Death Wears a Red Hat Read online

  “I just wanted to tell you,” said Delaney, loudly enough to be heard by Curley’s table companions, “how much I enjoy your column in the Free Press.”

  “Hunh?”

  “We usually plan our dining-out based on your reviews.”

  “Wha—”

  “I’ve always wanted to ask your opinion of kleiner Liptauer as an hors d’oeuvre.”

  “I’m—”

  “Generally, we serve celeri-rave rémoulade for salad. Do you think that complements kleiner Liptauer?”

  “Uh—”

  “And would that combination logically lead to paupiettes as the piece de resistance?”

  “Uh—”

  “Finally, do you think it appropriate to conclude with croquembouche?”

  “Hunh?”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  Curley was destroyed, at least temporarily. His three companions had all but fallen off their chairs in laughter.

  Delaney had memorized Curley’s physiognomy. He would check the Free Press photo library the next day and discover the identity of this clerical fraud.

  Ned Harris was having second thoughts. He was beginning to be sorry he had pressed Father Koesler into joining Koznicki and himself at tonight’s ritual.

  In addition to urging Koesler to accompany them, and assuring him of safety, Harris had suggested the priest dress in mufti. For the occasion, Koesler had donned black shoes, black trousers, a black jacket, a white shirt and a black tie.

  Harris felt less than comfortable in the company of the only two white people in the room. One was as large as any two men there. The other resembled a mortician in mourning.

  Though the night air was decidedly chill, due entirely to body heat it was very warm and close. Nearly fifty people were in a room that measured roughly twenty by thirty feet.

  Most of the onlookers were pressed against the walls. A circle of chairs near the center of the room was occupied by men and women attired in simple but obviously ceremonial robes.

  Adding to the closeness was the incense burning near the open door. A light breeze wafted the fragrant smoke throughout the room.

  Somewhere out of sight someone was drumming on what they later discovered was a conch. The hollow-sounding rhythm had a mesmerizing effect.

  The seated men and women began to sway to the rhythm. Some had closed their eyes as their lips formed silent words. How like, thought Koesler, the altered state of consciousness that sometimes accompanies contemplative prayer. Strange how such disparate cultures produced such similar prayer structures.

  In a small wire cage in the center of the room was a live chicken. The cage was surrounded by foot-high statues of saints. Koesler recognized the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph with his flowered staff, St. Patrick crushing a snake. Several other statues each undoubtedly represented a specific saint but could easily have represented any saint. And there in the middle of them all was good old St. Expeditus.

  When Koesler caught sight of Expeditus, he nudged Koznicki. However, the two officers had noted the statue shortly after entering the room.

  Suddenly, a thundering sound was heard. Four large men entered in solemn procession. They bore heavy drums which they were pounding in almost savage rhythm.

  The quartet was followed by a frail-looking woman of uncertain age, who swayed and dipped to the drumbeats. When she reached the center of the room, she turned to the chicken and began shrieking at it. To the three outsiders, her words seemed unintelligible, but, in any case, they were drowned out by the drums.

  “She’s telling our troubles to the chicken,” Harris’ contact whispered to the three.

  “I wouldn’t lay too heavy odds on that chicken’s future,” Harris commented in a whisper.

  “Who is she?” Koesler asked.

  “That,” explained the contact, “is a Mambo—a voodoo priestess.”

  The drums stopped as suddenly as they had begun.

  An odd antiphonal chant began between the Mambo and a deep-voiced male assistant.

  “Tousa Tousa rè lè Tou Salonggo Tou,” the Mambo chanted, “sa Tou sa rè lè Tou Salonggo Tousa Tousa rè lè Tou Salonggo.”

  “That,” explained the contact, “is a song of worship to a voodoo god.”

  “Misereatur nostri omnipotens Deus,” chanted the assistant, “et dimissis peccatis nostris perducat nos ad vitam aeternam.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what that is.” Koesler smiled as he recognized the familiar Latin of the old Tridentine Mass.

  “Filé na filé fem Dambala Wèdo,” chanted the Mambo. “Filé nafilé Dambala Wèdo ca conclèv oh! lev oh!”

  “Indulgentiam, absolutionem et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus,” the assistant replied.

  The exchange continued for about twenty minutes. Koesler found the blend of cultures fascinating. He was particularly in awe at how easily the ancient voodoo faith had absorbed the Catholic intrusion.

  No sooner had the dialogue between the Mambo and her assistant ceased than the drums began again with their intoxicating rhythm.

  The people who had been seated rose and began to dance within the circle formed by the chairs. Their arms flailed in all directions. Occasionally, as one would pass by the statue of a favored saint, he or she would bend over backward until his or her head was nearly touching the floor. Many of the contortions seemed physically impossible.

  As the drums continued their thunder, the Mambo danced in ever-narrowing concentric circles around the caged chicken, which appeared to be in a twitchy stupor.

  Suddenly, with a movement almost too rapid for the eye to follow, the Mambo jerked the chicken out of its cage. Her head snapped. Koesler, horrified, thought she had bitten the chicken’s tongue out. But he couldn’t be sure, as everything was happening too fast.

  There was no doubt, however, about what she did next. With a shriek, she wrung the chicken’s head from its body. It all happened so quickly that, Koesler was sure, the chicken could not have felt anything.

  Still dancing, the other participants moved ever closer to the Mambo. Stretching out their hands, they wet them in the blood spurting from the chicken’s neck.

  The Mambo moved outside the circle of dancers, the chicken’s body held between her two hands. Snapping the chicken like an aspergillum, she sprinkled its blood at the audience.

  Oddly, Koesler didn’t mind. He was too spellbound. Oddly, too, with a target the size of Koznicki, the blood missed the Inspector entirely. Harris looked down in sartorial horror at the spot of red on his blue tie.

  Not long afterward, the ceremony wound down to a finish. The Mambo left the room visibly shaken and spent. Some of the dancers had to be carried out.

  The three visitors sat in Koznicki’s car parked on West Euclid near Rosa Parks Boulevard. With them was Harris’ contact, who was introduced as Andy Beeks.

  “Is it like this all the time?” asked Koesler.

  “Pretty much,” said Beeks.

  “Isn’t it ever any different?” Harris persisted. “Don’t they have a ceremony where they put a curse on someone?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Beeks brightened. “I see what you’re gettin’ at. Yeah. Tonight was a regular Sunday night ceremony. Like goin’ to church on Sunday, or,” acknowledging Koesler’s presence, “goin’ to Mass.”

  “But when do they place the curse?” Harris prodded.

  “That’s a secret ceremony. Strangers like you could never get in to see some thin’ like that. Most of ’em here tonight couldn’t even get in for that!”

  “Have you ever been to one?” asked Harris.

  “No.” Beeks looked frightened. “But I’ve heard tell of ’em. They pray to Gede, who lives in cemeteries behind a cross. And to Baron Samedi who also lives in cemeteries. Then they send a Wanga—that’s an evil charm. Then they bury St. ‘spedite’s statue upside down in the cemetery. Then, if it all works, Baron Samedi sends a dead person to enter the victim’s body and kill him.”
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br />   Koesler shuddered. He felt as if his flesh were creeping.

  Koznicki and Harris exchanged glances.

  “Andy,” asked Harris, “how many voodoo groups would you say there are in Detroit?”

  Beeks shrugged. “I got no idea … must be at least a dozen, maybe two dozen.”

  “Is there any way,” Harris asked, “that we can learn about one of these groups that has been casting a series of death spells?”

  A broad grin grew on Beeks’ face. “You lookin’ for the Red Hat murderer, aintcha?”

  “Yeah,” Harris admitted.

  “No, I got no idea,” said a very solemn Beeks. “Unless you can find all the Mambos and Houngans—that’s the male voodoo priests. And I don’t think you’re gonna find ’em. And if you found ’em, I don’t think they would tell you what day it was.”

  Koznicki had driven Beeks, then Koesler, home. He was now driving Harris back to headquarters so Harris could retrieve his car. It was very late Sunday night, actually early Monday morning.

  “Has it occurred to you, Ned?”

  “What?”

  “That it was one week ago yesterday that the Red Hat murderer struck for the first time. And one week ago today that we found Rudy Ruggiero’s head in Cardinal Mooney’s hat.”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “Just this: if our murderer has started another series, he will kill again tomorrow and we will find the head on Tuesday.”

  The two rode in silence for several minutes.

  “Squad Six is going to be very busy tomorrow,” Harris broke the silence, “looking up and interviewing Houngans and Mambos.”

  “You want some help?”

  “All I can get!”

  “You got it.”

  They had never expected to find a genuine Houngan working on the Ford assembly line. On the other hand, before this Monday morning, Detectives Patrick and Lynch had never heard of Houngans or Mambos. Now they were about to interrogate one. A policeman’s lot may not be happy at all times, but it is frequently educational.

  It was almost as difficult to get Ahmed Baka, the alleged Houngan, off the line as it would have been to get an interview with Henry Ford II. Only when the officers identified themselves as members of the homicide division did Baka’s foreman initiate the procedure that would get Baka off the line.

  Patrick and Lynch were shown to a waiting room while a sub was dispatched to relieve Baka.

  “I’ve never quite gotten over the effect that word ‘homicide’ has on people,” Lynch mused.

  “Yes, indeed,” Patrick agreed. “It’s really weird how people will confess to almost anything else when you talk to them about murder.”

  “That’s true even when they’re not even involved in a murder.” Lynch sat on the black Naughahyde couch and stretched his lanky frame.

  “It’s just awesome thinking of ending a human life.” Patrick continued pacing in the small room.

  “Unless it becomes your business.”

  “What do you make of this guy Baka?”

  “Don’t know.” Lynch toyed with an ashtray. “I’ve never met a Houngan before.” He smiled. “At least not that I know of.”

  “He’s gone back to an African name. So his consciousness has been raised. We may have a tough time getting anything from him.”

  “Let’s see what kind of magic the word ‘homicide’ will work,” said Lynch laconically.

  A short, powerfully built, very black man entered the room. His clothing was grease-smudged.

  The detectives identified themselves. Baka said nothing. His eyes moved from one officer to the other as they displayed their credentials.

  “Mr. Baka,” Patrick opened, “we have been informed that you are a Houngan. Is that correct?”

  “Is that a crime?” Baka was unsmiling.

  Patrick guessed from his accent that Baka had come from another country. Possibly somewhere in South America.

  “Not unless that occupation leads you to the commission of a crime,” Lynch replied.

  Baka neither responded to nor seemed affected by Lynch’s statement.

  “You did not answer our question, Mr. Baka,” Lynch pursued. “Are you a Houngan?”

  “And you have not answered mine,” returned Baka. “Am I being charged with a crime?”

  “No, Mr. Baka,” said Patrick. “We are not at the point of charging anyone with a crime. We need a little information that may help us clear up a series of murders.”

  “I know nothing of murder,” said Baka.

  “Mr. Baka,” said Patrick, “have you conducted any voodoo ceremonies for the purpose of putting a curse on someone to the point of wishing him dead?”

  “Is it a crime to wish someone dead?” Throughout the interrogation, Baka had not changed his noncommittal expression.

  “No, Mr. Baka,” said Patrick, “it’s not a crime to wish someone dead. But the wishing might lead someone, maybe someone in your congregation, to go out and actually perform the deed.”

  “I know nothing of a death conjure,” said Baka.

  “Mr. Baka,” Lynch rose from the couch, “we have not used the term ‘death conjure.’ Why would you use such a precise term if you know nothing about it?”

  Baka said nothing.

  Lynch whispered to his partner.

  “Mr. Baka,” said Lynch, “we’d like you to come with us to headquarters and answer some more questions.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You may refuse, Mr. Baka,” said Lynch, “but if you do, we’ll have to put you under surveillance.”

  Baka thought a moment. He took a deep breath. “I will go with you,” he said.

  Baka’s interrogation at headquarters was intense. It elicited only one vaguely relevant fact. When not otherwise gainfully employed, Baka had been a part-time caretaker at Dutch Strauss’s headquarters.

  But, as Baka would and did remark, was it a crime to work for Strauss?

  It was not a crime. But it was a lead that was pursued to its dead-end conclusion.

  The smoke from the burning incense curled up and around the walls, filling the room with its sweet odor.

  Six black candles burned before a makeshift altar. On the altar was a miniature coffin about one foot long, lined in black.

  “Coté ma prend Coté ma prend Médi,” the Mambo chanted, “oh! Aanago Coté ma prend Coté ma prend Médi oh! Ana go Cotéma go.”

  “Credo in Deum,” sang her assistant as he gently swung the censer, out of which came puffs of incense, “Patrem omnipotentem. Creatorem coeli et terrae.”

  “Bonjour papa Legba, bonjour Baron Samedi,” chanted the Mambo, “bonjour ti moun moin yoma pé man dé ou con man non yéma pé man dé, bonjour papa Legba, bonjour Baron Samedi.”

  “Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam, Sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, et vitam aeternam,” sang the assistant.

  The Mambo picked up a crudely made rag doll. With a sharp knife she cut a slit in the doll’s midsection. Her assistant handed her a slip of paper on which was printed the name ‘McCluskey. ‘ She tucked the paper in the doll’s belly. She then placed the doll in the open coffin.

  “Héla grand père étérnal sin joé Heé-la grand père,” the Mambo sang, “etérnal sin jozé do co agué.”

  “Gloria Paŧri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,” her assistant responded, “Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper et in saecula saeculorum.”

  She took an agitated chicken from its wire cage and pressed it to her breast. Then, still holding the chicken close, she quickly wrung its head from its body. Blood spurted over the Mambo and across the floor. She sprinkled the blood on the floor to the north, south, east, and west. She then placed the body of the still quivering fowl in the coffin next to the doll.

  Her assistant handed her a statuette. It was a man in ancient armor, one hand holding a sword pointing at a cross, his foot on the neck of a bird. This she also placed in the coffin, then closed the l
id.

  Together, in honor of St. Expeditus, the Mambo and her assistant prayed.

  “Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie. Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo.”

  The Mambo sat back, exhausted.

  Her assistant removed the statuette from the coffin. It was covered with the chicken’s blood, as was the doll.

  At a postmidnight hour, he took the blood-drenched statuette to a nearby Catholic cemetery, where he carefully buried it head downward in the consecrated ground.

  “I didn’t think a Mambo would be working as a domestic,” said Colleen Farrell as she rang the doorbell of a fashionable mansion in Grosse Pointe Farms.

  “Oh, come off it, Colleen,” said her partner, Pat Karnego, “until today you didn’t even know there was such a thing as a Mambo!”

  A discomfited expression passed across Farrell’s face. “Well, you’re right, of course. It’s just that being a Mambo sounds so important, I just wouldn’t expect such a person to work as a maid.”

  “Buck up, Colleen. You are about to meet what you are fond of saying the Catholic Church needs, a female priest.”

  “And she’s about to meet what few people believe in, two female members of a homicide squad.”

  The door opened. A small, matronly, well-groomed black woman stood before them.

  The detectives identified themselves. Mrs. Evalla Johnson’s eyes widened. Told it was she they had come to see, her eyes grew even wider.

  “Please, Missy,” said Mrs. Johnson, “if you don’t mind, could we talk out here. I don’t want to disturb the Missus.” She gestured vaguely into the interior of the mansion.

  She got her coat and rejoined the two officers at the portico. It was a sunny but brisk September day. The officers invited her into their car.

  “That’s right, Missy, I am a Mambo. Or at least I used to be. Don’t do it no more at all. It’s the work of a young woman, I always believed. Why, I’m a grandmother now.” She smiled at the thought of her grandchildren.