business. Now all his financial eggs were in the Cougars basket. He worried a good deal about that. The income from attendance, television, and other sources was extremely gratifying. But the expenses, particularly in players’ salaries, were enormous. And growing annually. Unlike other owners, Galloway had no resource to satisfy expenses other than the income created by the Cougars. He had cause to worry.
One of his major worries involved Hank Hunsinger. The Hun posed a serious dilemma for Galloway. On the one hand, Hunsinger drew a crowd, not only on the playing field when he carried the ball, but in the stands. A hefty percentage of the Silverdome crowd came to see the Hun. But, on the other hand, his salary demands grew more preposterous by the year. There was a time coming, if indeed it had not already arrived, when the two would counterbalance each other and the Hun’s salary and fringe benefits would offset the crowd he drew.
It was just possible Hunsinger stood in the way of Galloway’s master plan: to be Somebody. Galloway could not let that happen. He could brook no impediment to his goal. He had to find a solution to the problem of the Hun.
“I understand you have to investigate this matter.” Galloway, fingers trembling slightly, lit a Camel. “But I’m a very busy man. And you don’t have an appointment.”
“We haven’t time to make appointments during a homicide investigation,” Sergeant Ewing explained affably. “We’ve just got to go where the investigation leads.”
“But I don’t know anything about it,” Galloway protested. “Besides, I’m trying to put this whole thing back together. I still can’t believe we’ve lost Hunsinger!”
Koesler thought Galloway made it sound as if he had lost a prized tool.
“Look, Mr. Galloway,” said Lieutenant Harris, “we can ask you a few questions, get a little information from you here and now. Or we can all go downtown to police headquarters, where you can make a statement.”
“Y-you can do that?” In moments of great stress, Galloway suffered a slight stammer.
Harris nodded.
“Okay.” Galloway blanched at the very thought of being taken to police headquarters where the dregs of society were led through the corridors. He virtually collapsed into his black executive chair. With a vague wave, he motioned the others to seat themselves. He glanced at Koesler. “What’s he doing here?”
“The department,” Ewing explained, “has decided to use Father Koesler as a consultant in this investigation.”
“Why?”
“That’s all you need to know,” said Harris.
Galloway appraised the two officers. From all he’d seen on television and in the movies, they were playing the tough-cop/nice-cop routine. He decided he would be able to handle Ewing with no problem. But he’d better be cautious about Harris. He was not entirely correct.
Galloway sank deeply into his chair. He dragged on his cigarette. It was several seconds before he exhaled through his nostrils. He sank his thumb into his cheek. The cigarette was clenched between his index and middle fingers. A thin curl of smoke followed the contour of his head, then disappeared above him. His eyes darted from one officer to the other, waiting for the questions.
“Mr. Galloway,” Ewing began, “we want to pinpoint the last time Mr. Hunsinger was in his apartment before he returned to it after the game.”
“H-how should I know?”
“Well, when did he have to join the rest of the team before the game?”
“Oh, that’d be yesterday morning at eight at the Pontiac Inn for the pregame meal and taping.”
“Then he might have left his place at-uh, how long does it take to get out to the inn from Jefferson and the Boulevard? About 45 minutes, doesn’t it? So, about seven or seven-fifteen?”
“I suppose. Why don’t you find out from the doorman?”
“We did ask the doorman. But in investigations like this, we crosscheck. We may well ask you questions that we have asked others. There’s no telling where an investigation will lead.”
“Oh.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Galloway,” said Harris, “I thought it was the custom for teams to stay at a hotel the night before a game, even if they were playing at home. How come your team doesn’t get together until game day itself?”
Galloway glanced nervously at Harris. He was the one to be wary of. “We decided long ago it would be better for the players to be at home until just before the game whenever possible. Helps relax them. So, when we play at home, we assemble on the day of the game.”
Harris, Ewing, and Koesler each had the same thought: staying at home saved an overnight hotel bill. To Harris’s thought was added: you stingy bastard.
Ewing resumed the questioning. “Mr. Galloway, were you aware that Hunsinger had any physical problems or flaws?”
“Physical problems?”
“Any impairment?”
“Well, he had a chronic problem with his shoulder. And his knees were in horrible shape. But anybody who’s played as long as the Hun would have to have a lot wrong with him.”
“Anything, any impairment not connected with football?”
Galloway took another long drag and jammed the cigarette butt into a large ashtray. As with most smokers, he failed to completely extinguish the cigarette; it continued to smolder as he lit another. “His eyes? You mean his eyes?”
“That’s right.”
“Yeah; he wore glasses. Contacts. He was nearsighted or something.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I know of. Actually, he was in pretty good shape for the length of time he’d been in the game.”
“I mean anything else about his eyes?”
Galloway frowned. “Something, I think it was astigmatism. You’d better check with Dave Whitman, or with Jack Brown, my trainer. They know more about the physical condition of the players than I do.”
“What do you know about Hunsinger’s death?”
“Just what I’ve read in today’s papers. I’ve been on the phone all morning. But I haven’t been able to find anyone who knows more about it. Or, at least anybody who’ll talk. He was poisoned. That’s all I know.”
“It was strychnine.”
“Strychnine!”
“We found a container in the apartment. Did you know it was there?”
“No. N-no. I don’t think so. Why would I?” For some time he had been swiveling his chair from side to side. It was obvious he was nervous and wanted this interrogation over as quickly as possible.
“Mr. Galloway, do you know of anyone who would want to kill Hunsinger?”
For the first time, Galloway showed a brief smile. “Just about everybody he ever played against.”
Ewing returned the smile. “We’re trying to narrow this investigation, Mr. Galloway. We’re concentrating on those who might have had access to his apartment and might have both a motive and the means. Specifically, right now, six of the men who met at his apartment in the discussion group.”
“The discussion group!” Galloway seemed genuinely shocked. “That was a Bible discussion group, for God’s sake. Besides, with the exception of the good father here, we were all with the same team. Why would any of us want to hurt the Hun, let alone kill him?”
“Think, Mr. Galloway.”
Galloway butted another cigarette, left it smoldering in the tray, and began drumming his fingers on the desktop. “Hoffer, I suppose. He played behind the Hun. He may have resented the Hun, but”- he shook his head-“not enough to kill him. No,” he shook his head again, “the idea is just preposterous.”
Softly, without moving in his chair, Harris asked, “What about your wife, Mr. Galloway?”
“What!” Abruptly Galloway lurched forward as if he were about to stand. “Marjorie! What has she got to do with this?”
“We have information that she was a very close friend of Hunsinger at one time.” Harris retained his calm manner.
