Sudden Death fk-7

by William X. Kienzle

  “Do you have anyone with you?” Koesler asked after a brief silence.

  “Anyone with me?”

  “Yes; someone staying with you?”

  “Oh, well, of course there’s Mrs. Quinn.”

  “Mrs. Quinn?”

  “Yes, right here.” Mrs. Hunsinger indicated the elderly woman seated next to her on the side opposite to that where Koesler was seated.

  Koesler had been unaware of Mrs. Quinn’s presence. Contributing to this circumstance was Mrs. Quinn’s state. Her head was softly bobbing in the general direction of her bosom. She was in the midst of a small nap.

  “Mary Frances! Mary Frances!” Mrs. Hunsinger nudged her gently.

  “If the number’s B-8, then I’ve got a bingo,” Mrs. Quinn murmured. Obviously a vestige of her dream.

  In spite of himself and in spite of where he was, Koesler could not suppress a smile. Long ago, the traditional four marks of the One True Church had been increased by one, to read: One, Holy, Catholic, Apostolic, and Bingo. Surely, Mrs. Quinn’s faith was strong.

  “Mary Frances.” Mrs. Hunsinger was getting her attention. “This is Father Koesler. You remember I told you all about Father Koesler.”

  “Oh. . oh, yes. Father Koesler.” Mrs. Quinn extended her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Quinn.” Koesler took the proffered hand, thinking that it might better be put to use rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “So,” Mrs. Quinn blinked in a conscious effort to fully awaken, “this is Father Koesler. Grace has told me what a fine boy you were, so faithful to your altar appointments. And so reverent.”

  These ladies were perhaps twenty or thirty years older than he. And though he was in his mid-fifties, Koesler couldn’t help but feel that he was a boy again, being affirmatively evaluated by the good ladies of the parish. He half expected one of them to affix a gold star to his forehead.

  “I am the same, Mrs. Quinn, only now grown a bit older.” He smiled. “The two of you live together, do you?”

  “Oh, yes, Father,” Mrs. Quinn responded. “We have for years now. Two old widows taking care of each other as best we can. We seem to match pluses and minuses. Sort of like. . whatchamacallit. . a yin and a yang. But we get along as well as two old ladies can these days. It’s a mercy we found each other.”

  “Yes,” Koesler affirmed, “it is a mercy you’re together now. I’m especially pleased that you don’t have to be alone at this time, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure Mrs. Quinn will be a big help to you.”

  “Well, I certainly hope to be, Father.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Father Forbes announced, “we’re going to say the rosary now. .”

  Whereas there had been only the soft shuffling of feet approaching the bier, now it sounded like a subdued stampede as many tried to reach the exit before being trapped by the prayer.

  “If you are seated,” Father Forbes continued, “you may remain seated. If you are standing, considering the crowd here tonight, you probably ought to remain standing.” Catching sight of the many who were making good their escape, he added, “But if you wish to kneel, you may.” He turned toward the coffin and knelt. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I believe in God, the Father Almighty. .”

  Koesler decided to offer this rosary for the deceased, who certainly needed all the spiritual help he could get, as well as for the success of the impending gathering of the God Squad. A meeting that, in all candor, he dreaded.

  “I think we ought to observe a moment’s silence in memory of Hank Hunsinger.” Jay Galloway, host for the evening and thus leader of tonight’s discussion, bowed his head.

  So did everyone else at the large round dining table, with the exception of Father Koesler. He was not averse to offering another prayer for Hunsinger’s soul, but he considered himself, for this evening, Inspector Koznicki’s eyes and ears. As much as possible he wanted to observe faithfully what would happen here tonight in case what transpired would help the police solve Hunsinger’s murder.

  Seated at the table clockwise from himself were Bobby Cobb, Jack Brown, Jay Galloway, Niall Murray, Kit Hoffer, and Dave Whitman. Marj Galloway, having set hot and cold hors d’oeuvres on the table, was seated in the adjoining living room, whence the sound of the television set, volume turned very low, could still be heard.

  He and Mrs. Galloway were, thought Koesler, color-coordinated this evening. Each was attired in black and white. The priest, as usual, wore his clericals. Mrs. Galloway wore a simple long-sleeved black dress with frilly white lace at the collar and cuffs. Why, Koesler wondered, was she wearing black? Was it in deference to the deceased Hunsinger? Or for no specific reason? No matter; even the modest dress did not detract from her elegance.

  Koesler was haunted by the same feeling he had had on his previous visit to this house. Something was wrong, but he could not identify what. He looked carefully about the dining room. Nothing out of place that he could see. It must have been the other room, the living area. But what?

  He would have to remember to look more closely when he was leaving.

  He wondered what the others were doing with their moment of silence. Praying? That could be a reasonable assumption with a group assembled for Bible study. On the other hand, it was more than likely that someone in this room-or the next-had killed Hank Hunsinger. What would be going on in that person’s mind during a moment of silence in memory of Hunsinger? A prayer that he or she would not be found out? Scary thought.

  Galloway cleared his throat. It might have been the dependable cough of a heavy smoker. In this case it was a signal that the moment of silence had expired.

  There was a shifting in chairs and the rustle of Biblical pages being turned.

  “Last week,” said Galloway, “we considered the raising of Lazarus from the dead, and we agreed we’d continue on from there this week. So, that’s John, chapter 11, verses 45 to 53. You want to read that, Dave?”

  Whitman adjusted his half-lens reading glasses to read the passage:

  “Then many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the things which Jesus did, believed on him. But some of them went their ways to the Pharisees, and told them what things Jesus had done. Then gathered the chief priests and the Pharisees a council, and said, What do we? for this man doeth many miracles. If we let him thus alone, all men will believe on him: and the Romans shall come and take away both our place and nation. And one of them, named Caiaphas, being the high priest that same year, said unto them, Ye know nothing at all, Nor consider that it is expedient for us, that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not. And this spake he not of himself: but being high priest that year, he prophesied that Jesus should die for that nation; And not for that nation only, but that also he should gather together in one the children of God that were scattered abroad. Then from that day forth they took counsel together for to put him to death.

  The reading was followed by an extended, almost embarrassed, silence.

  Father Koesler, as was his habit, had read the assigned text shortly after the previous meeting. Of course, he had read it in the Catholic Confraternity edition. He had nothing philosophically or theologically against the King James Version. He agreed, in fact, that there were few English translations that equaled the grandeur of the King James. But he found the archaic style confusing. And he always found it difficult enough understanding some parts of the Bible without complicating the process. In any case, he had read the text and was prepared for its prophetic impact.

  The others in the God Squad, as was their habit, had not read the assigned text beforehand. Understandably, they were now deeply struck by the obvious connection between the Gospel verses, which spoke of plotting a deliberate murder, and what had actually taken place within their small group in just the past week.

  At length, Jay Galloway, as leader, tried to get the verbal ball rolling. “Anyone?”

  Another silence.

  “Well, quite obviou
sly, it hits home, doesn’t it?” said Koesler.

  “If you’re referring to the death of the Hun, I wouldn’t think so,” said Whitman. “After all, the Gospel text is talking about Jesus Christ. And I don’t see what Jesus Christ has to do with Hank Hunsinger.”

  Kit Hoffer snorted, thought better of it, and stifled a laugh.

  Koesler felt a flush of anger rising at the back of his neck. “That was a cheap shot, Dave. In the first place, no matter what you care to think of him, there was a connection between Jesus and Hank Hunsinger, just as there is a connection between Jesus and all of us.

  “And secondly, I was referring, of course, to the Pharisees agreeing that one man had to die and then beginning to plot the assassination. Just two days ago, someone murdered one of our number as the culmination of a devilishly intricate plot. So, there is, I think for a double reason, a connection.”

  What angered Koesler was the dismissal of Hunsinger as being of no consequence to Jesus Christ, the Savior of all people. At times like this, Koesler was immeasurably grateful that after death he would be judged by an all-loving God and not by any small-minded human.

  “I happen to agree with the Father,” said Murray. “I think it more than a coincidence that the very text we read tonight has to do with plots to commit murder when here not two hours ago there we were in the presence of the last remains of our companion. I say it’s more than a coincidence; it’s the very providence of God, as well.”

  “Do you think we could get back to the verses of the Bible we agreed to discuss,” said Galloway, more as a command than a question. “After all, this is a Bible discussion group. We didn’t come together to talk about Hank Hunsinger. If we wanted to get maudlin, we could have gone to a bar, lifted a few, and reminisced about the Hun.”

  “Mr. Galloway’s right,” said Brown. “I always thought it was odd that anybody would plot to kill a man like Jesus Christ. I mean, He never did a mean, nasty thing to a soul. And you know, it never made any sense at all to me that anyone would want to kill Him. I mean, the way this Gospel text reads, why, man, that’s Murder One.”

  “I can see why you’d think that, Brownie,” said Koesler. “Particularly if you think of all the people He cured and preached to and helped. All the common people with whom He spent almost His entire lifetime. But there were the others. In His case, they were the religious leaders who happened to be the Establishment of His society. He accused them of putting heavy burdens on the backs of other people while they lived high off the hog. He challenged the Pharisees constantly. And this is the way they reacted.”

  “But I still don’t see why they had to kill Him,” Brown protested.

  “You’ve got to remember, Brownie,” said Whitman, “that there was as much politics going on as there was religion. Back then, Israel was part of the Roman Empire. The Romans were sort of benevolent in dealing with their provinces. As long as a province paid the Roman tax and made no waves, the Romans left them pretty much alone.

  “Oh, there was always a Roman governor on the scene-that’s the role Pontius Pilate played in this drama. And there were Roman soldiers there to keep order. But the important thing for an insignificant little province like Israel to remember was not to make waves.”

  “And Jesus made waves?” Brown seemed incredulous. “I don’t understand.”

  “The people were beginning to follow Him in droves.” Koesler picked up the explanation. “Maybe it could be called a popular uprising. As much as the Pharisees opposed Jesus and warned the people that He was a dangerous leader at best and a charlatan at worst, still the people followed Him in growing numbers.

  “Of course, most of the people, including His Apostles, refused to take His word that He was not interested in establishing an earthly kingdom. His followers preferred to believe that He would lead them to freedom from the Romans. I suppose the Pharisees believed the same thing. Now, remember, the Pharisees were living a very comfortable life. Of course it would have been nice to be free of Rome. But in the meantime, things were cool for them. They did not want their comfortable lifestyle to be upset. Certainly not by a revolution. They were very nervous about Jesus and His ragtag followers.

  “Then, when Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, His popularity was never greater. The Pharisees perceived that what they considered Jesus’ political strength was now enough so that He could indeed, were he so inclined, get a revolution off the ground.

  “So, we read in today’s text”-Koesler consulted his Bible, which happened to be the New American Bible-“that after some of their spies report to them, the result was that the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the Sanhedrin. ‘What are we to do,’ they said, ‘with this man performing all sorts of signs? If we let him go on like this, the whole world will believe in him. Then the Romans will come in and sweep away our sanctuary and our nation.’

  “So, that’s what the Pharisees were afraid of: that the Romans would learn of this troublemaker and come and lean on the Jews and then the Pharisees’ sweet life would be swept away. Then, they said, ‘it is better for you to have one man die than to have the whole nation destroyed.’ That’s why they began to plot Jesus’ death. That was their motive. They wanted to save their own skins. They wanted to preserve their good life.”

  “Yeah, motive,” Cobb murmured, “everybody’s got to have a motive.”

  “What was that?” Galloway glowered at the quarterback.

  “A motive. . a reason. People do things for reasons. The Pharisees wanted Jesus out of the way so they could continue on with their sweet life. Somebody wanted the Hun out of the way. But why?”

  “I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going to get into that,” said Galloway.

  “There’s no escapin’ it, if you ask me,” said Murray. “It’s on everybody’s mind, there’s no escapin’ it. He was at our meeting last week; he was on the field with us not more than two short days ago. And now he’s gone. And ’twasn’t as though he’d got some terrible sickness and passed away quietlike in a nice clean hospital bed. He was murdered, he was. Somebody plotted it, just like them Pharisees in the Gospel. And what’s more, the police think that one of us might be the culprit!”

  He’d said it! He’d said what was on everyone’s mind.

  Several long moments of silence followed as those around the table reevaluated each other. They’d worked together. They’d played together. Relied on one another. Was it possible one of them could be a murderer? Was it likely that one of them had killed Hank Hunsinger?

  “That’s it, Mick,” said Cobb, “one of us might be the killer. By this time we pretty well know what all of us were doing on Sunday. Hoff and I were late for brunch. Mr. Galloway didn’t get there till ten. Mr. Whitman was alone from noon till game time. Brownie here was alone from ten till noon. Only the Mick has a corroborated alibi. We all knew the Hun kept strychnine in his apartment. We all knew the Hun’s peculiar habits. He was all set up like Jesus was. The Pharisees were scared He was going to rile up the Romans and they would come down on the Jews. That was the Pharisees’ motive. Question is: Which one of us had a motive to off the Hun?”

  After a moment’s reflection, first one, then another, then all the others were looking at Kit Hoffer.

  “Hey! Wait a minute!” Hoffer protested. “What is this? You guys nuts or somethin’?”

  “You played behind him,” Whitman stated. “As long as he was on the field and was physically able to play, you were going to ride the bench. Who had a stronger motive than you?”

  “Hey! Like, Hunsinger was getting into a granddad’s age. He couldn’ta lasted much longer. Like, all I had to do was wait him out. I didn’t have to kill him, for God’s sake.”

  “Still, he was on the field and you were riding the bench,” Whitman insisted. “And guys who manage to play longer than anyone can expect just seem to go on and on. Look at Gordie Howe and George Blanda. Look at Pete Rose. How many kids got tired of waiting for guys like that to hang ’em up? Who knows
what was going on in your mind? You could have thought of guys like Howe and Blanda and Rose and wondered whether you could wait the Hun out. You were already a little late on the scene as a rookie. If Hunsinger could’ve hung on for another few seasons, you might not have had much of a career left. How’s that for a motive?”

  Hoffer’s face was flushed. Anger? Embarrassment? Guilt? Koesler wondered.

  “Look, I didn’t have to wait for Hunsinger to hang ’em up! I’m good! Damn good! Ask Bobby. There’s only one reason I wasn’t playing. And, begging your pardon, sir, it was you.” Hoffer pointed at Galloway. “Everybody knew it was your orders to the coach to play the Hun all the time that kept him on the field. Coach Bradford would have used me. I know he would’ve. But he had orders from you. I had no reason to kill the Hun. He wasn’t keeping me off the field; you were.”

  From Koesler’s position at the table, he could see into the living room where Marj Galloway was seated. She appeared to be paying careful attention. But to what? The television’s volume had been turned so low, it would have been nearly impossible for her to hear it. That, along with the increasingly loud exchanges in the dining area, made it likely she was listening in as accusations progressed.

  “Wait a minute,” said Galloway. “If we’ve got to talk about the murder and not what we agreed to discuss, I want to make myself perfectly clear. Okay, I ordered Coach Bradford to play Hunsinger. He was the franchise. He’s the one who made it big at Western, U of M, then the Cougars. A good part of the crowd came out to see the Hun. And by God they were going to see him as long as he could get on his two feet and walk.”

  “There’s no doubt about it at all,” said Murray. “You’d certainly not have any reason to want the Hun dead.”

  “Of course not,” Galloway agreed. “Why would I want him dead? He was the team’s meal ticket. He was worth a lot to me, not only alive, but healthy.”

  “Unless. . unless,” Whitman mused, “having Hunsinger dead was the only way you could satisfy the crowd.”