comparable players?”
“I’d say it was an excellent contract. But fair. If the Hun hadn’t liked it, he could have played it out, become a free agent, and maybe gone to another club.”
“But isn’t this his market?” Ewing pressed on. “I mean, because of his local background, he’d be more valuable here in Michigan than anywhere else.”
“True, as far as it goes. But the Hun was a premier performer-a pheenom, as they say in this business. He would have gotten good money no matter where he went.”
“But not more than he’d get here. Which would give you a bargaining tool. I mean, after your final offer, say, you could point out that he would not get as much anywhere else, right? Sort of take away the whipsaw possibility.”
Whitman exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He smiled. “That’s why they call it negotiating. During negotiations, it would be just me and the Hun getting together in our own little huddle.”
“Just you and Hunsinger? Didn’t he have an agent?”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t that kind of odd? Everybody’s got an agent.”
“Almost everybody. A long time ago, the Hun had an agent, when he signed his first couple of contracts with us. Then-no. The Hun was no dummy. After the first couple of go-rounds, I think he figured he could do as well as any agent, and also, he didn’t want to give 10 percent to anybody.”‘
“And you, you didn’t have an attorney or anyone with you?”
“It’s my responsibility. I bring it in.”
“And you’re capable, all by yourself?”
“I am capable of doing whatever I’m responsible for.”
“Sort of a lone wolf,” Harris commented.
“Not exactly. Just a philosophy of mine. I take responsibility for completing what I set out to do. And I make no excuses.”
Harris and Ewing wondered, if ever so briefly, whether that encompassing philosophy might extend to murder. Koesler, harking back to a day when workers were more conscientious, thought it a laudable philosophy.
“What does Hunsinger’s death mean to your team?” Harris asked.
Whitman shrugged. “Undoubtedly, it will hurt attendance. You’d have to ask the coach about the implications for the team’s playing strength.”
“It also blots out an extremely expensive contract, doesn’t it?”
“That’s just shortsighted, Lieutenant. It may be true-no, it’s definitely true, that whoever we bring up to the Cougars will not get a contract close to what the Hun had. There isn’t a tight end in football who ever equaled the Hun’s contract. But we’re going to have to pay someone to fill out the team. And we’re certain to have a falloff in attendance. Happened every time the Hun missed games in the past.
“So, from a financial standpoint, it’s like cutting off one end of a carpet and sewing it on the other. Whatever money we save on the Hun’s contract we’ll lose at the gate.” Whitman extended both hands, palms upward, in a gesture of futility. “Now, is that everything, gentlemen? I’ve got a very busy day ahead of me. Mondays are bad anyway. And, what with the Hun. .”He didn’t bother completing the statement.
“Just one more thing,” Ewing responded. “Can you account for your whereabouts through the day yesterday?”
Whitman took several deep puffs from his pipe, rekindling tobacco that had almost gone out. He seemed to be collecting his memory. The officers noted that, unlike Galloway, Whitman showed no reluctance to account for his time.
“We got up about seven, jogged our five miles, had some breakfast, read the papers, got ready, and went to the stadium about noon.”
“Excuse me,” Ewing interrupted, “but who is ‘we’?”
“My wife and I.”
“The two of you were together throughout the whole morning?”
“Why, yes.” Whitman seemed surprised at the question.
“I see. Okay, continue, please.”
“Well, we watched the game from our box. After the game, we went out to dinner with some of our friends. Then we went home, watched a little TV, the eleven o’clock news, and then retired.”
“Then you were with your wife or others all day?” Ewing asked.
“Far as I can remember.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Whitman,” said Harris. “If I recall correctly, you said you arrived at the stadium at noon. But the game didn’t start till two. What about those two hours?”
Whitman looked disconcerted-at having forgotten the two hours, or because they had spotted the gap?
“I was up in my office catching up on some business.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Why, no. I was alone.”
“Alone? Where was your wife during all that time?”
“I can see you haven’t been to many Cougar games, Lieutenant. Or, at least, you haven’t come early to the games. There’s a regular ritual many fans enjoy before a game. It’s called tailgating. It can become a genuine banquet. That’s where my wife was, Lieutenant, with some friends of ours at a tailgating party.”
“So there are two hours for which you have no corroboration.”
“I suppose so. Why should I need any?”
“During that time, you could have left the stadium.” Harris pressed the point.
“I could have. I didn’t. Why would I?”
“Between the time Hunsinger left for the stadium and the time he returned, somebody went to his apartment and set the trap that would kill him.”
For the first time in this interview, Whitman placed his pipe in the ample ashtray and sat forward. “Are you accusing me of killing Hunsinger? Are you serious?”
“No one is accusing anyone of anything-yet,” said Ewing. “But the investigation will proceed. We may have more questions for you later, Mr. Whitman. In the meantime, it would not hurt if you could think of anyone who could establish that you did not, indeed, leave this office between noon and two yesterday.”
“And for your part, gentlemen,” Whitman was standing, “it might help your flimsy suspicion if you could come up with a single solitary reason why I would even think of cutting off an attraction like Hank Hunsinger.”
In better restaurants it was called ground round or chopped steak. To Father Koesler, it was hamburger. And he had built a considerable reputation as the gourmand of the local hamburger circuit. As an expert-acknowledged or self-appointed-he disdained as hopelessly inferior the beef served in all fast-food chains, with the possible exception of Wendy’s.
Nonetheless, he was eating in a fast-food restaurant and it was not Wendy’s. It had been selected by Lieutenant Harris. Sergeant Ewing had concurred. Father Koesler’s opinion had not been solicited.
They were at the coffee stage of the meal. The one bright spot in this lunch as far as Koesler was concerned was that they served brewed decaf.
Luncheon conversation had been studied. The officers could not talk shop without leaving the priest awkwardly out of it. Koesler sensed that policemen might not be interested in parish matters or theology. So they advanced through lunch pushing one word after another.
“You come here often?” Koesler essayed.
“First time for me.”
“Me too.”
“I thought. . since you found it. . and it was so close to the stadium. .”
Harris smiled. “We don’t come to the stadium that often either.”
“Too expensive,” Ewing said. “And, besides, you have to invest too much time getting out of that parking lot. How about you, Father?”
“Only once in a long while. Actually, once since I joined the Bible discussion group. I thought I ought to
