Death Wears a Red Hat Read online

  Marshall: Tell me, Father, we have learned that the deceased, Dutch Strauss, was a Catholic—at least nominally— and that he graduated from Holy Redeemer High School here in Detroit. Did you ever see him in attendance here at St. Aloysius?

  Borucki: Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. There are so many coming in and out here all the time I have trouble remembering the few regulars we have.

  Marshall: But you must discuss with the other priests who comes to Mass here, particularly if it is someone as notorious as Dutch Strauss.

  Borucki: Well, not really. You see, I’m into heraldry.

  Marshall (somewhat confused): What?

  Borucki: Heraldry. You know, making coats of arms, things like that.

  Marshall: Uh, well, yes, well, thank you, Father. (Camera full on Marshall. He turns to camera.) This is Ven Marshall, Channel 7 Action News, at St. Aloysius Church, Detroit.

  (Camera off. Lights out.)

  Marshall turned to his crew. “Would you guys see if you can find me a normal priest?”

  Joe Cox had been moving swiftly from one group to another, listening to conversations and asking questions. Periodically, he glanced at Pat Lennon.

  Throughout this entire period, she stood motionless, contemplating the headless statue of St. Raphael the Archangel.

  Larry Delaney, film critic for the Detroit Free Press, sat at his desk searching his mind for just the right phrase. He was reviewing the Americana’s latest offering, a return engagement of “Claire’s Knee.”

  Besides writing matchless reviews of local cinematic offerings, Delaney periodically was sent to cover such foreign delights as the Cannes and Venice Film Festivals, and that made-for-media event, Hollywood’s Oscar presentations.

  In addition, Delaney was the original Anonymous Gourmet, a secret so well kept that even many Free Press staffers did not know the A.G.'s identity—though a true investigative reporter would have had little trouble ferreting out the truth.

  Steady surveillance over Delaney’s shoulder would have revealed, in place of the usual press kit for consultation near his typewriter, a menu.

  No matter which was there, press kit or menu, Delaney would sit lost in reflective thought until just the proper phrase emerged into his consciousness. This emergence, once transmitted into deathless black and white, was occasionally greeted by its author with brief delighted applause.

  On the neighboring desk, belonging to Donna Halliday, the Free Press book editor, the phone rang. She answered it: “Features Department.”

  Donna, petite, pretty, and preoccupied, was one of the staffers least recognized by the reading public. Generally, she was hidden from view by stacks of books. The books were heaped high on and around her desk, on nearby filing cabinets and under tables. The tables were also heaped high with literary journals and newsletters, as well as the outpourings of publicists’ flackery, each proclaiming their latest offering to be another Roots or Gone with the Wind. The majority of these books were doomed, for sheer lack of editorial space, to remain stillborn as far as a possible Free Press review was concerned.

  After listening to the party on the other end for a few seconds, Halliday, covering the mouthpiece with her hand, stood on tiptoe. Like an attractive version of Kilroy, she peered over the pile of books sandbagging her desk. “Larry, it’s the general manager of Mario’s restaurant on the phone. He wants to know when the Anonymous Gourmet is going to run the review of his place.”

  Delaney pushed aside the press kit and pondered the question as he gazed absently across Lafayette Boulevard into the maze of skyscrapers. “Not in the foreseeable future. I haven’t been there in a while.”

  Quietly, Halliday relayed this information. Seconds later, she returned to her tiptoes, once more peered over the books and said, “Larry, he says you were there just the other night. You were masquerading as a priest.”

  Delaney’s fingers stopped in mid-type. He thought this allegation over carefully. Finally, he returned to his review, commenting over his shoulder to Halliday, “He’s out of his mind.”

  Halliday spoke calmly into the receiver. “He says you’re out of your mind!” With that, she hung up and wondered what on earth she was going to do with all these books.

  After receiving Moellmann’s verdict on the latest head, Harris drove to St. Aloysius and added his car to the many other marked and unmarked police vehicles at the scene. He checked with Fred Ross and several others of his squad, dodged Ven Marshall, who was not having a particularly good day, and proceeded to the clandestine headquarters of the late Dutch Strauss on Alexandrine.

  In the whitewashed foyer, Harris met Detectives Charlie Papkin and Dietrich Bernhard. Harris glanced into the interior of the back room. It was outfitted like a relatively small warehouse, except that its one commodity was illegal drugs. In one corner, seated uncomfortably on straight-back chairs, were four oversized men, erstwhile bodyguards of the late king of the drug empire.

  Nodding in the direction of the four, Harris asked, “The goons give you any trouble?”

  “They are completely bewildered,” said the precise Bernhard.

  “At the moment,” continued Papkin, doing the color commentary, “they couldn’t lean on Mary Tyler Moore.”

  “They have no explanation for what happened,” said Bernhard. “Everything went according to routine to a point. They had a late lunch at a prestigious restaurant; yesterday it happened to be the Ren Cens Summit—”

  “Did they eat with anyone in particular?” interrupted Harris.

  “Well,” Papkin consulted his note pad, “the four stooges usually ate together. Sort of a floating pigsty. But Strauss’ companions were a couple of high-ranking bankers from,” he turned a page, “First Standard Bank and Trust.”

  “Anyone checking them?”

  “Pat Karnego is over there now.”

  “Go on,” Harris said, addressing Bernhard.

  “They returned to this address at approximately three in the afternoon. The four bodyguards went immediately to the workhouse.”

  “You mean,” Harris interjected, “they left Strauss alone?”

  “It was part of the routine,” Bernhard answered.

  “Hidden behind that light switch is a button that lowers this staircase.” Bernhard indicated the exposed button and the now lowered staircase.

  “You won’t believe what’s up there!” Papkin enthused.

  “In any case,” Bernhard continued, “according to routine, a girl is waiting for Strauss. They have a quick sexual encounter, and Strauss returns invigorated.”

  “Except that yesterday,” said Papkin, “before Goldilocks and his four bears got back from lunch, someone called the caretaker, using the secret code, and told him Strauss wanted no girl today and that the others knew it.”

  “But what happened to Strauss?” Harris asked.

  “Well,” Bernhard responded, “after about three hours—which was about two hours more than usual—the bodyguards decided to investigate. They went upstairs cautiously, since Strauss was furious when interrupted. They found no one.

  “They didn’t know what happened or where to look until they heard on the radio this morning about Strauss’ head at St. Aloysius.”

  “I see,” said Harris. He started up the staircase, followed by Bernhard and Papkin.

  As Harris’ head cleared the floor level, he stopped in his tracks, his eyes widened in surprise. Somebody was in the large circular bed in the room’s far corner. Surprised eyes relaxed into laugh lines. The slim, subtly undulated form belonged to Detective Colleen Farrell.

  “Lying down on the job, Sergeant?” Harris asked with mock severity.

  Farrell was out of the bed and on her feet as if catapulted. She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. “I was just checking out the male chauvinistic pig side of life,” she said, but there was heightened color in her cheeks.

  “And what did you find?” pursued the broadly smiling Harris.

  Farrell looked back into the mutually reflec
ting mirrors. “I feel sorry for anybody who needs all that to turn on.”

  “Not much here,” Papkin commented. “No sign of a struggle, no broken or overturned furniture, no blood.”

  “Latent prints don’t give us much,” said Bernhard. “Most we’ve lifted appear to be Strauss’ or one of his attendants.”

  “There is something,” said Farrell, indicating the molding at the closet’s corner. “I just happened on it before you came up, Lieutenant. See these marks on the molding ...as if someone were hanging on for dear life. And then,” she moved slowly across the room toward the opposite wall, “there seem to be fingernail marks along the carpet, as if a reluctant body had been dragged across it. But the marks stop here, just a little beyond the middle of the room.”

  The three men examined the marks Farrell had indicated.

  Harris scratched his chin. “If there had been any kind of struggle, if there had been any shouting or screaming, wouldn’t Strauss’ goons downstairs have heard it?”

  “Negative,” Bernhard answered. “Room’s entirely soundproof. Strauss was frequently pretty rough with his playmates. He felt more comfortable if no one could hear their cries for mercy.”

  Farrell grimaced.

  Harris wandered toward the wall leading to the bathroom. On a small nightstand was an ordinary copper ashtray.

  Harris picked it up and examined its contents. He stood silent for so long that the other three came over to see what was holding his attention. All four stood gazing into the ashtray.

  “Do any of you,” asked Harris, finally, “know anyone who has a habit of chewing toothpicks?”

  The three looked from one to the other. Each shrugged negatively.

  “Well,” sighed Harris, “I do.” He handed the ashtray to Bernhard. “Take this downtown and see if the toothpicks can be checked for fingerprints or tooth imprints.”

  Bernhard draped a clean cloth over and around the ashtray and its contents, picked up the bundle, and departed.

  “This case,” said Harris ruefully, “has taken a sudden turn of my stomach.”

  “Hey! Ain’t Malcolm ever gon’ be back?”

  “No, man. You know better than that. Malcolm got hit on a big number and he took the money and run.”

  The verbal transaction was taking place on the corner of West Grand Boulevard and Bagley in the midst of a large Chicano community on Detroit’s near southwest side. Juan Gonzales was making his daily numbers bet.

  “Well, you know, man, Malcolm was on these streets lots of years. We come to trust him, man. You sure he ain’t never gon’ be back?” Gonzales was one among many, mostly minorities, who for various reasons preferred continuing to do business with illegal numbers runners rather than playing the legal Michigan lotteries.

  “No, man. You can be sure Malcolm ain’ gonna be back. First off, he owed Martinez twenty-two hundred, which he ain’t got and which, if Martinez ever catches him, he will take out of Malcolm’s hide. You guys oughta know by now you can’t do business with them niggers!”

  As far as that goes, Gonzales thought, he’d just as soon do business with a black as a gringo. He left the thought unarticulated; Gonzales was thoroughly convinced there was no sense in this short life in making enemies needlessly. And not only was Scott Duprie, with whom Gonzales was now doing business, a large gringo with a short fuse, but Duprie was a runner for the Fitzgerald syndicate. It was common knowledge that one did not stir up the Fitzgerald gang. Or one was leaned on until crushed.

  “Well, Juan, what’s it gonna be?” Duprie was eager to get by Gonzales, a notoriously small bettor known to wager as little as a dime, and get on to bigger fish.

  “I want,” Gonzales wore a rare look of confidence, “number 315!” Duprie smiled as he wrote out the slip. 315 had been a popular number this day. This was about the forty-fifth customer who had picked that number. Evidently, it was based on the fact that the Tigers were in third place in the American League’s East division, with fifteen games remaining to be played. One thing Duprie was sure of: if 315 came in this day, the winning number would be changed. The syndicate would never pay off on such a popularly played number.

  “O. K.,” Duprie said, “how much you gonna lay on it, Juan?”

  Proudly, Gonzales displayed fifteen one-dollar bills and one ten.

  Duprie didn’t care how Gonzales had come up with twenty-five dollars. He could have stolen it from one of the local Ma and Pa groceries or from the sugar jar at home. In any case, Gonzales was about to lose twenty-five smackers.

  “O.K., Juan.” Duprie tucked Gonzales’ twenty-five dollars away. “I hope this is your lucky day.”

  “Oh, this is my lucky day, O.K. I’m gon’ hit it big just in time. Maria gon’ have another kid pretty soon. And this money, it’s gon’ get her in big safe hospital instead of clinic this time. You see!”

  “Yeah, Juan.” Duprie tipped his finger against the brim of his hat. “See you round.”

  The doorbell rang at St. Anselm’s rectory. An event that had lessened in frequency over the parish’s nearly twenty-five-year history.

  In the past quarter-century, the Catholic rectory, particularly in the suburbs, had evolved from being the hub of neighborhood activity to being, as some wags insisted, a home for unmarried fathers.

  Especially in a parish such as Anselm’s in affluent Dearborn Heights, the parish priest was no longer the only—let alone the best—educated person in the community. St. Anselm’s could number among its parishioners college presidents, school supervisors, Ph.D’s, M.D.’s, dentists, and auto executives. When they were under psychic stress, they saw a psychotherapist—another professional. When they were under financial stress, they saw a broker or banker. Seldom, particularly since the de-emphasis on confession after Vatican II, did they search out their friendly parish priest. Unless they needed a fourth for bridge or tennis.

  Mary O’Connor, the parish secretary, opened the door. Her eyes focused first on an open wallet containing the police shield and I.D. of Detective Dietrich Bernhard. Her focus widened to encompass Bernhard’s tall blond Teutonic figure.

  “I’m here to see Father Koesler, Ma’am.” Bernhard bowed, and almost clicked his heels. “I called earlier. I believe Father expects me.”

  “Oh …well, won’t you come in? ‘ Mary stepped back from the door, opening it to allow the officer’s entry. No one had told her a policeman was expected. That was odd; Father Koesler usually kept her well informed. She buzzed his room on the intercom and announced the official visitor.

  In no time, Koesler reached the hallway, greeted Bernhard, and invited him into the living room, which, along with the dining area, had been decorated by a predecessor with scenes from The Canterbury Tales.

  “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  Bernhard consulted his notes. “I wonder, Father, if you could account for your whereabouts between two and five P.M. yesterday?”

  Koesler bristled. “May I ask why I must account for my whereabouts yesterday?”

  “Part of a routine investigation, Father.” Bernhard’s tone was calm, low, and conversational.

  Koesler recollected briefly. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” There was an edge of anger in the priest’s voice. For some strange reason, he was under investigation for some crime. He felt insulted and deeply resentful. “I spent the afternoon with Irene Casey, editor of the Detroit Catholic.”

  “She can corroborate this?”

  “Of course.”

  Bernhard was writing in his note pad. “Would anyone have seen the two of you together?”

  “Well …” Koesler hesitated, trying to recall the details of his visit with his successor at the archdiocesan newspaper. “Oh, yes, of course. The door to her office is always open, and members of the editorial staff are constantly passing by. Jim Pool, the managing editor, interrupted us pretty regularly.”

  “And your visit extended from two until five?”

  Koesler sighed. “Actually, I arrived a little before two
and stayed through the afternoon. We talked, mostly about business matters, then I took Irene to dinner at Carl’s Chop House about five-thirty. Carl himself was there to greet us.”

  “Do you frequently drop in at the Detroit Catholic for a visit?”

  “No. Yesterday I had lunch with Archbishop Boyle.” Koesler reflected once more on how pompous that sounded when the act was so easily accomplished. “During my conversation with the Archbishop, formerly my publisher, Irene’s name came up. It occurred to me that it had been too long since I had visited with her and since I had a rather undemanding afternoon I decided to visit her.”

  Bernhard finished his notes, closed his pad, and pocketed his pen. The interview seemed at a close.

  “Now,” said Koesler, “may I ask what this is all about?”

  Bernhard seemed momentarily uncertain whether to answer the direct question. “You have heard about the probable murder of one Dutch Strauss and the discovery of his head at St. Aloysius Church?”

  Koesler nodded.

  “Well, so far there are very few clues for us to work with. But at Strauss’ headquarters we found an ashtray containing several well-chewed-over toothpicks.” Bernhard glanced significantly at the ashtray on the nearby coffee table. It contained several mangled toothpicks that the priest had masticated during their interview.

  Koesler was speechless.

  “Have you any objections,” Bernhard asked, gesturing toward the gnawed toothpicks, “to my taking these for toothprint analysis?”

  Numbly, Koesler assented to the request.

  Bernhard took a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket, gathered up the toothpicks, deposited them in the envelope, rose, excused himself, explained that he could let himself out of the rectory, and left.

  Ordinarily, Koesler would have accompanied his guest to the door. But in this instance, he remained seated, his eyes fixed on the now-empty ashtray, his thoughts a jumble.

  Resentment over this interrogation drained from him as he pondered the fact that, even briefly, he had been a suspect in a murder.