“B-but that was ages ago. A year or more. There isn’t anything between them anymore.”
“Then you knew about the affair?” A hint of a smile played at Harris’s lips.
Galloway’s shoulders caved slightly. He had been trapped. Even though he had known Harris was the dangerous one.
They were on the brink of a confessional precipice. Ewing, for one, did not wish to cross it at this time. “Were you aware of Hunsinger’s attitude toward routines. . habits, Mr. Galloway?”
Galloway remained erect in his chair. He would not chance relaxing again during this conversation. “Routines! Hell, yes. Everybody knew the guy was compulsive. Hell, he was a compulsive-obsessive!”
“You say that was general knowledge?”
“Everybody in the league knew it. Everybody who read the sports pages knew it. The guy wouldn’t play if a shoestring got crossed.” Galloway looked from one officer to the other, then glanced at his watch. “Is that about all? I really have a lot to do.”
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Galloway,” said Ewing.
“Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday between 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.?” Harris asked.
“M-me! My whereabouts!” Galloway flushed. His lips trembled. He clearly was angry. “What do you mean, my whereabouts! Are you accusing me of this thing?” He reached for the phone. “I think I’d better get my attorney!”
“Before you do that”-Ewing raised a hand; Galloway did not lift the receiver-“you should know that you are not being accused of anything at this time. We are merely conducting a preliminary investigation. We are going to be asking this question of quite a few people.”
Galloway removed his hand from the phone.
“Now,” Ewing continued, “can you tell us what you did yesterday between 7:00 a.m. and 6:00 p.m.? Try to be as thorough as possible.”
“Okay. I got up about six-thirty, had some coffee, read the papers. Got down to the Pontiac Inn about ten. Joined the gang for some brunch. Went directly from there to the stadium. After the game, I went out to dinner with some friends from GM. That would take me up to about ten last night.”
“So you were in the company of others from six-thirty in the morning until ten last night?” Harris asked.
“Not exactly. I was alone until I got to the inn.”
Harris raised his eyebrows. “So no one can corroborate your story until after ten yesterday morning?”
“I’ve had about enough of this, Lieutenant.” Galloway stood and leaned forward, his whitened knuckles pressing against the desktop. “Are you saying that I’m a suspect in this murder?”
“No one has said that,” Harris stated.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Galloway continued. “Why would I do a thing like that? I had no reason at all.”
“How about, just for the sake of pursuing the idea, jealousy or revenge for what he did to your wife?” Harris suggested.
A sardonic smile cracked one side of Galloway’s mouth. He would rather not have addressed the subject at all. If Harris had not tricked him into admitting knowledge of the affair, he would have responded in some vague manner. As it was, he had to answer openly. And he was prepared to do so.
“Your source, whoever it was, about the affair my wife had with the Hun failed to fill you in on the status of our marriage. My wife and I are separated. We have been for over a month. Hunsinger was not the cause. . although he may have been the final straw. You can ask any of the gossip columnists. They’ll tell you my wife really gets around. It’s going to be a messy divorce. The media can hardly wait. They’ll tell you.”
The ensuing moment of silence was awkward if not embarrassing.
Galloway continued. “Aside from the fact that, frankly, I don’t give a damn about my wife, I really would be a fool to do anything harmful to the Hun. He was a meal ticket. The local hero. God, his fans go back to high school around here. A lot of the fans come out just to see him. You can check for yourselves. On home dates, when it’s known beforehand that he’s hurt and not going to play, there have been more no-shows than at other games.
“And now, gentlemen, the Hun will be permanently absent from our games. I’ve got to address that problem. And it’d better be a pretty damn smart move I make, whatever it is. That’s what I’m busy with this morning. So if there are no further questions-”
“Not just now, Mr. Galloway,” said Ewing. “There may be more later. Thank you for your help.”
The two policemen and the priest rose and left the office in silence.
“Want some lunch now?” Ewing asked.
Harris checked his watch. “Let’s hit on the other executives while we’re up here.”
“Okay,” said Ewing. “On to Dave Whitman.”
They began walking down the corridor, eerily quiet in the gigantic stadium.
“Whatcha think, Father?” Ewing asked.
“Well,” said Koesler, “for what it’s worth I think he lied about the strychnine.”
“What?”
“As I told you, Hank clearly mentioned that he had a supply of strychnine in the apartment. And not only was Mr. Galloway present, but I remember his making some comment about it.”
“No shit!” Ewing murmured.
“I should never doubt Walt Koznicki,” said Harris. “Every once in a while he is capable of an absolutely inspired idea.”
“Bring it in. Bring it home. We had to do it. They depended on us.”
Although he had an exemplary father, young Dave Whitman’s role model of choice was his paternal grandfather, a railroader of the old school.
Whitman’s father, Robert, was a surgeon. He also was for many terms a Minnesota state senator. A rare combination. Understandably, he was held in high esteem in the community. Also understandably, he was seldom home. On those few occasions when he was both home and not otherwise occupied, he spent as much time as possible with his son and two daughters.
The daughters were very close to their mother. Dr. Whitman thought that appropriate. But he was particularly pleased that young Dave attached himself to his grandfather. As he grew up, the doctor had related well to his father, Bernard. Especially since he was forced to be away much of the time, Dr. Whitman could think of few others he could wish his own son to copy more than the man the doctor had patterned himself after. In fact, when in a nostalgic mood, the doctor frequently envied his son’s relationship with the old man.
Before David was in his teens, Bernard Whitman was nearing his eighties. Although of English rather than Scandinavian extraction, Bernard was a stereotype of what one might expect a native Minnesotan to be. In his late years, Bernard looked as if he’d been chiseled out of rock. Years of facing a frigid unrelenting winter wind had cut deep ridges in his face. Once he had been a huge man. Now his big-boned body was pencil-thin, skin taut over the bones. His hands remained large and gnarled.
Many an evening, Dave would sit at his grandfather’s knee near the fireplace and listen eagerly to the oft told tales.
“Things were different when I was a lad, David. I was a country boy up near Duluth. There was no Reserve Mining. Just the Lake.” (Grandpa never gave Superior its name, but always referred to it as if it were uppercased.) “And some homesteaders, some Indians, and the land to care for so it would care for us. And I was eager and ambitious. From the first time I ever saw a train I knew that was going to be my life.
“I started as a hostler, a laborer. I’d clean the shop and the pits, prepare the engines, knock the fire out, clean the ashes. That’s the bottom, David.”
Dave had guessed, before being told, that that was so.
“Then I became a fireman in the engine. That was hard work.”
Dave’s eyes would drop from his grandfather’s face to his work-worn hands; he could understand just how hard that work had been.
“Then I passed an examination to be the engineer, gained my seniority, and got to be able to pick my runs. When business got bad, I’d go back to being a fireman. In the 1929 depression, I lost about twenty years’ seniority for two or three days.”
Grandpa was with the Minneapolis, Northfield amp; Southern Railroad for fifty-one years. Regularly, he would
