He would nudge Galloway out of the picture. He would maneuver Galloway into an intolerable position with the Cougars. And then, out. Finally, Whitman would be where he was destined to end: in the driver’s seat. No boss over his shoulder. Depending on himself to bring himself in.
It would require some bold strokes. But Whitman had one such stroke in mind. It would take a lot of planning. He knew well the problem Galloway had with Hank Hunsinger. Whitman, indeed, was the management representative who had to negotiate the contracts containing those outrageous demands with the Hun. If it had been up to him alone, Whitman would have taken a much more hard-nosed attitude toward Hunsinger, including letting him go, to see if he could pursue his career with some other team.
But Galloway insisted on keeping the Hun, whatever the cost. Galloway seemed to Whitman to be unrealistic about the Hun’s value to the team. And that, Whitman decided, was Galloway’s Achilles’ heel. Whitman began to devise a complicated scheme. It would require very careful planning. But then, planning was his forte.
All that was required was that he get up a head of steam, get ’er over the hill, and bring ’er in.
Distractions were second nature to Father Koesler. And he was suffering from a persistent one now. The twin rows of pipes on Dave Whitman’s desk had nearly mesmerized the priest. He had never seen so many pipes outside a tobacconist’s. Clearly, Whitman was a serious smoker.
Between attempting to count the pipes, Koesler had been listening to the interrogation. They had covered the length of time Whitman had been associated with Galloway, the tragedy of Hunsinger’s death, and Whitman’s awareness of the player’s obsessive compulsiveness.
“Were you aware of any physical impairment, outside of injuries, that is?” Ewing asked.
“Yes, of course.” Whitman consulted Hunsinger’s file. Earlier, when the officers and Koesler had entered his office, Whitman’s secretary had brought it in. “He had a sight problem: astigmatism with a touch of nearsightedness. See for yourself.”
Whitman offered a sheet of paper to Ewing, who glanced at it, then gave it to Harris. It was a record of Hunsinger’s health status. The report mentioned the vision problem, but made no mention of any color deficiency. Apparently, he had been able to keep his colorblindness out of his official record.
“He wore contacts,” Whitman continued.
“There was nothing else wrong with his eyes?” Ewing asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Are you aware of how Hunsinger died?” Harris asked.
“He was poisoned, wasn’t he? At least, according to the media.”
“It was strychnine,” said Harris.
Whitman raised his eyebrows. He sucked hard on his pipe, but it had gone out. He tapped the dottle out of the bowl and inserted a pipe cleaner in the stem. He returned the pipe to its place on the rack, removed the next pipe, and began the elaborate procedure of filling, tamping, and lighting it.
“Were you aware that Hunsinger kept a supply of strychnine in his apartment?” Harris continued.
“Uh-huh.”
“How’s that? Did you see it?”
“No. He told us about it. At one of our meetings, he mentioned how he’d had a problem with rodents in the apartment. He said he’d gotten the problem under control with, as he put it, ‘good old-fashioned strychnine.’”
Koesler nodded at this. Whitman’s description was exactly how the information had come out.
“Do you know how he got it?”
Whitman shook his head. “Didn’t ask. But it surprised me. Strychnine’s a controlled substance, isn’t it?”
Ewing nodded. “Speaking of surprises, Mr. Whitman, you looked surprised when Lieutenant Harris mentioned that strychnine was the poison that killed Hunsinger. Why was that, if you knew that strychnine was in the apartment?”
Whitman scratched the side of his head with the stem of his pipe. “I guess I was surprised that whoever killed him had used a poison that was already in the apartment. I guess that would have to mean the killer would have to have known that it was there in advance.”
“Like you did,” said Harris.
Whitman smiled self-consciously and blushed simultaneously. “Silly of me. . trapped by my own logic.”
“Mr. Whitman,” said Ewing, “part of your responsibility here is to sign up the players, negotiate their contracts, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say Mr. Hunsinger had a good contract? I mean, measured by comparable contracts for comparable players?”
“I’d say it was an excellent contract. But fair. If the Hun hadn’t liked it, he could have played it out, become a free agent, and maybe gone to another club.”
“But isn’t this his market?” Ewing pressed on. “I mean, because of his local background, he’d be more valuable here in Michigan than anywhere else.”
“True, as far as it goes. But the Hun was a premier performer-a pheenom, as they say in this business. He would have gotten good money no matter where he went.”
“But not more than he’d get here. Which would give you a bargaining tool. I mean, after your final offer, say, you could point out that he would not get as much anywhere else, right? Sort of take away the whipsaw possibility.”
Whitman exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He smiled. “That’s why they call it negotiating. During negotiations, it would be just me and the Hun getting together in our own little huddle.”
“Just you and Hunsinger? Didn’t he have an agent?”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t that kind of odd? Everybody’s got an agent.”
“Almost everybody. A long time ago, the Hun had an agent, when he signed his first couple of contracts with us. Then-no. The Hun was no dummy. After the first couple of go-rounds, I think he figured he could do as well as any agent, and also, he didn’t want to give 10 percent to anybody.”‘
“And you, you didn’t have an attorney or anyone with you?”
“It’s my responsibility. I bring it in.”
“And you’re capable, all by yourself?”
“I am capable of doing whatever I’m responsible for.”
“Sort of a lone wolf,” Harris commented.
“Not exactly. Just a philosophy of mine. I take responsibility for completing what I set out to do. And I make no excuses.”
Harris and Ewing wondered, if ever so briefly, whether that encompassing philosophy might extend to murder. Koesler, harking back to a day when workers were more conscientious, thought it a laudable philosophy.
“What does Hunsinger’s death mean to your team?” Harris asked.
Whitman shrugged. “Undoubtedly, it will hurt attendance. You’d have to ask the coach about the implications for the team’s playing strength.”
“It also blots out an extremely expensive contract, doesn’t it?”
“That’s just shortsighted, Lieutenant. It may be true-no, it’s definitely true, that whoever we bring up to the Cougars will not get a contract close to what the Hun had. There isn’t a tight end in football who ever equaled the Hun’s contract. But we’re going to have to pay someone to fill out the team. And we’re certain to have a falloff in attendance. Happened every time the Hun missed games in the past.
“So, from a financial standpoint, it’s like cutting off one end of a carpet and sewing it on the other. Whatever money we save on the Hun’s contract we’ll lose at the gate.” Whitman extended both hands, palms upward, in a gesture of futility. “Now, is that everything, gentlemen? I’ve got a very busy day ahead of me. Mondays are bad anyway. And, what with the Hun. .”He didn’t bother completing the statement.
“Just one more thing,” Ewing responded. “Can you account for your whereabouts through the day yesterday?”
Whitman took several deep puffs from his pipe, rekindling tobacco that had almost gone out. He seemed to be collecting his memory. The officers noted that, unlike Galloway, Whitman showed no reluctance to account for his time.
“We
got up about seven, jogged our five miles, had some breakfast, read the papers, got ready, and went to the stadium about noon.”
“Excuse me,” Ewing interrupted, “but who is ‘we’?”
“My wife and I.”
“The two of you were together throughout the whole morning?”
“Why, yes.” Whitman seemed surprised at the question.
“I see. Okay, continue, please.”
“Well, we watched the game from our box. After the game, we went out to dinner with some of our friends. Then we went home, watched a little TV, the eleven o’clock news, and then retired.”
“Then you were with your wife or others all day?” Ewing asked.
“Far as I can remember.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Whitman,” said Harris. “If I recall correctly, you said you arrived at the stadium at noon. But the game didn’t start till two. What about those two hours?”
Whitman looked disconcerted-at having forgotten the two hours, or because they had spotted the gap?
“I was up in my office catching up on some business.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Why, no. I was alone.”
“Alone? Where was your wife during all that time?”
“I can see you haven’t been to many Cougar games, Lieutenant. Or, at least, you haven’t come early to the games. There’s a regular ritual many fans enjoy before a game. It’s called tailgating. It can become a genuine banquet. That’s where my wife was, Lieutenant, with some friends of ours at a tailgating party.”
“So there are two hours for which you have no corroboration.”
“I suppose so. Why should I need any?”
“During that time, you could have left the stadium.” Harris pressed the point.
“I could have. I didn’t. Why would I?”
“Between the time Hunsinger left for the stadium and the time he returned, somebody went to his apartment and set the trap that would kill him.”
For the first time in this interview, Whitman placed his pipe in the ample ashtray and sat forward. “Are you accusing me of killing Hunsinger? Are you serious?”
“No one is accusing anyone of anything-yet,” said Ewing. “But the investigation will proceed. We may have more questions for you later, Mr. Whitman. In the meantime, it would not hurt if you could think of anyone who could establish that you did not, indeed, leave this office between noon and two yesterday.”
“And for your part, gentlemen,” Whitman was standing, “it might help your flimsy suspicion if you could come up with a single solitary reason why I would even think of cutting off an attraction like Hank Hunsinger.”
In better restaurants it was called ground round or chopped steak. To Father Koesler, it was hamburger. And he had built a considerable reputation as the gourmand of the local hamburger circuit. As an expert-acknowledged or self-appointed-he disdained as hopelessly inferior the beef served in all fast-food chains, with the possible exception of Wendy’s.
Nonetheless, he was eating in a fast-food restaurant and it was not Wendy’s. It had been selected by Lieutenant Harris. Sergeant Ewing had concurred. Father Koesler’s opinion had not been solicited.
They were at the coffee stage of the meal. The one bright spot in this lunch as far as Koesler was concerned was that they served brewed decaf.
Luncheon conversation had been studied. The officers could not talk shop without leaving the priest awkwardly out of it. Koesler sensed that policemen might not be interested in parish matters or theology. So they advanced through lunch pushing one word after another.
“You come here often?” Koesler essayed.
“First time for me.”
“Me too.”
“I thought. . since you found it. . and it was so close to the stadium. .”
Harris smiled. “We don’t come to the stadium that often either.”
“Too expensive,” Ewing said. “And, besides, you have to invest too much time getting out of that parking lot. How about you, Father?”
“Only once in a long while. Actually, once since I joined the Bible discussion group. I thought I ought to patronize the business of the other members of the God Squad. But since attending in person, I realized that TV just doesn’t cover the game.”
Ewing sat back and for the first time appraised Koesler carefully. Redistribute the weight a little and take off maybe thirty years and he would at least look like a pro football player.
“How about you, Father? Did you ever play the game?”
“Me? Yeah. But I went through high school and college in the seminary and we played touch. Which sounds a lot more innocent than it was.” He grinned. “No conditioning, no pads, the blocking identical to tackle football-and there were some pretty big guys playing.
“Teams like the Cougars have thirty seconds to huddle and get the next play under way. Our plays originated in maybe a three-minute huddle. And we didn’t call the plays in shorthand. It was more, ‘You block so-and-so. You block so-and-so. You go out for a deep pass. You go out for a short pass. You go out in the flat and buttonhook-that means turn around-and you get out and cut behind the wheelbarrow.’
“So there’s a limit to how much I am able to identify with the Cougars.
“Before I got involved in this discussion group, the closest contact I had with a pro football player was a gentleman I’ll never forget. The name wouldn’t mean anything to you. But he played in the years just after the professional league was formed in 1922. I met him in his last days. He had terminal lung cancer. We became quite good friends. When he died, I had his funeral Mass and because I’d come to know him so well, I gave a eulogy that, I guess, was kind of affecting.
“Anyway, after the Mass, I went back to the rectory to get ready to go to the cemetery. The doorbell rang. It was a huge, elderly gentleman, who, it turned out, had been a teammate of the deceased. I don’t know whether he was embarrassed or just didn’t have the words to express himself, but he stammered something like, ‘I just wanted to tell you. . I mean. . I just wanted you to know. . uh. . that. . I thought. . well. . you played a good game!’”
The two officers smiled.
“I got to thinking about my friend this morning while I was listening to Mr. Galloway and Mr. Whitman explain what the loss of Hank Hunsinger would mean to the Cougars. How attendance would drop as it always did when he had to be out of a game.
“I remembered that my friend had told me of a similar experience. He had been a good player, but not nearly as famous as players like Red Grange and Bronco Nagurski. In fact, attendance in those early years was very poor until Grange became a professional. Anyway, my friend told me that when word got out that one of the superstars would not be able to play, attendance always suffered. But when, inevitably, a superstar retired, it had no effect at all on attendance.
“It was as if the fans felt cheated when a superstar-a pheenom I believe they call them now-would not perform. The star played last Sunday and he’ll probably play next Sunday. But this Sunday, when I pay my hard-earned money, he’s not going to play. So I’m not going to pay until he plays again.
“Whereas, when the player retired, the fans didn’t feel cheated when he no longer played. In fact, if it went anywhere, attendance used to go up because the fans wanted to see who would be taking the star’s place.
“So I thought it rather odd that both the owner and the general manager would assume that the Hun’s permanent loss to the team would necessarily hurt the gate. Seems to me attendance is just as likely to improve.”
There was a moment of silence. Toward the conclusion of Koesler’s monologue, Harris has paused with his coffee cup halfway raised. It was still in that position. “Out of the mouths of babes,” Harris murmured.
“Galloway and Whitman know, of course, who they’ve got back of Hunsinger. And they know how good he is. Who is it?” Ewing asked.
“Kit Hoffer,” said Koesler, “and I think he’s quite good. But he hasn’t had much of a chance to play. . wha
t with the Hun’s being the superstar.”
“I think we’d better get back to the stadium and check out the new kid in town,” said Harris. “Then we’ll know a little bit more about just how motivated management was in keeping Hunsinger alive and well.”
Monday mornings in the Cougars’ locker room and training facility were devoted mostly to the walking wounded. The wounded who could not walk were usually in the hospital.
By the time Harris, Ewing, and Koesler entered the locker room in search of Kit Hoffer, much of Monday’s customary routine had taken place.
The players had begun to straggle in about nine. Some were dressed in the identical clothing they had worn when they left the stadium the evening before. They hadn’t been home. They had partied long and late. Most of these were in the arms of a bleary-eyed but good-humored hangover. Others, the more mature or serious athletes, were rested and ready to go.
A high percentage of those who had seen considerable game time yesterday now needed at least patching. Trainer Jack Brown had been steadily taping extremities, chests, and groins. At eleven-thirty, the team doctor arrived, checked the halt and the lame, and examined the more seriously maimed.
In general, the Cougars were far more subdued than usual. Most of the conversation, naturally, revolved around Hank Hunsinger. It was truly shocking for one athlete to contemplate the death of a fellow athlete, much less his murder.
After the examinations were completed, the trainer and the doctor delivered their reports to the coach, so he could begin to consider the personnel around whom he would build this week’s game plan.
It was at this point that the detectives and the priest entered the locker room. A few questions to players, some in varying stages of dishabille, others wrapped like mummies, disclosed that Hoffer, Cobb, the coach, and several assistants were on the field in the stadium. And yes, that was out of the ordinary for a Monday. But the coach wanted Cobb and Hoffer to have the maximum time in working together.
The three walked up the gentle incline toward the field with its artificial surface. Koesler considered the view from the field awesome, a sports cathedral. Not far from them, a group of men were clustered. Four wore team jackets. Koesler recognized only Coach Bradford. The three others, it would turn out, were assistant coaches on the offensive team. In nondescript sweat clothes were Bobby Cobb and Kit Hoffer. Koesler vaguely hoped the officers wouldn’t immediately halt the workout. He wanted to watch for a short while at least.
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