murder, the killer had to know certain things about Hunsinger. So, let’s see what you knew about him and, maybe, what you think the others knew.”
Koesler nodded.
“To begin with, were you aware of anything peculiar about Hunsinger’s behavior?”
“Peculiar?”
“One might even call it neurotic.”
“Neurotic. .”
“Compulsive,” Ewing finally clarified. He was beginning to wonder about the advisability of including the priest in this investigation.
“Compulsive! Oh, my, yes. I don’t think anyone could have been around Hank very long without noticing the repetition of one routine after another: the precise placing of his Bible, pen, pad; he even got upset if anyone disturbed anything in the apartment-and if anyone did he had better put it back in its exact position. But then,” Koesler expanded, “I’ve always thought that if a Catholic was going to become neurotic, compulsive behavior was a natural vehicle to choose, even subconsciously.” Koesler smiled as he launched into one of his favorite routines.
“After all, we provide our people with so many numbers: one God, two natures, three persons, four cardinal virtues, five processions, seven sacraments, nine Beatitudes, nine First Fridays, Ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys, twelve promises to St. Margaret Mary, fourteen Stations of the Cross. Probably one of the most popular images for a Catholic is a rosary. And there you’ve got the Catholic carefully counting out ten Hail Marys for each decade, five decades in the small popular rosary, fifteen decades in the full rosary. And it’s the rosary that’s entwined in the Catholic’s hands when he or she is laid to the final rest.
“Mind you, I don’t claim that all Catholics become compulsive. Only that I’ll bet the majority of Catholics who become neurotic at least go through a phase of compulsive behavior.”
Silently, Harris hoped Koesler would be able to hold down the quantity of his responses.
“Okay,” said Ewing, “how about the others in the group? Do you think they were aware of his compulsiveness?”
“Oh, yes. Remember I told you about how he insisted on everything’s being in its proper place? He almost forced his guests to join him in his compulsiveness.”
Better, thought Harris.
“Now, here’s a second consideration, Father. Were you aware that Hunsinger had any problems with his vision?”
“His vision? Well, I assume he had some problem; I mean, he wore contact lenses. At least I noticed one of those lens-disinfectant containers-what do they call them, cookers? — in the apartment.”
“Would the others in that group know about the lenses?”
“Again, I assume so. Surely his teammates would see him putting the contacts in, taking them out. . wouldn’t they? Surely his employers. . the trainer. . would know. . wouldn’t they?”
“We’re not so sure they all knew. We do know that Hunsinger was very reserved when it came to anything that might be construed as a personal defect or deficiency. But that’s an interesting observation about the lens cleaner. Do you recall where you saw it?”
“Yes. When I visited the bathroom, it was on a dresser in the bedroom.”
“Then the others could have seen it?”
“Uh-huh. Anybody who looked into the bedroom-and we all did-would be likely to see it. That is, if you could get your eyes away from all those mirrors.
“Another thing, about the strychnine. Hank bragged about having it in the apartment. Said it was the atom bomb of rat poisons. Everyone in the discussion group would have known it was there.”
“Okay. One final thing, Father: Were you aware of anything else that might have been wrong with Hunsinger’s vision?”
“You mean besides the fact that he wore glasses-or contacts? No. . I didn’t even know the reason he needed corrective lenses. Was there something else?”
“He was colorblind, Father, totally colorblind. We just visited with his eye doctor. All Hunsinger could see was white, black, and gray.”
“Amazing!” A new light came into Koesler’s eyes. “Say, that would explain why Hank’s apartment was decorated the way it was, wouldn’t it? I never really wondered about it, just thought it was sort of. . masculine. Maybe because that’s the way I ordinarily dress: in black and white. But that certainly explains the decor of his apartment.”
“Now, think carefully, Father: Did any of the others ever give any indication they might have known about Hunsinger’s colorblindness?”
Koesler gave the question careful consideration. “No. There was a bit of what I considered to be just banter … the kind of thing you might expect from athletes. But no, nothing at all that had to do with color. There were some remarks about Bobby Cobb’s color-he was the only black in the group-but it seemed to be given and taken in good humor. I am rather sensitive to that sort of thing. But it didn’t trouble me. No, as far as I can recall, no one made any reference at all to colorblindness.”
“Well, there it is,” Harris noted.
The other two peered at the distance. The outline of the Silverdome was barely visible.
Ewing looked at Harris. “Well, where do we begin?”
Harris smiled. “My personal philosophy is, start at the top.”
“The top it is.”
In the remaining time, Ewing, consulting his notes, explained to Koesler all that Dr. Glowacki had told them about color deficiency and colorblindness.
One of the fringe benefits of these police investigations, thought Koesler, was that he always learned something.
At forty-four, Jay Galloway easily was the youngest owner of a professional football franchise. And he appeared even younger. Of moderate height and build, he had an oval, wrinkle-free face and a full head of dark brown hair untouched by gray, parted in the middle, and shaped in a mod cut covering the top tip of the ears and just touching the back of his shirt collar.
Galloway was a native of Minneapolis. His father had been a successful salesman, his mother a homemaker. He had a younger brother and sister.
Environment has its effect on the developing personality. But it is an unpredictable effect. Jay Galloway was a case in point.
Born James Randolph Galloway, he developed in a solid, typical WASP family. Security and stability were there. The family attended a nearby stylish Lutheran church nearly every Sunday. Galloway’s father, besides being a successful ad salesman for the
Jay Galloway grew up in a state whose reputation for cold snowy winters was fabled. He grew up in a city that was famous as a municipality that had been carefully planned; had a well-monitored government cleaner than that of almost any other large urban area; was headquarters for many large corporations and businesses whose management demanded and got an attractive city in which their executives would be eager to live; was liberal in politics and conservative in almost everything else. The eleven lakes within the city were open to the public. No one privately owned property contiguous to any of the beautiful lakes. Taxes were high, but education took the top dollar.
While the downtowns of other cities decayed and gurgled in death throes, downtown Minneapolis with its mall and skyways remained vibrant long after Mary Tyler Moore was done throwing her cap up in the air outside Dayton’s. General Mills, 3M, Cargill, International Multifoods, and similar corporations were generous in community donations, providing an ideal atmosphere for raising families. No branch of city government had an excess of authority without having another segment of government there to provide checks and balances. One graduate of the University of Minnesota Law School who specialized in criminal law moved to another state after passing the bar, because he did not think there was enough crime in the Twin Cities to provide a lucrative legal career.
