Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Yes.” Koesler nibbled on a bread stick. “As a matter of fact, I was reading something about that in the paper recently. I was trying to recall it as you were speaking. It wasn’t exactly the same thing you were talking about, as I recall, but it was similar. Oh, yes, now I remember: It was about victims-like rape victims or battered wives or accident victims or even people who are terminally ill.

  “The thing all these people had in common is that what had happened to them was beyond their control. The article said that there is a tendency among such people to take the blame, to assume some responsibility for what had happened to them.

  “There were a couple of reasons for this, according to the article. One reason for blaming oneself is that it can give meaning to something that seems incomprehensible. As if it were better to accept blame than to have to admit that life has no meaning or is unfair.

  “And the other reason is that when a victim takes on the responsibility for what happened to him or her, the victim may thus be able to retain some feeling of control. One of the examples was a rape victim chiding herself: ‘It was at least partly my fault. . I should have known he was up to no good. ‘

  “Maybe that’s what Mrs. Hunsinger had in mind, at least subconsciously. She was assuming responsibility for things her son had done to others, things that happened to him, even his death. Better that than admit that some nameless fate was responsible for what happened to him, that her prayers had been fruitless, and that there was nothing she could do to help him.

  “Which is not to say I agree with that. On the contrary, I feel very strongly that, while we may be less than completely responsible for everything we do as we grow up, at some time in our young adult or adult life, we must take full responsibility for our choices as well as for the consequences of those choices.” Koesler sipped his wine. “They are not the fault of our parents or our siblings.”

  “I could not agree with you more, Father. I believe it is one of the deep sicknesses of our society today. So many people, not a few of them accused of crime, want to shirk all personal responsibility and pass it on to their parents, teachers, the times we live in-anything-everything but their own decisions and choices. And, as you suggest, Father, too often parents are too inclined to step in and take on the unjustified guilt. But the reasons you discovered in that article are interesting. I had not heard them.”

  “Yes. In effect, Mrs. Hunsinger cannot comprehend or deal with her son’s death, nor with what he probably did to prompt someone to murder him. So she internalizes the whole thing and says that it’s her fault. However terrible that may be, it’s preferable to dealing with reality-admitting she had no control over the circumstances that led to her son’s untimely death.”

  The waiter brought their lunch. Neither would have more wine.

  Koesler extracted the toothpick that seemed intended to hold his club sandwich together. “I assume Mrs. Hunsinger’s was the only confession you got yesterday.”

  “Oh, quite absolutely.” Koznicki pierced a wedge of lemon with his fork and squeezed it over the fish. “But you would know; you were present during the interrogation of the others.”

  “Yes. They were all sort of defensive. . not that I blame them. And they all had excuses-what do you call them? — alibis. Were the detectives able to check those out yet?”

  “Oh, yes. Their whereabouts have all been substantiated. And yet, all but two have gaping holes in their Sunday schedules that could have allowed them the opportunity to have committed the murder.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. This much we know: Mr. Hunsinger was on time for the team meeting at the Pontiac Inn at 8:00 a.m. According to the building guard, he left his apartment around seven. He happened to stop in the lobby and check something with the guard before leaving.

  “The important thing is to establish a time span during which the killer definitely had the opportunity to enter the apartment, mix strychnine into the DMSO, and switch the bottles of DMSO and shampoo.

  “And that time frame extends from at least seven in the morning to approximately six in the evening, when he returned to his apartment after the game.

  “Now, consider the team’s owner”-Koznicki extracted a notepad from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and read from it-“one Jay Galloway.”

  “I think I remember.” Koesler interrupted as much to allow Koznicki to eat as for any other reason. “He said he was living alone and he didn’t arrive at the inn until about-what was it-about ten that morning?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Which means that he could have gone over to the apartment, perhaps waited for Hunsinger to leave, gone up, and done it, and still had plenty of time to get to the inn. Too much time, in fact. Galloway could have gone to the apartment any time up to about nine o’clock. But he claims to have no motive. He claimed to have lost a lot by Hunsinger’s death.”

  “But it was you yourself who supplied a very plausible motive in his not being able to satisfy the fans if Hunsinger did not play for the Cougars-unless. . unless it became impossible to give them Hunsinger not because management had callously traded him but because he was dead.”

  “Do you think that’s a realistic motive?” Koesler asked somewhat self-consciously.

  “Excellent. Then there is the general manager.” Koznicki flipped a page in his notepad. “David Whitman.”

  “His time gap was, let’s see, from noon till the game started at 2:00 p.m. Figuring about an hour’s drive either way between the stadium and the apartment, that would be a pretty tight fit, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, but possible. Possible. However, we have yet to establish a motive for Mr. Whitman. What he might have gained from Hunsinger’s death is not clear. Nor is there evidence of any animosity toward Hunsinger on Mr. Whitman’s part. Certainly not any evident hatred that could motivate a murder.”

  “Let’s see, then; there’s my parishioner, the one who got me involved in this thing from the beginning by inviting me to attend the Bible discussion group.”

  “Yes, Kit Hoffer. He has unverifiable time from about six-thirty until he arrived late at the inn, about eight-forty-five. Which means that he could have driven to the apartment by seven-thirty, left fifteen minutes later-ample time to mix the poison and switch bottles-then driven out to the inn, arriving there, as he in fact did, at eight-forty-five. His motive, of course, would be clear. According to the testimony we have gathered, as long as Hunsinger was on the team and apparently able to walk, he would, specifically at Mr. Galloway’s orders, play-and thus Mr. Hoffer would not. And if Mr. Hoffer did not play, his salary-his entire future-would suffer.”

  “Yes. Then there was this bit about going to the church the morning of the game to pray. I know he was at Mass the evening before. I suppose it is possible he’d go back for a visit Sunday morning, but normally I would have assumed he did all his praying Saturday at Mass.”

  “Would it not be an ironic twist of fate, Father-if Mr. Hoffer should prove to be the guilty party-that your testimony would be at least partly the cause of his being found out. And he is the very one who brought you into this case.”

  “I don’t want to think about that possibility. Of all the people I met with yesterday, Kit Hoffer is the one I most want to be innocent.”

  “I know how you must feel, Father. Understandable. . one of your parishioners and all. But we must apprehend the perpetrator, whoever it is.” Koznicki finished the final morsel of Dover sole, touched napkin to lips, and turned another page in his pad. “Then there is the quarterback, Robert Cobb.”

  “Yes, he was late, too, wasn’t he? Even later than Kit Hoffer.”

  “That is correct. Fifteen minutes later than Mr. Hoffer. So, a very similar opportunity to do in Mr. Hunsinger. And fixing a flat tire with no witness to corroborate is a pretty flimsy alibi. However, once more we were at a loss to establish a motive. It would seem that though there was no lack of ill feeling between the two, they did work well together on the playing field. Th
at must have made Mr. Cobb’s job more easy and successful.”

  “Probably the same holds true for Jack Brown, the trainer, doesn’t it? I mean, I didn’t think there was any reason in the world why he would want to kill Hunsinger.”

  “That is true as far as the interview you attended yesterday. But in further questioning of some of the other players-interviews carried out by other detectives on this case-a little more light was shed on this matter.”

  “Oh?” Koesler finished the sandwich and began to nibble on another bread stick.

  “It seems that Hunsinger lived on the mere edge of the conditioning one would expect of a professional athlete. A fact that would force Mr. Brown to have to work harder to keep Hunsinger in playing condition. But what is even more germane is that Hunsinger went out of his way to lead others on the team into temptation. It far surpassed the breaking of curfew. It led to chemical abuse, even cocaine.”

  “I wonder why he would do that?”

  “Several hypotheses have been advanced. The most popular theory seems to be that Hunsinger wanted, perhaps needed, to dominate, to control others. This seems so because he regularly tried to trap the younger, newer members of the team. If he could trap a newcomer, then he had control from that time on.”

  “So the trainer would have to watch these young athletes be drawn into the bad influence of Hunsinger and have their careers-their lives-possibly ruined. But would that be sufficient motive for murder?”

  Koznicki shrugged. “Perhaps. Athletic trainers devote their professional lives to keeping athletes healthy, or, at least in good operating condition. The conduct of Mr. Hunsinger would have been in direct conflict with the trainer’s goals. He, perhaps next to a medical doctor, could most fully understand what these drugs could do to men. . men he had pledged himself to keep healthy.”

  Koesler’s bread stick was gone. The waiter cleared the table. Roznicki ordered tea. Koesler asked for decaffeinated coffee.

  Koesler felt very gustatorially satisfied. He wondered if he should have any dinner at all. “I realize that I’m talking to a professional and all I know about this sort of thing is what I read and see on TV, but if I had to make a guess, it would be Mrs. Galloway.”

  “You are being far too modest, Father. You have been a significant help in not a few of our cases in the past. Nor would I deny you on your guess, your intuition, as it were.”

  “That’s really all it is: intuition. She doesn’t have any alibi until kickoff, when she showed up in the owner’s box. So, there’s ample time. No one knows whether she ever returned the key to Hunsinger’s apartment. And even if she did, she could easily have had a duplicate made. And revenge is an awfully powerful motive.”

  “All that you say is true, Father. But there is the matter of the elapsed time. Approximately a year passed between the time that Hunsinger broke off his affair with her and his death. That is a rather extended period to sustain feelings of revenge.”

  “But not unheard-of. A strong emotional feeling-particularly an obsession-can last a lifetime. I’ve seen that happen. Perhaps it was an emotion whose time for execution came.”

  “Perhaps, Father. But I think the odds lengthen with time. Then, again, there is the strychnine. If she had been gone from his apartment for a year, how would she know about the poison, which he had had in his possession no more than a matter of a few months at most?”

  Koesler shook his head. “I don’t know, except that if she had a key to his apartment, she could have gone in at any time and-what do they say in the movies? — cased the joint. She certainly knew when he would not be there. All she had to do was read the paper. There were practices, games-best of all, out-of-town trips for away games.

  “As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, that could just explain why she might have done it now instead of a year ago. Suppose she is nursing this long-term hatred. She goes up to the apartment sometime when she knows he won’t be there and finds the strychnine. The discovery triggers desire for revenge. She hatches this plot and does the deed. She mixes the strychnine in with the DMSO and leaves it on the shelf in the spot reserved for shampoo. She knows all about Hunsinger’s storied obsessions. She knows he will automatically reach for the shampoo in its usual spot. She knows he will not be wearing his lenses in the shower. He will not be able to read the label and the bottles are the same shape.

  “And now we reach the final question.” Koesler slapped his brow with the palm of his hand. “Why doesn’t she bother to disguise the color difference? Even if Hunsinger could not read the label, he could certainly notice the different coloration. I still wonder, Did Mrs. Galloway know that Hunsinger was colorblind?”

  “That we do not know.”

  “Is it possible to hide so basic a defect from a lover? Never having been, or had, a lover, I am not in the best possible position to say.”

  Koznicki chuckled. “It is a good question, Father. We know that his colorblindness was a condition Hunsinger felt most reserved about. He even managed to keep it out of the team’s physical-health record. Apparently, he was also able to keep knowledge of his condition from his teammates … no easy feat, considering how very closely they live for much of the year. If he was able to keep the defect from his teammates, could he also have kept it from a paramour. .?” Koznicki left the question hanging.

  “Which, I suppose, brings us to the one Cougar player who freely admitted that he knew about Hunsinger’s problem: Niall Murray.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Murray. Fresh from Ireland and he finds himself in the midst of a murder investigation. The one who knows everything and does nothing.”

  “What do you mean, Inspector?”

  “Mr. Murray is well aware-as are almost all his athletic colleagues-of Hunsinger’s compulsions. He knows Hunsinger needs corrective lenses for astigmatism. He has heard of Hunsinger’s. . uh. . active social life, which dictates a second shower at home after games. He knows about the poison in the apartment. He has at least a slightly reasonable motive in that he is one of the new young players Hunsinger has tried to corrupt. . although, even with that in mind, he seems to have considered Hunsinger a good source of advice and counsel, not a subject for murder.

  “And finally, he and Mrs. Hunsinger are the only ones to admit knowledge of Hunsinger’s colorblindness.”

  “Yet,” Koesler picked up Koznicki’s review, “Murray and Mrs. Hunsinger are the only ones who have an alibi with no holes for the entire time in question on Sunday. Now I see what you mean by he knew everything but did nothing. Something like that old saw about the medical profession: an internist knows everything but does nothing; a surgeon knows nothing but does everything; a pathologist knows everything and does everything, but it’s too late.”

  “Yes,” Koznicki smiled, “something like that.”

  “Isn’t it odd that out of eight possible suspects, the six who have the strongest motives for doing harm to Hunsinger”-Koesler could not bring himself to use the term murder, even though the use of strychnine could have no other purpose-“also have the most opportunity. While the two with the least motive each have airtight alibis.”

  Koznicki shook his head. “If this were fiction, and I were writing it, I would alter the plot so that the police would have an easy job of it. But this is life. And life, I believe is not painted in bold black and white strokes, but rather in shades of gray.

  “Somewhere, among these people, is one who had the motive, the opportunity, the necessary knowledge, including-whether he or she will admit it-awareness of Hunsinger’s colorblindness. The one who did the deed. We will find that person.”

  Koznicki pronounced the final sentence so decisively that, with really nothing more to go on but this statement, Koesler was convinced.

  The waiter brought their beverages. Tea for Koznicki, decaf for Koesler.

  “What do they do today?” Koesler asked.

  Koznicki’s eyebrows arched in a metaphorical question mark.

  “I mean the Cougars,” Koesler cla
rified. “What’s their schedule for Tuesday?”

  “Oh. Well, as far as the players are concerned, this is, for all intents and purposes, their day off. For the coaches, quite another matter. They will be closeted throughout the day, reviewing film of next week’s opponent, which is”-Koznicki consulted his notes of the day’s schedule that he had received from Lieutenant Harris-“New York. Then, gradually, through the day, they are to devise a game plan for next Sunday’s contest. While the coaches will be busy with their game plan, we will be occupied with ours. We have teams of detectives who will be continuing the investigation and interrogating the suspects.”

  “Teams of detectives!” Koesler sipped the steaming decaf. “Isn’t that rather. . prodigious?”

  Koznicki waved an impatient finger. “It is not fair; I know that, Father. We have only so many homicide investigators. And we must spread them too thinly on all the cases we must investigate. But every so often a case such as the murder of Mr. Hunsinger comes along, and public pressure-from the news media, the mayor’s office, the community finally-simply demands as speedy a solution as possible.

  “This is not good. On the one hand, we must take detectives from cases they are developing, to spend more of their valuable time on this case. On the other hand, this demand for a solution can, if we are not very careful, cause mistakes, which, under ordinary, less pressured circumstances, we would not make.

  “Every day-and frequently more than once a day-reporters are all over the fifth floor, and demands are made for newspaper and television interviews. The reporters have their job to do and are under pressure from their editors. They want, if not a solution; a constantly developing story, when oftentimes there are no developments.

  “As I say, Father, it is not fair. But that is the state of a notorious case such as this.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t fair. And you’re also right: it is life.”

  “By the way, Father,” Koznicki signaled for the check, “I understand that the Bible discussion group is scheduled to meet this evening. What do you call yourselves? The God Squad. . is that correct?”