Sudden Death

5

Father Koesler was showering. It was a quarter to eight on a bright Thursday morning. Mass was at eight-thirty. As usual, the priest’s mind wandered in an undirected path.

Something, some inner feeling, some intuition told him the police were going to catch the killer of Henry Hunsinger today. This was, after all, the fifth day of the investigation. And Inspector Koznicki had told him more than once that the longer a case remains unsolved, the less likely it is that they will arrive at a solution.

Then there was the assurance by Lieutenant Harris that they would, indeed, solve the case. The professional confidence of Harris and Sergeant Ewing, Koesler was convinced, simply could not be gainsaid.

At any rate, the police would not be the only ones busy today. Koesler faced the crush of business that had piled up, due in part to his early participation in the investigation as well as to his day off yesterday. For one thing, shortly after breakfast there would be two days of mail to attack. Oh, well, everything in its allotted time. It would, in any event, be a busy day.

After showering, shaving, and dressing, he had just a few minutes to look over the Scripture readings for today’s Mass. After all his years of being a priest, reading and meditating on the Bible and preaching, it did not take him long to come up with a two- to five-minute commentary on the Scripture of the day.

This was another of the many changes resulting from Vatican II. In the first decade of his priesthood, Koesler would offer a sung Mass entirely in Latin and there was never a homily or commentary during the week. This custom of preaching daily, if briefly, was much more demanding of the priest. It also made a lot more sense.

Seven people were waiting in the church. The usual customers. Koesler knew them all well. By the time he vested and was ready for Mass, there might be one or two more present.

The Mass began as informally as a very formally structured ceremony could. In no time, he reached the Gospel reading. It was from St. Mark, the eighth chapter. Everyone stood as he read:

“When they arrived at Bethsaida, some people brought him a blind man and begged him to touch him. Jesus took the blind man’s hand and led him outside the village. Putting spittle on his eyes, he laid his hands on him and asked, ‘Can you see anything?’ The man opened his eyes and said, ‘I can see people but they look like walking trees!’ Then a second time Jesus laid hands on his eyes, and he saw perfectly; his sight was restored and he could see everything clearly. Jesus sent him home with the admonition. ‘Do not even go into the village.’”

The congregation sat and looked expectantly for today’s message.

“That little story,” said Koesler, “is my favorite miracle. It’s so much more. . well. . human than the usual miracle. This is not a grand show of power like stilling the angry winds that are whipping up the waters of the Sea of Galilee or calling Lazarus back from the dead after three days in the tomb.

“This is a more tentative kind of cure, if you will, instead of miracle. Can’t you just see Jesus rubbing a little spittle on the blind man’s eyes and saying, ‘How’s that? Do any good?’ And the guy says, ‘I don’t think you’ve got it yet. All I see is stick people walking around like trees. Have you got anything else up your sleeve?’ And Jesus says, ‘Okay, give me one more shot at it.’ And he touches the blind man again. Then the blind man says, ‘I can see everything very clearly now. I think you’ve got it! By George, you’ve got it!’

“It puts me in mind of my favorite scene in a fine silent movie on the life of Christ, called King of Kings. This scene follows one where the Christ is in a small village curing people right and left, just by an act of His will. Then, He leaves the village and goes out to the countryside. He is exhausted. He leaves the dusty country road and sits in the shade of a large tree.

“The Apostles form a ring around the tree, keeping the crowd, which has followed him from the village, at a distance. Then, a little girl sneaks underneath the arm of one of the Apostles, who reaches out to grab her before she might bother Jesus. But He waves the Apostle aside and greets the child with a smile. She shows Jesus her ragdoll, which is ripped.

“You can see the wheels turning in His mind. He has just finished working wondrous miracles. He seems to be weighing what He should do about the little girl’s doll. Should He wave His hand over it and make it miraculously fixed? Finally, He extracts a straw from the doll’s innards and with it, He carefully and slowly mends the doll and returns it to the little girl.

“Now it’s just an apocryphal story thought up by some clever screenwriter. But I think it captures the spirit of Jesus. That little girl probably wouldn’t even have understood a miraculous cure for her doll. But that a very important man would take the time to mend her doll would be an act of kindness she would never forget.

“I don’t think I even need explicitly apply the lesson to our daily lives. But somewhere out there today we’re likely to encounter someone who’s got some trouble. Let’s look for that someone and mend the trouble.

“And, as they used to say on the TV show ‘Hill Street Blues,’ let’s be careful out there.”

The remainder of the Mass passed uneventfully. Except that something was troubling him. But again, he was unable to put his finger on it. Something to do with this morning’s Gospel. . but what? In his mind’s eye, he could almost see his brain cells exploding and disintegrating.

After Mass and a few prayers of thanksgiving, he returned to the rectory. St. Anselm’s secretary, Mary O’Connor, had attended his morning Mass and had preceded him to the rectory.

As usual, she offered to fix him some breakfast. As usual, he declined her offer. As usual, he sliced a banana over a bowl of Granola. As far as Koesler was concerned, there was much to be said for routine.

Reflecting on routine reminded him of Hank Hunsinger, whose life had been so compulsively riddled with routine. Koesler tried to drive the thought away. He had resolved to get back to parochial duties and let the police do the job for which they were so well trained and capable.

And he would have succeeded in expelling the thought if it hadn’t been for the puzzles that still nagged him. Last night’s story about the nuns laying out various colored vestments for him, plus this morning’s distraction that had some inscrutable connection with this morning’s Gospel. Were they connected? Were they connected with Hunsinger’s murder? If so, how?

Breakfast finished, he went to his office, where, predictably, Mary had stacked two days of mail. A couple of significant piles. Armed with his letter opener, he attacked the first pile. A good offense, he thought, is a good defense … or something.

The first letter was from a convent of contemplative Carmelite nuns. “Reverend and Dear Father:

“There is nothing more sacred to our faith than the altar breads which, upon the words of consecration, pronounced by priests such as yourself, Reverend Father, become the living presence of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

“Thus, careful attention must be paid to the preparation of these sacred wafers.

“Most purveyors of altar breads subject the process entirely to insensitive machines. From the mixing of the dough, to the baking, to the cutting.

“This is not true of the work of our convent. No, Reverend Father, none but the virginal hands of our Sisters touch the sacred altar breads. .”

Koesler could not go on. He was laughing too hard. So, it takes virginal hands to replace vulgar machines. He could envision the assembly lines of Detroit’s auto plants. First there were the blue-collar workers on the line, followed by robots, followed by the virginal hands of hitherto contemplative nuns.

Probably he would order some altar breads from the nuns. They deserved some patronage after having entertained him. Then he would file their letter with his other prized possession: the letter from the company selling altar wine, all of whose Teamster drivers were Catholics.

The next envelope bore the extremely familiar address, 1234 Washington Boulevard. It was a Chancery missive, containing the parochial help-wanted listing. This too was a fairly recent wrinkle.

In the good old days, notice of a changed assignment had come in much the same fashion as a draft notice. Except that instead of “Greetings,” the assignment letter would invariably begin, “For the care of souls, I have it in mind to assign you to. .” There would follow the name of the parish that would be the priest’s residence for the next approximately five years.

Now that priests were becoming an endangered species, it had become a seller’s market. The Chancery now regularly listed openings in parochial assignments for pastors or associate pastors accompanied by thumbnail descriptions of the type of ministry expected. One applied, or did not, depending on one’s interest. Seldom was pressure brought to bear. It may have been a better system than the previous practice. Koesler thought it was.

Suddenly, for no explicable reason, but, indeed, the way it usually happened with Koesler, everything fell into place. It was as if a curtain had suddenly lifted, revealing the stage. Suddenly the connection between the multicolored vestments, the blind man beginning to see, and the Hunsinger murder was clear.

It was a thrilling moment and Koesler savored it.

He needed to make only one phone call. If he received an affirmative response, it would be at least possible that he had found the solution to a murder.

Driving out to Dr. Glowacki’s office with Sergeant Ewing, Lieutenant Harris was trying to figure out why he so resented this trip.

The bottom line, he finally concluded, was that he disliked having amateurs mess in his profession. There were just far too many people who considered themselves competent, without benefit of any training or preparation, to do police work. His intolerance of that sort of intruder doubled when the amateur meddled in homicide cases.

Especially when the homicide got a lot of publicity, the homemade experts seemed to come out of the woodwork-psychologists, psychiatrists, soothsayers, fortunetellers, mystics.

Of course, Father Koesler did not fit any of the stereotyped categories. And, Harris had to admit, the priest had been of help in the past. But it was not, he thought, a good precedent to invite amateurs in on a case. He wished his old friend, Walt Koznicki, who was coming to Glowacki’s office in a separate vehicle, would not do it. It was about the only bone Harris had to pick with Koznicki.

They had discussed it a few times but had never reached a mutually agreeable solution. Koznicki would protest that Koesler was the sole exception to the rule banning nonprofessionals from cases. And Koznicki would explain that there were times when Koesler’s expertise in things Catholic was helpful in certain cases. Harris would argue that, religious expertise or not, the police were well able to solve homicides without outside help.

They never reached an agreement. So the argument occurred less and less frequently. But Harris continued to believe that Koznicki’s better judgment was clouded when it came to Father Koesler.

Besides, Harris had just developed a theory concerning the Hunsinger case and had anticipated testing it today. That had been before receiving the call this morning from Koznicki, who had been called earlier by Koesler. Harris had objected. But Koznicki made it clear that while he wasn’t outright ordering Harris to Glowacki’s office, neither was it merely an invitation.

Harris turned off Ford Road into the parking lot adjacent to Dr. Glowacki’s office building. Koesler was already there. They exchanged greetings with the priest, Ewing more warmly than Harris. In a brief time they were joined by Koznicki. The four entered the building and were immediately admitted into Glowacki’s consultation office.

It was Koesler’s show. “I’ll explain my idea as thoroughly but as quickly as possible,” he began. “At the beginning of this investigation, when I was allowed to sit in on a series of interviews with possible suspects in the case, it soon became obvious that six of the suspects had the opportunity-and a sufficient motive-to kill Hunsinger. But none of those six possessed the final bit of information known to everyone in this room-that Hunsinger was colorblind and thus could not have detected that the liquid he thought was shampoo was white, not pink. I think that bit of information has been referred to as ‘the smoking gun.’ Am I right so far?”

“Well,” Ewing said, “it’s not necessarily that none of those suspects ‘possessed’ the knowledge that Hunsinger was colorblind; the fact is that, at least so far, we haven’t been able to prove that one or any of them knew-or to get one or any of them to admit it.”

“So far,” Harris emphasized.

“Of course,” Koesler admitted, “that was sloppy of me. All right. None of those suspects would admit they knew of Hunsinger’s condition.

“But what if. . what if we’re looking for the wrong type of person?”

Harris did not care for Koesler’s use of the first person plural. But he said nothing.

“What, exactly, are you driving at?” Koznicki asked.

“A couple of unrelated things got me started thinking of another way of approaching this case. This morning I was reading a passage from a Gospel. It was about Christ curing a blind man. Only it wasn’t one of those instantaneous cures. This one happened in stages. At first the man could see, but indistinctly. He could see people but they looked to him as if they were walking trees. In other words, he was no longer totally blind, but his sight definitely was impaired.

“The other thing that happened was that I was telling a friend about an incident involving a couple of mischievous nuns who deliberately set out a color-mixed set of vestments because they were certain I would have the first Mass the next day. They wanted to play a joke on me. But they blundered. The pastor traded with me and took the early Mass.

“Now, if I had seen that mixed bag of vestments, I would have understood the joke. But the pastor didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. When he told me about it, all straight-faced, he didn’t know what to make of it. And he suggested, in jest, I think, that maybe they were not in complete possession of their sanity.

“Don’t you see?” Koesler, who had thought this theory through to its conclusion, mistakenly assumed the others would understand completely even without a complete explanation. It was a bad habit of his. Earnestly he continued. “Instead of accusing the nuns of being crazy, the pastor, if he didn’t understand the joke, should have assumed the nuns were colorblind. Or”-he glanced at the ophthalmologist-“I should more correctly say color-deficient.”

Koesler paused a moment, in vain, for some sign of comprehension or support from the others.

“Would you care to amplify whatever point it is you are trying to make, Father?” Inspector Koznicki was attempting, more than anything else, to rescue Koesler from the embarrassing silence.

“Certainly, Inspector. My point is just this: the man midway through his cure is not totally blind, but partially blind. Just as the nuns, if they hadn’t been clowning around, presumably might not be totally colorblind, but merely color-deficient. I checked this all out with Dr. Glowacki earlier, before I phoned you.”

“So,” Harris was growing impatient, “you have a couple of nuns who are either joking, crazy, or color-deficient. So what?”

“So,” Koesler continued, “that got me thinking about the murder of Hank Hunsinger. Well, to be honest, though I’ve tried not to, I have thought of little else these past few days.

“And, to try to sum this up, I thought of the police trying to find a suspect who knew that Hunsinger was colorblind and would be unable to distinguish one color from the next. But what if. . what if it were not a case of knowing about Hunsinger’s colorblindness? What if the murderer were color deficient and not able to tell the difference between the clear color of the DMSO and the pink color of the shampoo?”

There was another silence.

“That’s so, isn’t it?” Ewing turned to Glowacki. “That such a person would not be able to tell the difference between the colors?”

“Oh, absolutely,” the doctor responded. “That was another thing the Father and I discussed this morning. We call the impairment a red-green deficiency.”

“It’s cute, Padre,” said Harris, “but I’m afraid you’ve come up with a hypothesis without a foundation. We know that Hunsinger was colorblind. Someone else who knew it would know that he or she didn’t have to be concerned about the color of the liquid containing the poison. There’s no reason to think that it could have been the other way ’round-that the perpetrator couldn’t tell the difference between the bottles.”

“Well, I beg to differ with you, Lieutenant. But I think it does make better sense my way.” Although the priest spoke firmly, he genuinely dreaded this argument. He wished that all of them, especially Lieutenant Harris, whose mild animosity toward himself Koesler had perceived, had bought his theory.

“Let me suggest this, please,” he continued. “Suppose the killer were normal-sighted. Just to avoid fooling with pronouns let me assume the killer was a man.

“He goes to Hunsinger’s apartment. His objective is to get the strychnine into the DMSO. He wants the DMSO to carry the poison into Hunsinger’s bloodstream, quickly killing him. In order to get Hunsinger to use the tainted DMSO, the killer decides to mask the DMSO as shampoo because he knows that the Hun routinely showers at his apartment after the game.

“Now I’ll grant you that the quickest and easiest way of doing this, since the containers of the shampoo and the DMSO are identical-I remember that correctly, don’t I?”

Koznicki nodded slowly, encouragingly.

“Since the containers are identical, the killer simply exchanges the two bottles, relying on Hunsinger’s compulsive routines to cause him to use the DMSO because it’s in the spot reserved for the shampoo. Hunsinger uses the poisonous DMSO because he can’t tell any difference in the bottle shapes, he can’t read the label because of poor eyesight, and he can’t tell the difference in the colors because he’s colorblind.”

“That’s about the way it stacks up,” Harris noted.

“All right,” said Koesler, “but the killer has no plans to revisit the scene of the crime after the murder. In fact, he knows he can’t. Because, again routinely, Hunsinger is showering to prepare for a. . uh. . date.

“So the killer knows that he will necessarily leave behind a scene that looks like this: There will be an open bottle of DMSO on the spot reserved for shampoo. And the police will quickly discover what is in the bottle and the cause of death. In effect, the killer is leaving a clue telling the police that he knows about Hunsinger’s colorblindness-a condition that Hunsinger has gone out of his way to conceal.

“On the other hand, in the theory I propose, the scenario is the same, except for the reason for not exchanging bottles. Now the killer is not leaving a clue for the police. Now the killer is leaving a clear bottle instead of one with a pink liquid, for the very simple and reasonable reason that the killer himself cannot tell the difference.”

Another silence.

“Two things wrong with that, Padre,” said Harris, finally.

“One, you’re thinking-or trying to think-like an investigator. Whereas criminals, in real life, rarely think that ingeniously. That’s why we catch so many of them. You’d be surprised how many homicides are committed in the manner they are simply because that was the simplest way of doing it. It is very possible-probable-the killer didn’t even advert to the different colors. . or, if he did, didn’t care.

“And two, your case is built on the supposition that one of our suspects is. . uh. . color-deficient. When there’s no indication that that is so.”

“Well, again, Lieutenant,” said Koesler, “with all due respect, there may be one or another of the suspects with just that disorder.”

Harris looked at him with disbelief. It was so strong the detective did not have to verbalize his doubts.

“It happened when I visited the Galloway home. The first time, when Mrs. Galloway was questioned, I was vaguely aware that something was wrong, but I couldn’t say what. Then, the other night when our Bible discussion group met there, I became a bit more aware of what it was that was troubling me. It was the color scheme.

“Now God knows I am the last person in the world who might make a living at interior design. But the living room of the Galloway home is somewhat outlandish. I don’t know what the rest of the house is like, but in the living room, they have the walls done in a sort of pale apricot and the upholstered sectional couch and chair are a purplish red. . I believe they call it magenta.”

Both Ewing and Harris had to admit to themselves that they had noticed what they considered the atrocious color scheme. Actually, they had been aware of it long before Koesler, but had simply ascribed it to bad taste and dismissed it from their consideration.

“That,” said Koesler, “is the final detail I checked with Dr. Glowacki.”

“Oh, yes. And I assured the good Father that such colors as he described-an apricot and a magenta-would be a classic kind of blunder of a red-green personality. You see, green plays an important part in this-”

“Is there any way of testing for this?” Harris interrupted. “Is there any way to prove if a person is. . uh. . color-deficient?”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Glowacki. “It’s right here in this little pamphlet, the ‘Ishihara Test for Colour Blindness.’”

“May I?” Harris extended his hand and the doctor gave him the pamphlet. Harris began to page through it.

“You see,” Glowacki explained, “there are ten pages of numbers in that little book. The numbers are formed by outlines of small colored circles.”

“What’s the point?” Harris had completed his scanning of the pamphlet.

“The point,” the doctor responded, “is that normal-sighted people see one thing in that booklet, while color-deficient people see quite another.”

“Could you demonstrate?” Koznicki asked.

“Of course. Sergeant Ewing, would you care to take the test?”

“Sure.”

“Very good.” Glowacki opened the booklet to the first page. “Do you see a number there, Sergeant?”

“Yes. Twelve.”

“That’s correct. Actually, if someone were to miss the twelve, one would be tempted to search for a white cane.” The doctor perceived his attempt at humor was not completely appreciated. His visitors were all business.

“All right,” he turned a page, “and this one, Sergeant?”

“Eight.”

“That’s correct. Now we get into the red-green color deficiency. The color-deficient person sees a three here. And this?”

“A five.”

“The deficient person sees a two.” The doctor continued turning pages.

“Twenty-nine.”

“The deficient person sees seventy.”

“Seventy-four.”

“The deficient sees twenty-one.”

“Seven.”

“The deficient sees nothing here but colored dots.”

“Forty-five.”

“Again, the deficient sees nothing.”

“Two.”

“The deficient sees nothing.” He turned another page.

“There isn’t any number there.” Ewing was surprised; he thought he might have erred.

“No, Sergeant, that’s no mistake.” Glowacki sensed Ewing’s misgiving. “The color-deficient person sees a two here.”

“Sixteen.”

“Again, the deficient person sees no number here.”

“Amazing,” Koznicki commented. “And you say a person with this color deficiency actually sees these numbers that differently from the normal-sighted?”

“Quite. Yes.”

“Now, you see,” said Koesler, “if my theory is correct, someone in the Galloway household has this color deficiency. Either Jay Galloway or his wife, Marjorie. “

“A layman can administer that test, is that correct, Doctor?” Koznicki asked.

“Of course. All one needs to know is what to expect the deficient person to perceive in this test. Father told me you were likely to want to test two subjects separately. So I took the precaution of borrowing another copy of the Ishihara test. You’re perfectly welcome to borrow both, if you wish. “

“You have been most cooperative, Doctor,” said Koznicki. “Ned, you and Ray take one and check out Mr. Galloway. Father Koesler and I will take the other booklet and visit Mrs. Galloway. Call us at the Galloway home as soon as you have completed the test.” He turned to the ophthalmologist.

“Thank you once again, Doctor. You’ve been an enormous help. And remember, not a word of this to anyone. Not until the entire investigation is completed.”

As the three officers and the priest left his office, Dr. Glowacki was tingling. He had never before participated in a murder investigation. It was thrilling. He would, of course, keep their secret. Even from his wife, who would quite naturally want to know what the strange quartet had wanted. Just as she had wanted to know why he was sending her to borrow Dr. Graven’s copy of the Ishihara test. She would learn all in good time. When he and the police had completed their investigation. And when, together, they had apprehended the person who had murdered his late patient.

If Dr. Glowacki was any judge, that would be soon.

Marj Galloway answered the door. As Koznicki and Koesler entered the house, they could see a couple of domestics dusting in the dining area. The living room was unoccupied. Mrs. Galloway invited them in, reluctantly, Koznicki felt, and seemingly with an air of foreboding and inevitability.

Both Koznicki and Koesler separately concluded that even without benefit of makeup, dressed in an old housecoat, and with her hair disheveled, Marj Galloway was a strikingly attractive woman.

“I hope,” Koznicki opened, “that you do not too much mind our intrusion.”

Marj shrugged as if to comment, And if I did. .?

“We will not take up much of your time,” Koznicki proceeded. “We are continuing our investigation into the murder of Mr. Hunsinger. And I wonder if you would be so kind as to help us. “

“Inspector-you did say you are an inspector? — ah, well, Inspector, when is this nonsense going to end? I had an affair with Mr. Hunsinger about a year ago. Apart from the football field, or at a great distance at a few social events, I haven’t had anything to do with the Hun since we broke up. To be perfectly frank with you, I don’t give a good goddamn that he’s dead. But I had nothing to do with his murder.”

“Sometimes,” Koznicki’s voice was soft and persuasive, “it is through your voluntary cooperation that we are able to establish just that: that you are innocent. We are not charging you with any crime. We ask only that you help us by taking a simple, uncomplicated test.”

“A test? What kind of a test?”

“A vision test. “ Koznicki produced the Ishihara booklet.

“A vision test,” she repeated. “Oh, what the hell; let’s get it over with.”

Koznicki held the booklet so all three could see the pages as he turned them.

“Twelve,” Marj read.

Everyone could discern that one, Koesler remembered.

“Eight.”

Uh-oh.

“Five.

“Twenty-nine.

“Seventy-four.”

There was no doubt about it: Marj Galloway was not color-deficient.

“Seven.

“Forty-five.

“Two.”

It had to be her husband, Jay. Koesler could almost see, in his mind’s eye, probably even at this very moment, Jay rumbling through the test, unable to correctly discern any number but the first.

“There’s no number on this page at all.”

Koesler could envision Lieutenant Harris grudgingly admitting the validity of Koesler’s theory. The priest was not a vindictive person; he would not rub it in when next he met Lieutenant Harris.

“Sixteen.

“Is that it? That was pleasant. Did I pass? Do we go on to the Rorschach test? Do you have any nice little ink blots for me to identify?”

“You did very well, Mrs. Galloway.” There was no trace of acrimony or chagrin in Koznicki’s voice. Seemingly, he was genuinely pleased that she had done well.

Koesler, eyes darting from side to side, a reaction foreign to him, was waiting for something. The phone rang. That was it.

After several rings, which Koesler felt to be a dozen, the phone was answered. A moment later a no-nonsense working woman appeared in the archway. “Is there an Inspector Koznicki here?”

“I’ll take it.” Koznicki unfolded from the chair and went into the dining area.

“Koznicki,” he identified to the caller.

“Ned Harris here, Walt. How’d it go with Marj Galloway?”

“She has normal color vision. “

“Same with her husband. We had a devil of a time convincing him it wasn’t necessary to call his lawyer about thirty seconds after we entered his office. But he settled down when he saw what the test was about.”

There was a pause.

“There is more?”

“Yeah. We told him his wife was taking the test too. That was one of the reasons why he agreed to take it without benefit of counsel. He asked why we were giving both of them color vision tests. That was after he’d passed it with flying colors … no pun intended.

“So we told him that color perception was relevant to our investigation and that we’d noticed the rather odd color scheme of his living room, and we were just checking. I’ll give you his exact reply.”

Koznicki could hear the pages of Harris’s notepad being riffled.

“He said, ‘Marj doesn’t have any trouble with color; she just doesn’t have any taste. It’s about the only flaw in an otherwise Ms. Perfect. I never paid any attention to her horrible sense of decor because she is such a good piece of ass.’” There was just an instant’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose you’d want to pass that entire quotation on to the good Padre.”

“No.”

“Now, would it be okay if we get on with the police investigation of this case?”

“Yes.” Koznicki let the sarcasm pass without comment and replaced the receiver on the phone. He reentered the living room.

“Was that-” Koesler began.

“Yes. That was Lieutenant Harris. His results were negative also.”

Koesler’s spirits sank.

“We will be leaving now, Mrs. Galloway.” As he spoke, Koznicki looked about the room, seeing it in a different light. It was true, the furnishings were an uncomplementary mixture of colonial, contemporary, and just about every other style.

“I hope you’re finished. I mean I hope this is the last time I will be subjected to a random interrogation regarding a dead person I don’t give a damn about.” It was evident that Mrs. Galloway was not amused.

“Mrs. Galloway,” Koznicki spoke firmly, “this is an investigation into a crime. . into murder. We go where the investigation leads us. But we will make every effort not to trouble you further, unless it becomes necessary.”

Outside the house, Koznicki told Koesler of Harris’s report, omitting what it was that Galloway most appreciated in his wife.

It was a silent ride back to St. Anselm’s. Koznicki felt very sorry for his friend. As for Koesler, he could recall, wincingly, times past when he had felt extremely foolish. The present moment might not represent the nadir of foolishness in his life. But it ranked.

They did not have far to go. Just an elevator ride to the basement of the Silverdome. Harris and Ewing showed their badges and entered the Cougars’ dressing room, only to find that almost everyone, including the man they wanted to see, was on the field. So they walked up the ramp to the playing surface. The Cougars were fortunate this week that no other major activity was scheduled for the Silverdome. Otherwise, their artificial turf would have been removed or covered and they would have had to search for some other practice facility.

The scene that greeted the two officers was one of organized chaos.

In one corner, offensive and defensive linemen crashed into each other. In another, linebackers stutterstepped as they practiced intercepting passes. From the other end of the stadium could be heard a recurring and resounding thunk as a football was repeatedly propelled off the foot of the punter to soar into the upper reaches. Midfield the passing personnel of the offense were scrimmaging against the defensive backs.

Through it all, the voice of Coach Bradford, who was with the scrimmaging players, could be quite clearly heard. “I wanna see some urgency in those third and fives.”

They were practicing third-down formations, each scrimmage simulating a third down with five yards to go for a first down.

Bobby Cobb slapped the ball in his hand and retreated while the offensive players ran their pass patterns and the defensive players retreated to cover their zones. Cobb’s throw was long and deep, intended for a wide receiver who was going full speed. Then the receiver, “hearing the footsteps” of the defensive back who was closing in, at the last moment backed off, and the ball fell harmlessly to the turf.

“Ritter!” The returning receiver hung his head. “I don’t care how much you get paid,” Bradford blazed, “but you’re not gonna get it free. Desire, Ritter! Desire, drive, dedication, execution! They go together, Ritter!”

Harris and Ewing walked along the sidelines until they reached the Cougars’ bench where the trainer, Jack Brown, was standing.

“Mr. Brown,” Harris began.

“Brownie,” said the trainer; “everybody calls me Brownie.”

“Okay, Brownie, could we talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Sure. Do you mind if we go into the locker room? I’ve got some things to do down there.”

“Good idea.”

They retraced their steps to the locker room. Place kicker Niall Murray, left ankle encased in an ice pack, reclined on a training table. The detectives, of course, knew Murray, but not the man standing next to him. They were introduced to John Owen, the team’s public relations representative.

Owen, face seemingly set permanently in a concerned frown, addressed Brown. “So, what we got?”

“An ankle.”

“How bad?”

“Bad bruise and swelling. I’m hopin’ the ice’ll bring it down. It’s gonna be sore.”

“How’d he get it?”

“Special team drill. A pileup. Somebody kicked him. An accident.”

“How many times you been told to stay away from the point of contact!” For the first time in this exchange, Owen directly acknowledged the presence of the person whose injury they were discussing. “Just kick the ball and get off the field.”

“Aw,” said Murray, “it’s no fun that way at all.”

“So how can we list him?” Owen went back to Brown. “‘Questionable’?”

“Not yet. The injury is too bad for questionable. Better put him down as doubtful.”

“Godalmighty! In one week we lost the tight end who’s practically the franchise, and now the kicker. How the hell do they expect me to promote this team?”

“The kicker’s down, not out,” said Brown. “Just don’t list him as questionable yet.”

Owen, grumbling, departed.

Brown carefully removed the ice pack from Murray’s ankle. The swelling made the ankle appear grotesque. In addition, there was a dark pinkish hue that reflected some internal bleeding.

“Looks worse than it is,” Brown commented. He touched the ankle gingerly. Wherever his fingers went, small white prints appeared, only to resolve again into the angry pink. “But it’s way too early to tell how it’s gonna respond.”

Brown began wrapping adhesive tape in a figure-eight on Murray’s foot-around the ankle, across the arch, under the instep, back again over the arch, and around the ankle. “Too tight?”

“It’s okay,” Murray replied.

“What happens next?” Ewing was genuinely interested.

“Well,” said Brown, “lucky it isn’t his kicking foot or we’d really be in trouble. Still, the left ankle gets a lot of pressure. He plants all his weight on it when he kicks. I may just have to build a protective device for it.”

“You build one?”

“Lots of times. Out of fiber glass. Then cover it with foam rubber. Then adhesive tape. Can provide some protection for almost any body part, especially the arms and legs. Usually, one of the officials will check it before the game. . make sure we don’t build a weapon.”

Ewing looked around the trainer’s quarters. He was surprised at the number of cardboard boxes containing adhesive tape of various dimensions. “How much do you use, Brownie?”

“Don’t rightly know. Lots. We’re budgeted for $20,000 worth of tape for the season.” Brown continued to tape the ankle, then reapplied the ice pack. “But you fellas didn’t come out here to talk about the Mick’s ankle.”

“We wanted to talk to you about Hunsinger,” said Harris, in a far more friendly tone than he had used during Brown’s initial interrogation.

“We already talked about him.” Brown clearly was reluctant to undergo another questioning.

“This is not like the last time, Brownie,” said Harris. “We thought it might be helpful if we got a little more background on Hunsinger. Sort of find out more about what kind of guy he was. For one thing, the bottom-line image we’ve gathered from comments made about him is not very favorable. We thought we’d like a peek at the other side of the coin, as it were.”

“That’s right”-Brown sounded more relaxed now that he was reassured that this would not be a repetition of the interrogation- “nobody’s had much good to say about the Hun. Well, he wasn’t a Boy Scout.”

“So,” Harris hoisted himself onto an adjacent training table and sat there adding to the informal atmosphere, “maybe there isn’t a flip side of the coin.”

“Well, I’ll say this for the Hun: he sucked up more pain and played through it more than a lotta guys I know.”

“Was he hurt much?”

“Football’s that way. Read the team reports from the league office any given weekend. There’s usually more than three hundred players listed with more than four hundred injuries.”

“How could that be-a hundred more injuries than players?”

“Multiples. The Mick’s got an ankle. But he coulda been worse. He coulda got a left ankle, left neck, right hand. The worst I ever saw was Dorsett listed with general all-body soreness.

“But don’t get me wrong; the Hun wasn’t lookin’ for trouble. Some guys do. They don’t take enough care with their equipment. Take the shoe, for instance. For football, especially on artificial turf, a shoe is, or should be, protective equipment. But if it’s not designed right for support, or if it’s worn out, you can pick up a nasty ankle injury or what they now call ‘turf toe.’

“But the Hun always got the best shoes, the best equipment. He may not have been a knight in shining armor when it came to his own personal conditioning. But that was his own personal choice. He decided he’d rather have fun than stay in tiptop conditioning. He also decided it was foolish to take needless risks with less than perfect equipment.

“And, as you know, he played just about every game. Just about every offensive play. And I can testify he had to suck up more pain than the average guy to do it.”

“But what’s so odd about that, Brownie?” Harris pursued. “Don’t the players have a saying, goes something like-“

“You can’t make the club from the tub,” Murray supplied.

“Yeah,” Harris agreed. “Doesn’t everybody play even when they’re in pain?”

“You don’t understand-or you forgot: the Hun had a guaranteed contract. Owners and management always have that fear when it comes to players with a guaranteed contract: that they’ll sit it out when they could be playing. And some do. I’ve known my share of players who float once they’ve got a contract with guarantees built in.

“But that’s the way it is. There’s always gonna be a certain kind of player who’ll put out what he thinks he should do just to remain comfortable. Then there’s those who always give 110 percent no matter how much they’re paid.

“Then, see, the guys with guaranteed contracts who won’t put out are just bein’ shortsighted. No contract, guaranteed or not, is forever. So when the floater’s contract is up, that’s all she wrote. He’s out.

“That’s what the Hun knew. And that’s what separated him from almost everyone else. He knew no contract was forever. And he was one who gave his 110 percent and-mostly ‘cause of the years he put in-he played with more pain than any other player I’ve ever known. But not because he gave a damn for the team. Just because he knew no contract was forever. And he intended to get every penny he could from the game.

“And that pretty much explains the Hun.”

“Interesting,” Harris said. “Very interesting. But how did he do it? How was he able to keep on playing week after week, season after season with all those injuries and all that pain? Was he some kind of superman?”

“No; the Hun was no superman. But he had a king-sized determination. And we’d help him as much as we could.”

“How’s that?”

“Pills. Painkillers.” Brown noticed Harris’s eyebrow arch. “Oh, nothing illegal; the team doctor prescribed ’em. I just doled ’em out. The Hun got ’em after just about every game. Almost all the time, they did the job.”

“What did you give him?”

“Dilaudid.” Brown reached back to unlock the medicine cabinet. He removed a bottle from one of the shelves, took off the bottle cap, and shook a pill into his hand. He showed the pill to Harris and Ewing. “Dilaudid.”

“Little, isn’t it?” said Harris. “Looks like a BB. That could do the job? On a man the size of Hunsinger?”

Brown nodded vigorously. “Yup. That’s why it’s so little. Because it’s so powerful. Works like morphine. Got a real kick. It did the job, even for the Hun.” Brown chuckled. “But you’re right about one thing: it’s so little the Hun wouldn’t believe it could kill all the pain. He wasn’t one for moderation. As, for example, that poison he kept in the apartment-strychnine. Most people’d be content to use traps or some commercial product. Not the Hun; he’s gotta have the king of rat poisons.”

“So what did you do?” Harris asked.

“Huh?”

“What did you do to convince him one little pill would be enough?”

“Oh, yeah, right. Well, he wasn’t one to take no for an answer. So I used to give him two pills. . no, not two Dilaudid. The Hun may have been big but he was no horse.” Brown reached again into the medicine cabinet, searching for another container. “I used to give him two pills. But I kept reminding him that one was all he needed. The warning that one was enough, along with always breaking down and giving him a second pill, worked. As long as the Hun thought he was getting double strength, he was satisfied. But the second pill wasn’t much more than a placebo.”

Brown found the bottle for which he’d been searching. He removed the container, opened it, and shook another pill into his hand, where it rested alongside the Dilaudid. He showed both pills to the officers. “Papazole. It’s an-antithyroid-medication, — but-unlike the Dilaudid, it’s of very weak strength. You could take lots of Papazole in this strength without doing yourself any damage. For all practical purposes, the Papazole was a placebo.”

Harris studied the two pills. “You mean you were able to pass them both off as Dilaudid?”

“Sure, the Hun couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Well,” Harris said with some satisfaction, “they look to be the same size and shape, but they’re different colors. I mean, the Dilaudid is yellow and the Papazole is white.”

“Sure. But the Hun couldn’t tell. .” Brown’s voice trailed off; a look of extreme dismay appeared on his face.

“Because the Hun was colorblind.” Harris completed Brown’s statement.’

“Brownie!” Murray exclaimed. “You knew! I thought I was the only one who knew as well!”

“Yes, Brownie knew.” Harris could feel the adrenalin pumping. The familiar euphoria that came with closing in for the kill. “Brownie knew. But Brownie didn’t tell anybody. Why is that, Brownie?”

“I. . I didn’t think it was important.”

“Didn’t think it was important? A man has a condition that affects less than 1 percent of all human males, and you didn’t think it was important? We asked you, first time around, to list all Hunsinger’s impairments and idiosyncrasies. You mentioned his compulsions and astigmatism, but not his colorblindness. Because you didn’t think it was important? You said he had astigmatism, which affects a goodly proportion of the populace. But you neglected to say he was colorblind, a condition so rare it is almost unique? Because you didn’t think it was important!

“Let me tell you what happened last Sunday, Brownie. At ten you left the Pontiac Inn. Instead of coming here as you usually do, you hurried to Hunsinger’s apartment. You already knew about the new security system in the lobby. You were able to study it on the previous Tuesday evening when you came to the meeting of the discussion club. You timed your entrance to the lobby, synchronizing it so you wouldn’t be caught by the sweeping closed-circuit camera. You flipped open the lock with one of your plastic credit cards.

“You went up to Hunsinger’s apartment, got the strychnine, switched the bottles of shampoo and DMSO, poured the strychnine into the DMSO. The liquid in the bottle where the pink shampoo usually rested now was white. But you knew it didn’t make any difference to your plan. The bottles were the same shape and size, just like those two pills you just showed us. You knew it didn’t matter that the liquid in each of the bottles was a different color, just like you knew it didn’t matter that the two pills you always gave Hunsinger, which were supposed to be identical, were, in reality, different colors. The different-colored liquid and the different-colored pills would make no difference to Hunsinger because you knew that Hunsinger was colorblind!

“Then you got out of the building the same way you got in, by synchronizing your exit through the lobby with the moving camera. And you hurried back out here to get here just before the team arrived from the inn. And that’s what you did last Sunday. You killed Henry Hunsinger!”

“It’s not true. I didn’t do it.”

“You got an explanation that’s different from mine? One you can corroborate with any witnesses? You can’t account for two hours last Sunday morning. No one can testify as to your whereabouts for those two hours. We’ve been looking for someone with a motive for killing Hunsinger. You had one: he was corrupting physically and morally everyone on the team he could. We’ve been looking for someone who had the opportunity: I just explained how you did it.

“And finally, we’ve been looking for the ‘smoking gun’-the one who, along with motive and opportunity, knew that color meant nothing to Hunsinger because the poor bastard was colorblind.

“I think we’ve got our man.” As Ewing began handcuffing Brown, Harris removed a card from his wallet and began to read, “You have the right to remain silent. .”

Brown, face ashen, looked at the floor. “I think I’d better talk to a lawyer.”

Father Koesler, even late that day, was still embarrassed by his colossal faux pas. Imagine involving the police in a fallacious guilt theory! He wondered if either Mr. or Mrs. Galloway might sue for something or other. He’d heard of litigation for false arrest. He wondered if there were some such process for false accusation. Of course, neither of them was actually accused of anything. But his had been such an egregious error that he thought mere embarrassment insufficient penalty.

Koesler had not felt so mortified since his school days. Well, perhaps once since then. Oddly, it had been during another homicide investigation. The one in which everyone was looking for a local monsignor who had mysteriously disappeared. That time too he’d had a theory that had proven to be without foundation. Yes, his embarrassment on that occasion had easily equaled his present chagrin. And for roughly the same reason.

When would he settle down and address only the questions he was asked instead of wandering around in a field wherein he was destined to remain an amateur?

It was nearing six o’clock. Ordinarily at this hour he would start dinner and watch the evening news. This evening he decided on only half his ritual. He wouldn’t watch the news. Most likely there would be something about the Hunsinger investigation. There had been every evening, if only to report that there had been no progress. And he didn’t want to be reminded of that investigation and his blundering participation in it. So he put two generous-sized hamburgers on a low fire, then went to his office to begin preparation for next Sunday’s homily.

He had already decided to base his homily on the second Scripture, a reading from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans: “It is rare that anyone should lay down his life for a just man, though it is barely possible that for a good man someone may have the courage to die. It is precisely in this that God proves his love for us: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

Koesler always seemed to favor these Scriptures that emphasized, explained, or demonstrated God’s incredible love for his creatures. People in general, in Koesler’s view, did not often enough reflect on that reality. They thus missed one of the overpowering sources of consolation in life as well as a magnificent motivation for love of others.

Yet it was strange that he was again focusing on death. It seemed, since the murder of Hunsinger, that he could not escape the subject. And here he was again thinking of Hunsinger. He wished, as he had many times in the past, that he had more mental discipline.

The phone rang. That would distract from the homily preparation. Things simply were not working out very well this day.

“St.Anselm’s.”

“Bob?”

“Yes.” He always felt vaguely uncomfortable when addressed by his given name, unless it was by a relative, an extremely close friend, or another priest. Most priests today seemed to be addressed by just about everyone as good old Tommy, Louis, or Eddie. Koesler readily admitted to being traditional enough to find a place for a sense of respect for an office. Especially the office of a priest.

“This is Pat,” the now familiar voice of McNiff identified.

“Oh, hi, Pat. What’s up?”

“Did you hear it on the news?”

“Hear what? I didn’t have the news on.”

“The five-thirty news. They got him. They got the guy who killed Hunsinger.”

Koesler was almost afraid to ask, “Who?”

“The trainer. What’s his name? Jack Brown. Showed him being taken into police headquarters. Handcuffs and all.”

“What time did they arrest him; did they say?”

“Uh. .”McNiff tried to recollect. “I think they just said earlier today. But it seemed like it was kind of bright out. I don’t recall seeing any shadows. I guess it must’ve been around noon, or midday, at least.”

“Pat, do you remember which police officers brought him in?”

“They didn’t give any names, but there was a cop on either side of him. . had ahold of his arms.”

“Do you remember, was one white and the other black?”

“Yeah, I think that was it. . holy crow, what do you think I do, memorize the news? I just thought you’d be interested. “

“Yeah, you’re right, Pat. Thanks a lot for calling.”

Well, that was that. Koesler felt that it was safe to speculate that Brown had known about Hunsinger’s colorblindness and that somehow Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing had found some way of getting Brown to admit his knowledge.

The priest felt certain that once the official duties were finished later this evening, Inspector Koznicki would call with both news of the arrest and some of the less publicized details.

Koesler felt so profoundly sorry for Jack Brown. How far the man must have been pushed to take another’s life! And the life of an athlete, at that. The very type person he had dedicated his life to heal and restore.

Koesler decided he would pray for Jack Brown. He felt he had already said enough prayers for Brown’s victim.

As Koesler finished his prayer, he smelled smoke. He hurried into the kitchen where he found two very burned hamburgers.

His shoulders drooped. The perfect end, he thought, to a not altogether perfect day!

A small man paced up and down the street, all the while restricting his travel to a single block. Each time he reached one of the two corners, he would pause and seem to reflect. He was neatly but inexpensively dressed, and clean shaven. A snap-brim fedora covered his Ivy League trim gray hair. He was perhaps in his late fifties, early sixties.

A single building stood on the block where he walked. It was 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police Headquarters.

Inside, on the fifth floor, in the homicide section, three men sat in an otherwise unoccupied squad room. All three felt the peculiar elation that usually accompanies the successful completion of a difficult job.

“What I don’t yet understand,” Sergeant Ewing said, “is what led you to the trail of Jack Brown. He seemed to me to be an A-1 straightshooter.”

“That was my impression too,” Harris said. “In the beginning I thought he was the least suspect of all of them.”

“Then what was it, Ned?” Inspector Koznicki asked.

“Actually, Walt, I took a page from your friend, Father Koesler.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Father Koesler is by trade a ‘father confessor.’ I mean, there are lots of people who are called father confessors. Anybody, actually, who is in a special position to receive others’ confidences or give out advice. But a priest is the original father confessor. He is there and Catholics come to him and pour out their most intimate secrets. Eventually, the priest gets to know his people probably better than anyone else could. . that about the way it works, Walt?”

Koznicki, smiling, nodded.

“Well,” Harris continued, “I got to thinking about that, when, all of a sudden, this light goes on. At least on a physical level-and probably on several other levels too-who is more father confessor to athletes than their trainer?

“I mean, a player may try to fool his coach, an assistant coach, or somebody in management. But the one who patches up the cuts and tapes up the sprains is the trainer. The trainer alone on the team is the one who puts his hands on the bruises and torn ligaments. If a player is going to succeed, especially in a violent game like football, he’s just got to confide in his trainer. The trainer is the very last person in the world a player could hope to fool. If anybody on a team could be called a father confessor, it surely would be the trainer.”

“Therefore,” Koznicki concluded, “you felt that Jack Brown must certainly know everything about Hunsinger, including that he was colorblind.”

“That’s it, Walt. And if I was right, why didn’t he tell us about it when we first questioned him? We gave him every opportunity. He told us freely and voluntarily everything else about Hunsinger. Why not the colorblindness, if he knew?”

“So,” Ewing said, “you were on a fishing expedition when you were talking to Brown this morning.”

“Exactly. For once, I got to play the nice cop. I didn’t know where it was going to lead, though. I just hoped that if we got Brown loosened up enough to be off his guard, he just might slip up. But, damn, he couldn’t have been better! I could hardly believe my eyes when Brown stood there holding those pills, identical in every way except they were different colors. And then Brown tells us Hunsinger couldn’t tell the difference!”

“Excellent work, Ned,” said Koznicki.

The man who had been pacing up and down in front of headquarters had not drawn any special attention. Under ordinary circumstances no one was assigned to survey the outside of the building.

Police officers and others who had business at headquarters usually traveled briskly into or out of the building. They paid little attention to one another unless one happened to know a colleague; then greetings were exchanged. But no one would pay any special attention to a stranger on the street. None did now. None paused long enough to be aware that the stranger was pacing seemingly without purpose.

But when the stranger entered headquarters and appeared hesitant about where he was going and what he was doing, several officers noted his unconventional behavior. One approached him. “Can I help you?”

“Uh!” The stranger seemed startled. “Oh. I don’t know. I’m looking for somebody. Do you know where they took Jack Brown?”

“Who’s Jack Brown?”

“They arrested him earlier. Or at least that’s what somebody told me.

“Arrested him. What case? What for?”

“The Hunsinger murder.”

“Oh, yeah; the football player. You want the fifth floor. Take the elevator there.”

The small man pushed the up button and waited patiently.

“Thank God that one’s over with,” Ewing said.

“Right!” Harris replied. “We got almost hopelessly backed up on all the other cases we were working on.”

“That is the way it is,” Koznicki said, “when a case like this is played up by the media. The pressure to close the case is enormous. This is by no means the first time we have had such pressure. Nor will it be the last.”

“Well, onward and upward,” said Ewing.

“Uh. .” said the small man in the doorway, “pardon me, but is this homicide?”

“It is,” Koznicki said. “May we help you?”

“I hope so. I’ve got a problem. My name is Harold Drake. I’m a security guard out at the Silverdome.”

Nothing Mr. Drake was saying seemed connected with anything else he said. Clearly, he was confused and ill at ease.

“Sit down here, Mr. Drake, and tell us what the problem is,” said Koznicki.

“Well, it’s about Jack Brown. I heard you arrested him today. . for the murder of Hank Hunsinger?” It was uttered in the form of a question as Drake sat at the table the others were using.

All three officers felt tension build within themselves.

“I don’t know if I should even be here,” Drake continued. “I didn’t even hear about it myself. My wife told me about it. She heard it on the news.”

“You want to be a little more specific, Mr. Drake?” Ewing asked.

“Well, she-my wife, that is-said she heard on the news that Mr. Brown was arrested for the murder of the Hun. She said the guy on the news said that the cops-excuse me, the police-said that Brown allegedly-that the word? — left the Pontiac Inn last Sunday at ten o’clock and, uh, allegedly set up the Hun’s murder, then got to the stadium by noon when the team arrived.”

There was a pause.

“Well?” Harris said it angrily. He had a foreboding.

“Well,” Drake said, “that couldn’a happened.”

“What do you mean it couldn’t have happened!” Harris was angry and incredulous.

“He was at the stadium. He was at the Silverdome.”

“How do you know that?”

“ ’Cause I saw him. I was the guard on duty. Only I wasn’t at the gate, at my post. I was inside, in an office inside the tunnel where I could see who came in but they couldn’t see me. An’ I saw Jack Brown come in and go into the Cougars’ locker room. It was about a quarter past ten. An’ he stayed in the locker room. He was there when the team came in about noon. Everything was just like it always is.”

“And why would you not be at your post?” Koznicki asked. “Why would you be in an inside office?”

“I ain’t gonna lie to you. Just not bein’ at the gate puts me up shit’s creek without a paddle.

“I done it lotsa times. I keep a pint in that office. Hid. I can go in there and have a wee nip and still see the outside door. If somebody comes in who ain’t supposed to, I can just step outta the office and challenge ’em. It was just about foolproof until now.

“But I just can’t see Mr. Brown in all this trouble when I know he couldn’a done it. Mr. Brown’s been good to me. He’s about the only one bothered to learn my name. Always says hello to me. A real nice guy. He couldn’a done it. I saw him come in and I know he stayed. Only he couldn’a known I saw him.”

“Why didn’t you tell us all this when we questioned you the first time, a few days ago?”

“’Cause I didn’t wanna lose my job. I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, anytime, ever. But when Mr. Brown got arrested. .” Drake’s explanation seemed prematurely complete. “Well, that’s it.”

The three officers questioned Drake for a half hour more, but could not break down his story or find a flaw in it.

At length they were forced to accept the fact that, although Jack Brown possessed the information that had come to be known as the “smoking gun,” he now had a solid alibi. There was no other feasible conclusion.

Ewing took Drake’s statement, had him sign it, and warned him to stay available for any possible further questioning. Drake then was permitted to leave.

“Where is Brown now?” Koznicki asked.

“Upstairs in a holding cell.” Harris was sullen.

“What is his status?”

Ewing answered. “We’ve got the prosecutor’s recommendation for warrant, but we haven’t got the warrant yet.”

“So he is still in our jurisdiction. I believe we had better cut him loose,” Koznicki said.

“I’ll do it.” Harris’s motive was more inquisitiveness than expiation. He took the elevator to the ninth floor, was admitted to Brown’s cell, and informed him of the alibi provided by Drake.

“Poor Harold,” said Brown. “I guess they’ll can him for that. No alternative. Never mind; I’ll see he gets a job. Least I can do. I owe him a barrel.”

“Do you realize how much trouble you were in up till about an hour ago?” Harris said. “A first-degree murder charge and a pack of circumstantial evidence. I don’t have to kid you, you’re off the hook now. But I think we could’ve gotten a conviction. So what I want to know is why you didn’t tell us in the initial interrogation that you knew Hunsinger was colorblind?”

“Well, I knew I was a suspect, although I didn’t know why. From that point on, I wasn’t gonna provide any more info than I absolutely had to. Somethin’ like talkin’ to the IRS: keep your mouth shut and don’t volunteer information. ’Sides,” he looked searchingly at Harris, “if I had told you I knew about Hunsinger, what would you have done?”

Harris thought for a moment. “Probably have moved you up a notch on the list of suspects. But not much more than that. It was your lie of omission that got you in over your head.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, it isn’t that I’m not learning something from all you’re saying, but is it okay for me to go now? I mean, am I free?”

“Yeah, you’re free. You can pick up your things at the desk down the hall.”

“I guess you’re back at square one, aren’tcha?”

“Uh-huh.” Harris was as down now as he had been up an hour before.

“Well, sorry for that. But I’m just as glad I’m out from under. “

“Tell me about it.”