playing football. . you did know he played football?”
“Of course. No, it didn’t hinder him. Remember, he saw things in the same way a normally sighted person sees a black and white television picture. There were times when his colorblindness was a help to him.”
The officers registered incredulity.
“For instance, when two competing teams wear the same colors; say, blue and white. It happens. It can be confusing for the person with normal color vision. But as far as Mr. Hunsinger was concerned, his team was wearing dark pants and white shirts. While the other team wore white pants and dark shirts. That’s the way all team colors appeared to him.”
“One more-maybe the final-question,” said Harris. “To your knowledge, did many other people know Hunsinger was colorblind?”
Glowacki thought for a moment. “I rather doubt it. No one learned it from me. I have never discussed it with anyone other than Mr. Hunsinger. Now it no longer makes any difference to him. But I got the clear impression that while he lived he wanted it kept a secret. He was, after all, a member of an infinitesimal minority. Less than one percent of males are colorblind. I don’t know if it was because he was a private person or he was ashamed of his condition or he was just exceptionally vain.”
“If you had to guess?” Ewing prodded. It was important that they learn all they could about the victim.
“Well,” Glowacki pulled at his lower lip, “I’m no psychologist. But if I had to guess-and this is just a guess-I would say he was too vain to have admitted to being colorblind.”
“Reasons?”
“I remember when contact lenses first became popular, Mr. Hunsinger was among the very earliest to use them. I sensed he had always been embarrassed to appear in public wearing glasses. He used to come in quite regularly because the frames were bent out of shape. They’d been in his pocket getting bent when he should have been wearing them. Then, as I say, at his earliest opportunity, he got contacts, so people wouldn’t know that his vision needed correcting. Even though the contacts he first wore were rigid lenses.”
“Is there a problem with rigid lenses?” asked Harris.
“They have a tendency to pop out rather easily. You can imagine how troublesome that would be in a violent game like football! So as soon as the Toric soft lenses came out he started wearing them.”
“The difference?”
“Well, for one thing, soft lenses need more elaborate care than the rigids. I’m sure that after a game, Mr. Hunsinger’s eyes would be sensitive and red. He’d surely remove the lenses and clean them.”
“As a matter of fact,” Ewing commented, “they were ‘cooking’ when Hunsinger died.”
Glowacki again shook his head, reminded that the man they were discussing had been murdered only yesterday. “Yes, he’d do that. First thing after getting home. Mr. Hunsinger was a bit of a compulsive.”
“ So we’ve been given to believe.”
“And also proud,” the doctor continued. “Proud of his physique. Proud of his appearance. Proud of his accomplishments. Too proud, I’m sure, to ever let it be known that he belonged to an exclusive minority of people who are colorblind. He considered that a blemish, a defect. But one that was, as far as others were concerned, invisible. And I’m sure he did everything in his power to make sure it stayed that way.”
The officers thanked the doctor for his time and information. They advised him that his late patient’s colorblindness was becoming a significant factor in their investigation and warned him not to reveal the fact to anyone, at least while the investigation continued.
They got in their car. Harris inserted the key in the ignition, but did not turn it. Instead, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “I’ve got a feeling that we’ve got the essence of the thing. How about you?”
“Yeah,” Ewing agreed, “the perpetrator didn’t bother to pour a mixture of DMSO and strychnine into the shampoo bottle because he-”
“Or she-”
“Or she-knew it didn’t matter. Hunsinger, seemingly an ironclad victim of habit, would reach for the second container from the left, assuming that everything was in its proper place-as everything in his life was. The bottle was the same shape and size as the shampoo container. He couldn’t read the label because his contacts were in the ‘cooker,’ where they always were when he showered after a game. And he couldn’t tell the liquid in the bottle was white instead of pink because he was colorblind.”
“We are looking for someone with a motive for killing Hunsinger,” said Harris, “someone who had the opportunity to kill him and who knew his compulsive routines: knew of his showering at home after a game, knew his eyesight was bad-and knew that he was colorblind.”
“Of all that, it seems the best-kept secret was his colorblindness.”
“Well, let’s get crackin’.”
“Right. On to good old Father Koesler.”
In 1954 Robert Koesler was ordained a priest to serve in the Archdiocese of Detroit. He was ordained in Blessed Sacrament Cathedral on June 4. The next day, Sunday, June 5, he offered his first solemn Mass at 10:00 a.m. in his home parish, Holy Redeemer. In the congregation at that Mass were Grace Hunsinger and her seven- year-old son, Hank.
Conrad Hunsinger, Grace’s husband and Hank’s father, was not there. Conrad was not present because he was not a Catholic, and, further, he never attended any church service. Grace was there because a first Mass of a returning ordained young man was an extremely important parochial event for deeply religious Catholics. And Mrs. Hunsinger was a deeply religious Catholic. Hank was there because his mother made him attend.
In three months, Conrad Hunsinger would be dead. Very sudden. A heart attack. Very sad. Robert Koesler would not know any of this. In August 1954, he would be working in his first parochial assignment on Detroit’s east side. He and Conrad Hunsinger had never met.
To a degree, Grace Hunsinger had watched Bobby Koesler grow up. She had attended at least one Mass almost every day of her adult life. Frequently she would kneel back in the shadows of the enormous Romanesque Holy Redeemer church and watch little Bob Koesler, altar boy, in cassock and surplice, serve Mass. She knew, from the churchy gossip of other daily Mass attendants, when he went away to the seminary. She noted, on his return during vacations, that he still played the part of a faithful altar boy well into his twenties. From time to time, she wished the church bug had bitten her son. It was not to be.
Koesler knew Grace Hunsinger, although not by name. He knew her as a quiet gentle lady who seemed always to be in church. There were several like that, mostly women, mostly middle-aged to elderly, who seemed to be in church most of the time, especially during Masses and novenas. He had no way of knowing that one day, many years later, the unseen son of this nice lady whose name Koesler did not know would, for a short time, play an extremely important role in his life.
That day, June 4, 1954, was the culmination of all that Robert Koesler had dreamed of since he was of an age to remember dreams. As far back as he could recall, he had always wanted to be a priest.
Shortly after he had gone to the seminary in the ninth grade to test his vocation,
Great as
Koesler’s professors as well as his contemporaries would agree that his seminary career was “interesting.” By no means a serious student until perhaps the final few years of the seminary, Koesler could more frequently be found on the athletic field or the stage.
But at the end of twelve years his determination to be a priest was more firm than ever. The seminary officials found no good reason to deny him; some even found good reasons to recommend him. So, on June 4, 1954, came his ordination, followed by his first Mass, with, unbeknownst to him, Grace and Hank Hunsinger in
