. But if they are truly criminals they are truly sinners. The worst of sinners. Guilty of the most heinous abuse of the innocent.
But then people like the abortionist and the repairman—not all abortionists or all repairmen by any means, but the two selected as victims by the Red Hat killer—were guilty of the very same crime, the same sin, only on a smaller scale. They too used and abused people.
Obviously, it was the avenger’s purpose to demonstrate the similarity of the crimes, the similarity of the sin.
After that, the series of murders seemed filled with symbolism.
Three killings in a week. The Trinity. The days between the death and resurrection. The days spent by Jonah in the whale. A popular Biblical, mystical, and religious number. If he killed today, it would again be three in a week. Three at the top, then three very ordinary sinners.
Completion?
The possibility engrossed Koesler. The statement would be complete. Three outrageous sinners. Three sinners closer to our everyday lives. All suffering the same fate. Capital punishment, using the pun to go with both ‘hat’ and ‘head.’
Would it be possible, if his theory were correct, to anticipate the identity of today’s victim? No, no; utterly impossible. The killer had practically the entire city to choose from.
What chance was there of intercepting him?
The place he would leave the head! Was there any way of guessing where he would leave the head? Especially without knowing the victim’s identity, or perhaps better, the victim’s occupation. The pimp found with a model of purity and chastity. The drug king with an angel who represented angel dust. An abortionist with the patron of midwives. The repairman with St. Joseph the Carpenter.
And the next victim? Which occupation was the vehicle for his sin? Where would his head be found?
At long last, a possibility occurred to Koesler. He tried to discard it, but it continued to resurface. And then it simply wouldn’t go away.
Well, he thought, why not? At worst, he could lose a night’s sleep. And that was little enough price to satisfy his curiosity.
Elmer Dessalen closed his garage. He ascended the stairs to his office, whose windows overlooked the stalls still filled with cars to be worked on first thing in the morning.
Dessalen’s routine required going through the day’s mail, counting the day’s receipts, and cleaning up. Then a late dinner, followed by a little fun.
The junk mail he disposed of unopened. There were a couple of trade journals he’d take with him to browse through over dinner.
Finally, there was a package wrapped in plain brown paper. He tore away the paper. Immediately, his hands began to tremble. Awkwardly, as if he feared doing an irreverence to the statuette, he placed it on his desk. He could not take his eyes from it as he backed into a corner of the office.
As he retreated, the figure of St. Expeditus grew suddenly larger and larger until the saint was larger than life-size. He towered over the cringing Dessalen.
The eyes of Expeditus burned into his. Dessalen could see in the saint’s eyes a parade of every ordinary bewildered vulnerable driver he had defrauded. Instinctively, Dessalen knew that Expeditus had come as the avenger.
Expeditus advanced. Dessalen compressed himself into his corner. No sound was uttered.
In two majestic arcs, the sword of Expeditus severed Dessalen’s arms at the shoulders. Strangely, he felt no pain. He looked from side to side and saw blood gushing from both wounds.
Expeditus pointed with his sword to the garage repair area. It had disappeared. In its place was a huge vat of oil. Bubbling, boiling oil that sent up a pungent odor.
The office walls had disappeared. Expeditus prodded Dessalen toward the floor’s edge. At last, with the sharp point of his sword, the saint tipped Dessalen over the edge.
Down, down, down, into the oil-filled vat.
The pain was searing. Dessalen surfaced covered with the sizzling petroleum. In agony, he fought to keep his head above the surface. He had no arms to help him stay afloat. He gasped for air; his lungs were seared by the foul fumes. The heavy oil dragged him down, down, down. To nothingness.
A tall black man entered through a door at the rear of the large building. He wore coveralls, a leather jacket, and a felt hat, all of which had seen much better days. He looked around the empty garage.
He climbed the stairs. As he entered the office he seemed startled by the figure lying on the floor. He approached it, and with head cocked to one side, studied it. After a few minutes, he shook his head. He smiled. He removed a ring from his right hand and carefully put it in a small case he took from his pocket.
He went down the stairs and out to an old Plymouth parked behind the garage. Putting plastic coverings over his shoes, he returned to the office carrying an immense canvas bag. He removed a small case from the bag, opened it and removed a venerable handsaw. Squatting by the dead body, in a few strokes of the saw he removed the head. Blood covered the floor. He replaced the saw in its case and put the case and the head in the plastic-lined bag.
Making certain he had left no fingerprints, he exited the building.
He placed the bag in the trunk of his car, removed the plastic coverings from his shoes and disposed of them in the trashcan behind the garage.
Resolutely he drove out Grand River. It was very dark and quite chill.
Meanwhile, on Stoepel Avenue, a plainclothesman arrived to take up surveillance outside the home of Lieutenant Harris’ chief suspect in The Red Hat
Murders.
Father Koesler had seldom felt so foolish.
He wanted to view his vigil at St. John’s Seminary in the dramatic setting of those stereotyped prolonged police stakeouts. But all he could honestly liken it to was the “Peanuts” cartoon strip wherein Linus annually spends all Halloween vainly waiting for the appearance of The Great Pumpkin.
In the darkness, he was all but invisible on the second-floor porch over the seminary’s front entrance. He had been standing there for slightly more than four hours.
It was an excellent vantage. He could see for miles. He could see every road that approached the entrance to the seminary grounds. There was very little traffic on these roads during evenings. Outside of a few farms, most buildings in the area were institutions like the seminary and its distant neighbor, the Detroit House of Correction.
Not even a book to read, he thought—even if there were light. This place had been spooky even when he had occupied it as a student a quarter of a century before. Then, nearly overflowing with students and faculty, it had had the smell of newness. But even then, it had been filled with dark places that seemed impossible to illuminate sufficiently.
By now, the building had developed its own sounds—creaks, squeaks, whispers and moans. In addition, there was almost no one around. The few students living at the seminary were either in bed or gulping down the last few beers. In either case, they were in the rear of the building, which now seemed miles away.
Koesler’s eyes wandered restlessly over the roads. If he had been a profane man, he would have cursed the theory that had brought him here. Instead, he shrugged the feeling away. He was tempted to leave. But, like the rationalization for the prolonged U.S. presence in Vietnam, he felt he had invested too much time to leave without knowing his hands were doomed to remain empty.
Death Wears a Red Hat Page 30
