As her ace of trump, there was always that duplicate key to his apartment.
Lieutenant Harris needed more time and many more words to explain to Marjorie Galloway what Father Koesler was doing in her home. She was the only one of this morning’s interviewees who had not known him through the God Squad, or through any other circumstance, for that matter.
During the explanation, Koesler experienced one of those awkward sensations that was by no means unique in his life. He felt like an appliance being described by a salesman. After a demonstration, should the housewife decide against him, he would be put out on the porch and discarded. He stood, hat in hands, while he was being spoken of in the third person, offering it up for the suffering souls in purgatory.
At length, Koesler was accepted into the Galloway home, as accepted he must be. Marjorie Galloway led them to the living room, airy and spacious, but, Koesler thought, not particularly well decorated. He felt that something was wrong with the decor, but he couldn’t identify what. He smiled inwardly; what did he know about decor? There were times when he was inordinately grateful he ordinarily wore basic black and white. If he were a businessman, it would be all browns, blues, grays, or greens. He would never try a contrasting color combination; the chances that the colors would complement one another were no better than fifty-fifty.
The priest listened attentively as Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing covered the now familiar territory of their preceding interrogations.
Yes, she certainly knew Hunsinger was compulsive and that he regularly showered at home after a game. The question was answered with a slight shudder. As if the memory of Hunsinger’s postgame shower was somehow disturbing. She claimed not to know there was any strychnine kept in the apartment. That would jibe with the fact that they had broken up approximately a year before; Kit Hoffer had stated that Hunsinger had gotten the strychnine during the preseason games, which would have been about three months ago. Her professed lack of knowledge hinged, of course, on her not having returned to the apartment since her affair with Hunsinger ended.
Yes, she knew about the contact lenses and the nearsighted astigmatism. But painstaking questioning by the officers failed to elicit any evidence that she knew anything further was amiss with his vision.
Koesler tended to believe people. Probably it had something to do with his training. Many years before, in the seminary, he had been taught that a priest hearing confessions is obliged to presume that the penitent is telling the truth, whether speaking for or against him- or herself. He had followed that principle throughout his many years of hearing confessions. And the presumption spilled over into his general attitude toward people.
But Mrs. Galloway’s seeming ignorance of Hunsinger’s color dysfunction stretched Koesler’s credulity almost to the breaking point. How well could a person disguise a problem like colorblindness? Sufficiently for a spouse or a paramour to be ignorant of it? Maybe. But the priest had his doubts. And, he thought, if he doubted, what must be the state of mind of the detectives, who, after having been lied to regularly over the years, are programmed to distrust at first blush rather than to believe?
Koesler also noted that Mrs. Galloway was fielding these questions rather smoothly, as if she knew what was coming next. The only thing so far that had seemed to surprise her had been his presence.
And, indeed, she had been forewarned. Jay Galloway had phoned her immediately after his interrogation. He wanted no discrepancies in their responses to the detectives’ questions. Since he had been informed that Koesler’s presence stemmed from his having been a member of the God Squad, and since Marj was not a member, it did not enter Galloway’s head that Koesler would be present at Marj’s interrogation. So he had not mentioned the priest. Thus her surprise.
“One thing more, ma’am,” said Ewing, “could you tell us what you did yesterday? Try to be as thorough as possible.”
Marjorie Galloway sighed. “I must have awakened at about nine. Had breakfast, read the papers … a rather leisurely morning, all in all. Went to the game. After the game, went to dinner with some friends. Then returned here. Watched some TV. Went to bed.
“Now you’re going to ask me if anyone can corroborate all this, right?”
Good-naturedly, Ewing nodded.
“Right!” She smiled. “You see, I’ve watched ‘Hill Street Blues’ too.”
Ewing smiled in return.
“Well,” Marjorie proceeded, “the answer is yes and no. I sat in my husband’s box for the game. So lots of reliable people can account for me there. I had dinner with the van den Muysenbergs-he’s the Dutch consul. That was immediately after the game until nearly nine. And, from what I read in the papers about the Hun’s death, that should pretty well take care of my afternoon and evening alibis.
“However, I’m at a loss for a morning alibi.”
Ewing looked up from his notepad; Harris raised both eyebrows.
“I live alone now. Have for the past month. Actually, for all practical purposes, for the past year. There is,” she nodded in Father Koesler’s direction, “something to be said for celibacy. I have assembled an unenviable track record of living with people. Now I’m trying life alone, and enjoying it. At least I have more peace alone than I’ve ever experienced with anyone else.
“Gentlemen,” she looked from Harris to Ewing, neglecting Koesler, “I admit what you already know: that Hank Hunsinger and I were. . an item … for a long while a year or so ago. It was a sordid affair well chronicled in the gossip columns. But you can’t think for a minute I killed him! Why would I?”
Ewing shrugged. “Revenge?”
Marjorie smiled sardonically. “‘Hell hath no fury. .’? Trite! And it’s been more than a year! If I’d ever thought of it at all, why would I wait till now?”
“An idea whose time had come?” Ewing suggested. “Look, ma’am, nobody is accusing you of anything.”
“Then why are you asking me all these questions. . as if I were a suspect?”
“We’re asking questions of lots of people, ma’am,” Ewing responded. “Just trying to get the general information we need to home in on the perpetrator.”
“Well, look at it this way: You said the poison used was strychnine and that it was found in the Hun’s apartment. I can tell you it wasn’t there when I was. . seeing him. And you probably know that. So, how would I know there was strychnine available in the apartment?”
“You had a key-”
“I had a key! I had a key! Of course I had a key! But when we broke up I gave it back to him … I threw it at him!”
If that was a lie, or if she had the key duplicated before she returned it, thought Ewing, that would be a very interesting lie.
“Of course,” said Harris, “we’d have no way of knowing whether you returned the key, would we?”
“I assume you’re having the apartment searched. You should find an extra key among his belongings.”
Unless, thought Koesler, he’s given it to another woman. .
“We may find more than one key. But that would not necessarily indicate one of them was from you.”
“I returned it! “ She said it defiantly.
“Maybe you did. But what if you had the key duplicated before you returned it?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“No one has said you did. This is just the first round of our investigation.”
Unexpectedly, she relaxed and appeared quite confident. “I think the rule of law is that I am presumed innocent. The burden of proof- of proof-is on you.”
Harris nodded acknowledgment of her correct assessment of the situation.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Galloway.” Ewing rose and, as if it were a signal, so did Harris and Koesler. “As Lieutenant Harris indicated, we will very probably be needing more information from you.”