Sudden Death fk-7 Page 23

“Wha-at!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Wha
t?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Think so?”

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

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

  “Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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