Death Wears a Red Hat Page 26

  “I see,” said Karnego. “But would you know of anyone, a practicing Mambo or Houngan, as it were,” the terms were foreign to her and she was unsure of their usage, “who would be conducting voodoo rituals to curse or cast fatal spells on people?”

  “Oh, no, Missy. I don’t keep up with that sort of thing no more. Even when I was a Mambo, there wasn’t hardly anybody doing the killing hurts. Why, I got enough trouble now just gettin’ to Mass on Sundays.”

  A few questions later, Mrs. Johnson stepped from the car and made her way back to the mansion.

  She entered the house, a derisive smile on her face.

  It just so happened she did know of a Mambo who was using the death conjure lately. And very effectively.

  The firm of McCluskey Roofing and Repair was housed in a crowded storefront on Detroit’s west side.

  There was no reason the firm should be better housed. It did a lot of business and very little work. Tod McCluskey owned the business. There was but one employee, John Mulrooney. Neither knew much about carpentry or repair. McCluskey was able to frighten or coerce most helpless victims into believing they had no alternative but to use his firm if they needed repairs—or even if they didn’t. Mulrooney was able to climb up on the roof to pronounce it in terminal condition.

  Scarcely did they ever get complaints from their victim-customers. McCluskey carefully selected his targets from those who seem to be fate’s favorite butts.

  As it was near lunchtime, McCluskey had sent Mulrooney out for a couple of fast-food orders.

  McCluskey was going through his mail. He was running late. Yesterday had been such an outstanding Sunday for business that he and Mulrooney had celebrated a bit too fervently last night, resulting in their oversleeping this morning.

  Like most businesses, his was afflicted with an enormous amount of junk mail. A few bills. Nothing personal. A small package. McCluskey ripped off the plain brown wrapper. It was the plain brown wrapper that fanned his hopes the package would contain something pornographic. His hopes were dashed when a peculiar statuette emerged. Something that looked like a Roman soldier. He appeared to be standing on some kind of bird and pointing with a sword to a cross. Words were coming out of the bird’s mouth, and there was also a word on the cross. McCluskey understood none of them.

  Probably more junk from some Catholic outfit, he thought. People with Irish—and Polish and Italian—names were forever getting unsolicited things like religious cards, rosaries, holy pictures, and statues in the mail. The dunning letter would follow. Of all people, McCluskey knew a con when he saw one. He did with the statuette what he always did with religious junk mail. He dropped it in the wastebasket.

  His copy of the Detroit News would not be delivered for several hours. It would contain a very interesting story, on just such a statuette, bylined by Pat Lennon.

  As McCluskey deposited the statue in the wastebasket, there was a knock on his office door.

  “Yes?” McCluskey responded.

  A tall, middle-aged black man entered. He appeared to be husky, particularly for his age. He held his hat in hand subserviently. He even seemed to shuffle a bit.

  Whatever this might be, McCluskey knew he had nothing to fear from this man. “Is there somethin’ I kin help ya with, then?”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt you, sir,” the man said apologetically.

  “No, no, not at all, at all. What is it I kin do fer ya?”

  “It’s my roof.” The man spoke in a deep rich bass.

  “Yer roof! Glory be ta God! The mountain comes ta Mohammed!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Nothing. A phrase, nothin’ but a phrase.”

  “I believe my roof is in bad need of repair. I saw your sign. You do make roof repairs, don’t you?”

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, just an expression. Just an expression. Think nothin’ of it.”

  “Now,” McCluskey said deceitfully, “we wouldn’t want to give ya any kind of a estimate without we examine yer roof. Else we might overcharge ya. What we could do is just come over ta yer house and give a peek ta yer roof. Then we kin give ya a daycent quotation of a price.”

  “We would really be appreciative of that, sir. “

  “Not at all, not at all. We are at the service of our customers. Now, sur, if ya wouldn’t mind just leavin’ yer name and address with me, we’ll be right over this very fine day.”

  “Oh, sir, tomorrow will be fine.”

  “Tomorrow it is, then. Here, if ye’ll just write yer name, address, and phone number on this card here.”

  The man reached across the desk to use McCluskey’s pen.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, my dear sir,” said the man, “I am so sorry. How clumsy of me!”

  “Not at all, not at all,” said McCluskey, rubbing his right hand. “Ya must have a sharp edge on yer ring there.”

  McCluskey squeezed the back of his hand. A small drop of blood appeared. He put his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood, hoping the prick would clot quickly.

  “I am so sorry, sir,” repeated his ostensibly embarrassed customer, “I seem to have hurt your hand.”

  “Think nuthin’ of it. We in the carpenter’s trade learn to live with far worse wounds than this.”

  “Well, that is very kind of you, sir. Very thoughtful, indeed.”

  The man wrote his name, address, and phone number on the sheet McCluskey had proffered. Alvin Thomas. His address was only a few blocks from McCluskey’s office.

  “Ah, practically in the neighborhood, aren’t ya?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Thomas with a respectful bow.

  “Well, we’ll be after seein’ ya tomorrow, Mr. Thomas. And,” McCluskey added with a wink, “we’ll see ya git a special price in a right neighborly way. “

  “Oh,” said the man, bowing his way out of the office, “thank you very much, sir. I am deeply obliged.”

  Damn nigger, thought McCluskey as his new customer departed. He’ll get a special price all right. About a third more than the already outrageous price he would have been charged anyway. All as a reward for having cut him with that damn ring.

  McCluskey squeezed the back of his hand again. Again a spot of blood appeared. Damn cut wasn’t healing. He sucked the blood again.

  Where in hell was Mulrooney? How long does it take to get fast food? Why is it called fast food if that idiot Mulrooney can’t get it fast?

  He was tired of sucking blood. He wanted a ‘burger. He was beginning to get into a foul mood.

  Pat Lennon hung up the receiver. She had just talked with Lieutenant Harris. His replies to her questions had filled her in on the previous night’s voodoo ritual and the interrogations now being conducted by several of the homicide squads in addition to Squad Six.

  Harris’ cooperation was almost total. He held back only the special knowledge shared by the Medical Examiner and the police on the method of severing that so far clearly identified four decapitations as the work of the Red Hat murderer.

  When Lennon looked up from her notes, Bob Ankenazy was standing at her desk. He was smiling indulgently.

  “Great work, Pat,” he said, “great story. I don’t know how you put it all together, but you’ve got the Free Press playing catch-up and that’s the way we like it.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” she replied, returning his smile. “It’s nice of you to take the time and trouble to tell me.”

  “Do you feel ambivalent about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About beating your old rag, the Friendly Freep.”

  Lennon thought a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. I had a lot of good days there and left some good friends behind.” Her jaw jutted. “But anytime I start feeling sorry for the Freep, I just think of Karl Lowell and I could kick up my heels.”

  “Lowell is that bad?”

  Lennon nodded.

  “I’ve heard tales about the bastard, but I’v
e found it hard to believe them.”

  “Believe!”

  “It’s almost as if the S.O.B. were out to destroy the Free Press.”

  “You’re sure he isn’t in the secret employ of the News?”

  They laughed.

  “Anyhow, keep it up,” Ankenazy said. He gave her hand a pat. “We want to keep this winning combo intact.”

  She watched as he returned to the far west side of the huge office.

  He wasn’t making a play for her. That was different. Bob Ankenazy was a happily married man with two kids. And he was not making a play for Pat Lennon. It was perfectly possible, even in this day and age, for a man and a woman to work together on a professional level, have a platonic relationship without a demand or even a hint of hanky-panky.

  She would have to inform Joe Cox of this phenomenon.

  She was sure he would never believe it.

  Tod McCluskey couldn’t believe it was the ’burgers. It must be all the booze he’d consumed last night. Even so, it was difficult to pin the blame just on the booze.

  He had to admit he had never felt worse in his life. No, he amended that: he had never felt as bad in his life.

  He was nauseated. But that was the least of his problems. He was filled with a pathological fear. He could not identify the cause of this fear. He was perspiring as he never had before. Yet he knew it was a bright, brisk day. And the doors were open, letting in the air.

  He rose from behind his desk and began to walk toward the small toilet. He felt he was about to be very sick. When he reached the area where the toilet was, it wasn’t there. He looked back across the office. The toilet had been moved to the other side of the room. That was crazy. Or was he going crazy?

  “Mulrooney! Jack boy! Will ya come in here!”

  “What is it, Mac? What’s the matter? You sounded all excited!” said Mulrooney.

  But it wasn’t Mulrooney. It was that trouble-making priest who used to hound McCluskey’s dad and who had warned McCluskey that if he didn’t shape up, he would end his life in eternal hellfire. What was he doing here?

  “Father O’Brien,” McCluskey exclaimed, “what the hell are you doing here? Have you come to hound me then as you did my father? I tell you I’ll have none of it!”

  “What are you talkin’ about, Mac? It’s me, Mulrooney. Jack Mulrooney!”

  “I told ye before, Tod, that ye’d come to an evil end and, indeed ye have. I’ve come to take ye before the Judge and I can promise ye it won’t go good with ye.”

  “The hell you say. I’m still a young man. I’ll not be goin’ to the other world. Not at this age, I’ll tell you. You’re a lyin’ mick, just as you always were. And I don’t believe you now anymore’n I ever did just cause you wear your collar turned ’round!”

  “What is this talk, Mac? What’s wrong with you, man?”

  “Ye won’t be goin’, eh, Tod? Then watch careful at what happens now!”

  “You can’t scare me, you bloated devil!”

  “I’m not tryin’ to scare you, Mac! What’s got into you?”

  The priest was gone.

  Slowly through the doorway came a procession of people. At first, McCluskey thought they were strangers. Then he began to recognize most of them. They were former customers. People he had swindled and conned and bilked. It was a most solemn procession. Each of them carried a piece of lumber. Heavy lumber that might be found in the walls or roofs of houses.

  “What are you people doin’ here?” McCluskey screamed. “You’ve got no business here. We’re done with our business. You were treated fair and square. Now get out of here!”

  “What people, Mac? Get hold of yourself, man!”

  They did not retreat as McCluskey had commanded. They continued their slow, measured march, forming a wide circle around McCluskey.

  He became aware of a powerful odor invading the room. It resembled burning sulphur. McCluskey recalled the stories the Sisters used to tell and the pictures in the catechism books of hell, the eternal fire that would not consume and would not be quenched. He began to shiver, even as he continued to perspire.

  “Now I’m givin’ you fair warning,” McCluskey shouted, “get out of here while the gettin’s good. Or I’ll have the police on you.”

  “You’re out of your head, Mac,” cried Mulrooney. “You’re the very one who called me in here!”

  Miraculously, the wood left their arms and formed itself into a coffin at McCluskey’s feet.

  He stared at it transfixed.

  The floor next to the coffin gave way, revealing a burial pit.

  The crowd grabbed at McCluskey. Their hands were on him everywhere. They lifted his struggling body off the floor, dropped him rudely into the coffin and forced the lid closed.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” McCluskey screamed as the perspiration coursed down his body. “You can’t do this to me! It isn’t my time! This isn’t human!”

  “What’s not human, Mac? Come out of it, man! You’re having a dream! A bad daydream!”

  Slowly the crowd lowered the coffin into the pit. They began kicking dirt into the pit and over the coffin. The boards did not completely seal the coffin’s lid, and dirt trickled through.

  “You can’t do this!” McCluskey pleaded. “It’s not human! Whatever I’ve done to you, it wasn’t this bad!”

  “Wake up, Mac!” Mulrooney began slapping McCluskey’s face. His action seemed to have no effect. “Wake up, Mac! Now you’re scarin’ me!”

  McCluskey tried to ward off the dirt trickling into the coffin. He could not. Now the dirt covered the coffin’s lid. There was very little air.

  McCluskey clawed at the wood, leaving bloody tracks where the wood splintered into his fingertips.

  “No, no, I can’t breathe! Don’t do this!”

  Mulrooney watched in horror as McCluskey fell to the office floor, grasping at his throat. Mulrooney quickly bent over him and loosened his collar.

  “There now, Mac! Maybe you can breathe easier now!”

  “No! No! NOoooo!”

  “Mac, get that horrible look off your face! Mac, I can’t stand to look at you. Mac—Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I think he’s dead!”

  Mulrooney was just able to phone for an ambulance before he got very, very sick.

  “I don’t like it, Joe,” said Nelson Kane, “we’re playing catch-up and that’s not my kind of ballgame.”

  “I know, Nellie,” said Cox, “but I can’t get ahead of Pat on this story. About a week ago, in this very room, I told you I thought she had a special feel for this story. All she’s doing is proving me right.”

  “Cox,” the two were returning zigzag-fashion from the water cooler to Kane’s desk, “the best way to lose a game is to admit you can’t win.”

  It was one of those simple truths Kane had a way of expressing, usually couched in a sports metaphor, that had a way of clearing the air.

  Cox stopped abruptly at Kane’s desk. The water in his Styrofoam container sloshed and nearly spilled.

  “You know, Nellie, you’re right. It’s simplistic, but I guess I conceded The Red Hat Murders story to Pat from almost the beginning. It didn’t make that much difference then. But now, she’s working for the enemy.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Thanks, Nellie,” Cox said, slapping himself lightly on the cheek, “I needed that!”

  “Now, why don’t you get your ass over to headquarters and see if you can make friends with Lieutenant Harris.”

  “Better than that, I’ll see if I can get back in with my old friend, Inspector Koznicki.

  “But,” Cox added before leaving, “I’ve got to hand it to Pat for coming up with that voodoo angle.”

  Kane dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “Why don’t you go see if there aren’t some more surprises around?”

  “He was D.O.A.?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  A small group stood near a gurney on which lay the dead body of Tod McCluskey. They were in the pathology sec
tion of Detroit General Hospital.

  Dr. Jane Browne, head pathologist, and her assistant, Dr. Fred Smith, stood on either side of the body. At the foot stood a badly frightened John Mulrooney, hat in hand. The body was unclothed. There did not seem to be a visible wound on it.

  “Mr. Mulrooney,” asked Browne, who had requested the presence of McCluskey’s associate, “you say Mr. McCluskey was acting strangely?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed he was!” Mulrooney had an instinctive fear of the dead and was extremely uncomfortable among these vaults and in the immediate presence of his recently deceased employer.

  “Tell us what happened,” said Browne.

  “Well, we had just had our lunch—’burgers which I had purchased from a Big Boy franchise, if you please—”

  “Did you both eat the same food?” Browne asked.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. A Big Boy, fries, and coffee. We had an order apiece.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, it was sometime after lunch, maybe a half hour, when Mac—Mr. McCluskey—calls for me.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Anxious, kind of scared, like he was suddenly struck sick.”

  “Then?”

  “So I come in, and the strangest thing, he never recognized me presence in the room at all. I kept talkin’ to him. I’d say, ‘Mac! Mac! Get hold of yerself, man!’ But he kept talkin’ to them.”

  “Who?”

  “I dunno. People only he seen. One was a priest. I think his name was Father O’Brien er O’Riley er somethin’. Then there was a whole flocka people. I think he thought they were old customers. They were threatenin’ to do somethin’ horrible to him, and then I think he thought they done it.”

  “What do you think he thought they did to him?”

  “I don’t like to say it.”

  “It may help us learn how he died.”

  “It sounds stupid and spooky all at the same time.”

  “What?”

  “I think … I think he believed he was bein’ buried alive!” The words spilled out in a hushed, almost reverential tone.