sum it up for his grandson: “Indeed, David, it was a thrill. We’d travel under all kinds of conditions-storms, faulty engines. But there was the thrill of getting the fireman to get up speed. We had to get ’er over the hill. There were no excuses. We had to come through.”
Of all his grandfather’s many reminiscences, David was most impressed by two quasi-creeds by which Grandpa lived. One, in proof of maturity, was, “There were no excuses; we had to come through.”
When at last grandfather retired from the railroad, “I was still eager for something ahead of me to inspire me.”
He found it in the Minneapolis Society for the Blind. “I always pitied the handicap of the blind. I got sympathetic watching the blind travel. Well, sir, one day the Society for the Blind had an open house, and I attended.
“I always wondered how a blind man could operate a power saw. It seemed like suicide to me. So I sneaked away from the open-house crowd and walked over to talk with some men who were working with wood. One of the supervisors asked me if I would like to volunteer. Right then I knew that this was where I wanted to be.
“First I had to learn how to use power tools before I could learn how to teach the blind in their use.
“But I was left alone to teach them. Which was good. I never liked to have a boss over my shoulder. All my life I had to depend on myself to bring myself in.”
That was the second maxim by which grandpa lived. Young David Whitman determined to live his life in the same way. He would make no excuses. And, to the extent possible, he would have no boss over his shoulder. Certainly he would never depend upon a boss for motivation. He would depend upon himself to bring himself in.
Tempering these challenging goals was a subtle but almost ever-present sense of humor. When filling out application forms for the University of Minnesota, Dave had answered the question “Church preference?” with “Gothic.” Fortunately for the fledgling collegian, the admissions dean also had a sense of humor.
After an outstanding tour through academe, he was recruited by and joined the public relations section of International Multifoods. As IM expected, he was very good. He quickly built excellent relations with the community-and with the media, to whom he was a genuine help. They learned to trust him.
However, there was a boss over his shoulder. Whitman certainly did not depend on anyone else for motivation in his work. But bosses, even approving bosses, would not go away.
Thus, when his childhood friend, Jay Galloway, pressed Whitman to join an independent venture in publishing, his inclination was to abandon the giant corporation and its multiple bosses and get in on the ground floor of something new and exciting. It took him a considerable time to convince his wife, Kate, of the wisdom, even of the necessity of the new gamble. But he succeeded, as he knew he would.
It was not long before disenchantment set in. It was not that Whitman did not believe Galloway could succeed. Indeed, it was probable he would. But no sooner did Whitman begin working for Galloway than an air of contempt began to be detectable.
Whitman could have ignored that. But Galloway had an irredeemable habit of cutting corners, playing fast and loose with rules, relying only on hope to get away with his unending fiscal peccadilloes. Sometimes Whitman wished Galloway would just commit one serious crime rather than all those minor offenses, the total penalty for which would be approximately the same as for a felony.
Whitman had been nearing the end of his endurance when Galloway came up with the idea of buying into and eventually owning the Cougars. The prospects were too good. Whitman, after a fierce internal battle, reinvested in Galloway.
They moved to a new city, a new state, a new enterprise. But nothing else had changed. Galloway was still mucking about in areas unsuited to his talents. Once again, Whitman was nearing the end of his tether when a fresh thought occurred.
He would nudge Galloway out of the picture. He would maneuver Galloway into an intolerable position with the Cougars. And then, out. Finally, Whitman would be where he was destined to end: in the driver’s seat. No boss over his shoulder. Depending on himself to bring himself in.
It would require some bold strokes. But Whitman had one such stroke in mind. It would take a lot of planning. He knew well the problem Galloway had with Hank Hunsinger. Whitman, indeed, was the management representative who had to negotiate the contracts containing those outrageous demands with the Hun. If it had been up to him alone, Whitman would have taken a much more hard-nosed attitude toward Hunsinger, including letting him go, to see if he could pursue his career with some other team.
But Galloway insisted on keeping the Hun, whatever the cost. Galloway seemed to Whitman to be unrealistic about the Hun’s value to the team. And that, Whitman decided, was Galloway’s Achilles’ heel. Whitman began to devise a complicated scheme. It would require very careful planning. But then, planning was his forte.
All that was required was that he get up a head of steam, get ’er over the hill, and bring ’er in.
Distractions were second nature to Father Koesler. And he was suffering from a persistent one now. The twin rows of pipes on Dave Whitman’s desk had nearly mesmerized the priest. He had never seen so many pipes outside a tobacconist’s. Clearly, Whitman was a serious smoker.
Between attempting to count the pipes, Koesler had been listening to the interrogation. They had covered the length of time Whitman had been associated with Galloway, the tragedy of Hunsinger’s death, and Whitman’s awareness of the player’s obsessive compulsiveness.
“Were you aware of any physical impairment, outside of injuries, that is?” Ewing asked.
“Yes, of course.” Whitman consulted Hunsinger’s file. Earlier, when the officers and Koesler had entered his office, Whitman’s secretary had brought it in. “He had a sight problem: astigmatism with a touch of nearsightedness. See for yourself.”
Whitman offered a sheet of paper to Ewing, who glanced at it, then gave it to Harris. It was a record of Hunsinger’s health status. The report mentioned the vision problem, but made no mention of any color deficiency. Apparently, he had been able to keep his colorblindness out of his official record.
“He wore contacts,” Whitman continued.
“There was nothing else wrong with his eyes?” Ewing asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Are you aware of how Hunsinger died?” Harris asked.
“He was poisoned, wasn’t he? At least, according to the media.”
“It was strychnine,” said Harris.
Whitman raised his eyebrows. He sucked hard on his pipe, but it had gone out. He tapped the dottle out of the bowl and inserted a pipe cleaner in the stem. He returned the pipe to its place on the rack, removed the next pipe, and began the elaborate procedure of filling, tamping, and lighting it.
“Were you aware that Hunsinger kept a supply of strychnine in his apartment?” Harris continued.
“Uh-huh.”
“How’s that? Did you see it?”
“No. He told us about it. At one of our meetings, he mentioned how he’d had a problem with rodents in the apartment. He said he’d gotten the problem under control with, as he put it, ‘good old-fashioned strychnine.’”
Koesler nodded at this. Whitman’s description was exactly how the information had come out.
“Do you know how he got it?”
Whitman shook his head. “Didn’t ask. But it surprised me. Strychnine’s a controlled substance, isn’t it?”
Ewing nodded. “Speaking of surprises, Mr. Whitman, you looked surprised when Lieutenant Harris mentioned that strychnine was the poison that killed Hunsinger. Why was that, if you knew that strychnine was in the apartment?”
Whitman scratched the side of his head with the stem of his pipe. “I guess I was surprised that whoever killed him had used a poison that was already in the apartment. I guess that would have to mean the killer would have to have known that it was there in advance.”
“Like you did,” said Harris.
Whitman smiled self-consciously and blushed simultaneously. “Silly of me. . trapped by my own logic.”
“Mr. Whitman,” said Ewing, “part of your responsibility here is to sign up the players, negotiate their contracts, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say Mr. Hunsinger had a good contract? I mean, measured by comparable contracts for
