It was nearing six o’clock. Ordinarily at this hour he would start dinner and watch the evening news. This evening he decided on only half his ritual. He wouldn’t watch the news. Most likely there would be something about the Hunsinger investigation. There had been every evening, if only to report that there had been no progress. And he didn’t want to be reminded of that investigation and his blundering participation in it. So he put two generous-sized hamburgers on a low fire, then went to his office to begin preparation for next Sunday’s homily.
He had already decided to base his homily on the second Scripture, a reading from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans: “It is rare that anyone should lay down his life for a just man, though it is barely possible that for a good man someone may have the courage to die. It is precisely in this that God proves his love for us: that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
Koesler always seemed to favor these Scriptures that emphasized, explained, or demonstrated God’s incredible love for his creatures. People in general, in Koesler’s view, did not often enough reflect on that reality. They thus missed one of the overpowering sources of consolation in life as well as a magnificent motivation for love of others.
Yet it was strange that he was again focusing on death. It seemed, since the murder of Hunsinger, that he could not escape the subject. And here he was again thinking of Hunsinger. He wished, as he had many times in the past, that he had more mental discipline.
The phone rang. That would distract from the homily preparation. Things simply were not working out very well this day.
“St.Anselm’s.”
“Bob?”
“Yes.” He always felt vaguely uncomfortable when addressed by his given name, unless it was by a relative, an extremely close friend, or another priest. Most priests today seemed to be addressed by just about everyone as good old Tommy, Louis, or Eddie. Koesler readily admitted to being traditional enough to find a place for a sense of respect for an office. Especially the office of a priest.
“This is Pat,” the now familiar voice of McNiff identified.
“Oh, hi, Pat. What’s up?”
“Did you hear it on the news?”
“Hear what? I didn’t have the news on.”
“The five-thirty news. They got him. They got the guy who killed Hunsinger.”
Koesler was almost afraid to ask, “Who?”
“The trainer. What’s his name? Jack Brown. Showed him being taken into police headquarters. Handcuffs and all.”
“What time did they arrest him; did they say?”
“Uh. .”McNiff tried to recollect. “I think they just said earlier today. But it seemed like it was kind of bright out. I don’t recall seeing any shadows. I guess it must’ve been around noon, or midday, at least.”
“Pat, do you remember which police officers brought him in?”
“They didn’t give any names, but there was a cop on either side of him. . had ahold of his arms.”
“Do you remember, was one white and the other black?”
“Yeah, I think that was it. . holy crow, what do you think I do, memorize the news? I just thought you’d be interested. “
“Yeah, you’re right, Pat. Thanks a lot for calling.”
Well, that was that. Koesler felt that it was safe to speculate that Brown had known about Hunsinger’s colorblindness and that somehow Lieutenant Harris and Sergeant Ewing had found some way of getting Brown to admit his knowledge.
The priest felt certain that once the official duties were finished later this evening, Inspector Koznicki would call with both news of the arrest and some of the less publicized details.
Koesler felt so profoundly sorry for Jack Brown. How far the man must have been pushed to take another’s life! And the life of an athlete, at that. The very type person he had dedicated his life to heal and restore.
Koesler decided he would pray for Jack Brown. He felt he had already said enough prayers for Brown’s victim.
As Koesler finished his prayer, he smelled smoke. He hurried into the kitchen where he found two very burned hamburgers.
His shoulders drooped. The perfect end, he thought, to a not altogether perfect day!
A small man paced up and down the street, all the while restricting his travel to a single block. Each time he reached one of the two corners, he would pause and seem to reflect. He was neatly but inexpensively dressed, and clean shaven. A snap-brim fedora covered his Ivy League trim gray hair. He was perhaps in his late fifties, early sixties.
A single building stood on the block where he walked. It was 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police Headquarters.
Inside, on the fifth floor, in the homicide section, three men sat in an otherwise unoccupied squad room. All three felt the peculiar elation that usually accompanies the successful completion of a difficult job.
“What I don’t yet understand,” Sergeant Ewing said, “is what led you to the trail of Jack Brown. He seemed to me to be an A-1 straightshooter.”
“That was my impression too,” Harris said. “In the beginning I thought he was the least suspect of all of them.”
“Then what was it, Ned?” Inspector Koznicki asked.
“Actually, Walt, I took a page from your friend, Father Koesler.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Father Koesler is by trade a ‘father confessor.’ I mean, there are lots of people who are called father confessors. Anybody, actually, who is in a special position to receive others’ confidences or give out advice. But a priest is the original father confessor. He is there and Catholics come to him and pour out their most intimate secrets. Eventually, the priest gets to know his people probably better than anyone else could. . that about the way it works, Walt?”
Koznicki, smiling, nodded.
“Well,” Harris continued, “I got to thinking about that, when, all of a sudden, this light goes on. At least on a physical level-and probably on several other levels too-who is more father confessor to athletes than their trainer?
“I mean, a player may try to fool his coach, an assistant coach, or somebody in management. But the one who patches up the cuts and tapes up the sprains is the trainer. The trainer alone on the team is the one who puts his hands on the bruises and torn ligaments. If a player is going to succeed, especially in a violent game like football, he’s just got to confide in his trainer. The trainer is the very last person in the world a player could hope to fool. If anybody on a team could be called a father confessor, it surely would be the trainer.”
“Therefore,” Koznicki concluded, “you felt that Jack Brown must certainly know everything about Hunsinger, including that he was colorblind.”
“That’s it, Walt. And if I was right, why didn’t he tell us about it when we first questioned him? We gave him every opportunity. He told us freely and voluntarily everything else about Hunsinger. Why not the colorblindness, if he knew?”
“So,” Ewing said, “you were on a fishing expedition when you were talking to Brown this morning.”
“Exactly. For once, I got to play the nice cop. I didn’t know where it was going to lead, though. I just hoped that if we got Brown loosened up enough to be off his guard, he just might slip up. But, damn, he couldn’t have been better! I could hardly believe my eyes when Brown stood there holding those pills, identical in every way except they were different colors. And then Brown tells us Hunsinger couldn’t tell the difference!”
“Excellent work, Ned,” said Koznicki.
The man who had been pacing up and down in front of headquarters had not drawn any special attention. Under ordinary circumstances no one was assigned to survey the outside of the building.
Police officers and others who had business at headquarters usually traveled briskly into or out of the building. They paid little attention to one another unless one happened to know a colleague; then greetings were exchanged. But no one would pay any special attention to a stranger on the street. None did now. None paused long enough to be aware that the stranger was pacing seemingly without purpose.