Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Y-you can do that?” In moments of great stress, Galloway suffered a slight stammer.

  Harris nodded.

  “Okay.” Galloway blanched at the very thought of being taken to police headquarters where the dregs of society were led through the corridors. He virtually collapsed into his black executive chair. With a vague wave, he motioned the others to seat themselves. He glanced at Koesler. “What’s he doing here?”

  “The department,” Ewing explained, “has decided to use Father Koesler as a consultant in this investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s all you need to know,” said Harris.

  Galloway appraised the two officers. From all he’d seen on television and in the movies, they were playing the tough-cop/nice-cop routine. He decided he would be able to handle Ewing with no problem. But he’d better be cautious about Harris. He was not entirely correct.

  Galloway sank deeply into his chair. He dragged on his cigarette. It was several seconds before he exhaled through his nostrils. He sank his thumb into his cheek. The cigarette was clenched between his index and middle fingers. A thin curl of smoke followed the contour of his head, then disappeared above him. His eyes darted from one officer to the other, waiting for the questions.

  “Mr. Galloway,” Ewing began, “we want to pinpoint the last time Mr. Hunsinger was in his apartment before he returned to it after the game.”

  “H-how should I know?”

  “Well, when did he have to join the rest of the team before the game?”

  “Oh, that’d be yesterday morning at eight at the Pontiac Inn for the pregame meal and taping.”

  “Then he might have left his place at-uh, how long does it take to get out to the inn from Jefferson and the Boulevard? About 45 minutes, doesn’t it? So, about seven or seven-fifteen?”

  “I suppose. Why don’t you find out from the doorman?”

  “We did ask the doorman. But in investigations like this, we crosscheck. We may well ask you questions that we have asked others. There’s no telling where an investigation will lead.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Galloway,” said Harris, “I thought it was the custom for teams to stay at a hotel the night before a game, even if they were playing at home. How come your team doesn’t get together until game day itself?”

  Galloway glanced nervously at Harris. He was the one to be wary of. “We decided long ago it would be better for the players to be at home until just before the game whenever possible. Helps relax them. So, when we play at home, we assemble on the day of the game.”

  Harris, Ewing, and Koesler each had the same thought: staying at home saved an overnight hotel bill. To Harris’s thought was added: you stingy bastard.

  Ewing resumed the questioning. “Mr. Galloway, were you aware that Hunsinger had any physical problems or flaws?”

  “Physical problems?”

  “Any impairment?”

  “Well, he had a chronic problem with his shoulder. And his knees were in horrible shape. But anybody who’s played as long as the Hun would have to have a lot wrong with him.”

  “Anything, any impairment not connected with football?”

  Galloway took another long drag and jammed the cigarette butt into a large ashtray. As with most smokers, he failed to completely extinguish the cigarette; it continued to smolder as he lit another. “His eyes? You mean his eyes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yeah; he wore glasses. Contacts. He was nearsighted or something.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not that I know of. Actually, he was in pretty good shape for the length of time he’d been in the game.”

  “I mean anything else about his eyes?”

  Galloway frowned. “Something, I think it was astigmatism. You’d better check with Dave Whitman, or with Jack Brown, my trainer. They know more about the physical condition of the players than I do.”

  “What do you know about Hunsinger’s death?”

  “Just what I’ve read in today’s papers. I’ve been on the phone all morning. But I haven’t been able to find anyone who knows more about it. Or, at least anybody who’ll talk. He was poisoned. That’s all I know.”

  “It was strychnine.”

  “Strychnine!”

  “We found a container in the apartment. Did you know it was there?”

  “No. N-no. I don’t think so. Why would I?” For some time he had been swiveling his chair from side to side. It was obvious he was nervous and wanted this interrogation over as quickly as possible.

  “Mr. Galloway, do you know of anyone who would want to kill Hunsinger?”

  For the first time, Galloway showed a brief smile. “Just about everybody he ever played against.”

  Ewing returned the smile. “We’re trying to narrow this investigation, Mr. Galloway. We’re concentrating on those who might have had access to his apartment and might have both a motive and the means. Specifically, right now, six of the men who met at his apartment in the discussion group.”

  “The discussion group!” Galloway seemed genuinely shocked. “That was a Bible discussion group, for God’s sake. Besides, with the exception of the good father here, we were all with the same team. Why would any of us want to hurt the Hun, let alone kill him?”

  “Think, Mr. Galloway.”

  Galloway butted another cigarette, left it smoldering in the tray, and began drumming his fingers on the desktop. “Hoffer, I suppose. He played behind the Hun. He may have resented the Hun, but”- he shook his head-“not enough to kill him. No,” he shook his head again, “the idea is just preposterous.”

  Softly, without moving in his chair, Harris asked, “What about your wife, Mr. Galloway?”

  “What!” Abruptly Galloway lurched forward as if he were about to stand. “Marjorie! What has she got to do with this?”

  “We have information that she was a very close friend of Hunsinger at one time.” Harris retained his calm manner.

  “B-but that was ages ago. A year or more. There isn’t anything between them anymore.”

  “Then you knew about the affair?” A hint of a smile played at Harris’s lips.

  Galloway’s shoulders caved slightly. He had been trapped. Even though he had known Harris was the dangerous one.

  They were on the brink of a confessional precipice. Ewing, for one, did not wish to cross it at this time. “Were you aware of Hunsinger’s attitude toward routines. . habits, Mr. Galloway?”

  Galloway remained erect in his chair. He would not chance relaxing again during this conversation. “Routines! Hell, yes. Everybody knew the guy was compulsive. Hell, he was a compulsive-obsessive!”

  “You say that was general knowledge?”

  “Everybody in the league knew it. Everybody who read the sports pages knew it. The guy wouldn’t play if a shoestring got crossed.” Galloway looked from one officer to the other, then glanced at his watch. “Is that about all? I really have a lot to do.”

  “Just a few more questions, Mr. Galloway,” said Ewing.

  “Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday between 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.?” Harris asked.

  “M-me! My whereabouts!” Galloway flushed. His lips trembled. He clearly was angry. “What do you mean, my whereabouts! Are you accusing me of this thing?” He reached for the phone. “I think I’d better get my attorney!”

  “Before you do that”-Ewing raised a hand; Galloway did not lift the receiver-“you should know that you are not being accused of anything at this time. We are merely conducting a preliminary investigation. We are going to be asking this question of quite a few people.”

  Galloway removed his hand from the phone.

  “Now,” Ewing continued, “can you tell us what you did yesterday between 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.? Try to be as thorough as possible.”

  “Okay. I got up about six-thirty, had some coffee, read the papers. Got down to the Pontiac Inn about ten. Joined the gang for some brunch. Went directly from
there to the stadium. After the game, I went out to dinner with some friends from GM. That would take me up to about ten last night.”

  “So you were in the company of others from six-thirty in the morning until ten last night?” Harris asked.

  “Not exactly. I was alone until I got to the inn.”

  Harris raised his eyebrows. “So no one can corroborate your story until after ten yesterday morning?”

  “I’ve had about enough of this, Lieutenant.” Galloway stood and leaned forward, his whitened knuckles pressing against the desktop. “Are you saying that I’m a suspect in this murder?”

  “No one has said that,” Harris stated.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Galloway continued. “Why would I do a thing like that? I had no reason at all.”

  “How about, just for the sake of pursuing the idea, jealousy or revenge for what he did to your wife?” Harris suggested.

  A sardonic smile cracked one side of Galloway’s mouth. He would rather not have addressed the subject at all. If Harris had not tricked him into admitting knowledge of the affair, he would have responded in some vague manner. As it was, he had to answer openly. And he was prepared to do so.

  “Your source, whoever it was, about the affair my wife had with the Hun failed to fill you in on the status of our marriage. My wife and I are separated. We have been for over a month. Hunsinger was not the cause. . although he may have been the final straw. You can ask any of the gossip columnists. They’ll tell you my wife really gets around. It’s going to be a messy divorce. The media can hardly wait. They’ll tell you.”

  The ensuing moment of silence was awkward if not embarrassing.

  Galloway continued. “Aside from the fact that, frankly, I don’t give a damn about my wife, I really would be a fool to do anything harmful to the Hun. He was a meal ticket. The local hero. God, his fans go back to high school around here. A lot of the fans come out just to see him. You can check for yourselves. On home dates, when it’s known beforehand that he’s hurt and not going to play, there have been more no-shows than at other games.

  “And now, gentlemen, the Hun will be permanently absent from our games. I’ve got to address that problem. And it’d better be a pretty damn smart move I make, whatever it is. That’s what I’m busy with this morning. So if there are no further questions-”

  “Not just now, Mr. Galloway,” said Ewing. “There may be more later. Thank you for your help.”

  The two policemen and the priest rose and left the office in silence.

  “Want some lunch now?” Ewing asked.

  Harris checked his watch. “Let’s hit on the other executives while we’re up here.”

  “Okay,” said Ewing. “On to Dave Whitman.”

  They began walking down the corridor, eerily quiet in the gigantic stadium.

  “Whatcha think, Father?” Ewing asked.

  “Well,” said Koesler, “for what it’s worth I think he lied about the strychnine.”

  “What?”

  “As I told you, Hank clearly mentioned that he had a supply of strychnine in the apartment. And not only was Mr. Galloway present, but I remember his making some comment about it.”

  “No shit!” Ewing murmured.

  “I should never doubt Walt Koznicki,” said Harris. “Every once in a while he is capable of an absolutely inspired idea.”

  “Bring it in. Bring it home. We had to do it. They depended on us.”

  Although he had an exemplary father, young Dave Whitman’s role model of choice was his paternal grandfather, a railroader of the old school.

  Whitman’s father, Robert, was a surgeon. He also was for many terms a Minnesota state senator. A rare combination. Understandably, he was held in high esteem in the community. Also understandably, he was seldom home. On those few occasions when he was both home and not otherwise occupied, he spent as much time as possible with his son and two daughters.

  The daughters were very close to their mother. Dr. Whitman thought that appropriate. But he was particularly pleased that young Dave attached himself to his grandfather. As he grew up, the doctor had related well to his father, Bernard. Especially since he was forced to be away much of the time, Dr. Whitman could think of few others he could wish his own son to copy more than the man the doctor had patterned himself after. In fact, when in a nostalgic mood, the doctor frequently envied his son’s relationship with the old man.

  Before David was in his teens, Bernard Whitman was nearing his eighties. Although of English rather than Scandinavian extraction, Bernard was a stereotype of what one might expect a native Minnesotan to be. In his late years, Bernard looked as if he’d been chiseled out of rock. Years of facing a frigid unrelenting winter wind had cut deep ridges in his face. Once he had been a huge man. Now his big-boned body was pencil-thin, skin taut over the bones. His hands remained large and gnarled.

  Many an evening, Dave would sit at his grandfather’s knee near the fireplace and listen eagerly to the oft told tales.

  “Things were different when I was a lad, David. I was a country boy up near Duluth. There was no Reserve Mining. Just the Lake.” (Grandpa never gave Superior its name, but always referred to it as if it were uppercased.) “And some homesteaders, some Indians, and the land to care for so it would care for us. And I was eager and ambitious. From the first time I ever saw a train I knew that was going to be my life.

  “I started as a hostler, a laborer. I’d clean the shop and the pits, prepare the engines, knock the fire out, clean the ashes. That’s the bottom, David.”

  Dave had guessed, before being told, that that was so.

  “Then I became a fireman in the engine. That was hard work.”

  Dave’s eyes would drop from his grandfather’s face to his work-worn hands; he could understand just how hard that work had been.

  “Then I passed an examination to be the engineer, gained my seniority, and got to be able to pick my runs. When business got bad, I’d go back to being a fireman. In the 1929 depression, I lost about twenty years’ seniority for two or three days.”

  Grandpa was with the Minneapolis, Northfield amp; Southern Railroad for fifty-one years. Regularly, he would sum it up for his grandson: “Indeed, David, it was a thrill. We’d travel under all kinds of conditions-storms, faulty engines. But there was the thrill of getting the fireman to get up speed. We had to get ’er over the hill. There were no excuses. We had to come through.”

  Of all his grandfather’s many reminiscences, David was most impressed by two quasi-creeds by which Grandpa lived. One, in proof of maturity, was, “There were no excuses; we had to come through.”

  When at last grandfather retired from the railroad, “I was still eager for something ahead of me to inspire me.”

  He found it in the Minneapolis Society for the Blind. “I always pitied the handicap of the blind. I got sympathetic watching the blind travel. Well, sir, one day the Society for the Blind had an open house, and I attended.

  “I always wondered how a blind man could operate a power saw. It seemed like suicide to me. So I sneaked away from the open-house crowd and walked over to talk with some men who were working with wood. One of the supervisors asked me if I would like to volunteer. Right then I knew that this was where I wanted to be.

  “First I had to learn how to use power tools before I could learn how to teach the blind in their use.

  “But I was left alone to teach them. Which was good. I never liked to have a boss over my shoulder. All my life I had to depend on myself to bring myself in.”

  That was the second maxim by which grandpa lived. Young David Whitman determined to live his life in the same way. He would make no excuses. And, to the extent possible, he would have no boss over his shoulder. Certainly he would never depend upon a boss for motivation. He would depend upon himself to bring himself in.

  Tempering these challenging goals was a subtle but almost ever-present sense of humor. When filling out application forms for the University of Minnesota, Dave had ans
wered the question “Church preference?” with “Gothic.” Fortunately for the fledgling collegian, the admissions dean also had a sense of humor.

  After an outstanding tour through academe, he was recruited by and joined the public relations section of International Multifoods. As IM expected, he was very good. He quickly built excellent relations with the community-and with the media, to whom he was a genuine help. They learned to trust him.

  However, there was a boss over his shoulder. Whitman certainly did not depend on anyone else for motivation in his work. But bosses, even approving bosses, would not go away.

  Thus, when his childhood friend, Jay Galloway, pressed Whitman to join an independent venture in publishing, his inclination was to abandon the giant corporation and its multiple bosses and get in on the ground floor of something new and exciting. It took him a considerable time to convince his wife, Kate, of the wisdom, even of the necessity of the new gamble. But he succeeded, as he knew he would.

  It was not long before disenchantment set in. It was not that Whitman did not believe Galloway could succeed. Indeed, it was probable he would. But no sooner did Whitman begin working for Galloway than an air of contempt began to be detectable.

  Whitman could have ignored that. But Galloway had an irredeemable habit of cutting corners, playing fast and loose with rules, relying only on hope to get away with his unending fiscal peccadilloes. Sometimes Whitman wished Galloway would just commit one serious crime rather than all those minor offenses, the total penalty for which would be approximately the same as for a felony.

  Whitman had been nearing the end of his endurance when Galloway came up with the idea of buying into and eventually owning the Cougars. The prospects were too good. Whitman, after a fierce internal battle, reinvested in Galloway.

  They moved to a new city, a new state, a new enterprise. But nothing else had changed. Galloway was still mucking about in areas unsuited to his talents. Once again, Whitman was nearing the end of his tether when a fresh thought occurred.