As time passed, Grace wondered, with greater and greater frequency, what could be done about Henry. He remained her only son, but he was obviously hurting others. She felt somehow responsible. Something had to be done. But what?
It was a question she had never been able to answer.
Both Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing were lifelong Detroiters. If they had been Catholic, they would have known that the intersection of Vernor Highway and Junction Avenue was a famous corner in the eyes of westside Catholics. It was at that intersection that the hub of the enormous physical plant of Holy Redeemer parish was located. If Ewing and Harris had been a bit older, they undoubtedly could have recalled a time when Redeemer High School had constituted a major athletic power in Detroit.
But that was history. Now the once financially comfortable parish struggled to stay afloat in a neighborhood where there was no longer at least one Irish-owned bar per block. Long before, when affluent Catholics had begun moving out to the suburbs, the then Cardinal Edward Mooney had mused that he wished some of the larger parochial structures had been built on wheels so they could follow the families that built them to the suburbs. Redeemer would have been chief among these movable edifices.
Harris and Ewing were standing directly across from the mammoth church with its flight of stone stairs climbing to the mosaic church exterior. Impressive. They turned to face 1731 Junction, Hank Hunsinger’s ancestral two-story home and present residence of his mother and her companion. It was well kept up and preserved. But then, so were most of the homes on the block. A careful eye would note that 1731 had had a tad more money poured into its maintenance.
They mounted the stairs and rang the doorbell. Neither looked forward to this interview. Interrogating a mother after her son’s death, especially when the death is caused by murder, was not fun.
They waited patiently several minutes before the door was opened a crack. They could see the links of the chain lock that prevented the door from being opened fully. Behind the chain was a small, wrinkled, suspicious visage.
“Mrs. Hunsinger?” Harris tried.
“Mrs. Quinn,” clarified the face.
The two detectives identified themselves, showing their badges and identification cards. Finally convinced, Mrs. Quinn let the detectives in and showed them into the living room, where Mrs. Hunsinger, handkerchief held to her face, sat in a padded rocking chair.
Only a few of the room’s furnishings appeared to date back to the time the Hunsingers had first moved in. Most of the furniture-end tables, hutches-was contemporary and fairly new. All in all, the room was tastefully outfitted and decorated.
The officers identified themselves to Mrs. Hunsinger. It was obvious she had been crying. But now she seemed composed. The two men and Mrs. Quinn seated themselves.
“We’re sorry about your son’s death, Mrs. Hunsinger,” said Ewing. “But we need some information to help us solve his murder. So we have to ask you some questions.”
“I did it,” Grace Hunsinger said quietly.
“What?”
“I’m responsible for Henry’s death. “
“I don’t understand-”
“It all began when he was a little boy and hanging around with that bunch of hooligans. Of course, if his father had lived, it might have been different. There just was so little I could do. .”
“But you said-”
“As the boy is, so is the man. If I had been able to control him more, he might not have turned out as he did. So many people seemed to hate him. It could have been different if I had been able to do things just a bit differently. Still, he was a good boy. He certainly took good care of his mother. .”
After being initially startled, Harris and Ewing relaxed. It was a typical case of a parent blaming herself for all the circumstances that contributed to the downfall, death, or murder of her son. Even though most of these circumstances were beyond her control and, indeed, may well have been clearly his responsibility. But the two men did not interrupt as the grieving woman continued to find reasons, in her background, in her late husband’s background, for all the evils of her boy’s life. Finally, inevitably, she ran out of excuses for her son.
“Poor, dear Henry,” she concluded. “So young. To think that I must bury my son. .” She covered her eyes with her handkerchief and wept silently. After a short while, she seemed to gather some inner strength. Her shoulders no longer quivered. She dried her eyes and looked at the officers. “But you have your work to do, don’t you? I believe you said that you had some questions you wanted to ask me.”
Ewing opened his notepad. He’d been studying Mrs. Hunsinger. He guessed she had been a handsome woman. Even now, she had a striking presence. And, he estimated, she must be in her seventies. “Mrs. Hunsinger,” he began, “could you tell us something about your son’s compulsiveness?”
“Compulsiveness? I don’t know what you mean. He was neat. I taught him that. One of the few good things I was responsible for. A place for everything and everything in its place. Do you find anything wrong with that, young man?”
Ewing, startled by her response, looked at Harris, who, in a sort of silent message, first returned Ewing’s gaze, then directed it significantly around the room. What Ewing saw answered his question. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. The pictures were hung perfectly, the carpet had been freshly vacuumed, and not a speck of dust could be seen.
Of course. Why should she think her son’s behavior out of the ordinary when it was but a reflection of her own compulsiveness?
“No, nothing wrong, ma’am. It’s just that not everyone is as neat and clean as your son was. The way he kept everything in perfect order and the way he would always do everything the same way all the time. . well, it made him a bit. . uh. . different.”
“A virtue, I’d say.”
“Yes, ma’am. Could we talk a bit about your son’s eyesight. . his vision?”
“My fault once again.”
“Ma’am?”
“So rare. Far less than one percent are colorblind. And yet, medical science is always coming up with cures for ills we grew up with. Who’d ever think someone would come up with a cure for polio? There may even be some cure for colorblindness, some operation, some medication. We were never rich enough to afford anything like that. But Henry assured me over and over that it was all right. That it didn’t interfere with his football. He was a good boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you know that your son kept a supply of a poison known as strychnine in his apartment?”
“That was only recently. I warned him about that. I left him a note. He didn’t need anything as powerful as poison. His rodent problem could have been handled the good old-fashioned way-with traps. But no; he had to do it his way. Just like his father. I told him in my note that it was dangerous.”
“Speaking of your note, ma’am, just how often did you visit your son’s apartment?”
“Irregularly. Perhaps once every other week. There wasn’t much to do, though. Henry kept everything in pretty good order. Used to let the refrigerator get kind of empty. I’d bring him milk. He’d never get it on his own. Then he wouldn’t eat a nourishing breakfast with cereal. I’d call first, though.”
“Ma’am?”
“Never knew when he’d have. . company over. Ran into a hussy there once. Wasn’t wearing a stitch. And not a bit ashamed or embarrassed about it. I certainly was. Didn’t want that to happen again. So, I’d always call first.”
“But you had a key? Your son gave you a key?”
“Of course. How else would I get in when he wasn’t there?”
Ewing looked at Harris. Once again communicating wordlessly, Harris indicated they should wrap up this interview.
“One final question, ma’am. Can you tell us what you did yesterday?”
Mrs. Hunsinger exhibited a small, self-conscious smile. “It’s one of the things that goes when you get older. Usually I can remember things that happened ages ago clear
as a bell. But the closer we get to the present moment, the harder it is. . Mary Frances. . Mary Frances!”
Mrs. Quinn had dozed off. Her head drooped down near her bosom. The officers had quite forgotten she was there. When Mrs. Hunsinger called her name, it startled everyone, including Mrs. Quinn.
“Oh! Oh. . yes. . what is it?”
“These gentlemen want to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yesterday. Yes. .” Mrs. Quinn was slowly coming out of her nap. “Well, let’s see. We got up about eight as usual and got over to church for nine o’clock Mass. We never eat before we go to communion. Everybody else does now. That doesn’t show the proper reverence for our Eucharistic Lord. So we don’t have breakfast until after Mass.”
Harris began to think that it would take Mrs. Quinn all of today to recount yesterday.
“Then, after the nine o’clock Mass, we stayed for the ten o’clock. We always hear two Masses at least. One in thanksgiving for the other. Then we came home. It was harder than usual getting back across Junction. Do you remember, Grace? The traffic was really unusually heavy yesterday.”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded agreement.
“Then we had breakfast. Just cereal and coffee. We eat lightly, you know. It’s better for you when you get older.”
“Ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “just touch on the high spots. I mean, we don’t need to know everything.”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ewing grew resigned; there was nothing he could do about her meandering in any case.
“Then we read the papers. The Free Press didn’t get here until late. Now that was strange because the Free Press is the morning paper and the News is the afternoon paper. But yesterday the News got here before the Free Press.”
Harris sighed audibly. Mrs. Quinn remained undeterred.
“Then there was the pregame show. We never watch television on Sunday unless Henry’s team is playing. And with that man who talks all the time, we wouldn’t watch it at all if it were not for Henry. Then the game started and we watched. Who won the game, Grace?”
“I think the other team.”
“Whatever. Then we turned off television and listened to records. It was the Beethoven symphonies, wasn’t it, Grace?”
“Yes. . no; it was Brahms.”
“Yes, that’s right. It was Brahms. And before the Fourth Symphony we had dinner. We made frozen dinner so we didn’t have to cook. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to watch the game. You had the roast beef dinner and I had chicken. . isn’t that right?”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded.
“Then, after dinner, we listened to the radio. We always listen to the classical music station, WQRS. . although we can’t stand the modern composers. It’s just noise. Not like Beethoven, Brahms, and Chopin. Then, after that-”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Ewing interrupted, “but that would bring you up to about eight o’clock yesterday evening, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Well, it just so happens that’s all the time we need accounting for.”
“Oh.”
“So we’ll be leaving now.”
The two officers rose and started hastily for the door. They were stopped in their tracks by Mrs. Hunsinger’s anguished tone.
“Where’s my son?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Where’s my boy?”
“Mr. Hunsinger? I would guess the medical examiner is finished with h-uh. . I suspect the body has been delivered to the mortician. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Yes. The Hackett Funeral Home across the street on Vernor.”
“Well, then, that’s probably where the b- where your son is now.”
Ewing opened the door and Harris preceded him out.
“Will you be coming to the funeral?” Mrs. Hunsinger asked.
“The funeral?”
“Yes. I suppose it will be on Wednesday. There’s no reason to postpone it. Everyone who might attend is already here in the Detroit area. Will you be coming?”
“We’ll certainly try, ma’am. Depends on what our schedule will be then. And, thank you, ma’am, for your time. And”-his look bore pity-“our condolences, ma’am.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Come in,” said Mrs. Quinn to Mrs. Hunsinger. “You’ll catch a chill.”
3
Father Koesler arrived at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars at 11:30 a.m., fifteen minutes early.
The habit of being early for appointments had begun, as nearly as he could recall, with his mother insisting that he not keep others waiting. By now, the habit was so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him to be late. At times, embarrassed at his reputation of being the only person on time for meetings, parties, whatever, he would plan elaborately to arrive exactly on time. But on those occasions, something unforeseen, such as a rapid traffic flow, would occur and he would find himself ringing the doorbell just a few minutes early.
It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the Cellars’ quiet lighting. When he could see, he found himself gazing into the smiling face of Joseph Beyer, proprietor and, by choice, maitre d’ of the Wine Cellars.
“I’ve been wondering about you, Father,” Beyer greeted Koesler. “You’ve been away entirely too long. Been keeping out of mischief?”
Koesler smiled. Beyer was the only one of Detroit’s famous restauranteurs Koesler not only knew personally but on a first-name basis. They had met by accident socially and had liked each other from the outset. It helped that each of them liked most people they met.
“Trying my best, Joe,” said Koesler. “I’d tell you more, but you’re not my regular confessor.”
“So what brings you downtown, Father?”
“I’m supposed to meet Inspector Koznicki for lunch. But I’m early.”
“So what else is new?”
Until now, Koesler had not known that his reputation had reached to Joe Beyer.
“In this case, my time of arrival was on purpose. Lunchtime here is the survival of the earliest.” He glanced around the nearly empty room, which would soon be filled to overflowing, “So, got a table?”
“For you, yes. But we don’t serve Polish people.”
The knack of a dry sense of humor is the ability to keep a straight face while saying something utterly ridiculous. Joe Beyer had the knack.
“I’m glad that you, not I, will be the one to tell that to Walter Koznicki.”
Beyer chuckled as he led Koesler to a corner table where things would be somewhat quieter.
“Molly here today?” Koesler’s reference was to Mrs. Beyer.
“Uh-huh. Working on the books. She’s the smart one.” Beyer supervised the seating of Koesler. “Get you something from the bar?”
“I think I’ll wait for the inspector.”
“Okay. The waiter’ll be along in a minute.”
Koesler did not have long to wait. It was 11:40-he had just checked his watch-when he saw the inspector enter. Koesler really could not have missed Koznicki’s arrival. The inspector was a very large man. Though roughly Koesler’s height, Koznicki had a much heftier build. Actually, it was more his aura that gave him the appearance of being larger than life.
Koesler noted that there was no hesitation on Beyer’s part in leading Koznicki to the table. “Change your policy?” the priest asked as Koznicki was seated.
“Yes,” Beyer chuckled. “I checked with Molly. The policy is intended for only very small Polish people. And not even then if they are accompanied by large Polish people.” Placing two menus on the table, Beyer returned to the door as the luncheon crowd began to assemble.
“What was that all about?” asked Koznicki.
“Oh, just another example of Joe’s fey sense of humor.” He smiled, recalling the time he had arrived at the Wine Cellars expecting to meet Free Press columnist Jim Fitzgerald, only to be told by Beyer, “We don’t serve Irish here.”
“Good of you to join me on such short notice, Inspector.”
“Not at all. It was good of you to set aside your schedule yesterday and assist in our investigation. I have spoken with Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing. They tell me you were of significant help.”
“Thanks. I don’t know how much help I was, but whatever, I paid for it last night. Just couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about it. All that I heard yesterday just kept buzzing around in my head. And the one interrogation I didn’t sit in on-Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the second shoe that hasn’t dropped. How did that go? Can you say?”
“Certainly, Father. But perhaps we ought to consult the menu before the waiter comes.”
“Of course.”
Neither man needed to study the menu in any great detail. They had lunched in the Wine Cellars many times.
After scanning the menu, Koznicki recounted the interview with Mrs. Hunsinger and, briefly, with Mrs. Quinn. He told of how startled the detectives had been at Mrs. Hunsinger’s “confession” until it became clear that she was blaming herself in a wholesale manner for every evil done to or committed by her son, including his colorblindness. And how Mrs. Quinn, in great detail, had recounted their Sunday activities.
Koesler smiled. He could imagine the detectives fidgeting during the overly detailed narration.
The waiter appeared. Koesler ordered a Chablis, Koznicki a rose. Koznicki would have the Dover sole. Koesler requested the club sandwich, silently promising that he would cut back at dinner.
“Odd, is it not, Father, the vast array of penitents there are in the world. We find some people confessing to real crimes. Others seem to be professional penitents, confessing to everything imaginable. Then there are those, usually parents or someone in authority, who seem to absorb the guilt of their children or subordinates.”
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