“I think I’ll wait for the inspector.”
“Okay. The waiter’ll be along in a minute.”
Koesler did not have long to wait. It was 11:40-he had just checked his watch-when he saw the inspector enter. Koesler really could not have missed Koznicki’s arrival. The inspector was a very large man. Though roughly Koesler’s height, Koznicki had a much heftier build. Actually, it was more his aura that gave him the appearance of being larger than life.
Koesler noted that there was no hesitation on Beyer’s part in leading Koznicki to the table. “Change your policy?” the priest asked as Koznicki was seated.
“Yes,” Beyer chuckled. “I checked with Molly. The policy is intended for only very small Polish people. And not even then if they are accompanied by large Polish people.” Placing two menus on the table, Beyer returned to the door as the luncheon crowd began to assemble.
“What was that all about?” asked Koznicki.
“Oh, just another example of Joe’s fey sense of humor.” He smiled, recalling the time he had arrived at the Wine Cellars expecting to meet Free Press columnist Jim Fitzgerald, only to be told by Beyer, “We don’t serve Irish here.”
“Good of you to join me on such short notice, Inspector.”
“Not at all. It was good of you to set aside your schedule yesterday and assist in our investigation. I have spoken with Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing. They tell me you were of significant help.”
“Thanks. I don’t know how much help I was, but whatever, I paid for it last night. Just couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about it. All that I heard yesterday just kept buzzing around in my head. And the one interrogation I didn’t sit in on-Mrs. Hunsinger. It was the second shoe that hasn’t dropped. How did that go? Can you say?”
“Certainly, Father. But perhaps we ought to consult the menu before the waiter comes.”
“Of course.”
Neither man needed to study the menu in any great detail. They had lunched in the Wine Cellars many times.
After scanning the menu, Koznicki recounted the interview with Mrs. Hunsinger and, briefly, with Mrs. Quinn. He told of how startled the detectives had been at Mrs. Hunsinger’s “confession” until it became clear that she was blaming herself in a wholesale manner for every evil done to or committed by her son, including his colorblindness. And how Mrs. Quinn, in great detail, had recounted their Sunday activities.
Koesler smiled. He could imagine the detectives fidgeting during the overly detailed narration.
The waiter appeared. Koesler ordered a Chablis, Koznicki a rose. Koznicki would have the Dover sole. Koesler requested the club sandwich, silently promising that he would cut back at dinner.
“Odd, is it not, Father, the vast array of penitents there are in the world. We find some people confessing to real crimes. Others seem to be professional penitents, confessing to everything imaginable. Then there are those, usually parents or someone in authority, who seem to absorb the guilt of their children or subordinates.”
“Yes.” Koesler nibbled on a bread stick. “As a matter of fact, I was reading something about that in the paper recently. I was trying to recall it as you were speaking. It wasn’t exactly the same thing you were talking about, as I recall, but it was similar. Oh, yes, now I remember: It was about victims-like rape victims or battered wives or accident victims or even people who are terminally ill.
“The thing all these people had in common is that what had happened to them was beyond their control. The article said that there is a tendency among such people to take the blame, to assume some responsibility for what had happened to them.
“There were a couple of reasons for this, according to the article. One reason for blaming oneself is that it can give meaning to something that seems incomprehensible. As if it were better to accept blame than to have to admit that life has no meaning or is unfair.
“And the other reason is that when a victim takes on the responsibility for what happened to him or her, the victim may thus be able to retain some feeling of control. One of the examples was a rape victim chiding herself: ‘It was at least partly my fault. . I should have known he was up to no good. ‘
“Maybe that’s what Mrs. Hunsinger had in mind, at least subconsciously. She was assuming responsibility for things her son had done to others, things that happened to him, even his death. Better that than admit that some nameless fate was responsible for what happened to him, that her prayers had been fruitless, and that there was nothing she could do to help him.
“Which is not to say I agree with that. On the contrary, I feel very strongly that, while we may be less than completely responsible for everything we do as we grow up, at some time in our young adult or adult life, we must take full responsibility for our choices as well as for the consequences of those choices.” Koesler sipped his wine. “They are not the fault of our parents or our siblings.”
“I could not agree with you more, Father. I believe it is one of the deep sicknesses of our society today. So many people, not a few of them accused of crime, want to shirk all personal responsibility and pass it on to their parents, teachers, the times we live in-anything-everything but their own decisions and choices. And, as you suggest, Father, too often parents are too inclined to step in and take on the unjustified guilt. But the reasons you discovered in that article are interesting. I had not heard them.”
“Yes. In effect, Mrs. Hunsinger cannot comprehend or deal with her son’s death, nor with what he probably did to prompt someone to murder him. So she internalizes the whole thing and says that it’s her fault. However terrible that may be, it’s preferable to dealing with reality-admitting she had no control over the circumstances that led to her son’s untimely death.”
The waiter brought their lunch. Neither would have more wine.
Koesler extracted the toothpick that seemed intended to hold his club sandwich together. “I assume Mrs. Hunsinger’s was the only confession you got yesterday.”
“Oh, quite absolutely.” Koznicki pierced a wedge of lemon with his fork and squeezed it over the fish. “But you would know; you were present during the interrogation of the others.”
“Yes. They were all sort of defensive. . not that I blame them. And they all had excuses-what do you call them? — alibis. Were the detectives able to check those out yet?”
“Oh, yes. Their whereabouts have all been substantiated. And yet, all but two have gaping holes in their Sunday schedules that could have allowed them the opportunity to have committed the murder.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. This much we know: Mr. Hunsinger was on time for the team meeting at the Pontiac Inn at 8:00 a.m. According to the building guard, he left his apartment around seven. He happened to stop in the lobby and check something with the guard before leaving.
“The important thing is to establish a time span during which the killer definitely had the opportunity to enter the apartment, mix strychnine into the DMSO, and switch the bottles of DMSO and shampoo.
“And that time frame extends from at least seven in the morning to approximately six in the evening, when he returned to his apartment after the game.
“Now, consider the team’s owner”-Koznicki extracted a notepad from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and read from it-“one Jay Galloway.”
“I think I remember.” Koesler interrupted as much to allow Koznicki to eat as for any other reason. “He said he was living alone and he didn’t arrive at the inn until about-what was it-about ten that morning?”
“That is correct.”
“Which means that he could have gone over to the apartment, perhaps waited for Hunsinger to leave, gone up, and done it, and still had plenty of time to get to the inn. Too much time, in fact. Galloway could have gone to the apartment any time up to about nine o’clock. But he claims to have no motive. He claimed to have lost a lot by Hunsinger’s death.”