“How’d you do that?” asked the supervisor. “We didn’t see you once on the screen!”
“All I can tell you,” Ewing responded, “is that it wasn’t all that difficult. All you’d have to know is that the system was there and have a chance to study it for a while.
“Now, you said that the new system was installed last Monday. . that right, Mr. Malone?”
Both men nodded.
“And you also said that with the new system, visitors had to sign in. So anyone who visited with Mr. Hunsinger since, say, Tuesday of this past week would be aware of the system, would have had the opportunity to study it, at least briefly, and would also have signed in. Now, the question: Where is your log of the people who have signed in to visit any resident since last Monday?”
“Right here,” said Malone, turning the opened guestbook toward Ewing. “We got a brand new book when we started registering visitors. It’s hardly been used at all.”
Harris took the book eagerly and began to run his finger down the list of names looking for anyone visiting Hunsinger. He found what he was looking for recorded on Tuesday evening. He turned to Ewing. “Get a load of these names.” Harris pointed to a succession of seven signatures, all signed in as visitors of Hunsinger, then said to Malone, “Were you on duty Tuesday evening last?”
Malone nodded.
“Did you call Hunsinger and check on these people?”
“No, sir. Mr. Hunsinger left word that he expected them.”
Ewing read each name as he recorded them on his notepad. “Jack Brown, Dave Whitman, Bobby Cobb, Jay Galloway, Kit Hoffer, Niall Murray, and Father Robert Koesler.” Ewing, smiling, looked up at Harris. “Guess which one of the above doesn’t fit with the others?”
“You mean you know who all of them are?” asked Harris.
“With one exception, I think they’re all members of the Cougars organization.”
“Koesler.”
“That’s it.”
“How does he do it?” Harris shook his head. “There must be hundreds of priests in Detroit, but every other year or so, Koesler gets involved in a homicide investigation. You’ve worked with him before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t get the impression he was all that happy about being involved with a murder case.”
“Just lucky, eh?”
“I guess.”
Harris went back to sliding his finger down the pages, in search of more Hunsinger visitors. Coming to the end of the listed names, he looked at Malone with some irritation. “I thought you said all visitors were registered. What about Jan Taylor? We know she was here to visit Hunsinger today.”
“Oh, no; she don’t sign in.” Malone ran a finger between his starched white shirt and his neck. “She’s got a key.”
“A key!” What had begun as a rather narrow list of suspects was beginning to expand. “Okay, how many people have keys to Hunsinger’s apartment-which key, I assume, also works on the building entrances?”
“That’s right, sir. Just Miss Taylor and Mr. Hunsinger’s mother.”
Harris shrugged. “Okay,” he said to Ewing, “add mama to the list.”
“ Is nothing sacred?” Ewing grinned as he entered the name in his notepad.
“Okay, Malone,” Harris fixed the guard with an intense look, “let’s have the whole thing. We’ve got seven people who visited with Hunsinger last Tuesday. We have two people with keys. Anybody else have access to Hunsinger? Anybody at all?”
Malone hesitated.
“This is a homicide investigation, Malone. I don’t need to tell you what could happen if you don’t level with us.”
“Uh. . Mr. Hunsinger tips pretty good.”
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Well, there was one more key out. But that was a while ago. I don’t know if Mr. Hunsinger ever took it back or not.”
“Come on, come on.”
“Nobody needs to know that it was me who told you?”
“Nobody needs to know.”
“It was Mrs. Galloway.”
Ewing’s eyebrows lifted as he noted the final name.
Harris warned Malone and his supervisor emphatically about commenting on the case, especially to the news media, while the investigation continued. He left the two appropriately impressed.
Harris and Ewing returned to Hunsinger’s apartment to wrap things up.
“Ned,” said Ewing in the elevator, “did you really recognize Malone from a bust in the past?”
Harris chuckled. “Not really. But I find it helpful from time to time to psych myself up for an interrogation by pretending to know the guy and pretending that I hate him. Keeps him on his toes too. Didn’t you notice?”
2
“God, I hate Mondays. And if there’s anything I hate more than Mondays, it’s Monday mornings.” Lieutenant Harris rubbed his eyes elaborately.
It did not help Harris’s diurnal distress that he had begun a fresh homicide investigation last night that had kept him up rather late. Nor did it help that his partner in the case could be depended upon to be in good spirits even on a Monday morning.
“You’re in good company, Lieutenant,” said Sergeant Ewing cheerfully. “Willie Moellmann doesn’t like Monday mornings either. But success does wonders for a guy’s spirits.”
“Huh?”
“Quickest autopsy I ever witnessed.”
“Hunsinger?”
“Yup.”
Most homicide detectives attended the autopsies of cases they were working. It being the despised Monday morning, Harris had relied upon the dependable Ewing to attend this morning’s. Ewing had not disappointed him.
“Of course,” Ewing added, “it didn’t hurt at all that Doc pretty well knew what he was looking for.”
“Was it the strychnine?”
“Yup. All the symptoms check out-just like we found Hunsinger last night.” Ewing ran down the notes he had taken during the autopsy. “‘Terrified expression, fixed grin, and cyanosis.’” He looked up. “That’s the purplish discoloration of Hunsinger’s skin; he couldn’t get oxygen. Strychnine’s really a horrible death. Want the details?”
“Spare me.” Harris’s Monday syndrome had dissipated. He was now fully alert. Moellmann’s progress had galvanized him. “Was it the DMSO?”
Ewing nodded. “Weird delivery system, but damned effective. Doc had a book on it.” He again turned to his notes. He had copied the book’s description of the manner in which dimethylsulfoxide works. “‘It is most often administered by simply dabbing it on the skin; and, alone or as a carrier for other drugs, which DMSO often potentiates, it penetrates the skin to enter the bloodstream and be borne to all parts of the body.’”
Harris gave an impressed whistle. “And the strychnine was added to that?”
“Uh-huh. Doc says that with most people, even dabbing DMSO on leaves a red mark on the skin. But if you rub it in, it’s most likely to cause a rash.”
“Like the ones on Hunsinger’s hands and head.”
“Right. He poured the stuff on his hands, like you would shampoo, and massaged the stuff into his hair and scalp. Doc says the red marks on Hunsinger’s chest and neck were caused by somewhat the same thing. Strychnine causes a tightness in the chest and a stiffness in the neck. Hunsinger probably grabbed at his chest and neck when
