Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “You see,” Glowacki explained, “there are ten pages of numbers in that little book. The numbers are formed by outlines of small colored circles.”

  “What’s the point?” Harris had completed his scanning of the pamphlet.

  “The point,” the doctor responded, “is that normal-sighted people see one thing in that booklet, while color-deficient people see quite another.”

  “Could you demonstrate?” Koznicki asked.

  “Of course. Sergeant Ewing, would you care to take the test?”

  “Sure.”

  “Very good.” Glowacki opened the booklet to the first page. “Do you see a number there, Sergeant?”

  “Yes. Twelve.”

  “That’s correct. Actually, if someone were to miss the twelve, one would be tempted to search for a white cane.” The doctor perceived his attempt at humor was not completely appreciated. His visitors were all business.

  “All right,” he turned a page, “and this one, Sergeant?”

  “Eight.”

  “That’s correct. Now we get into the red-green color deficiency. The color-deficient person sees a three here. And this?”

  “A five.”

  “The deficient person sees a two.” The doctor continued turning pages.

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “The deficient person sees seventy.”

  “Seventy-four.”

  “The deficient sees twenty-one.”

  “Seven.”

  “The deficient sees nothing here but colored dots.”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Again, the deficient sees nothing.”

  “Two.”

  “The deficient sees nothing.” He turned another page.

  “There isn’t any number there.” Ewing was surprised; he thought he might have erred.

  “No, Sergeant, that’s no mistake.” Glowacki sensed Ewing’s misgiving. “The color-deficient person sees a two here.”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Again, the deficient person sees no number here.”

  “Amazing,” Koznicki commented. “And you say a person with this color deficiency actually sees these numbers that differently from the normal-sighted?”

  “Quite. Yes.”

  “Now, you see,” said Koesler, “if my theory is correct, someone in the Galloway household has this color deficiency. Either Jay Galloway or his wife, Marjorie. “

  “A layman can administer that test, is that correct, Doctor?” Koznicki asked.

  “Of course. All one needs to know is what to expect the deficient person to perceive in this test. Father told me you were likely to want to test two subjects separately. So I took the precaution of borrowing another copy of the Ishihara test. You’re perfectly welcome to borrow both, if you wish. “

  “You have been most cooperative, Doctor,” said Koznicki. “Ned, you and Ray take one and check out Mr. Galloway. Father Koesler and I will take the other booklet and visit Mrs. Galloway. Call us at the Galloway home as soon as you have completed the test.” He turned to the ophthalmologist.

  “Thank you once again, Doctor. You’ve been an enormous help. And remember, not a word of this to anyone. Not until the entire investigation is completed.”

  As the three officers and the priest left his office, Dr. Glowacki was tingling. He had never before participated in a murder investigation. It was thrilling. He would, of course, keep their secret. Even from his wife, who would quite naturally want to know what the strange quartet had wanted. Just as she had wanted to know why he was sending her to borrow Dr. Graven’s copy of the Ishihara test. She would learn all in good time. When he and the police had completed their investigation. And when, together, they had apprehended the person who had murdered his late patient.

  If Dr. Glowacki was any judge, that would be soon.

  Marj Galloway answered the door. As Koznicki and Koesler entered the house, they could see a couple of domestics dusting in the dining area. The living room was unoccupied. Mrs. Galloway invited them in, reluctantly, Koznicki felt, and seemingly with an air of foreboding and inevitability.

  Both Koznicki and Koesler separately concluded that even without benefit of makeup, dressed in an old housecoat, and with her hair disheveled, Marj Galloway was a strikingly attractive woman.

  “I hope,” Koznicki opened, “that you do not too much mind our intrusion.”

  Marj shrugged as if to comment, And if I did. .?

  “We will not take up much of your time,” Koznicki proceeded. “We are continuing our investigation into the murder of Mr. Hunsinger. And I wonder if you would be so kind as to help us. “

  “Inspector-you did say you are an inspector? — ah, well, Inspector, when is this nonsense going to end? I had an affair with Mr. Hunsinger about a year ago. Apart from the football field, or at a great distance at a few social events, I haven’t had anything to do with the Hun since we broke up. To be perfectly frank with you, I don’t give a good goddamn that he’s dead. But I had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “Sometimes,” Koznicki’s voice was soft and persuasive, “it is through your voluntary cooperation that we are able to establish just that: that you are innocent. We are not charging you with any crime. We ask only that you help us by taking a simple, uncomplicated test.”

  “A test? What kind of a test?”

  “A vision test. “ Koznicki produced the Ishihara booklet.

  “A vision test,” she repeated. “Oh, what the hell; let’s get it over with.”

  Koznicki held the booklet so all three could see the pages as he turned them.

  “Twelve,” Marj read.

  Everyone could discern that one, Koesler remembered.

  “Eight.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Five.

  “Twenty-nine.

  “Seventy-four.”

  There was no doubt about it: Marj Galloway was not color-deficient.

  “Seven.

  “Forty-five.

  “Two.”

  It had to be her husband, Jay. Koesler could almost see, in his mind’s eye, probably even at this very moment, Jay rumbling through the test, unable to correctly discern any number but the first.

  “There’s no number on this page at all.”

  Koesler could envision Lieutenant Harris grudgingly admitting the validity of Koesler’s theory. The priest was not a vindictive person; he would not rub it in when next he met Lieutenant Harris.

  “Sixteen.

  “Is that it? That was pleasant. Did I pass? Do we go on to the Rorschach test? Do you have any nice little ink blots for me to identify?”

  “You did very well, Mrs. Galloway.” There was no trace of acrimony or chagrin in Koznicki’s voice. Seemingly, he was genuinely pleased that she had done well.

  Koesler, eyes darting from side to side, a reaction foreign to him, was waiting for something. The phone rang. That was it.

  After several rings, which Koesler felt to be a dozen, the phone was answered. A moment later a no-nonsense working woman appeared in the archway. “Is there an Inspector Koznicki here?”

  “I’ll take it.” Koznicki unfolded from the chair and went into the dining area.

  “Koznicki,” he identified to the caller.

  “Ned Harris here, Walt. How’d it go with Marj Galloway?”

  “She has normal color vision. “

  “Same with her husband. We had a devil of a time convincing him it wasn’t necessary to call his lawyer about thirty seconds after we entered his office. But he settled down when he saw what the test was about.”

  There was a pause.

  “There is more?”

  “Yeah. We told him his wife was taking the test too. That was one of the reasons why he agreed to take it without benefit of counsel. He asked why we were giving both of them color vision tests. That was after he’d passed it with flying colors … no pun intended.

  “So we told him that color perception was relevant to our investigation and that we’d noticed the rather odd color
scheme of his living room, and we were just checking. I’ll give you his exact reply.”

  Koznicki could hear the pages of Harris’s notepad being riffled.

  “He said, ‘Marj doesn’t have any trouble with color; she just doesn’t have any taste. It’s about the only flaw in an otherwise Ms. Perfect. I never paid any attention to her horrible sense of decor because she is such a good piece of ass.’” There was just an instant’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose you’d want to pass that entire quotation on to the good Padre.”

  “No.”

  “Now, would it be okay if we get on with the police investigation of this case?”

  “Yes.” Koznicki let the sarcasm pass without comment and replaced the receiver on the phone. He reentered the living room.

  “Was that-” Koesler began.

  “Yes. That was Lieutenant Harris. His results were negative also.”

  Koesler’s spirits sank.

  “We will be leaving now, Mrs. Galloway.” As he spoke, Koznicki looked about the room, seeing it in a different light. It was true, the furnishings were an uncomplementary mixture of colonial, contemporary, and just about every other style.

  “I hope you’re finished. I mean I hope this is the last time I will be subjected to a random interrogation regarding a dead person I don’t give a damn about.” It was evident that Mrs. Galloway was not amused.

  “Mrs. Galloway,” Koznicki spoke firmly, “this is an investigation into a crime. . into murder. We go where the investigation leads us. But we will make every effort not to trouble you further, unless it becomes necessary.”

  Outside the house, Koznicki told Koesler of Harris’s report, omitting what it was that Galloway most appreciated in his wife.

  It was a silent ride back to St. Anselm’s. Koznicki felt very sorry for his friend. As for Koesler, he could recall, wincingly, times past when he had felt extremely foolish. The present moment might not represent the nadir of foolishness in his life. But it ranked.

  They did not have far to go. Just an elevator ride to the basement of the Silverdome. Harris and Ewing showed their badges and entered the Cougars’ dressing room, only to find that almost everyone, including the man they wanted to see, was on the field. So they walked up the ramp to the playing surface. The Cougars were fortunate this week that no other major activity was scheduled for the Silverdome. Otherwise, their artificial turf would have been removed or covered and they would have had to search for some other practice facility.

  The scene that greeted the two officers was one of organized chaos.

  In one corner, offensive and defensive linemen crashed into each other. In another, linebackers stutterstepped as they practiced intercepting passes. From the other end of the stadium could be heard a recurring and resounding thunk as a football was repeatedly propelled off the foot of the punter to soar into the upper reaches. Midfield the passing personnel of the offense were scrimmaging against the defensive backs.

  Through it all, the voice of Coach Bradford, who was with the scrimmaging players, could be quite clearly heard. “I wanna see some urgency in those third and fives.”

  They were practicing third-down formations, each scrimmage simulating a third down with five yards to go for a first down.

  Bobby Cobb slapped the ball in his hand and retreated while the offensive players ran their pass patterns and the defensive players retreated to cover their zones. Cobb’s throw was long and deep, intended for a wide receiver who was going full speed. Then the receiver, “hearing the footsteps” of the defensive back who was closing in, at the last moment backed off, and the ball fell harmlessly to the turf.

  “Ritter!” The returning receiver hung his head. “I don’t care how much you get paid,” Bradford blazed, “but you’re not gonna get it free. Desire, Ritter! Desire, drive, dedication, execution! They go together, Ritter!”

  Harris and Ewing walked along the sidelines until they reached the Cougars’ bench where the trainer, Jack Brown, was standing.

  “Mr. Brown,” Harris began.

  “Brownie,” said the trainer; “everybody calls me Brownie.”

  “Okay, Brownie, could we talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. Do you mind if we go into the locker room? I’ve got some things to do down there.”

  “Good idea.”

  They retraced their steps to the locker room. Place kicker Niall Murray, left ankle encased in an ice pack, reclined on a training table. The detectives, of course, knew Murray, but not the man standing next to him. They were introduced to John Owen, the team’s public relations representative.

  Owen, face seemingly set permanently in a concerned frown, addressed Brown. “So, what we got?”

  “An ankle.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad bruise and swelling. I’m hopin’ the ice’ll bring it down. It’s gonna be sore.”

  “How’d he get it?”

  “Special team drill. A pileup. Somebody kicked him. An accident.”

  “How many times you been told to stay away from the point of contact!” For the first time in this exchange, Owen directly acknowledged the presence of the person whose injury they were discussing. “Just kick the ball and get off the field.”

  “Aw,” said Murray, “it’s no fun that way at all.”

  “So how can we list him?” Owen went back to Brown. “‘Questionable’?”

  “Not yet. The injury is too bad for questionable. Better put him down as doubtful.”

  “Godalmighty! In one week we lost the tight end who’s practically the franchise, and now the kicker. How the hell do they expect me to promote this team?”

  “The kicker’s down, not out,” said Brown. “Just don’t list him as questionable yet.”

  Owen, grumbling, departed.

  Brown carefully removed the ice pack from Murray’s ankle. The swelling made the ankle appear grotesque. In addition, there was a dark pinkish hue that reflected some internal bleeding.

  “Looks worse than it is,” Brown commented. He touched the ankle gingerly. Wherever his fingers went, small white prints appeared, only to resolve again into the angry pink. “But it’s way too early to tell how it’s gonna respond.”

  Brown began wrapping adhesive tape in a figure-eight on Murray’s foot-around the ankle, across the arch, under the instep, back again over the arch, and around the ankle. “Too tight?”

  “It’s okay,” Murray replied.

  “What happens next?” Ewing was genuinely interested.

  “Well,” said Brown, “lucky it isn’t his kicking foot or we’d really be in trouble. Still, the left ankle gets a lot of pressure. He plants all his weight on it when he kicks. I may just have to build a protective device for it.”

  “You build one?”

  “Lots of times. Out of fiber glass. Then cover it with foam rubber. Then adhesive tape. Can provide some protection for almost any body part, especially the arms and legs. Usually, one of the officials will check it before the game. . make sure we don’t build a weapon.”

  Ewing looked around the trainer’s quarters. He was surprised at the number of cardboard boxes containing adhesive tape of various dimensions. “How much do you use, Brownie?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Lots. We’re budgeted for $20,000 worth of tape for the season.” Brown continued to tape the ankle, then reapplied the ice pack. “But you fellas didn’t come out here to talk about the Mick’s ankle.”

  “We wanted to talk to you about Hunsinger,” said Harris, in a far more friendly tone than he had used during Brown’s initial interrogation.

  “We already talked about him.” Brown clearly was reluctant to undergo another questioning.

  “This is not like the last time, Brownie,” said Harris. “We thought it might be helpful if we got a little more background on Hunsinger. Sort of find out more about what kind of guy he was. For one thing, the bottom-line image we’ve gathered from comments made about him is not very favorable. We thought we’d like a peek at the other si
de of the coin, as it were.”

  “That’s right”-Brown sounded more relaxed now that he was reassured that this would not be a repetition of the interrogation- “nobody’s had much good to say about the Hun. Well, he wasn’t a Boy Scout.”

  “So,” Harris hoisted himself onto an adjacent training table and sat there adding to the informal atmosphere, “maybe there isn’t a flip side of the coin.”

  “Well, I’ll say this for the Hun: he sucked up more pain and played through it more than a lotta guys I know.”

  “Was he hurt much?”

  “Football’s that way. Read the team reports from the league office any given weekend. There’s usually more than three hundred players listed with more than four hundred injuries.”

  “How could that be-a hundred more injuries than players?”

  “Multiples. The Mick’s got an ankle. But he coulda been worse. He coulda got a left ankle, left neck, right hand. The worst I ever saw was Dorsett listed with general all-body soreness.

  “But don’t get me wrong; the Hun wasn’t lookin’ for trouble. Some guys do. They don’t take enough care with their equipment. Take the shoe, for instance. For football, especially on artificial turf, a shoe is, or should be, protective equipment. But if it’s not designed right for support, or if it’s worn out, you can pick up a nasty ankle injury or what they now call ‘turf toe.’

  “But the Hun always got the best shoes, the best equipment. He may not have been a knight in shining armor when it came to his own personal conditioning. But that was his own personal choice. He decided he’d rather have fun than stay in tiptop conditioning. He also decided it was foolish to take needless risks with less than perfect equipment.

  “And, as you know, he played just about every game. Just about every offensive play. And I can testify he had to suck up more pain than the average guy to do it.”

  “But what’s so odd about that, Brownie?” Harris pursued. “Don’t the players have a saying, goes something like-“

  “You can’t make the club from the tub,” Murray supplied.

  “Yeah,” Harris agreed. “Doesn’t everybody play even when they’re in pain?”

  “You don’t understand-or you forgot: the Hun had a guaranteed contract. Owners and management always have that fear when it comes to players with a guaranteed contract: that they’ll sit it out when they could be playing. And some do. I’ve known my share of players who float once they’ve got a contract with guarantees built in.