Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Sure.” It was comfortable in the apartment’s all-season climate control, but Malone had begun to perspire. “See, the way it used to be, we’d be in this cubicle, all glassed in, just next to the front door in the lobby. Visitors come, we’d let ’em in, check with whoever they come to see. If everything checked out, we’d let ’em take the elevator up.

  “Wasn’t too good a system. For one thing, we never had no record of who the visitor was. Sometimes they’d slip by. You know, come in with a resident or something like that. Then, we was right up front, you know. If someone wanted to take out the guard, they could just do it. You know, Mr. Hunsinger ain’t the first one to get killed here. This can get to be a pretty lively place from time to time.”

  Ewing nodded. He easily recalled that within the past year a couple had been victims of a drug-related homicide here. Neither he nor Harris had been in on that case. But he remembered how the investigating officers had complained of the odor. The couple had been dead four days before their bodies were discovered. The place could indeed be pretty lively, or, more properly, deadly.

  “Not good. Not good.” Malone shook his head. “But just last Monday they installed a new system. See, Mr. Hunsinger could enter either in the basement-the garage-or through the lobby ’cause he got a key. But them who don’t have keys gotta come through the lobby. See, they can enter the lobby, but when they do, we got this camera that’s mounted on one wall and swings back and forth. Then, whoever’s on guard monitors the camera. We can see everybody who comes through the lobby.

  “Then, ’cause the visitor don’t have a key, they gotta ring the bell. When we buzz ’em through, we already got a look at ’em. Then, when we let ’em in they gotta register in the guestbook. Then we still check with the resident before we let ’em go up. That is, unless the resident lets us know ahead of time that he’s expecting this particular person.” Malone seemed pleased with his performance. “See, it works pretty good now.”

  After a moment’s silence, Harris said, “Yeah, we saw your system when we came in.” He turned to Ewing. “Think you could break it, Sergeant?”

  Ewing smiled. “I’ll give it a crack.”

  Harris and Malone joined the supervisor in the guard’s station, while Ewing went into the lobby. He knew what to do.

  First, he stood outside, peering into the lobby. He watched the TV camera as it panned the lobby. Carefully, he timed its swing. Eight seconds from left to right; eight seconds, right to left.

  Ewing timed his entry for the moment the camera’s focus left the front door. He flattened himself against the wall on which the camera was mounted. Stiffly, he walked the length of the wall to the inner door. At a short distance, he studied the lock. It appeared to be no different from other locks on doors that could be buzzed open.

  Once more, he waited for the moment the camera’s focus moved away from the door. Quickly, he moved to the door, inserted the thin blade of his pocketknife, and lifted the lock from its catch. He entered, opening the door just enough to let himself in, then letting it close behind him. He crouched beneath the window of the guard’s station, moved beyond the station, stood erect, then nonchalantly strolled back to the room from within the inner lobby.

  Both Malone and his supervisor stared at Ewing open-mouthed.

  “How’d you do that?” asked the supervisor. “We didn’t see you once on the screen!”

  “All I can tell you,” Ewing responded, “is that it wasn’t all that difficult. All you’d have to know is that the system was there and have a chance to study it for a while.

  “Now, you said that the new system was installed last Monday. . that right, Mr. Malone?”

  Both men nodded.

  “And you also said that with the new system, visitors had to sign in. So anyone who visited with Mr. Hunsinger since, say, Tuesday of this past week would be aware of the system, would have had the opportunity to study it, at least briefly, and would also have signed in. Now, the question: Where is your log of the people who have signed in to visit any resident since last Monday?”

  “Right here,” said Malone, turning the opened guestbook toward Ewing. “We got a brand new book when we started registering visitors. It’s hardly been used at all.”

  Harris took the book eagerly and began to run his finger down the list of names looking for anyone visiting Hunsinger. He found what he was looking for recorded on Tuesday evening. He turned to Ewing. “Get a load of these names.” Harris pointed to a succession of seven signatures, all signed in as visitors of Hunsinger, then said to Malone, “Were you on duty Tuesday evening last?”

  Malone nodded.

  “Did you call Hunsinger and check on these people?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Hunsinger left word that he expected them.”

  Ewing read each name as he recorded them on his notepad. “Jack Brown, Dave Whitman, Bobby Cobb, Jay Galloway, Kit Hoffer, Niall Murray, and Father Robert Koesler.” Ewing, smiling, looked up at Harris. “Guess which one of the above doesn’t fit with the others?”

  “You mean you know who all of them are?” asked Harris.

  “With one exception, I think they’re all members of the Cougars organization.”

  “Koesler.”

  “That’s it.”

  “How does he do it?” Harris shook his head. “There must be hundreds of priests in Detroit, but every other year or so, Koesler gets involved in a homicide investigation. You’ve worked with him before, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t get the impression he was all that happy about being involved with a murder case.”

  “Just lucky, eh?”

  “I guess.”

  Harris went back to sliding his finger down the pages, in search of more Hunsinger visitors. Coming to the end of the listed names, he looked at Malone with some irritation. “I thought you said all visitors were registered. What about Jan Taylor? We know she was here to visit Hunsinger today.”

  “Oh, no; she don’t sign in.” Malone ran a finger between his starched white shirt and his neck. “She’s got a key.”

  “A key!” What had begun as a rather narrow list of suspects was beginning to expand. “Okay, how many people have keys to Hunsinger’s apartment-which key, I assume, also works on the building entrances?”

  “That’s right, sir. Just Miss Taylor and Mr. Hunsinger’s mother.”

  Harris shrugged. “Okay,” he said to Ewing, “add mama to the list.”

  “ Is nothing sacred?” Ewing grinned as he entered the name in his notepad.

  “Okay, Malone,” Harris fixed the guard with an intense look, “let’s have the whole thing. We’ve got seven people who visited with Hunsinger last Tuesday. We have two people with keys. Anybody else have access to Hunsinger? Anybody at all?”

  Malone hesitated.

  “This is a homicide investigation, Malone. I don’t need to tell you what could happen if you don’t level with us.”

  “Uh. . Mr. Hunsinger tips pretty good.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Well, there was one more key out. But that was a while ago. I don’t know if Mr. Hunsinger ever took it back or not.”

  “Come on, come on.”

  “Nobody needs to know that it was me who told you?”

  “Nobody needs to know.”

  “It was Mrs. Galloway.”

  Ewing’s eyebrows lifted as he noted the final name.

  Harris warned Malone and his supervisor emphatically about commenting on the case, especially to the news media, while the investigation continued. He left the two appropriately impressed.

  Harris and Ewing returned to Hunsinger’s apartment to wrap things up.

  “Ned,” said Ewing in the elevator, “did you really recognize Malone from a bust in the past?”

  Harris chuckled. “Not really. But I find it helpful from time to time to psych myself up for an interrogation by pretending to know the guy and pretending that I hate him. Keeps him on his toes too. Didn’t you notice?
”

  2

  “God, I hate Mondays. And if there’s anything I hate more than Mondays, it’s Monday mornings.” Lieutenant Harris rubbed his eyes elaborately.

  It did not help Harris’s diurnal distress that he had begun a fresh homicide investigation last night that had kept him up rather late. Nor did it help that his partner in the case could be depended upon to be in good spirits even on a Monday morning.

  “You’re in good company, Lieutenant,” said Sergeant Ewing cheerfully. “Willie Moellmann doesn’t like Monday mornings either. But success does wonders for a guy’s spirits.”

  “Huh?”

  “Quickest autopsy I ever witnessed.”

  “Hunsinger?”

  “Yup.”

  Most homicide detectives attended the autopsies of cases they were working. It being the despised Monday morning, Harris had relied upon the dependable Ewing to attend this morning’s. Ewing had not disappointed him.

  “Of course,” Ewing added, “it didn’t hurt at all that Doc pretty well knew what he was looking for.”

  “Was it the strychnine?”

  “Yup. All the symptoms check out-just like we found Hunsinger last night.” Ewing ran down the notes he had taken during the autopsy. “‘Terrified expression, fixed grin, and cyanosis.’” He looked up. “That’s the purplish discoloration of Hunsinger’s skin; he couldn’t get oxygen. Strychnine’s really a horrible death. Want the details?”

  “Spare me.” Harris’s Monday syndrome had dissipated. He was now fully alert. Moellmann’s progress had galvanized him. “Was it the DMSO?”

  Ewing nodded. “Weird delivery system, but damned effective. Doc had a book on it.” He again turned to his notes. He had copied the book’s description of the manner in which dimethylsulfoxide works. “‘It is most often administered by simply dabbing it on the skin; and, alone or as a carrier for other drugs, which DMSO often potentiates, it penetrates the skin to enter the bloodstream and be borne to all parts of the body.’”

  Harris gave an impressed whistle. “And the strychnine was added to that?”

  “Uh-huh. Doc says that with most people, even dabbing DMSO on leaves a red mark on the skin. But if you rub it in, it’s most likely to cause a rash.”

  “Like the ones on Hunsinger’s hands and head.”

  “Right. He poured the stuff on his hands, like you would shampoo, and massaged the stuff into his hair and scalp. Doc says the red marks on Hunsinger’s chest and neck were caused by somewhat the same thing. Strychnine causes a tightness in the chest and a stiffness in the neck. Hunsinger probably grabbed at his chest and neck when the poison hit his respiratory system. . but then you didn’t want the details of what Hunsinger went through.”

  “Only if they’re relevant. . damn relevant.”

  “Relax, Ned. That’s the end of relevancy.”

  “Where’d he get the DMSO? Anybody know?”

  “Yeah. One of the other guys at the examiner’s office was familiar with it. Seems you can get it all over town. Most health-food stores.”

  “I thought it was-”

  “It is. But they can sell it as a solvent. Isn’t that a peculiar turn of fortune? I’ll bet the scientist who put DMSO together never thought it would be used to dissolve strychnine. Anyway, it carried the warning right on the label.” Ewing again quoted from his notes, “‘Sold for use as a solvent only. Caution. This product not federally approved for medication.’ And how about this: ‘Warning: May be unsafe. Not approved for human use.’”

  Both were silent a moment, contemplating the irony of it all.

  “Okay,” said Harris, “that’s how Hunsinger got the DMSO. It’ll be a good idea to check into how popular this stuff is with football players generally. But it leaves the bigger question: Where did he come up with the strychnine, and why?”

  “We got an answer for the second question anyway. Our guys picked up some rodent bait last night in Hunsinger’s apartment. It was saturated with strychnine.”

  “Rat bait! Wasn’t that its primary use before they took it off the market?”

  “Yeah, it was effective as hell with rats. Apparently, Hunsinger didn’t favor a stick of dynamite when there was an atom bomb handy. I mean, why use a simple rat trap when you’ve got the Cadillac of poisons around?” He shook his head. “But it still doesn’t explain where he got it.”

  “Yeah, well, okay. But I’ve got one more question before we start going off in all directions.” Harris drained the last of his coffee. “We got a very inventive killer who’s going to use DMSO as a delivery system for strychnine. Why doesn’t the perpetrator drain the shampoo bottle and pour in the mixture of DMSO with the poison?”

  “The perp banks on Hunsinger’s compulsive nature. The Hun is going to reach for the second bottle from the left because that’s where the shampoo is. Always.”

  “Okay, so the perp knows that Hunsinger’s a compulsive. But it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for even a compulsive to glance at a label as he’s using something.”

  “Except that Hunsinger had bad eyesight. He wore contacts.”

  “Right. So the perp knows that Hunsinger is a compulsive and also that he has poor vision.”

  “I get the impression that those two items were not exactly secrets to anyone who knew Hunsinger at all well.”

  “Okay.” Harris appeared to have arrived at his final question. “Hunsinger, relying on his habit of always keeping things in their appointed place, automatically picks up the second container from the left. It feels just like his shampoo bottle. After all, the shampoo bottle is the same shape and size as the container of DMSO. He doesn’t read the label because he can’t make it out without his contact lenses. But the shampoo was a distinctive pink color and the DMSO is colorless. Why doesn’t he notice there’s no color?”

  “Why doesn’t he notice there’s no color?” Ewing repeated thoughtfully. “Why doesn’t he notice there’s no color? Unless. . unless. .”

  “Our first stop,” Harris announced, “Hunsinger’s eye doctor.”

  “But first, we’d better give a call to Inspector Koznicki.”

  “Walt? Why?”

  “I think he’ll want to know that his old buddy Father Koesler is back in the homicide business.”

  It took less than half an hour to drive to West Dearborn, where Thomas Glowacki’s office was located.

  Yes, Dr. Glowacki, the late Hank Hunsinger’s ophthalmologist, was in. Did they have an appointment? Well, the doctor was very busy. Oh, the homicide department! Well, in that case, would they wait just a few minutes in the doctor’s private office?

  Dr. Glowacki, tall, thin, with a full head of brownish hair flecked with gray, entered the office briskly. Harris noted the doctor wore bifocals. It gets to everyone, he mused.

  “This is regarding Mr. Hunsinger?” The doctor looked appropriately concerned. “A pity. I read about it in this morning’s paper. A great pity.”

  “We know you’re busy, Doctor,” said Ewing, “so we’ll try not to take up much of your time. We’ve got a few questions about Mr. Hunsinger’s sight-he was your patient, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes, for a great number of years. The receptionist-my wife-could tell you exactly how long.” Glowacki manifested great satisfaction that his wife was also his receptionist. It was anyone’s guess as to the source of his satisfaction: that husband and wife could function as a team; that wife was competent enough to keep his records; that he was saving a ton of money on her salary.

  “That’s all right.” Ewing eschewed the history. “We’re more concerned with the condition of Mr. Hunsinger’s sight as it was just before he died.”

  “Yes, yes. A most interesting case. A most rare case. Of course, he had astigmatism for many years-for most of his life. But it was correctable with lenses.”

  “We were more concerned with his color perception.”

  “Yes, I was just getting to that. Colorblind.”

  The two officers could not suppress triumphant s
miles. Suspicion confirmed.

  “I am not referring to a color deficiency,” Glowacki continued. “I mean Mr. Hunsinger was colorblind, literally colorblind. Do you know how rare that is?”

  Both shook their heads. They urged him to elaborate. This could prove most relevant.

  “In general,” the doctor explained, “99.5 percent of women and 92 percent of men have normal vision with regard to color. Which means they can distinguish between all the colors of the spectrum. Now, among those relatively few people who have problems with color perception, there are three groups. I can tell you about them without becoming overly technical.”

  The officers nodded. Ewing prepared to scribble notes.

  “The largest number of people who have a color deficiency are called anomalous trichromats.” Glowacki glanced at Ewing’s pad and spelled the term. “They can see the same major color characteristics as people with completely normal vision. But they tend to have problems with tones that are close together in the color spectrum, like orange and pink.”

  “How about white and pink?” Harris asked, thinking of the bottles of shampoo and DMSO.

  “To the anomalous trichromat they would appear as exactly the same color.”

  Again the officers smiled. That alone would have been sufficient to explain Hunsinger’s fatal error. But the doctor had indicated that the deceased’s color perception was much worse than that.

  “The second group, called dichromats”-again Glowacki spelled-“have what’s called a red-green deficiency. That means they confuse colors like the red fruit and green leaves of the cherry tree. Their vision is unable to separate colors that occur at the same position on either side of the color spectrum-those with the same wavelengths. But, like the trichromats, these people are still able to see colors and distinguish among most of them.”

  Glowacki paused. There were no questions or comments from the officers.

  “You see,” he continued, “most people think that if a person such as those I’ve just described has any trouble at all identifying any colors, that the person is colorblind. Technically, that’s not true. Such people are color-deficient.