Whitman had been nearing the end of his endurance when Galloway came up with the idea of buying into and eventually owning the Cougars. The prospects were too good. Whitman, after a fierce internal battle, reinvested in Galloway.
They moved to a new city, a new state, a new enterprise. But nothing else had changed. Galloway was still mucking about in areas unsuited to his talents. Once again, Whitman was nearing the end of his tether when a fresh thought occurred.
He would nudge Galloway out of the picture. He would maneuver Galloway into an intolerable position with the Cougars. And then, out. Finally, Whitman would be where he was destined to end: in the driver’s seat. No boss over his shoulder. Depending on himself to bring himself in.
It would require some bold strokes. But Whitman had one such stroke in mind. It would take a lot of planning. He knew well the problem Galloway had with Hank Hunsinger. Whitman, indeed, was the management representative who had to negotiate the contracts containing those outrageous demands with the Hun. If it had been up to him alone, Whitman would have taken a much more hard-nosed attitude toward Hunsinger, including letting him go, to see if he could pursue his career with some other team.
But Galloway insisted on keeping the Hun, whatever the cost. Galloway seemed to Whitman to be unrealistic about the Hun’s value to the team. And that, Whitman decided, was Galloway’s Achilles’ heel. Whitman began to devise a complicated scheme. It would require very careful planning. But then, planning was his forte.
All that was required was that he get up a head of steam, get ’er over the hill, and bring ’er in.
Distractions were second nature to Father Koesler. And he was suffering from a persistent one now. The twin rows of pipes on Dave Whitman’s desk had nearly mesmerized the priest. He had never seen so many pipes outside a tobacconist’s. Clearly, Whitman was a serious smoker.
Between attempting to count the pipes, Koesler had been listening to the interrogation. They had covered the length of time Whitman had been associated with Galloway, the tragedy of Hunsinger’s death, and Whitman’s awareness of the player’s obsessive compulsiveness.
“Were you aware of any physical impairment, outside of injuries, that is?” Ewing asked.
“Yes, of course.” Whitman consulted Hunsinger’s file. Earlier, when the officers and Koesler had entered his office, Whitman’s secretary had brought it in. “He had a sight problem: astigmatism with a touch of nearsightedness. See for yourself.”
Whitman offered a sheet of paper to Ewing, who glanced at it, then gave it to Harris. It was a record of Hunsinger’s health status. The report mentioned the vision problem, but made no mention of any color deficiency. Apparently, he had been able to keep his colorblindness out of his official record.
“He wore contacts,” Whitman continued.
“There was nothing else wrong with his eyes?” Ewing asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Are you aware of how Hunsinger died?” Harris asked.
“He was poisoned, wasn’t he? At least, according to the media.”
“It was strychnine,” said Harris.
Whitman raised his eyebrows. He sucked hard on his pipe, but it had gone out. He tapped the dottle out of the bowl and inserted a pipe cleaner in the stem. He returned the pipe to its place on the rack, removed the next pipe, and began the elaborate procedure of filling, tamping, and lighting it.
“Were you aware that Hunsinger kept a supply of strychnine in his apartment?” Harris continued.
“Uh-huh.”
“How’s that? Did you see it?”
“No. He told us about it. At one of our meetings, he mentioned how he’d had a problem with rodents in the apartment. He said he’d gotten the problem under control with, as he put it, ‘good old-fashioned strychnine.’”
Koesler nodded at this. Whitman’s description was exactly how the information had come out.
“Do you know how he got it?”
Whitman shook his head. “Didn’t ask. But it surprised me. Strychnine’s a controlled substance, isn’t it?”
Ewing nodded. “Speaking of surprises, Mr. Whitman, you looked surprised when Lieutenant Harris mentioned that strychnine was the poison that killed Hunsinger. Why was that, if you knew that strychnine was in the apartment?”
Whitman scratched the side of his head with the stem of his pipe. “I guess I was surprised that whoever killed him had used a poison that was already in the apartment. I guess that would have to mean the killer would have to have known that it was there in advance.”
“Like you did,” said Harris.
Whitman smiled self-consciously and blushed simultaneously. “Silly of me. . trapped by my own logic.”
“Mr. Whitman,” said Ewing, “part of your responsibility here is to sign up the players, negotiate their contracts, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say Mr. Hunsinger had a good contract? I mean, measured by comparable contracts for comparable players?”
“I’d say it was an excellent contract. But fair. If the Hun hadn’t liked it, he could have played it out, become a free agent, and maybe gone to another club.”
“But isn’t this his market?” Ewing pressed on. “I mean, because of his local background, he’d be more valuable here in Michigan than anywhere else.”
“True, as far as it goes. But the Hun was a premier performer-a pheenom, as they say in this business. He would have gotten good money no matter where he went.”
“But not more than he’d get here. Which would give you a bargaining tool. I mean, after your final offer, say, you could point out that he would not get as much anywhere else, right? Sort of take away the whipsaw possibility.”
Whitman exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He smiled. “That’s why they call it negotiating. During negotiations, it would be just me and the Hun getting together in our own little huddle.”
“Just you and Hunsinger? Didn’t he have an agent?”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t that kind of odd? Everybody’s got an agent.”
“Almost everybody. A long time ago, the Hun had an agent, when he signed his first couple of contracts with us. Then-no. The Hun was no dummy. After the first couple of go-rounds, I think he figured he could do as well as any agent, and also, he didn’t want to give 10 percent to anybody.”‘
“And you, you didn’t have an attorney or anyone with you?”
“It’s my responsibility. I bring it in.”
“And you’re capable, all by yourself?”
“I am capable of doing whatever I’m responsible for.”
“Sort of a lone wolf,” Harris commented.
“Not exactly. Just a philosophy of mine. I take responsibility for completing what I set out to do. And I make no excuses.”
Harris and Ewing wondered, if ever so briefly, whether that encompassing philosophy might extend to murder. Koesler, harking back to a day when workers were more conscientious, thought it a laudable philosophy.
“What does Hunsinger’s death mean to your team?” Harris asked.
Whitman shrugged. “Undoubtedly, it will hurt attendance. You’d have to ask the coach about the implications for the team’s playing strength.”
“It also blots out an extremely expensive contract, doesn’t it?”
“That’s just shortsighted, Lieutenant. It may be true-no, it’s definitely true, that whoever we bring up to the Cougars will not get a contract close to what the Hun had. There isn’t a tight end in football who ever equaled the Hun’s contract. But we’re going to have to pay someone to fill out the team. And we’re certain to have a falloff in attendance. Happened every time the Hun missed games in the past.
“So, from a financial standpoint, it’s like cutting off one end of a carpet and sewing it on the other. Whatever money we save on the Hun’s contract we’ll lose at the gate.” Whitman extended both hands, palms upward, in a gesture of futility. “Now, is that everything, gentlemen? I’ve got a very busy day ahead of me. Mondays are bad anyway. And, what with the Hun. .”He didn’t bother completing the statement.