Something was wrong.
He pulled both hands from his head and pressed them tightly to his chest. There was a terrible constriction there. It felt as if someone had placed a steel band around him and was tightening it rapidly. A heart attack? The very thought induced a further sense of panic. He was alone. No one would come to his aid.
Suddenly, his entire body began to shudder. The shuddering intensified. He shook as if he were a ragdoll being battered about by a malevolent child.
He tried, but could not control the violent shuddering. It became a spasm. Now his body was completely out of control. His hands shot to his neck, which had stiffened so he could not draw a breath.
It was not so much that he fell as that he was thrown to the floor of the tub. His legs shot out stiffly, straight and rigid. He tried to breathe, but could not. He could feel his respiratory muscles tighten. His skin was turning from bluish to a purple discoloration.
Suddenly his body arched, then balanced on his head and heels. It stayed in that taut position for long seconds.
Then, as unexpectedly as it began, it ended. His body relaxed, and gave one more massive shudder. He was dead.
The shower played unimpeded against the far wall. It ran down and formed a small pool where the body of Hank Hunsinger partially blocked the drain.
Not much later Jan Taylor let herself into the apartment.
“Hun?”
No answer.
She noticed the television was on. She also noted the images on the screen. She shrugged. So it was going to be one of those nights. Plenty of kinky sex. She loathed it, but would never let on to Hunsinger. He might be an animal in bed, but he did keep her well.
She removed her coat and carefully hung it on the hook inside the closet door. The Hun had appointed that specific hook for her hanger and apprised her of the importance of always, without exception, using that hook for her coat. Left to her own devices, she would have thrown it over a chair.
She could hear the shower running. She toyed with the option of waiting till he finished before announcing her presence as if she had just entered. It would spare her the unnecessary repetition of getting wet again. She had showered before leaving her apartment. And it would save her the indignities of Hunsinger’s shower routines. A far greater consideration.
On the other hand, it was entirely possible he was waiting for her to join him. In which case, her absence would infuriate him. And the last thing she needed was a furious Hun.
She shrugged and entered the bedroom. The sound of the shower was much clearer now. The lack of any sound but that of the water beating against a wall seemed somehow ominous, although she did not focus on any specific reason for her apprehension.
While she removed her clothing, hanging each item on the designated hangers, she noticed the small red light indicating that his “cooker” was working and that his contact lenses were being cleaned. All the better to see you with, my dear.
Naked, she entered the bathroom. Although she had been girding herself for the worst, she certainly had no way of anticipating this.
She screamed. Over and over. Then she ran from the bathroom.
Lieutenant Ned Harris was in Hank Hunsinger’s bathroom. It was the scene of the crime and he was being careful not to miss a single detail. Very soon, investigative specialists would be swarming over the apartment, each performing his or her task. Before that happened, Harris had the rare opportunity to commune with the place where death had occurred, where, probably, murder had been committed. He would never again in this case have this perfect opportunity to be in this specific location where vital clues and silent testimony told no lies. As he studied the apartment, he allowed the everyday inanimate objects to talk to him wordlessly.
Harris was an inch and a half to two inches more than six feet tall. His build was slender but powerful. Aquiline features and a receding hairline set off his deep black skin. He had been a part of the homicide division for most of his professional career. He loved it.
His partner on this case, Sergeant Ray Ewing, was interviewing the witness, Jan Taylor, in the living room.
Ewing, at five-feet-eleven, with a stocky physique, somewhat resembled singer Steve Lawrence. He also had Lawrence’s pleasant voice and engaging smile.
Harris and Ewing had been the sole occupants of their squad’s office at police headquarters on that otherwise slow Sunday evening when they got the call from the uniformed officers who had responded to Jan Taylor’s 911 call.
“Would you mind going over that one more time, Miss Taylor?” Ewing continued to scribble notes on his pad. “Why would Mr. Hunsinger take another shower when he got back here after the game? He would have taken one before leaving the stadium, wouldn’t he?”
Jan dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief. She was obviously distraught. Ewing chose to reserve judgment on the reason for her anxiety. It might have been the sudden loss of whatever Hunsinger had been to her. It might have been the shock at what she had found in the bathroom.
“He was never satisfied with the shower at the stadium.” This was her second time through the second-shower phenomenon. She wondered why she had been asked to repeat the explanation. “What with the heat in the locker room, the steam from the showers, and the lights from the TV cameras, he said he always felt as sweaty after that shower as he had before.”
“So?”
“So he always took another shower when he got home.”
Ewing noted the slight show of color in Jan’s face when she reached this part of her testimony the second time through. He surmised that the second shower probably was for her benefit. Taking stock of her, he did not blame Hunsinger.
“Always?”
“The Hun,” Jan replied, a touch caustically, “did everything he did always.”
“And what time was it when you entered the apartment?” The third time for this question.
“About six-thirty, or a quarter to seven.”
“And was that tape in the video cassette deck playing?” First time for this question.
“I . . . I don’t recall.”
“It was playing when we entered the apartment. If it was on when you came, did you turn it on?”
“I . . .I guess it must have been playing when I came in.”
You bet it was, Ewing thought. And that tells us much about the relationship between the two of you and why you’re going to be on the shy side of telling us much about it.
“Then you went into the bedroom. Why was that?”
“I heard the shower. I knew Hank couldn’t hear me with the water running and I wanted him to know I was here.”
“And then you said you noticed that Mr. Hunsinger’s disinfecting unit was operating. It was cleaning his contact lenses?”
“Yes. I just happened to glance over and saw the red light lit.”
“Anything significant in that?”
“Well, it told me he hadn’t been in the shower very long.”
“How’s that?”
“The unit turns itself off after about twenty minutes.”
“So he would have been in the shower something less than twenty minutes. Then he wouldn’t have begun his shower much before you got here.”
“That’s right, I guess.”
“Are you married, Ms. Taylor?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
She hesitated a split second. “No.”
“Ms. Taylor?” Lieutenant Harris had been standing in the doorway between the living room and bedroom for some time. Jan hadn’t noticed him. His words startled her.
“Yes?” She looked up at him.
“Could you tell us why there was a bottle of DMSO in Mr. Hunsinger’s bathroom?” Harris had heard enough to learn that Jan Taylor would have been in a position to know just about everything about Hunsinger.
“He kept some here and some at the stadium. It was for pain. Mostly in his shoulder. Sometimes his knees. He’s had a lot of operations. He never knew when
the pain was going to flare up. I guess it’s supposed to be a controlled substance, but . . .” Her voice trailed. She couldn’t understand why with a man dead the police were concerned about DMSO. Even though it was not approved for use as a painkiller, anyone could buy it as a solvent in any number of stores. It was like worrying about bank robbers being illegally parked.
“I’m not so concerned about its being a controlled substance as I am about why it would be on a shelf in the shower area with other toiletries. And why the DMSO container should be open as if it were being used during his shower.”
Jan appeared perplexed.
“If you’ll accompany me to the bathroom, I’ll show you . . .” Harris stepped in the direction of the bathroom as if inviting her to follow him.
“Is . . . is he . . . uh ... still there?”
“Outside of turning off the shower, nothing’s been touched, Ms. Taylor.”
“There must be some other way . . . without having to see him again.” She thought for a moment. “Wait; that’s all wrong. Hun kept the DMSO in the medicine cabinet. It was never on the shower shelf. Where did you find it? Where was it on the shelf?”
Harris consulted his notes. “The second container from the left.”
She need only a moment to consider this. “Second from the left? That’s where he kept the shampoo.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Always?”
Ewing, smiling, broke into the conversation. “Apparently when Mr. Hunsinger did anything, he always did it the same way. A bit of a compulsive, I take it.”
Jan nodded.
Ewing sensed that Harris had no more questions for Jan. Nor had he. “I have your address and phone number, Ms. Taylor. We’ll undoubtedly have more questions as this investigation continues. So we’ll probably be in touch with you.”
“May I leave now?”
Ewing glanced at Harris before dismissing Jan Taylor.
“Come on,” Harris said, “I want you to see a few things.”
“She lied to me twice,” said Ewing as Harris led the way back to the bathroom.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She knew the skin flick was on when she came in, but wouldn’t admit it until I confronted her with it.”
“And?”
“Claimed she’s never been married.”
“What makes you think she has?”
“Ring indentation on her third finger, left hand.”
“Could have been an engagement ring.”
“Could have been—but I doubt it. Very heavy hunch.” Ewing smiled. “It may come in handy if I have to question her again. I can tell her, ‘You lied to me before; why should I believe you now?’”
“Detectives do not live on hunches alone.”
They entered the bathroom and crouched near the body.
“Can you figure the grin?” Ewing asked.
“No. It’s grotesque. His eyes are wide open, like he was terror-stricken. And then he has this fixed grin. It doesn’t fit together at all. And look here . . .” Harris pointed to areas on Hunsinger’s nude body. “See here, on his hands? Looks like some kind of rash, doesn’t it? And up here, on his scalp . . . and you can see it all over his head through that short brush cut: the same kind of rash. Whataya think?”
“I dunno. Suppose it could be contagious? Some kind of contagious disease?”
“I don’t know either. That’s why I called Doc Moellmann.”
“Willie Moellmann? On Sunday night? You got a death wish?”
“Willie knows that I don’t call him at home unless it’s serious. He’s on his way here.”
“You and I ought to team up more often. With my brains and your clout, no killer would be safe.”
Harris grinned and stood up. Ewing did the same.
“There’s the DMSO.” Ewing nodded at the uncapped second bottle from the left. “What the hell is it, anyway?”
“I’m not positive. I read something about it somewhere. It was supposed to have been a miracle drug of the 1960s. Supposed to alleviate almost any kind of pain, from arthritis to toothache. Somehow, it never got on the market.”
“Hmmm. Looks like Hunsinger was using it. It’s the only open container on the shelf. But why would he use DMSO in the shower?”
“Wait . . .what did that woman say? The slot second from the left was for the shampoo. And he kept the DMSO in the medicine cabinet.”
They looked at each other and together headed for the medicine cabinet.
“Sure enough,” said Harris, “here’s the shampoo. If Hunsinger was as compulsive and meticulous as we’ve been given to believe, do you suppose somebody switched bottles?” He frowned in thought. “But . . . if so, why?”
Ewing began to hum tunelessly as he made several quick trips between the shower area and the medicine cabinet, taking notes as he did so.
“Look at the two bottles, Ned: They’re identical in size and shape. Both tall, cylindrical containers. Both with ribbed caps. Both caps can be unscrewed or opened by their fliptops. Both bottles hold six fluid ounces. As far as size, shape, and heft go, they’re identical. But one has a boxed label stating clearly that it is DMSO, 99.9 percent pure dimethylsulfoxide. And the other one has a lion monogram and the trade name, Royal Copenhagen, on it.”
“Okay,” Harris reasoned, “we know that Hunsinger needed help with his eyes. His contacts are still out there in the cooker. Maybe his eyes were bad enough so he couldn’t read the labels.”
“Okay,” Ewing returned, “but look at the color, Ned. The DMSO container is white opaque. The shampoo bottle is translucent and you can see its pink color plainly through the bottle.”
Harris shrugged. “He had soap in his eyes?”
“A killer could count on that?”
The doorbell rang. It was the Wayne County medical examiner, Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann. Ewing ushered him into the bathroom. All three stood still and silent as Moellmann made a cursory preliminary study of the body.
“Remarkable specimen,” said Moellmann finally. “Who was he?”
“Hank Hunsinger,” Ewing said.
“Hmmm. Who?”
“Hank (‘the Hun’) Hunsinger,” Ewing tried.
“Hmmm. I seem to have read the name somewhere. But where?”
“He was a professional football player,” Harris explained. “With the Cougars.”
“Ah, yes, of course. That would explain the mammoth size. And all those contusions. And all those scars. His surgeon would have been well advised to put zippers instead of stitches in his knees.” Moellmann looked about for some show of appreciation of his humor. Finding none, he squatted to study the corpse more closely.
While Harris filled Moellmann in on what the two officers had found, Ewing proceeded with his investigation of the premises.
“This is what concerns me,” said Harris, finally arriving at his reason for calling the medical examiner. “This rash here on his hands and here again on his scalp.”
Moellmann studied the rash. He did not touch it. “It is peculiar. And, you see, there are similar marks here on his neck and there on his chest.”
“Any ideas?”
“Ideas? Ideas! You mean guesses! Guesses, like Quincy makes on TV! No, no guesses! This is science, not television!”
A brief but spirited performance. Harris had been subjected to many similar ones by Moellmann. On reflection, Harris decided he should not have asked the question. He decided to stay on surer ground.
“How about the DMSO, Doc? Can you fill us in on that?”
Moellmann rose as did Harris.
“Ah, yes, DMSO,” said Moellmann, staring at the opened container on the shelf. “A most intriguing compound. It never got FDA approval, but that hasn’t stopped people from buying it. At one time it was thought to be the ultimate and harmless answer to pain. This much can be said of it: when applied to the skin, it penetrates the skin and immediately enters the bloodstream. Many have testified that upon application, it
relieves their pain immediately.”
“Then why didn’t it get FDA approval?”
“Now, then, my memory grows a bit vague. I believe the problem lies in testing it. In any such test, there must be a control group.”
Harris immediately called to mind all those kids with the cavities because they were in the control group that wasn’t using the sponsor’s toothpaste.
“The control group,” Moellmann continued, “should receive some sort of placebo, some admittedly ineffective substitute for the substance being tested. Something like a sugar pill instead of aspirin. But they’ve never been able to come up with an appropriate placebo for use instead of DMSO, because the application of DMSO usually causes a reddened skin and a very bad breath. People in the control group would know they were not being given DMSO because no other substance causes both an inflammation of the skin and the strong breath.”
“Red skin?” Harris mused.
“Yes, red skin,” Moellmann repeated.
Harris and Moellmann as one looked down at the corpse. Their gaze was fixed on the rash on Hunsinger’s hands and scalp.
“I wonder . . .” said Moellmann.
Ewing entered the bathroom, carrying a gallon plastic container. “Found it in the kitchen! Strychnine, if you can believe the label. But from what we’ve seen here, if I had a last dollar I wouldn’t bet it on the truth-in-packaging in this place.”
“Where would anyone get strychnine these days?” Harris asked. “It’s off the market, isn’t it?”
“I thought so,” Ewing agreed.
“Oh, yes, definitely,” Moellmann affirmed. “You can’t get it anywhere these days. Commercially, that is. Nixon signed an order taking it off the market back in 1973, I believe.”
“Well, either this is or it isn’t,” said Ewing, hefting the half-filled container. “But at least the label says it’s strychnine.”
“Intriguing,” Moellmann murmured.
“Doc,” said Harris, “there’s going to be more than the usual pressure to get this one locked up . . . and soon. Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this area. This is going to be in the papers, prominently, and on all the newscasts, not just locally, but nationally.” Harris hated to get where he was going with this plea. He well knew how Moellmann resisted any pressure to expedite a case. But, in this instance, it needed saying. “So can you hurry this one along a bit?”
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