Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “But that’s the way it is. There’s always gonna be a certain kind of player who’ll put out what he thinks he should do just to remain comfortable. Then there’s those who always give 110 percent no matter how much they’re paid.

  “Then, see, the guys with guaranteed contracts who won’t put out are just bein’ shortsighted. No contract, guaranteed or not, is forever. So when the floater’s contract is up, that’s all she wrote. He’s out.

  “That’s what the Hun knew. And that’s what separated him from almost everyone else. He knew no contract was forever. And he was one who gave his 110 percent and-mostly ‘cause of the years he put in-he played with more pain than any other player I’ve ever known. But not because he gave a damn for the team. Just because he knew no contract was forever. And he intended to get every penny he could from the game.

  “And that pretty much explains the Hun.”

  “Interesting,” Harris said. “Very interesting. But how did he do it? How was he able to keep on playing week after week, season after season with all those injuries and all that pain? Was he some kind of superman?”

  “No; the Hun was no superman. But he had a king-sized determination. And we’d help him as much as we could.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Pills. Painkillers.” Brown noticed Harris’s eyebrow arch. “Oh, nothing illegal; the team doctor prescribed ’em. I just doled ’em out. The Hun got ’em after just about every game. Almost all the time, they did the job.”

  “What did you give him?”

  “Dilaudid.” Brown reached back to unlock the medicine cabinet. He removed a bottle from one of the shelves, took off the bottle cap, and shook a pill into his hand. He showed the pill to Harris and Ewing. “Dilaudid.”

  “Little, isn’t it?” said Harris. “Looks like a BB. That could do the job? On a man the size of Hunsinger?”

  Brown nodded vigorously. “Yup. That’s why it’s so little. Because it’s so powerful. Works like morphine. Got a real kick. It did the job, even for the Hun.” Brown chuckled. “But you’re right about one thing: it’s so little the Hun wouldn’t believe it could kill all the pain. He wasn’t one for moderation. As, for example, that poison he kept in the apartment-strychnine. Most people’d be content to use traps or some commercial product. Not the Hun; he’s gotta have the king of rat poisons.”

  “So what did you do?” Harris asked.

  “Huh?”

  “What did you do to convince him one little pill would be enough?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Well, he wasn’t one to take no for an answer. So I used to give him two pills. . no, not two Dilaudid. The Hun may have been big but he was no horse.” Brown reached again into the medicine cabinet, searching for another container. “I used to give him two pills. But I kept reminding him that one was all he needed. The warning that one was enough, along with always breaking down and giving him a second pill, worked. As long as the Hun thought he was getting double strength, he was satisfied. But the second pill wasn’t much more than a placebo.”

  Brown found the bottle for which he’d been searching. He removed the container, opened it, and shook another pill into his hand, where it rested alongside the Dilaudid. He showed both pills to the officers. “Papazole. It’s an-antithyroid-medication, — but-unlike the Dilaudid, it’s of very weak strength. You could take lots of Papazole in this strength without doing yourself any damage. For all practical purposes, the Papazole was a placebo.”

  Harris studied the two pills. “You mean you were able to pass them both off as Dilaudid?”

  “Sure, the Hun couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “Well,” Harris said with some satisfaction, “they look to be the same size and shape, but they’re different colors. I mean, the Dilaudid is yellow and the Papazole is white.”

  “Sure. But the Hun couldn’t tell. .” Brown’s voice trailed off; a look of extreme dismay appeared on his face.

  “Because the Hun was colorblind.” Harris completed Brown’s statement.’

  “Brownie!” Murray exclaimed. “You knew! I thought I was the only one who knew as well!”

  “Yes, Brownie knew.” Harris could feel the adrenalin pumping. The familiar euphoria that came with closing in for the kill. “Brownie knew. But Brownie didn’t tell anybody. Why is that, Brownie?”

  “I. . I didn’t think it was important.”

  “Didn’t think it was important? A man has a condition that affects less than 1 percent of all human males, and you didn’t think it was important? We asked you, first time around, to list all Hunsinger’s impairments and idiosyncrasies. You mentioned his compulsions and astigmatism, but not his colorblindness. Because you didn’t think it was important? You said he had astigmatism, which affects a goodly proportion of the populace. But you neglected to say he was colorblind, a condition so rare it is almost unique? Because you didn’t think it was important!

  “Let me tell you what happened last Sunday, Brownie. At ten you left the Pontiac Inn. Instead of coming here as you usually do, you hurried to Hunsinger’s apartment. You already knew about the new security system in the lobby. You were able to study it on the previous Tuesday evening when you came to the meeting of the discussion club. You timed your entrance to the lobby, synchronizing it so you wouldn’t be caught by the sweeping closed-circuit camera. You flipped open the lock with one of your plastic credit cards.

  “You went up to Hunsinger’s apartment, got the strychnine, switched the bottles of shampoo and DMSO, poured the strychnine into the DMSO. The liquid in the bottle where the pink shampoo usually rested now was white. But you knew it didn’t make any difference to your plan. The bottles were the same shape and size, just like those two pills you just showed us. You knew it didn’t matter that the liquid in each of the bottles was a different color, just like you knew it didn’t matter that the two pills you always gave Hunsinger, which were supposed to be identical, were, in reality, different colors. The different-colored liquid and the different-colored pills would make no difference to Hunsinger because you knew that Hunsinger was colorblind!

  “Then you got out of the building the same way you got in, by synchronizing your exit through the lobby with the moving camera. And you hurried back out here to get here just before the team arrived from the inn. And that’s what you did last Sunday. You killed Henry Hunsinger!”

  “It’s not true. I didn’t do it.”

  “You got an explanation that’s different from mine? One you can corroborate with any witnesses? You can’t account for two hours last Sunday morning. No one can testify as to your whereabouts for those two hours. We’ve been looking for someone with a motive for killing Hunsinger. You had one: he was corrupting physically and morally everyone on the team he could. We’ve been looking for someone who had the opportunity: I just explained how you did it.

  “And finally, we’ve been looking for the ‘smoking gun’-the one who, along with motive and opportunity, knew that color meant nothing to Hunsinger because the poor bastard was colorblind.

  “I think we’ve got our man.” As Ewing began handcuffing Brown, Harris removed a card from his wallet and began to read, “You have the right to remain silent. .”

  Brown, face ashen, looked at the floor. “I think I’d better talk to a lawyer.”

  Father Koesler, even late that day, was still embarrassed by his colossal faux pas. Imagine involving the police in a fallacious guilt theory! He wondered if either Mr. or Mrs. Galloway might sue for something or other. He’d heard of litigation for false arrest. He wondered if there were some such process for false accusation. Of course, neither of them was actually accused of anything. But his had been such an egregious error that he thought mere embarrassment insufficient penalty.

  Koesler had not felt so mortified since his school days. Well, perhaps once since then. Oddly, it had been during another homicide investigation. The one in which everyone was looking for a local monsignor who had mysteriously disappeared. That time too he’d had a theory th
at had proven to be without foundation. Yes, his embarrassment on that occasion had easily equaled his present chagrin. And for roughly the same reason.

  When would he settle down and address only the questions he was asked instead of wandering around in a field wherein he was destined to remain an amateur?

  It was nearing six o’clock. Ordinarily at this hour he would start dinner and watch the evening news. This evening he decided on only half his ritual. He wouldn’t watch the news. Most likely there would be something about the Hunsinger investigation. There had been every evening, if only to report that there had been no progress. And he didn’t want to be reminded of that investigation and his blundering participation in it. So he put two generous-sized hamburgers on a low fire, then went to his office to begin preparation for next Sunday’s homily.

  He had already decided to base his homily on the second Scripture, a reading from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans: “It is rare that anyone should lay down his life for a just man, though it is barely possible that for a good man someone may have the courage to die. It is precisely in this that God proves his love for us: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

  Koesler always seemed to favor these Scriptures that emphasized, explained, or demonstrated God’s incredible love for his creatures. People in general, in Koesler’s view, did not often enough reflect on that reality. They thus missed one of the overpowering sources of consolation in life as well as a magnificent motivation for love of others.

  Yet it was strange that he was again focusing on death. It seemed, since the murder of Hunsinger, that he could not escape the subject. And here he was again thinking of Hunsinger. He wished, as he had many times in the past, that he had more mental discipline.

  The phone rang. That would distract from the homily preparation. Things simply were not working out very well this day.

  “St.Anselm’s.”

  “Bob?”

  “Yes.” He always felt vaguely uncomfortable when addressed by his given name, unless it was by a relative, an extremely close friend, or another priest. Most priests today seemed to be addressed by just about everyone as good old Tommy, Louis, or Eddie. Koesler readily admitted to being traditional enough to find a place for a sense of respect for an office. Especially the office of a priest.

  “This is Pat,” the now familiar voice of McNiff identified.

  “Oh, hi, Pat. What’s up?”

  “Did you hear it on the news?”

  “Hear what? I didn’t have the news on.”

  “The five-thirty news. They got him. They got the guy who killed Hunsinger.”

  Koesler was almost afraid to ask, “Who?”

  “The trainer. What’s his name? Jack Brown. Showed him being taken into police headquarters. Handcuffs and all.”

  “What time did they arrest him; did they say?”

  “Uh. .”McNiff tried to recollect. “I think they just said earlier today. But it seemed like it was kind of bright out. I don’t recall seeing any shadows. I guess it must’ve been around noon, or midday, at least.”

  “Pat, do you remember which police officers brought him in?”

  “They didn’t give any names, but there was a cop on either side of him. . had ahold of his arms.”

  “Do you remember, was one white and the other black?”

  “Yeah, I think that was it. . holy crow, what do you think I do, memorize the news? I just thought you’d be interested. “

  “Yeah, you’re right, Pat. Thanks a lot for calling.”

  Well, that was that. Koesler felt that it was safe to speculate that Brown had known about Hunsinger’s colorblindness and that somehow Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing had found some way of getting Brown to admit his knowledge.

  The priest felt certain that once the official duties were finished later this evening, Inspector Koznicki would call with both news of the arrest and some of the less publicized details.

  Koesler felt so profoundly sorry for Jack Brown. How far the man must have been pushed to take another’s life! And the life of an athlete, at that. The very type person he had dedicated his life to heal and restore.

  Koesler decided he would pray for Jack Brown. He felt he had already said enough prayers for Brown’s victim.

  As Koesler finished his prayer, he smelled smoke. He hurried into the kitchen where he found two very burned hamburgers.

  His shoulders drooped. The perfect end, he thought, to a not altogether perfect day!

  A small man paced up and down the street, all the while restricting his travel to a single block. Each time he reached one of the two corners, he would pause and seem to reflect. He was neatly but inexpensively dressed, and clean shaven. A snap-brim fedora covered his Ivy League trim gray hair. He was perhaps in his late fifties, early sixties.

  A single building stood on the block where he walked. It was 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police Headquarters.

  Inside, on the fifth floor, in the homicide section, three men sat in an otherwise unoccupied squad room. All three felt the peculiar elation that usually accompanies the successful completion of a difficult job.

  “What I don’t yet understand,” Sergeant Ewing said, “is what led you to the trail of Jack Brown. He seemed to me to be an A-1 straightshooter.”

  “That was my impression too,” Harris said. “In the beginning I thought he was the least suspect of all of them.”

  “Then what was it, Ned?” Inspector Koznicki asked.

  “Actually, Walt, I took a page from your friend, Father Koesler.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Father Koesler is by trade a ‘father confessor.’ I mean, there are lots of people who are called father confessors. Anybody, actually, who is in a special position to receive others’ confidences or give out advice. But a priest is the original father confessor. He is there and Catholics come to him and pour out their most intimate secrets. Eventually, the priest gets to know his people probably better than anyone else could. . that about the way it works, Walt?”

  Koznicki, smiling, nodded.

  “Well,” Harris continued, “I got to thinking about that, when, all of a sudden, this light goes on. At least on a physical level-and probably on several other levels too-who is more father confessor to athletes than their trainer?

  “I mean, a player may try to fool his coach, an assistant coach, or somebody in management. But the one who patches up the cuts and tapes up the sprains is the trainer. The trainer alone on the team is the one who puts his hands on the bruises and torn ligaments. If a player is going to succeed, especially in a violent game like football, he’s just got to confide in his trainer. The trainer is the very last person in the world a player could hope to fool. If anybody on a team could be called a father confessor, it surely would be the trainer.”

  “Therefore,” Koznicki concluded, “you felt that Jack Brown must certainly know everything about Hunsinger, including that he was colorblind.”

  “That’s it, Walt. And if I was right, why didn’t he tell us about it when we first questioned him? We gave him every opportunity. He told us freely and voluntarily everything else about Hunsinger. Why not the colorblindness, if he knew?”

  “So,” Ewing said, “you were on a fishing expedition when you were talking to Brown this morning.”

  “Exactly. For once, I got to play the nice cop. I didn’t know where it was going to lead, though. I just hoped that if we got Brown loosened up enough to be off his guard, he just might slip up. But, damn, he couldn’t have been better! I could hardly believe my eyes when Brown stood there holding those pills, identical in every way except they were different colors. And then Brown tells us Hunsinger couldn’t tell the difference!”

  “Excellent work, Ned,” said Koznicki.

  The man who had been pacing up and down in front of headquarters had not drawn any special attention. Under ordinary circumstances no one was assigned to survey the outside of the building.

  Police officers and others who had business
at headquarters usually traveled briskly into or out of the building. They paid little attention to one another unless one happened to know a colleague; then greetings were exchanged. But no one would pay any special attention to a stranger on the street. None did now. None paused long enough to be aware that the stranger was pacing seemingly without purpose.

  But when the stranger entered headquarters and appeared hesitant about where he was going and what he was doing, several officers noted his unconventional behavior. One approached him. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh!” The stranger seemed startled. “Oh. I don’t know. I’m looking for somebody. Do you know where they took Jack Brown?”

  “Who’s Jack Brown?”

  “They arrested him earlier. Or at least that’s what somebody told me.

  “Arrested him. What case? What for?”

  “The Hunsinger murder.”

  “Oh, yeah; the football player. You want the fifth floor. Take the elevator there.”

  The small man pushed the up button and waited patiently.

  “Thank God that one’s over with,” Ewing said.

  “Right!” Harris replied. “We got almost hopelessly backed up on all the other cases we were working on.”

  “That is the way it is,” Koznicki said, “when a case like this is played up by the media. The pressure to close the case is enormous. This is by no means the first time we have had such pressure. Nor will it be the last.”

  “Well, onward and upward,” said Ewing.

  “Uh. .” said the small man in the doorway, “pardon me, but is this homicide?”

  “It is,” Koznicki said. “May we help you?”

  “I hope so. I’ve got a problem. My name is Harold Drake. I’m a security guard out at the Silverdome.”

  Nothing Mr. Drake was saying seemed connected with anything else he said. Clearly, he was confused and ill at ease.