Sudden Death

3

Father Koesler arrived at the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars at 11:30 a.m., fifteen minutes early.

The habit of being early for appointments had begun, as nearly as he could recall, with his mother insisting that he not keep others waiting. By now, the habit was so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him to be late. At times, embarrassed at his reputation of being the only person on time for meetings, parties, whatever, he would plan elaborately to arrive exactly on time. But on those occasions, something unforeseen, such as a rapid traffic flow, would occur and he would find himself ringing the doorbell just a few minutes early.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the Cellars’ quiet lighting. When he could see, he found himself gazing into the smiling face of Joseph Beyer, proprietor and, by choice, maitre d’ of the Wine Cellars.

“I’ve been wondering about you, Father,” Beyer greeted Koesler. “You’ve been away entirely too long. Been keeping out of mischief?”

Koesler smiled. Beyer was the only one of Detroit’s famous restauranteurs Koesler not only knew personally but on a first-name basis. They had met by accident socially and had liked each other from the outset. It helped that each of them liked most people they met.

“Trying my best, Joe,” said Koesler. “I’d tell you more, but you’re not my regular confessor.”

“So what brings you downtown, Father?”

“I’m supposed to meet Inspector Koznicki for lunch. But I’m early.”

“So what else is new?”

Until now, Koesler had not known that his reputation had reached to Joe Beyer.

“In this case, my time of arrival was on purpose. Lunchtime here is the survival of the earliest.” He glanced around the nearly empty room, which would soon be filled to overflowing, “So, got a table?”

“For you, yes. But we don’t serve Polish people.”

The knack of a dry sense of humor is the ability to keep a straight face while saying something utterly ridiculous. Joe Beyer had the knack.

“I’m glad that you, not I, will be the one to tell that to Walter Koznicki.”

Beyer chuckled as he led Koesler to a corner table where things would be somewhat quieter.

“Molly here today?” Koesler’s reference was to Mrs. Beyer.

“Uh-huh. Working on the books. She’s the smart one.” Beyer supervised the seating of Koesler. “Get you something from the bar?”

“I think I’ll wait for the inspector.”

“Okay. The waiter’ll be along in a minute.”

Koesler did not have long to wait. It was 11:40-he had just checked his watch-when he saw the inspector enter. Koesler really could not have missed Koznicki’s arrival. The inspector was a very large man. Though roughly Koesler’s height, Koznicki had a much heftier build. Actually, it was more his aura that gave him the appearance of being larger than life.

Koesler noted that there was no hesitation on Beyer’s part in leading Koznicki to the table. “Change your policy?” the priest asked as Koznicki was seated.

“Yes,” Beyer chuckled. “I checked with Molly. The policy is intended for only very small Polish people. And not even then if they are accompanied by large Polish people.” Placing two menus on the table, Beyer returned to the door as the luncheon crowd began to assemble.

“What was that all about?” asked Koznicki.

“Oh, just another example of Joe’s fey sense of humor.” He smiled, recalling the time he had arrived at the Wine Cellars expecting to meet Free Press columnist Jim Fitzgerald, only to be told by Beyer, “We don’t serve Irish here.”

“Good of you to join me on such short notice, Inspector.”

“Not at all. It was good of you to set aside your schedule yesterday and assist in our investigation. I have spoken with Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing. They tell me you were of significant help.”

“Thanks. I don’t know how much help I was, but whatever, I paid for it last night. Just couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about it. All that I heard yesterday just kept buzzing around in my head. And the one interrogation I didn’t sit in on-Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the second shoe that hasn’t dropped. How did that go? Can you say?”

“Certainly, Father. But perhaps we ought to consult the menu before the waiter comes.”

“Of course.”

Neither man needed to study the menu in any great detail. They had lunched in the Wine Cellars many times.

After scanning the menu, Koznicki recounted the interview with Mrs. Hunsinger and, briefly, with Mrs. Quinn. He told of how startled the detectives had been at Mrs. Hunsinger’s “confession” until it became clear that she was blaming herself in a wholesale manner for every evil done to or committed by her son, including his colorblindness. And how Mrs. Quinn, in great detail, had recounted their Sunday activities.

Koesler smiled. He could imagine the detectives fidgeting during the overly detailed narration.

The waiter appeared. Koesler ordered a Chablis, Koznicki a rose. Koznicki would have the Dover sole. Koesler requested the club sandwich, silently promising that he would cut back at dinner.

“Odd, is it not, Father, the vast array of penitents there are in the world. We find some people confessing to real crimes. Others seem to be professional penitents, confessing to everything imaginable. Then there are those, usually parents or someone in authority, who seem to absorb the guilt of their children or subordinates.”

“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. That 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 clarified. “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?”

“Yes. I guess so. Under the circumstances, I assumed it would be canceled or at least postponed. But according to Mrs. Galloway yesterday, the meeting is on. And I was really flabbergasted when she said it would be at her house. . I mean, her husband’s house. . I mean their house. I guess I mean her house. I mean,” Koesler floundered, “what with their relationship I didn’t think the meeting could possibly take place there. In any event, I thought it better not to attend.”

“Oh, no, Father,” Koznicki appeared intent. “It is very important that you attend. Already you have contributed much to this case. Perhaps not in a quantitative sense, but surely in a qualitative degree. One never knows what may be revealed at a gathering such as the one tonight.

“And it is safe to assume that there will never be an assembly of the God Squad to equal the one to take place tonight. One of your members is dead and, with the exception of yourself and young Murray, all the other members are suspect to one degree or another. There will be a special dynamic tonight that in all probability will never be repeated. We will need eyes and ears to that dynamic and, to paraphrase a popular religious metaphor, we will have no eyes nor ears but yours. We are dependent on you, Father, to glean what could be most important information. No one but yourself can do this for us.”

“Inspector, I am reminded of an experience some young friends of mine had years ago when they were conducting a prayerful demonstration against the Vietnam War. They were young Jesuit priests who were praying on the steps of the Pentagon. There were only five of them and they didn’t even draw a crowd. People-top brass, other officers, enlisted men, civilians-just kept passing by with no more than furtive glances in their direction.

“Finally, after a few hours, they decided to call it off and go home. Besides being ineffectual, they were getting cold. Just before they were about to disband, an older Jesuit priest, one of their superiors, came up to them and specifically ordered them, under their vow of obedience, to disband. Their only thought, at that point, was that they had been the victims of administrative overkill.

“That,” Koesler concluded with affectionate emphasis, “is how I feel. All you really had to say was, ‘I wish you’d go,’ and I would have gone.”

Koznicki smiled appreciatively. “You know, Father, I knew that before I started. I knew if I asked you to go, you would. But if that were all I had said, you would not have been motivated, really motivated, to observe and listen tonight as carefully and astutely as you will now.”

“Inspector, you know me too well.”

The waiter presented the check, which Koznicki quickly grabbed, over Koesler’s protestation. “Inspector! This was my party. I’m the one who invited you to lunch. Please, let me have the check!”

“Some other time, Father.” Koznicki smiled at his friend, glanced at the check’s total, covered it with a credit card, and handed both to the waiter. “It is my pleasure. Please allow me to take care of it.”

It was useless to argue. Koesler shrugged resignedly. The waiter retreated happily. He figured he was likely to get a more realistic tip from a layman than from a priest.

In Koznicki’s case, Koesler knew the inspector was motivated by simple friendship. But the incident caused him to wonder in general. Was it that the laity considered priests to be so poorly paid that they could not afford to pay their own way, let alone someone else’s? Was it that the laity wanted to pay their priest’s freight in return or anticipation of some spiritual favor. . a sort of pious buying of votes?

It was true that a priest’s salary, with the exception of those diocesan priests who earned a side income, was technically well below a living wage. However, it increased significantly in value when one considered perks and gratuities that scarcely ever quit. Free room and board, free medical and dental expenses, and on and on.

Almost every time he considered the subject, Koesler would entertain positive thoughts about the aborted worker-priest movement of France. Particularly since he had delegated so many pastoral responsibilities that hitherto had been considered the private preserve of him whose hands had been consecrated, he wondered if he should go out and at least try to get a job.

He spent very little time on that thought. For what secular work was he qualified? Who would hire a priest? What would be the reaction of his ecclesiastical superiors? His peers? Knowing the answers to those questions, he did not generally waste time on considerations that were doomed to a dead end.

Although he didn’t much want to attend the God Squad meeting tonight, he would. For one, he would not disappoint his friend, Inspector Koznicki. Additionally, it might be instructive.

But first, this evening, he would drop in on the wake of Hank (“TheHun”) Hunsinger.

“Good evening, Father. Who is it you’re here to see?”

“Mr. Hunsinger.”

The funeral director looked disappointed. Hackett Funeral Home was not designed to act as the penultimate resting place for the Hun. It was an ancient, boxlike structure that simply wasn’t large enough to accommodate the numbers who had come to mourn or merely view the deceased athlete.

Hank Hunsinger’s was not the only body presently preserved in Hackett’s. Jose Gonzales’ remains also were on display in a very small slumber room. The funeral director had hoped Koesler had come for the Gonzales group. It was past the appointed time for Jose’s farewell rosary. Once the rosary had been recited, most of the Gonzales people would depart, leaving more room for the ever-fluctuating crowd for Hunsinger.

So it was with less than his usual peculiar mixture of accommodation, reverence, sympathy, and affability that he escorted Koesler through the crowd and into the parlor containing the Hun’s remains. From that point on, Koesler was on his own. As well he might be; he had gone through similar scenes countless times.

Standing just inside the door, the priest attentively surveyed the room. Its panels slid aside, the room was several times its original size. Still the hallways were full of people waiting for the opportunity to file past the bier and have a last glimpse of the Hun. The line of people doing just that was moving almost imperceptibly. None of this was of any practical concern to Koesler. Marked by his roman collar, he could squeeze by anyone, go anywhere in the room he wished. People would step aside and even apologize for being in his way.

As he looked around, he saw few familiar faces. Except for the multitude, it was his standard experience at a funeral home. A few, a very few, spoke to each other in whispered tones. There was the muffled shuffle of feet advancing toward or retreating from the casket. Most of the people sat statuelike on the small folding chairs staring straight ahead as if they too had died.

Here and there, Koesler recognized isolated members of what was becoming a familiar cast of characters: the God Squad. They were to meet at the Galloway house after these services. Mrs. Galloway was nowhere to be seen. She must, Koesler assumed, be preparing for the arrival of the men. Or maybe she had just decided not to attend the rosary for Hunsinger.

The scene of relative inactivity had a soporific effect. Koesler’s mind wandered back to a similar scene many years earlier in this very home. His father had died after a long illness and his wake was held here at Hackett’s. Koesler had arrived to find a group of his friends gathered in the hallway. They were taking up a collection among themselves for stipends for Masses for his father. It had taken him several minutes to convince them that they were bringing coals to Newcastle. All of his many priest friends were offering Masses for the happy repose of his father’s soul; one thing no one needed to be concerned with was prayers for any priest’s relative.

Koesler was also reminded of the eve of his father’s funeral. That night, he and his mother were the last on hand at the funeral home. They stood alone beside the bier. He urged her to leave with him. She spoke, but not to him. To his father. That surprised him; he had never known his parents to be overtly affectionate with each other. “Good night, my darling,” she had said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the last time before we meet in heaven.” He nearly broke down.

The following year, his mother followed his father.

“What do you think of the house, Bob? Is this SRO or isn’t it?”

Koesler’s reverie was shattered. It was Father Peter Forbes, pastor of Holy Redeemer. They knew each other casually but with the familiarity almost completely reserved to priests.

“Yeah,” Koesler responded, “you’ve got a good crowd tonight. I was just remembering the wakes for my parents. They were held right here and with just about as many people as are here tonight.”

“But a different crowd, Bob.” Forbes had not been stationed at Redeemer when Koesler’s parents had died, but the Redemptorist spoke from experience. “Most of these folks are here out of curiosity. The death got lots of publicity. And after all, Hank Hunsinger was a celebrity, especially in this town. These folks want to tell their friends they attended the Hun’s funeral. Some of them just want to see a celebrity-even a dead one. Besides, there’s a live one over there.” Forbes nodded in the direction of Bobby Cobb.

Cobb and his wife were among the very few blacks in the crowd. Besides being a celebrity in his own right, Cobb and his wife were so outrageously attractive that they were the object of many a surreptitious glance.

“There are some genuine mourners here, of course,” Forbes continued, “but I’m sure most of them are curiosity seekers. Even though I wasn’t here for your parents’ funerals, I’m sure you had a big turnout of people who were genuinely sympathetic and supportive.”

Koesler nodded affirmation. It was always thus with parents or close relatives of a priest. Besides the relatives and friends of the family, there were many parishioners and former parishioners, as well as priestly classmates and friends, to swell the total. And always they formed a group of sincere and sympathetic mourners.

“Was there a problem with the funeral?” Koesler inquired.

“Problem?”

“I mean with Christian burial. I got to know Hunsinger only over the past couple of months or so. But I got the impression he hadn’t seen the inside of a Catholic church-or any church, for that matter-in a great number of years.”

“It’s true; that could have been a problem,” Forbes reflected. “There is one overwhelming reason we really went to bat for this one: Mrs. Hunsinger. She has been so faithful and exemplary a Catholic all her life, we just couldn’t let her down. Hell, even the Chancery guys got the point after I explained it to them.”

“But they did give you a hard time?”

Forbes gave a low, almost soundless whistle. “Oh, my, yes. They were concerned with scandal. I must say I don’t much blame them. Hunsinger has always gotten a lot of publicity. Just about everybody knew what his private life was like. And it was also common knowledge that he couldn’t have cared less about church. If the guys downtown had known Mrs. Hunsinger, maybe they wouldn’t have been so stubborn.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

“Anyway, I must admit a few hot words were exchanged before they finally gave in and let us have the funeral. Mrs. Hunsinger has been so good and faithful for so long, I just couldn’t let her down. I think I might have been tempted to just outright disobey the Chancery if they hadn’t given in. Thank God I wasn’t forced into that position.”

“How’s she taking it?”

Forbes and Koesler had not yet moved from the doorway. So Koesler had still not met Mrs. Hunsinger.

“Pretty hard.” Forbes shook his head. “Not unexpected. Parents just don’t envision burying their children. When it happens, especially suddenly and tragically like this, it’s a double shock. But she’s holding up pretty good through it all. I’ve been trying to keep her busy. . as busy as possible, anyway. Earlier today, we went over the Scripture readings for the Mass tomorrow. I don’t know why I should have been surprised at her knowledge of the Bible; she’s been reading it all her life the way other people read novels. After the funeral, I think I’m going to try to get her involved again in the parish. She’s been a kind of recluse over the past several years. Be good for her to get outside herself. Be good for the parish, in fact.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“Really! Now that surprises me. . your growing up in the parish and all. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”

Koesler, by far the taller of the two priests, took on the blocking role as he led the way toward the casket.

As soon as he saw her seated in the front row, pencil-thin yet exuding an inner strength, Koesler recognized her. He had never known her name. But he remembered that familiar face from all those years he had served at daily Mass and all those years he’d come from the seminary on vacations. So she was Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the queen of cliches, but it was all that came to mind: small world. He was yet to discover just how small.

Father Forbes, arriving on the scene in Koesler’s wake, was just about to begin introductions when Koesler abruptly sat down next to her. “You’re Mrs. Hunsinger, aren’t you?”

She smiled, pleased that he recognized her. These were the first words he’d ever spoken to her. “Yes. And you’re Father Koesler.”

Introductions being unexpectedly unnecessary, Forbes moved off to greet and console, if consolation were called for, some of the aunts and uncles of the deceased, Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters and brothers.

“I used to see you in church all the time,” said Koesler. “You used to sit in the back of the transept on the Epistle side.”

“Yes.” She nodded, still wearing an attractive if shy smile. “I always knew you would be a good priest. You were a very good altar boy. Always so reverent and attentive. Even through your final years in the seminary.”

Only now did it occur to Koesler just how long a period they had been wordlessly watching each other. Almost twenty years from the time he first began serving at Mass in the primary grades, through high school, college, and the four years of theology.

The thought crossed his mind that this would not likely have happened if they had been Protestants. The Separated Brethren, as they were now called, with their custom of congregating, mingling, offering “the hand of fellowship,” never would have let nearly two decades pass without even a greeting. Only in the Catholic Church. .

But this was not why he had come to the funeral home.

“I’m so sorry about the death of your son,” said Koesler, coming to the point. “I hadn’t known him very long-”

“We were at your first Mass.”

“Pardon?”

“Henry and I attended your first solemn Mass right here in Holy Redeemer; in June of ’54, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but-”

“If only I could have somehow gotten him to follow in your footsteps, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault, you know.”

Koesler recalled Inspector Koznicki’s saying that during her interrogation Mrs. Hunsinger had lapsed into the self-blame that so often afflicts parents when a child doesn’t live up to their expectations. Mrs. Hunsinger’s confession of guilt brought to mind a very similar statement made by the father of the young man who had shot President Reagan and three others. At the ensuing trial, the father said, “I am the cause of my son’s tragedy.”

“You musn’t say that, Mrs. Hunsinger. I’m sure you did all you could.”

Koesler had no firsthand knowledge that she had done all she could. He simply could not believe that a woman who practically lived in church would not do all she could to make certain her son would grow up well. “Besides,” he said, grasping at straws, “Hank. . er. . Henry was not by any means without some very good qualities. Why, I wouldn’t even have met him if he hadn’t been a member of a Bible discussion group. Anyone who devotes an evening a week to a deeper understanding of the Bible can’t be all bad.”

“Do you think so?” She seemed to be testing the straw he extended, to see if it were strong enough to hold to.

“Yes, of course. And we have no idea what his private prayer life might have been. But, once again, that Bible study very probably had a very positive effect on his prayer life.” It was pure speculation on Koesler’s part, but it was by no means the first time he’d indulged in such conjecture. Mortal life was ended for Hunsinger. If the priest’s faith were valid, Hunsinger had lately appeared before God in judgment and was now living in eternity. It remained for the living to find some means, any means, to console the living.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Hunsinger mused, “if his father had lived. . you know, he died just a few months after your first Mass. And Henry was so young, so impressionable at the time.”

“Absolutely.” Koesler plucked at the straw Mrs. Hunsinger, grateful to find another excuse for her son’s flagrantly dissolute life, was extending to him. “It’s very difficult for one parent to fulfill a child’s need for both parents. Sometimes, impossible. No matter how hard the single parent tries.

“But in the final analysis, Mrs. Hunsinger, at some point in life a young person grows up. And, short of the most gross mistreatment throughout youth and adolescence, as an adult he must take full responsibility for his actions, for his life. And he also must take full responsibility for the consequences of those actions. At that point it’s needless, pointless, and maybe even self-destructive for parents to continue to absorb the blame for their children’s actions. You do understand that, don’t you, Mrs. Hunsinger?”

She nodded, but she was gazing straight ahead at the open coffin. Koesler could not determine whether she was weighing or discarding his words. At any rate, he was worried about her obviously distressed state and concerned that he apparently had been unable to ease her out of it. He wondered if it were possible that she might harbor thoughts of suicide. With her strong adherence to Catholicism, it was unlikely that she might attempt that; on the other hand, in her depressed state she might not be entirely in her right mind. In which case, no one could foretell what might happen.

“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 obviously, 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.”

“Wha-at!”

“I’ll be the first to agree that when we had to report that Hunsinger was a doubtful starter or that he was injured and couldn’t play at all, the gate went down. But that’s because they expected him to be able to play, and being no-shows or not coming out to buy a ticket was the result of their thwarted expectations.

“But what if Hunsinger were out of the picture entirely: retired, or even better, dead? Then the fans would just have to adjust to the fact that watching the Hun on Sundays was simply no longer in their future. But football certainly was going to continue to be part of their lives. The question, then, was, Did we have another attraction for them? I submit we did.

“First, there’s Bobby Cobb, who never got the ink he deserved while the Hun grabbed all the publicity he could. And second, there’s young Hoffer here. I told you all about him, showed you the scouting sheets. On paper, anyway, he would have made a perfect substitute for the Hun. So, if Hunsinger were to die, the fans would know with an irrevocable sense of finality that he was gone. And you would be able to replace him almost immediately with a younger athlete who showed every promise of being a more than adequate substitute.”

Koesler felt somewhat vindicated that his supposition on Galloway’s motive was ratified by not only a second opinion, but an extremely well-informed one.

“Your whole premise is crazy, Dave.” Galloway was very definitely angry. “Even if what you say were true, why would anybody risk murdering somebody just to replace a proven star with a might-be star? It’s crazy.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I mean, it’s common knowledge that your money is completely wrapped up in the Cougars. And Hunsinger was costing us an arm and a leg. Without Hunsinger on the roster, our payroll takes a pleasant nosedive. We already have a modest contract with Hoffer and maybe we can bring up a rookie to fill the vacancy. And there you have it”-Whitman spread his hands in a gesture of finality-“an instant path to greater solvency.”

A strange smile played at the corners of Galloway’s lips. “If anybody wanted to believe your rather incredible scenario, Dave, it would provide as much motive for you as it would for me.”

“Wha-? You’ve got to be kidding! You own the team, not I!”

“For the moment, yes. But it can’t be much of a surprise to you that I’ve been watching your moves very closely. I’ve been watching you eat up those stock options. And, most of all, I know you. You’re the guy who finishes what he starts. If you’d stayed with Multifoods, you’d probably own the company by now. And I know damn well that you’ve never liked working for me. Not from the very beginning. You want the Cougars. You want me out. Of course, I’m going to fight you all the way. And I think I can win. But my confidence in my ability has nothing to do with your plans for a takeover.”

“That’s nonsense! It’s ridiculous!” Whitman almost rose out of his chair.

Koesler thought the accusation was probably neither nonsense nor ridiculous. It made sense to him. In addition, it supplied the missing motive for Whitman. A motive the police had not been able to uncover. He made a strong mental note to inform the inspector of this development.

“The only thing you’ve got right,” Whitman maintained, “is that I’ve always regretted coming to work for you. You’re a convincing bastard, Jay, but you should have stayed a salesman. Starting with the pizza business and capping the climax with this football team, you’re in over your head. You should have stayed in sales and I should have stayed in public relations. You shouldn’t screw around in people’s lives.”

There was a deathly silence. It seemed fortunate that Galloway and Whitman were separated by the full diameter of the round table.

Koesler glanced into the dining room. No doubt about it, Marj Galloway was paying dedicated attention to what was going on in here.

Finally, Jack Brown broke the silence. “Since you brought this whole thing up, Bobby, about the Hun’s murder,” he turned to face Cobb, who was seated at his right, “it just pains the hell out of me that everybody has left you out of this conversation.”

“What d’you mean, Brownie?” Cobb rejoined. “What’s biting at your ass?”

“Well, it’s like what Mr. Whitman was sayin’ just a few minutes ago. He was talkin’ about how Bobby Cobb never got the publicity he shoulda got while the Hun was out doin’ a good job of takin’ care of Number One.”

“With apologies or gratitude, whichever is appropriate, to Mr. Whitman, I get my share of headlines and I’m on the tube regularly. I get paid on time. Why should I give a damn whether the Hun gets three more lines than I do?”

“You can tell that to people who don’t know you, Bobby, but I know you good. You gotta be on top. You think ahead. You lay good plans. Just like you set things up good in a game, keep the offense moving, and plan the next series of downs. I mean, you got your life all set up. And there’s nothin’ wrong with that. But you gotta be Number One. You sure as hell would know if the Hun got three more lines than you did. And, by damn, you would care. But with the Hun gone, you wouldn’t have to worry anymore; whatever anybody else on the team did, you would very definitely be Number One. And that’s what you want.”

“Sure I want it. But is that any believable reason to kill a guy?”

Koesler had his doubts about that too. It didn’t seem to him to be a sufficient reason to commit murder. But, again, it could supply a motive, no matter how unsubstantial, where there had been none before. While Bobby Cobb had had the opportunity to kill Hunsinger, the police had been unable to come up with any motive for him to do so. Now there was one. Koesler would also report this exchange.

“But while we’re on the subject,” Cobb continued, “how about you, Brownie. “Brown’s objection was stifled when Cobb continued. “And why would a trainer, whose only job is to keep players healthy, kill one of those players? Well, what if the player in question took it upon himself to lead as many teammates as possible into temptation? What if he tried especially to drag newcomers and rookies down into the drug scene so they would be dependent on him for supply and support?

“What if the trainer, who knows his players almost as well as they know themselves, knows that all this is coming down? Wouldn’t the trainer think it was vitally important to protect his players from this one-man plague? Doesn’t this bring us right back to tonight’s Bible reading: ‘It is expedient for one man to die.’?”

“Bobby, Bobby. .” Brown shook his head. “You should know me better than that. No matter what was going on, I couldn’t kill somebody. . one of the players. It’s just against everything I believe.”

“All we’ve got is your word on that, Brownie.”

“Bob, that’s all you got from everybody at this table. The Father is not in on this. The Mick is the only other one here with an all-day alibi. Everybody else at this table had the opportunity to do it to the Hun. And we have, maybe foolishly, devised made-up motives for each other. All of us can deny the accusations that have been made against us. But that’s all you got: some accusations and some denials. There isn’t a speck of proof in any of it.”

The word “foolishly” struck a responsive chord in Koesler’s mind. Instead of an innocent Bible discussion this evening, the members of this group had said things to each other, made embarrassing accusations, many in some anger and long-suppressed hostility.

It had long been a conviction of Koesler’s that words spoken in the heat of emotion, especially in anger, can become as permanent as words carved in stone. And because of such words, friendships had been permanently destroyed. Looking around the group now, with the exception of Murray and himself, they were all glaring at one another. Relationships between these men would, he thought, never again be the same. That was, somehow, saddening. He was quite certain he was attending the final meeting of this God Squad.

“Brownie,” said Whitman, “we are forgetting one of the so-called suspects who isn’t sitting at this table and who also had the opportunity to kill Hank Hunsinger.”

“What?”

“I was wondering when you would get around to me, gentlemen.”

Marj Galloway stood, leaning against the doorjamb, in the arch separating the living room from the dining area. In one hand she held a straight-back chair. She proceeded to the table and seated herself between her husband and Jack Brown.

She looked straight at her accuser, Dave Whitman. Neither blinked.

“Seems to me you’re doing a lot of accusing, Dave,” said Galloway, bitterly. “First Hoffer, then me, now my wife. Is it just possible that, to borrow from Shakespeare, you are protesting too much?”

Whitman did not take his eyes from Marj. “If anything, I may be getting warmer.”

“Think so?”

Koesler had to admit Marj Galloway was cool. She gazed steadily at Whitman. If anything, she seemed to be suppressing a smile.

“You,” said Whitman, “had the best opportunity of any of us. The way I heard it, you had unaccounted-for time right up to the opening kickoff. You-let’s be honest-knew Hunsinger and his personal habits better than any of us. And, now that we’re concentrating on motives, you had perhaps the best reason of all.”

“Oh?”

“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Revenge is as old as Cain and Abel.”

“Really, Dave, you’d have a much more viable reason for saying that if the Hun had been found dead a year ago. I’ve had a lot of time to forget, if not forgive. And time heals lots of wounds.”

“Time,” Whitman pursued, “also provides the opportunity to plan. We don’t have to pussyfoot around your affair with Hunsinger-”

Galloway made as if to interrupt, but Whitman cut him off by talking over Galloway’s objection.

“Everybody knew about it, Jay. Hell, all you had to do was read the gossip columns. Neither of them tried to keep it a secret. And the assumption, never denied by you or anyone, Marj, was that it was Hunsinger who dumped you. You couldn’t have helped being bitter. You had to have had access to his apartment while the two of you were still together. You could have kept the key or easily had a duplicate made.

“What if you hear-or, for that matter, discover for yourself-that the Hun had gotten a supply of a lethal poison? And you’ve had almost an entire year, not, as you say, to cool down, but to have your humiliation and anger fester. Seems to me you had the very best knowledge, opportunity, and motive of anyone.”

There was a prolonged silence as the seven men stared at Marj.

“A nice guess, Dave,” she said. “But that’s all it is: a guess. I’ve been listening to you all very carefully, and that’s all you’ve been doing all evening: guessing. The only ones who’ve escaped the guessing game have been Niall and the Father here. And that’s only because neither of them had the opportunity or a motive. As for the rest of us, each of us knew the Hun well enough to know his peculiar habits. Each of us theoretically had the opportunity. And, I suppose as a kind of tribute to how really rotten the Hun was, each of us seems to have had a reason to dislike him, at the least, and, at most, hate him enough perhaps to kill him.

“But what we lack here, gentlemen, is what I think they call in the crime trade the smoking gun.

“You can talk all night long, Dave, about how much I hated the Hun and how good an opportunity I had to kill him, and all I have to do is sit here and deny it. And that is all any of us has to do: simply deny it. No one, including the police, can put any one of us at the scene. All they can say is that one of us could have been there. So, what you’ve done tonight is to complete an exercise in futility. And I would suggest that since everybody who could have been accused of the crime has been, maybe this party ought to break up.”

Koesler considered that the evening had been somewhat more than an exercise in futility. Some real animosity had built up around all these accusations. He wondered how or if some of these people could ever work together again.

But evidently, Marj Galloway’s invitation to call it a night had been taken seriously. The men had closed their Bibles and were preparing to leave. Unlike the conclusion of previous meetings of the God Squad, there was no light repartee tonight. Only awkward, stony silence.

Koesler, like the others, prepared to leave. As he walked through the living room, he recalled that something about that room had disturbed him both when he had visited here for the first time yesterday with the police and again tonight. What was it? He looked around the room.

The color scheme … it was the color scheme. The walls of the living area were papered in a sort of pale apricot, but the upholstered furniture was done in a purplish red. Even to Koesler’s uncultivated and untutored eye, the hues seemed to clash. He found it curious that both Jay and Marj had such poor taste and that no one had ever rectified things. It seemed strange, but, in the light of the murder they had just been discussing, of comparatively little moment.

In a very few minutes, all of the men, with the exception of Jay Galloway, had left. Instead of being the last out the front door, he closed it and doubled back to the kitchen where Marj stood at the sink disposing of the uneaten hors d’oeuvres.

Silently, Galloway approached his wife. As he moved directly behind her, she stiffened as she became aware of his presence.

He put his arms around her waist, his hands resting against her flat abdomen. She stood stock-still.

“You were magnificent tonight, honey.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Any other woman would have folded at Dave’s accusation. But you stood right up to him. I was proud of you.”

“What’s this all about, Jay? Why didn’t you leave with the others?”

“I told you, I’m proud of you. When you take over a situation like that and are in command of the whole thing. . damn, but I find that a turn-on.” His hands slid up her body until they found her breasts. He cupped them and squeezed. It was one of his many habits that disgusted her.

He never had been able to understand why anything he did would disgust her. He had tried everything he did to her on other women before doing them to her. Of course, the other women either were prostitutes or were looking for a favor from him and were willing to overlook a lot to get it.

She tried to pull his hands away, but couldn’t. She turned quickly. The element of surprise worked; she was free of him. Something in her face made him take a step backward.

“Hey! What is it with you? We’re still married, you know. We might be living apart, but we’re still husband and wife. And we’re not apart right now. We’re together in our house. You’re still legally my wife and I want you.” He stepped forward and again grabbed at her breasts. “They may not be large, but they’re perfect. I remember every contour of them-”

This time she was successful in slapping away his hands with unexpected force.

“That’s all you’re ever going to have of me: a memory!”

“W-what do you mean?” Not having his way was one of the stresses that always affected his articulation.

“You never listen, do you? Dave said it all tonight when he told you that the thing he regretted most was ever going to work for you.”

“Th-that’s crazy! He’s had a good life. Made a lot of money.”

“And along the way lost much of his self-respect, just like everyone else who gets involved with you. It isn’t so much that everything you touch turns to dross; it’s more that you don’t really like yourself, and you can’t believe that anyone who would work for you-or marry you, for that matter-can be any good. How could they be worthwhile and still agree to work for you, or marry you?”

“Wh-when did you get a psychology degree?” All this talk was dampening his arousal.

“I don’t need a degree. I had to go through the school of hard knocks to learn about you. It dawned on me after the Hunsinger affair. All the way down that trip through hell I could never figure out what I was doing with that maniac. But after we broke up, the whole thing became clear. I guess I needed somebody as rotten as Hunsinger to shake the cobwebs out of my brain.

“It started right after we got married. Before, our sex was great. But you were still trying to win me then. You couldn’t be sure I was ‘worthless enough’ to actually marry you. So you treated me with respect. But once you married me-or, rather, once I married you, that proved to your satisfaction that I was without value; otherwise why else would I consent to be your wife?

“From then on, you treated me like-no, worse than-a prostitute. I was a thing. A thing you could take to bed and use at your whim. Or a pretty thing you could take out on important occasions and show off. But always you used me. Until I began to see myself the way you saw me: worthless. So I became available to almost anyone who wanted to use me in much the same way as you did.

“But Hunsinger brought me to my senses. You, at your worst-and that was something to behold-were never as low as the Hun.

“Now I’ve got a life to put together. And that life definitely does not include you. I know you’re going to find this difficult to understand, but we’re through, finished, over, closed, and shut.

“Now, you may leave. And close the door after you!”

Galloway backed away from her. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“If I change my mind, I hope somebody has me committed.”

Galloway left the house. He wanted her now more than he had in years. He would not realize that his desire was the direct result of her rejecting him. Now that he no longer possessed her, he respected her once more. But, as he had proved time and again, he was a very good salesman who would not take no for an answer. Like everything else in life, this would require some planning.

As soon as Father Koesler returned to St. Anselm’s rectory, he phoned Inspector Koznicki at home.

Koesler recounted the evening’s events as carefully as he could recall them. What had begun as a rather routine Bible discussion-albeit with an electric atmosphere-had quickly deteriorated into a maelstrom of anger, hostility, and recrimination.

As best as Koesler could recall, Dave Whitman had accused Hoffer, Galloway, and Galloway’s wife. Jay Galloway, in turn, had accused Whitman. Jack Brown had accused Bobby Cobb, who had returned the favor.

He was careful to relate the new motives for Whitman supplied by Galloway, and for Cobb as supplied by Brown.

“Very good, Father. . excellent.” Koznicki congratulated the priest on his reportage and added, “Our detectives have been busy today and are formulating some very definite opinions. I shall make sure they learn of your contribution first thing in the morning. We are hopeful of wrapping up this case tomorrow.”

“That soon!”

“It has been two full days since the murder, Father. And, as you well know, the longer a case continues, the less likely we are to reach a solution.”

“You’re right, Inspector, of course. I was speaking as the amateur I am. Just because I haven’t the slightest idea who did it is no reason to assume that the experts are not close to solving the case.”

He could hear Koznicki’s soft chuckle.

“Will you be attending the funeral tomorrow, Inspector?”

“Yes, indeed. It is at-” Koznicki tried to locate the obituary in the afternoon paper.

“At 9:00 a.m.,” Koesler supplied, “at Holy Redeemer.”

“Of course. Will I be seeing you there, Father?”

“Yes. I plan on concelebrating. I got to know Hank fairly well during the discussion meetings. And I must confess I’ve gotten to know him even better during the investigation of his murder.”

“Yes. I think you might say, Father, that he can use all the prayers he can get.”

“I quite agree. Well, I’ll. . see you in church,” Koesler concluded lightly.

Before retiring, the priest poured himself a glass of sherry. He sipped it slowly as he let the events of the past couple of days drift through his mind.

It was fortunate for the wheels of justice, he concluded, that society did not have to wait for him to solve a crime. But he was glad that the police seemed close to a solution. For his part, Koesler was forced to agree with Marj Galloway. There was no smoking gun. . as least none that he could detect. Just lots of opportunities and lots of motives.

The smoking gun everyone seemed to be looking for apparently was the knowledge of Hunsinger’s colorblindness. So far, the only ones who had admitted such knowledge were Niall Murray and Hunsinger’s mother. Neither seemed to have a motive for the crime and both had daylong alibis.

Somebody else had to be holding the smoking gun, but Koesler could think of no way to figure out who.

Well, then, he concluded as he downed the last of the sherry, here’s to the police.