Death Wears a Red Hat Read online

  “What do you mean, Walt?” Harris asked.

  “We seem to have eliminated all these clergymen as murder suspects. But before we leave this point, we must remember that an alibi only makes it more difficult to prove guilt. It is not a guarantee of innocence. We are all familiar with alibis that have not stood more careful examination.”

  He paused to let his words have their effect.

  “Even granting,” he continued, “that the murders were not committed by a clergyman, what if a clergyman were in collusion with the murderer?”

  It was obvious he had raised a hypothesis that had not previously been considered. The officers shifted to renewed attentiveness.

  “What if, after each murder, a clergyman takes the severed head and, using the knowledge and special access he has, places the head in the hat or on the statue?”

  There were several moments of silence.

  “That,” Pat Karnego protested, “is creepy.”

  “What?” Koznicki asked.

  “Imagining that a priest could be guilty of conspiracy in a crime like this.”

  “There are all those very relevant questions of Lieutenant Harris’ that need answering,” said Koznicki.

  “And remember,” added Harris, “whoever is doing this isn’t rubbing out Detroit’s High Society.”

  “That’s right,” said Colleen Farrell. “If a clergyperson is mixed up in this in any way, even by conspiracy, he or she could be doing it on the basis that it’s God’s will.”

  “Colleen,” Karnego reminded, “there are no female clergy-persons in the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “Not yet,” Farrell admitted, “but there should be. And,” she concluded defiantly, “there will be.”

  Almost reflectively, Sergeant Patrick tapped his front teeth with his index finger. “You know,” he said softly, “that Dolson fellow at the cathedral has a small-caliber revolver. Did you notice it, Bill?”

  “Yes,” said Lynch, “now that you mention it, Dean. It was in a holster on his nightstand.”

  “And that deacon, Toussaint,” said Ross, “he seemed to have his alibis right on tap—like he was ready and waiting with ’em.”

  “And I thought that Father Koesler was too defensive,” said Bernhard.

  “That’s the spirit,” Harris enthused, “nothing better for detectives than a healthy dose of mass suspicion.”

  “If we’re dealing with a case of conspiracy,” Farrell said, “then the fact that these people had alibis for the actual times of death wouldn’t matter. Whoever it is would be affixing the heads at some convenient time after the murders.”

  “That’s right,” Karnego agreed.

  “So, it’s back to the drawing board,” Harris said.

  “Before we go back to the drawing board,” Koznicki said, “and I don’t for a moment suggest that is not where we should be going, but there is an added consideration that hasn’t been mentioned.”

  Everyone looked at the Inspector expectantly.

  “We have,” Koznicki continued, “three places where the heads have been found: the Cathedral, St. Cecilia’s, and St. Aloysius. We have considered the possibility of involvement of the clergy who are in any way connected with these parishes, and we may consider their possible involvement again, this time under a different aspect of the case.”

  “A different aspect?” asked a puzzled Patrick.

  “What if there are more?” Koznicki asked in reply.

  “More?” Patrick repeated.

  “Yes,” said Koznicki. “More. We have no reason to assume that three victims are all the killer intended.”

  One could almost hear the gears grinding in the minds of his listeners.

  “What if there is a fourth victim? A fifth? What if, before we can find the murderer and stop him, more heads are left in more churches? Each new parish will have new possible suspects, either of murder or conspiracy, every bit as suspectable as the few clergypersons,” he inclined his head toward Farrell, “whom we will be reinvestigating.

  “If, in other words, we now had four, instead of three, murders in this sequence, we would be considering additional clergy—the number depending on how many clergy were associated with the fourth parish.”

  The group was silent again.

  Finally, Harris spoke. “Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday,” he said, enigmatically. “The killer has acted last Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday,” he amplified. “Every other day. We have found the heads on Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. Every other day. If there are to be more victims, someone should be killed today. And if we’re in luck, we should find a head in some Catholic church tomorrow.”

  Koznicki nodded. “You could be right, Ned. It is the logical move.”

  “Well,” said Harris, “it would be professional suicide to wait around for the killer’s next move. We’ve got to try to get ahead of him. Let’s make our plans for tomorrow. It goes without saying, all time off and leaves are canceled until we crack this case. There’s every indication the killer is working overtime on this. We’ve got to, too.”

  The announcement was greeted with a mixture of determination, resignation, and resentment. But work overtime they would.

  The number of Mass attenders at St. Frances Cabrini on Saturday mornings was even fewer than on weekdays.

  It was the habit of Father Bill Moloney to offer the Saturday morning Mass and let his confrere, Father Ted Neighbors, sleep in.

  The seven nuns who taught at St. Frances Cabrini’s parochial school were present for the 8 A.M. Mass, along with ten parishioners. Seven was a rather large complement of nuns to have in one parish, considering the scarcity of nuns. In appreciation of their presence, many events in the parish were scheduled for the nuns’ convenience. For instance, the 8 A.M. starting time for Saturday’s Mass gave the nuns a little extra time to sleep in and still accomplish all that needed doing in preparation for the heavily attended Saturday evening and Sunday morning Masses.

  There was no saint’s feast day today, so Moloney had selected a votive Mass honoring the Blessed Mother Mary. Now halfway through the Mass, he began the preface that would lead to the most important moment, the consecration.

  The preface for this Mass was dedicated to Mary. Near the beginning of the preface were a number of options. One could salute Mary “on this your feast,” or “on this festive occasion,” or “as we honor your Son, Jesus.”

  Moloney began the preface with the series of antiphons and responses that lead into all prefaces, all the while trying to determine which of the options he would choose.

  “The Lord be with you,” he said.

  “And also with you,” they responded.

  He decided he would use “on this your feast.” With that in mind, he stumbled into the next antiphon.

  “Lift up your feet,” he said, instead of the proper “Lift up your hearts” that he should have said.

  Fortunately, the nuns were alert. They burst out laughing. Had they been more somnolent, they would have responded, “We have lifted them up to the Lord.”

  The image of the congregation lifting up its collective feet to the Lord was hilarious enough to keep its various members snickering from time to time through to the end of the Mass.

  At the conclusion, Moloney lamely attempted to explain how he had confused ‘feast’ with ‘feet.’ But he only caused more laughter. He gave it up, at last, as simply a bad way of beginning this Saturday.

  Moloney was divesting in the sacristy when he thought he heard screams. Still wearing alb and cincture, he tentatively approached the door. Yes, those were definitely screams. And coming from more than one person.

  He followed the sound until he reached the arch leading to the shrine dedicated to St. Frances Cabrini. Two of the nuns were standing before the new statue of St. Frances. They were screaming determinedly.

  Moloney noticed first the man’s head that had replaced the statue’s head. It was horrible. The face was unnaturally white and contorted in terror. Moloney thou
ght he was going to be ill.

  Then he noticed what had been the marble head of the statue. It had been smashed into hundreds of pieces. The shards lay on the floor near the base of the statue.

  Strangely, all Moloney could think was, Poor Ted, the parish council will tear him apart. The poor bastard hasn’t even paid for the damn statue yet.

  This, Moloney reflected, is indeed a bad way to begin a Saturday.

  St. Frances Cabrini Church had not been this crowded on a Saturday morning since the previous Easter Saturday. And that crowd had come with food—Easter food—to be blessed. Basically a Polish custom, the Easter blessing of food had been adopted by most other Catholics as well.

  Now, instead of being redolent of pungent sausage, the church was swarming with police and news people.

  Lieutenant Harris was directing the investigation. He had already dispatched Sergeants Patrick and Lynch to the headquarters of Garnet Fitzgerald. He had also assigned Patricia Karnego and Fred Ross to act as liaison with the Organized Crime Division, since Fitzgerald’s numbers racket fell under their jurisdiction.

  Harris responded to the repeated questions, initially from the television and radio people, who were always first to begin and end their stay at a news scene, then from the print people.

  Yes, this appeared to be another in the series of Red Hat Murders, if you’ve got to keep on calling them that. But the investigation is not completed. No, the police have no further solid leads. Yes, there are some possible suspects but he was not at liberty to reveal any names. No, dammit, the police department was not looking the other way while Detroit’s criminal element was wiping itself out.

  As was his wont, Joe Cox stood apart from the madding crowd of reporters. He was aware of the questions and answers, but his eyes alertly scanned the assemblage. He relied on what frequently proved an unerring instinct that led him to the soft underbelly of a story.

  Right now, his intuition was leading him in the direction of Father William Moloney. Cox knew that Moloney was director of education for the Detroit archdiocese. He hadn’t known of Moloney’s residency here. After being questioned by the police, Moloney had stood about the fringes of activity and was attended by no one. Cox moved across the church to stand next to him.

  “Hi, Father, I didn’t know you lived here.”

  “Oh,” the surprised Moloney replied, “hello, Joe.”

  They had met many times at news conferences where Moloney had played the role of Official Archdiocesan Spokesman.

  “Can you tell me anything about this statue?” Cox nodded toward the literally defaced St. Frances Cabrini.

  “On or off the record, Joe?”

  “Whichever way you say. “

  “Off.”

  “O.K.”

  “Only that the pastor here has been carrying his ass in a sling because of it.”

  “How’s that?”

  Moloney explained the prodigality and the parish council’s reaction.

  “Then, “ Cox asked, “this statue is a rather recent addition to this church?”

  “Oh, yes,” Moloney said. “Father Neighbors had pretty well kept it under his hat, I think for fear of the parishioners’ reaction. And judging from the reaction of the parish council, he was correct in his foreboding of doom.”

  “Until the statue was placed in the church a couple of weeks ago,” Cox persisted, “who would you say knew of its existence?”

  “Oh, I’d say the artist, Ted Neighbors, and, as one born out of due time, he let me in on it. That’s about the size of it."

  “Thanks, Father.” Cox shut his notebook and tucked pen in pocket.

  “You mean that was a help?” Moloney asked.

  “You don’t know how much,” Cox said, as he turned to leave.

  As he walked down the aisle, he glanced back at the fated statue. For the first time, he noticed Pat Lennon standing motionless before the statue, staring at it. Poor girl, he thought, she’s going to have to abandon her hypothesis about the relevance of the hat and statues to the solution of these murders. He was about to blow that line of reasoning out of the water. Since no one had known of the existence of the Cabrini statue until a couple of weeks ago except three people who couldn’t possibly be involved in these murders, no one could have made the necessary plans long enough in advance to use this statue as a statement of any kind.

  He would use this in the lead of his article on the Red Hat murderer striking again.

  He’d have to talk to Pat tonight. She would undoubtedly feel down in the dumps after she read his piece.

  The scene inside St. Frances Cabrini rectory was not as confused as that in the church, but it was no happier.

  Since Father Moloney had been scheduled to offer morning Mass, Father Neighbors had not expected to be needed until at least early Saturday afternoon. Armed with this assurance, Neighbors had put away a bit too much wine before going to bed Friday night. As a result of all that wine and the unexpected discovery of the decapitated statue and the severed head, Neighbors was nursing an impressive hangover.

  Which was nothing compared with his anguish at the iconoclasm that had been committed in his church.

  Moloney had wakened him, after much effort, just before nine this morning to give him the sad news. At the time, he had treated it as a nightmare and had pulled the covers back over his head.

  He had been unable to extend this defense mechanism to the police investigation. Fortunately, since the police had gotten most of their information from Moloney, they had blessedly few questions for him. Since the time he had decided to face reality, he had been steadily drinking the coffee Mrs. Bovey kept pumping into him. It was not helping much.

  The doorbell rang. More loudly in his head than at the chimes in the kitchen. Though it was painful, he shouted to Mrs. Bovey that he would answer the door.

  It was Sergeant Farrell, that abrupt young woman who had called on him earlier.

  “Yes?” He tried very hard to concentrate.

  “Lieutenant Harris,” she said, “wants you to know that the lock on the side door of the church has been broken.”

  Wordlessly, he shut the door. Woe upon woe. His precious statue was ruined. That nasty situation would have to be faced and handled eventually. Now the door lock was broken. That would have to be faced immediately. He wondered if he could enlist Moloney’s help.

  This was indeed a poor way to begin a Saturday.

  Pat Lennon had convinced her assistant news editor, Bob Ankenazy. Now both were making their case with Leon London, managing editor. London was empowered to make a final decision. And a final decision would have to be made very soon.

  Lennon explained her hypothesis for the third and, she hoped, final time.

  The Red Hat was an outrageous pun for capital punishment. St. Cecilia’s storied purity was an outrageous travesty on Detroit’s premier pimp. St. Raphael, as patron saint of druggists, was symbolic of phencyclidine, more popularly known as PCP, or in street parlance, angel dust.

  Pat had checked all this with her expert source, Father Leo Clark, who had agreed with her hypothesis.

  From the moment she had heard that Garnet Fitzgerald’s head had been found on the statue of St. Frances Cabrini, she had been unable to draw any connection between them. She had called Father Clark again, and again he had agreed with her.

  Mother Cabrini, Clark reported, was an Italian immigrant who became a naturalized citizen. She had worked among the poor in New York and, he had been positive, there was no possible connection between the saint and the operator of a numbers racket. Not even in travesty.

  Pat’s conclusion: Fitzgerald’s was not one of The Red Hat Murders.

  As if to bolster her rather flimsy evidence, News reporters still on the scene reported that the police were taking an unaccountable amount of time confirming that this was one more in that series.

  Soon the News would have to go with something. But what?

  The style that most readers had become accustomed to f
rom the News was a conservative approach with a great deal of hedging language. If the News ran Lennon’s hypothesis and she were wrong, there would be little egg left for anyone else in Detroit. All of it would be on the News’ corporate face.

  The explanations and rationalizations were over. London pondered and paced. “What the hell, Lennon,” he finally growled, “we didn’t hire you because you were a cub. We’ll go with your story. Write it and damn the torpedoes!”

  Wayne County Medical Examiner Wilhelm Moellmann trudged up the staircase toward his second-floor office. As he reached the top step, he paused, momentarily overwhelmed by the unexpected sight of Inspector Walter Koznicki. Koznicki was seated on the wooden bench outside Moellmann’s office.

  “Well, well, well!” Moellmann extended his arm widely in an exaggerated gesture of welcome, while a large smile lit his face. “If it isn’t the head of the entire operation!”

  Koznicki, ever the gentleman, rose, removed his hat, and said, “Good morning, Doctor. I hope I am not calling on you too early.” As he greeted Moellmann, he took a step toward the doctor, who recoiled involuntarily. Koznicki, it seemed, could have eaten the wiry little man and not known he’d had a meal.

  “No, no, not too early.” Moellmann recovered quickly and went staunchly on the offensive. “We received the present sent us by Squad Six of your homicide department. Or,” he moved close to Koznicki, thus enhancing the disparity in their proportions, “the Headhunters, as Squad Six is known to us in the trade.”

  Koznicki resisted several urges to respond in kind. “Well, good doctor,” he said instead, “have you any news for us?”

  “Indeed I do. Oh, indeed I do.” Moellmann found it necessary to walk around Koznicki in order to enter his own office. The extra motion destroyed his planned distracted attitude. People shouldn’t be allowed to grow that large, he thought, as he led the abbreviated procession into his inner office.

  As they passed through the outer office, Koznicki tendered Marge a semi-bow.

  “Hawr y’all this dye, Inspectah?” she asked, with little evident interest.