Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Sit down here, Mr. Drake, and tell us what the problem is,” said Koznicki.

  “Well, it’s about Jack Brown. I heard you arrested him today. . for the murder of Hank Hunsinger?” It was uttered in the form of a question as Drake sat at the table the others were using.

  All three officers felt tension build within themselves.

  “I don’t know if I should even be here,” Drake continued. “I didn’t even hear about it myself. My wife told me about it. She heard it on the news.”

  “You want to be a little more specific, Mr. Drake?” Ewing asked.

  “Well, she-my wife, that is-said she heard on the news that Mr. Brown was arrested for the murder of the Hun. She said the guy on the news said that the cops-excuse me, the police-said that Brown allegedly-that the word? — left the Pontiac Inn last Sunday at ten o’clock and, uh, allegedly set up the Hun’s murder, then got to the stadium by noon when the team arrived.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well?” Harris said it angrily. He had a foreboding.

  “Well,” Drake said, “that couldn’a happened.”

  “What do you mean it couldn’t have happened!” Harris was angry and incredulous.

  “He was at the stadium. He was at the Silverdome.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “ ’Cause I saw him. I was the guard on duty. Only I wasn’t at the gate, at my post. I was inside, in an office inside the tunnel where I could see who came in but they couldn’t see me. An’ I saw Jack Brown come in and go into the Cougars’ locker room. It was about a quarter past ten. An’ he stayed in the locker room. He was there when the team came in about noon. Everything was just like it always is.”

  “And why would you not be at your post?” Koznicki asked. “Why would you be in an inside office?”

  “I ain’t gonna lie to you. Just not bein’ at the gate puts me up shit’s creek without a paddle.

  “I done it lotsa times. I keep a pint in that office. Hid. I can go in there and have a wee nip and still see the outside door. If somebody comes in who ain’t supposed to, I can just step outta the office and challenge ’em. It was just about foolproof until now.

  “But I just can’t see Mr. Brown in all this trouble when I know he couldn’a done it. Mr. Brown’s been good to me. He’s about the only one bothered to learn my name. Always says hello to me. A real nice guy. He couldn’a done it. I saw him come in and I know he stayed. Only he couldn’a known I saw him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us all this when we questioned you the first time, a few days ago?”

  “’Cause I didn’t wanna lose my job. I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, anytime, ever. But when Mr. Brown got arrested. .” Drake’s explanation seemed prematurely complete. “Well, that’s it.”

  The three officers questioned Drake for a half hour more, but could not break down his story or find a flaw in it.

  At length they were forced to accept the fact that, although Jack Brown possessed the information that had come to be known as the “smoking gun,” he now had a solid alibi. There was no other feasible conclusion.

  Ewing took Drake’s statement, had him sign it, and warned him to stay available for any possible further questioning. Drake then was permitted to leave.

  “Where is Brown now?” Koznicki asked.

  “Upstairs in a holding cell.” Harris was sullen.

  “What is his status?”

  Ewing answered. “We’ve got the prosecutor’s recommendation for warrant, but we haven’t got the warrant yet.”

  “So he is still in our jurisdiction. I believe we had better cut him loose,” Koznicki said.

  “I’ll do it.” Harris’s motive was more inquisitiveness than expiation. He took the elevator to the ninth floor, was admitted to Brown’s cell, and informed him of the alibi provided by Drake.

  “Poor Harold,” said Brown. “I guess they’ll can him for that. No alternative. Never mind; I’ll see he gets a job. Least I can do. I owe him a barrel.”

  “Do you realize how much trouble you were in up till about an hour ago?” Harris said. “A first-degree murder charge and a pack of circumstantial evidence. I don’t have to kid you, you’re off the hook now. But I think we could’ve gotten a conviction. So what I want to know is why you didn’t tell us in the initial interrogation that you knew Hunsinger was colorblind?”

  “Well, I knew I was a suspect, although I didn’t know why. From that point on, I wasn’t gonna provide any more info than I absolutely had to. Somethin’ like talkin’ to the IRS: keep your mouth shut and don’t volunteer information. ’Sides,” he looked searchingly at Harris, “if I had told you I knew about Hunsinger, what would you have done?”

  Harris thought for a moment. “Probably have moved you up a notch on the list of suspects. But not much more than that. It was your lie of omission that got you in over your head.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, it isn’t that I’m not learning something from all you’re saying, but is it okay for me to go now? I mean, am I free?”

  “Yeah, you’re free. You can pick up your things at the desk down the hall.”

  “I guess you’re back at square one, aren’tcha?”

  “Uh-huh.” Harris was as down now as he had been up an hour before.

  “Well, sorry for that. But I’m just as glad I’m out from under. “

  “Tell me about it.”

  6

  Father Koesler tapped the bottom of the box; the last few flakes of Granola dropped into the bowl. He sliced a banana over the fine grain, poured in some milk, and, presto, breakfast.

  He spread out the morning Free Press and scanned page 1, trying to determine which story to read first.

  His immediate attention was caught by a picture at the upper center of the page. It was a photo from the paper’s files showing Cougar trainer Jack Brown standing on the sidelines, arms folded across his chest. The caption read: “Jack Brown, Cougars’ trainer, arrested for the murder of Hank (“the Hun”) Hunsinger and later released, all on the same day. Story on page 3-A.”

  That took care of any doubt over which story to read first. Koesler flipped the paper open to the second front page and began reading.

  He continued to spoon in bananas and cereal, but lost interest in the remainder of the paper, following, instead, his own flow of thought.

  Initially, he felt happy for Brown. Then he felt sorry for the police, who would now, as the story stated, have to begin practically all over. No wonder the inspector hadn’t phoned him.

  Though he had promised himself that he would waste no more of his time with the question of who murdered Hunsinger, he found it impossible not to rehash the matter.

  After all, there had been times when he had been of some help to the police in the solution of a few homicides. But now that he began reflecting on those past cases, he recalled that the help he had been able to provide had usually concerned something to do with things Catholic or something that he had learned by virtue of being a priest-information more likely to be recognized as such by him as a priest than by the police as law-enforcement experts.

  Was it possible it could work again? Koesler left the dining table and began to pace the living room. This was an unlikely pursuit. A venture less prone to success than hunting for the proverbial needle. But he wanted to help. And he had proved beyond a doubt that when it came to genuine police procedure, he was of less aid than the rankest amateur. So he continued to pass the suspects, one by one, through a religious filter.

  There was of course the Bible discussion group. That was religious. He sifted through things he had heard various members of the God Squad say in relation to the passages they had examined. But what to look for? Violence? The most violent statements he could recall, usually endorsing some of the more ferocious sections of the Old Testament, had come from Hunsinger.

  As he continued to recall statements that had been made by individuals, something else, related but not identical, began to surface. He couldn’t identify i
t, nor could he afford the luxury of waiting for a magic moment when, unbidden, it would make itself clear. So he continued to focus on individuals and their commentaries on the Bible. Meanwhile, he threw open a neutral gear in his mind that permitted a good deal of stream of consciousness to run freely.

  Something. Something. Something. Something about the Scriptures themselves. Not about anyone’s comment on Scripture. The Scripture itself. An image came to him of the blind man Christ cured in stages so that he saw, but in a confused way. No, that couldn’t be it; he’d been down that path before.

  But it was Scripture that was knocking at the back door of his consciousness. But what Scripture? Something he’d heard or read recently. Something he’d tried to develop into a homily. Something he had looked at, in a confused way, like the blind man recovering his sight. Something looked at the wrong way. That meant there must be a right way of looking at it.

  Of course! That was it! Looking at it the wrong way versus looking at it the right way.

  Slow down, now. Must be cautious. Just recovered from a major league blunder. Can’t be wrong a second time. Not so close to the first time. Let’s just check all the seams. See if there are any holes. Well, yes, a few possible holes. But, by and large, it seemed to make sense. The more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make.

  Just a couple of phone calls to set things up. Then, put the theory to the test.

  “Thank you ever so much for meeting me here, Inspector.”

  “Not at all, Father. . although I must admit your call surprised me.

  “I don’t blame you. After embarrassing you with the Galloways, I don’t suppose you ever expected to hear from me again. . at least regarding any investigation.”

  “Father, if only you knew how frequently we are wrong in our theories. Even in an investigation that eventually proves successful, we often encounter many dead-end roads. You have nothing to be embarrassed about or to apologize for.”

  “Nevertheless, I feel a bit awkward. I just couldn’t subject Lieutenant Harris or Sergeant Ewing to another round of my own serial, Father May Not Know Best. That’s why I’m especially grateful you agreed to meet me here. Sorry, too, about the traffic. We had to park so far down the street.”

  “Walking is good exercise. We should do more of it.” Koznicki tipped his hat as they passed in front of Holy Redeemer church. Koesler had almost forgotten the gesture. But Koznicki’s tip of the hat put the priest in mind of his own father’s teaching him the custom. It was a sign of reverence for the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the church. Koesler resolved to renew the custom in his own life. He never ceased to be amazed at how much he had to learn from others.

  Koesler rang the doorbell and waited patiently. One could not expect old people to run to answer the door.

  The familiar face of Mary Frances Quinn appeared. She greeted Father Koesler reverently but appeared a bit tentative toward his extra-large companion until Koesler performed the introductions. Mary Frances ushered them into the unilluminated living room. Again introductions were made.

  Koznicki, after being seated, carefully studied Grace Hunsinger. Why did she remind him of a small animal about to be cornered? Her eyes darted about as if seeking some avenue of escape. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

  “Mrs. Hunsinger,” Koesler began, “we won’t take much of your time. I just want to talk to you a little bit about your son. But first, I wonder if you would mind looking at the numbers in this book and telling us what you see. Just take your time and read the numbers, if you will, as I turn the pages.”

  Koesler opened the book to the first page.

  Grace adjusted her bifocals. “Twelve.”

  Everyone could read that, thought Koesler, as he turned to the next page with its number eight.

  “Three.”

  Koesler turned to five.

  “Two,” Grace read.

  Koesler turned to twenty-nine.

  “Seventy.”

  Koesler turned to seventy-four.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Koesler turned to seven.

  “I don’t see any number there at all.”

  “I think we need go no further,” said Koznicki.

  Grace removed her glasses. “What was the meaning of that?”

  Her hands were trembling slightly.

  “That was a test of your color sight, Mrs. Hunsinger,” Koesler said. “It indicated you have what’s called a red-green deficiency.”

  “I. . I don’t understand. “ Her hand fluttered at her hair.

  “I think it means you couldn’t know that when you mixed the strychnine with the DMSO and switched that bottle with the shampoo that there was a difference in the colors. The DMSO is clear. The shampoo is pink.”

  A remarkable transformation affected Grace. Her entire body seemed involved in the deep sigh she uttered. Her hands relaxed in her lap. “You know,” she said so softly as to be barely audible.

  “You tried to tell us often enough, didn’t you, Grace?”

  She nodded, giving every indication of being relieved.

  “Grace!” Mrs. Quinn exclaimed. “What does he mean?”

  “According to Inspector Koznicki here,” Koesler proceeded, “and in what you said to me, you held yourself responsible both for your son’s sight disability and for his death. But after making the statements, you backed away from them slightly, stating your responsibility in remote terms: that if you had done this or that differently, your son would not have turned out as he did. The confession was there, but it was sort of up for grabs.

  “We chose to look at the statements through our viewpoint. Taking on blame for a child is common with many parents. Taking a greater responsibility for their children’s behavior than they ought or need to. If we had been looking at those statements through your eyes, we might have taken them more literally. But that was not likely.

  “But if we had been seeing things from your point of view, we would have asked ourselves why you felt responsible for your son’s colorblindness. Because you just happened to be his mother and, as such, gave him his disability? I don’t think so. If you had normal vision, and there were any hereditary cause involved, it could just as easily have come from his father. Why should you think you were responsible unless there was something wrong with your vision and you thought you had passed that defect on to your son? I checked with Dr. Glowacki, an ophthalmologist, and he said there is no evidence that colorblindness, total colorblindness, is hereditary. But that would not have prevented you from thinking it was so.

  “But if you have a color deficiency-and you do-why does it not show up in your home decor? I think the answer lies with Mrs. Quinn. The first time I met you, Mrs. Quinn, I believe you told me that you and Mrs. Hunsinger take care of each other as best you can. That the two of you seem to combine your skills and abilities. You get along, I think you used the phrase, like yin and yang?”

  “That’s true,” Mrs. Quinn said.

  “Mrs. Hunsinger took care of the house, didn’t she, Mrs. Quinn, doing much of the cleaning and cooking? You took care of the door and, among your other responsibilities, you probably took charge of the decorating?”

  “Well, yes. Grace sometimes would get the strangest color combinations. I thought it was. . well, not the best of taste. “

  “We’ve already been through that one,” Koesler said to Koznicki, alluding to the Galloways.

  “Then,” the priest again addressed Grace, “we come to your son’s death. How many times and how many ways you tried to tell us of your responsibility, not directly and plainly with no room for doubt, but trying nonetheless. I have a suspicion you wanted us to guess it.”

  Grace barely moved her head in a sign of affirmation.

  “First, you told us outright, then hedged enough so that we proceeded to draw the wrong conclusion. Then, to me, the next most evident statement was at your son’s funeral Mass.

  “The evening before the Mass, I was talking with Father Forbes. H
e told me you had gone over the Bible readings for the Mass and had made the selection of which ones would be used. Yet when I heard the readings, I listened to them with my ears, not yours. Or, to return to the metaphor of sight, I saw them through my eyes, not yours.

  “That first reading was an odd selection. I’ve never heard a reading from the Book of Maccabees used at a funeral before. The Protestant and Jewish Bibles don’t even contain that Book. And yet, when I heard it, I listened with my understanding and I thought of you as the brave mother withstanding the all but unbearable grief of watching her children die. But that is not the way you saw that reading, is it, Mrs. Hunsinger? You saw it in the literal, obvious sense: Here was a mother willing to witness the death of her sons rather than see them break the law. It was the statement of why you did it.

  “Henry had broken just about every law he encountered, and not a few Commandments. And he showed every promise of continuing in this unbridled lifestyle until long after your death. When you died, there would probably be no one who cared enough for him to stop him from hurting others. It was up to you. And so you did it. You were the modern mother of the Book of Maccabees, willing even to allow the death of her son rather than see him go on breaking the law.

  “But I think we all tended to dismiss out of hand the possibility that you might be responsible for the death of your own son. And on top of this sort of natural tendency not to take you as a serious suspect was your alibi. You spent the entire day with Mrs. Quinn here. . isn’t that right, Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Why, yes. We started off with Mass in the morning-”

  “Yes, I remember,” Koesler interrupted. “Now please don’t take this amiss, Mrs. Quinn, but practically every time I’ve seen you, you were taking. . uh. . a little nap. You do take little naps, don’t you, Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Well, that happens when you get older. You need it.”

  “Last Sunday, for example, if I remember correctly what Inspector Koznicki told me about your interview with the police, it was a very leisurely day.”

  “Older people need to rest and recoup what little strength they have.”