climbing to the mosaic church exterior. Impressive. They turned to face 1731 Junction, Hank Hunsinger’s ancestral two-story home and present residence of his mother and her companion. It was well kept up and preserved. But then, so were most of the homes on the block. A careful eye would note that 1731 had had a tad more money poured into its maintenance.
They mounted the stairs and rang the doorbell. Neither looked forward to this interview. Interrogating a mother after her son’s death, especially when the death is caused by murder, was not fun.
They waited patiently several minutes before the door was opened a crack. They could see the links of the chain lock that prevented the door from being opened fully. Behind the chain was a small, wrinkled, suspicious visage.
“Mrs. Hunsinger?” Harris tried.
“Mrs. Quinn,” clarified the face.
The two detectives identified themselves, showing their badges and identification cards. Finally convinced, Mrs. Quinn let the detectives in and showed them into the living room, where Mrs. Hunsinger, handkerchief held to her face, sat in a padded rocking chair.
Only a few of the room’s furnishings appeared to date back to the time the Hunsingers had first moved in. Most of the furniture-end tables, hutches-was contemporary and fairly new. All in all, the room was tastefully outfitted and decorated.
The officers identified themselves to Mrs. Hunsinger. It was obvious she had been crying. But now she seemed composed. The two men and Mrs. Quinn seated themselves.
“We’re sorry about your son’s death, Mrs. Hunsinger,” said Ewing. “But we need some information to help us solve his murder. So we have to ask you some questions.”
“I did it,” Grace Hunsinger said quietly.
“What?”
“I’m responsible for Henry’s death. “
“I don’t understand-”
“It all began when he was a little boy and hanging around with that bunch of hooligans. Of course, if his father had lived, it might have been different. There just was so little I could do. .”
“But you said-”
“As the boy is, so is the man. If I had been able to control him more, he might not have turned out as he did. So many people seemed to hate him. It could have been different if I had been able to do things just a bit differently. Still, he was a good boy. He certainly took good care of his mother. .”
After being initially startled, Harris and Ewing relaxed. It was a typical case of a parent blaming herself for all the circumstances that contributed to the downfall, death, or murder of her son. Even though most of these circumstances were beyond her control and, indeed, may well have been clearly his responsibility. But the two men did not interrupt as the grieving woman continued to find reasons, in her background, in her late husband’s background, for all the evils of her boy’s life. Finally, inevitably, she ran out of excuses for her son.
“Poor, dear Henry,” she concluded. “So young. To think that I must bury my son. .” She covered her eyes with her handkerchief and wept silently. After a short while, she seemed to gather some inner strength. Her shoulders no longer quivered. She dried her eyes and looked at the officers. “But you have your work to do, don’t you? I believe you said that you had some questions you wanted to ask me.”
Ewing opened his notepad. He’d been studying Mrs. Hunsinger. He guessed she had been a handsome woman. Even now, she had a striking presence. And, he estimated, she must be in her seventies. “Mrs. Hunsinger,” he began, “could you tell us something about your son’s compulsiveness?”
“Compulsiveness? I don’t know what you mean. He was neat. I taught him that. One of the few good things I was responsible for. A place for everything and everything in its place. Do you find anything wrong with that, young man?”
Ewing, startled by her response, looked at Harris, who, in a sort of silent message, first returned Ewing’s gaze, then directed it significantly around the room. What Ewing saw answered his question. There was a place for everything and everything was in its place. The pictures were hung perfectly, the carpet had been freshly vacuumed, and not a speck of dust could be seen.
Of course. Why should she think her son’s behavior out of the ordinary when it was but a reflection of her own compulsiveness?
“No, nothing wrong, ma’am. It’s just that not everyone is as neat and clean as your son was. The way he kept everything in perfect order and the way he would always do everything the same way all the time. . well, it made him a bit. . uh. . different.”
“A virtue, I’d say.”
“Yes, ma’am. Could we talk a bit about your son’s eyesight. . his vision?”
“My fault once again.”
“Ma’am?”
“So rare. Far less than one percent are colorblind. And yet, medical science is always coming up with cures for ills we grew up with. Who’d ever think someone would come up with a cure for polio? There may even be some cure for colorblindness, some operation, some medication. We were never rich enough to afford anything like that. But Henry assured me over and over that it was all right. That it didn’t interfere with his football. He was a good boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you know that your son kept a supply of a poison known as strychnine in his apartment?”
“That was only recently. I warned him about that. I left him a note. He didn’t need anything as powerful as poison. His rodent problem could have been handled the good old-fashioned way-with traps. But no; he had to do it his way. Just like his father. I told him in my note that it was dangerous.”
“Speaking of your note, ma’am, just how often did you visit your son’s apartment?”
“Irregularly. Perhaps once every other week. There wasn’t much to do, though. Henry kept everything in pretty good order. Used to let the refrigerator get kind of empty. I’d bring him milk. He’d never get it on his own. Then he wouldn’t eat a nourishing breakfast with cereal. I’d call first, though.”
“Ma’am?”
“Never knew when he’d have. . company over. Ran into a hussy there once. Wasn’t wearing a stitch. And not a bit ashamed or embarrassed about it. I certainly was. Didn’t want that to happen again. So, I’d always call first.”
“But you had a key? Your son gave you a key?”
“Of course. How else would I get in when he wasn’t there?”
Ewing looked at Harris. Once again communicating wordlessly, Harris indicated they should wrap up this interview.
“One final question, ma’am. Can you tell us what you did yesterday?”
Mrs. Hunsinger exhibited a small, self-conscious smile. “It’s one of the things that goes when you get older. Usually I can remember things that happened ages ago clear as a bell. But the closer we get to the present moment, the harder it is. . Mary Frances. . Mary Frances!”
Mrs. Quinn had dozed off. Her head drooped down near her bosom. The officers had quite forgotten she was there. When Mrs. Hunsinger called her name, it startled everyone, including Mrs. Quinn.
“Oh! Oh. . yes. . what is it?”
“These gentlemen want to know what we did yesterday.”
“Yesterday. Yes. .” Mrs. Quinn was slowly coming out of her nap. “Well, let’s see. We got up about eight as usual and got over to church for nine o’clock Mass. We never eat before we go to communion. Everybody else does now. That doesn’t show the proper reverence for our Eucharistic Lord. So we don’t have breakfast until after Mass.”
Harris began to think that it would take Mrs. Quinn all of today to recount yesterday.
“Then, after the nine o’clock Mass, we stayed for the ten o’clock. We always hear two Masses at least. One in thanksgiving for the other. Then we came home. It was harder than usual getting back across Junction. Do you remember, Grace? The traffic was really unusually heavy yesterday.”
Mrs. Hunsinger nodded agreement.
“Then we had breakfast. Just cereal and coffee. We eat lightly, you know. It’s better for you when you get
