Jews. That was the Pharisees’ motive. Question is: Which one of us had a motive to off the Hun?”
After a moment’s reflection, first one, then another, then all the others were looking at Kit Hoffer.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Hoffer protested. “What is this? You guys nuts or somethin’?”
“You played behind him,” Whitman stated. “As long as he was on the field and was physically able to play, you were going to ride the bench. Who had a stronger motive than you?”
“Hey! Like, Hunsinger was getting into a granddad’s age. He couldn’ta lasted much longer. Like, all I had to do was wait him out. I didn’t have to kill him, for God’s sake.”
“Still, he was on the field and you were riding the bench,” Whitman insisted. “And guys who manage to play longer than anyone can expect just seem to go on and on. Look at Gordie Howe and George Blanda. Look at Pete Rose. How many kids got tired of waiting for guys like that to hang ’em up? Who knows what was going on in your mind? You could have thought of guys like Howe and Blanda and Rose and wondered whether you could wait the Hun out. You were already a little late on the scene as a rookie. If Hunsinger could’ve hung on for another few seasons, you might not have had much of a career left. How’s that for a motive?”
Hoffer’s face was flushed. Anger? Embarrassment? Guilt? Koesler wondered.
“Look, I didn’t have to wait for Hunsinger to hang ’em up! I’m good! Damn good! Ask Bobby. There’s only one reason I wasn’t playing. And, begging your pardon, sir, it was you.” Hoffer pointed at Galloway. “Everybody knew it was your orders to the coach to play the Hun all the time that kept him on the field. Coach Bradford would have used me. I know he would’ve. But he had orders from you. I had no reason to kill the Hun.
From Koesler’s position at the table, he could see into the living room where Marj Galloway was seated. She appeared to be paying careful attention. But to what? The television’s volume had been turned so low, it would have been nearly impossible for her to hear it. That, along with the increasingly loud exchanges in the dining area, made it likely she was listening in as accusations progressed.
“Wait a minute,” said Galloway. “If we’ve got to talk about the murder and not what we agreed to discuss, I want to make myself perfectly clear. Okay, I ordered Coach Bradford to play Hunsinger. He was the franchise. He’s the one who made it big at Western, U of M, then the Cougars. A good part of the crowd came out to see the Hun. And by God they were going to see him as long as he could get on his two feet and walk.”
“There’s no doubt about it at all,” said Murray. “You’d certainly not have any reason to want the Hun dead.”
“Of course not,” Galloway agreed. “Why would I want him dead? He was the team’s meal ticket. He was worth a lot to me, not only alive, but healthy.”
“Unless. . unless,” Whitman mused, “having Hunsinger dead was the only way you could satisfy the crowd.”
“Wha-at!”
“I’ll be the first to agree that when we had to report that Hunsinger was a doubtful starter or that he was injured and couldn’t play at all, the gate went down. But that’s because they expected him to be able to play, and being no-shows or not coming out to buy a ticket was the result of their thwarted expectations.
“But what if Hunsinger were out of the picture entirely: retired, or even better, dead? Then the fans would just have to adjust to the fact that watching the Hun on Sundays was simply no longer in their future. But football certainly was going to continue to be part of their lives. The question, then, was, Did we have another attraction for them? I submit we did.
“First, there’s Bobby Cobb, who never got the ink he deserved while the Hun grabbed all the publicity he could. And second, there’s young Hoffer here. I told you all about him, showed you the scouting sheets. On paper, anyway, he would have made a perfect substitute for the Hun. So, if Hunsinger were to die, the fans would know with an irrevocable sense of finality that he was gone. And you would be able to replace him almost immediately with a younger athlete who showed every promise of being a more than adequate substitute.”
Koesler felt somewhat vindicated that his supposition on Galloway’s motive was ratified by not only a second opinion, but an extremely well-informed one.
“Your whole premise is crazy, Dave.” Galloway was very definitely angry. “Even if what you say were true, why would anybody risk murdering somebody just to replace a proven star with a might-be star? It’s crazy.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I mean, it’s common knowledge that your money is completely wrapped up in the Cougars. And Hunsinger was costing us an arm and a leg. Without Hunsinger on the roster, our payroll takes a pleasant nosedive. We already have a modest contract with Hoffer and maybe we can bring up a rookie to fill the vacancy. And there you have it”-Whitman spread his hands in a gesture of finality-“an instant path to greater solvency.”
A strange smile played at the corners of Galloway’s lips. “If anybody wanted to believe your rather incredible scenario, Dave, it would provide as much motive for you as it would for me.”
“Wha-? You’ve got to be kidding! You own the team, not I!”
“For the moment, yes. But it can’t be much of a surprise to you that I’ve been watching your moves very closely. I’ve been watching you eat up those stock options. And, most of all, I know you. You’re the guy who finishes what he starts. If you’d stayed with Multifoods, you’d probably own the company by now. And I know damn well that you’ve never liked working for me. Not from the very beginning. You want the Cougars. You want me out. Of course, I’m going to fight you all the way. And I think I can win. But my confidence in my ability has nothing to do with your plans for a takeover.”
“That’s nonsense! It’s ridiculous!” Whitman almost rose out of his chair.
Koesler thought the accusation was probably neither nonsense nor ridiculous. It made sense to him. In addition, it supplied the missing motive for Whitman. A motive the police had not been able to uncover. He made a strong mental note to inform the inspector of this development.
“The only thing you’ve got right,” Whitman maintained, “is that I’ve always regretted coming to work for you. You’re a convincing bastard, Jay, but you should have stayed a salesman. Starting with the pizza business and capping the climax with this football team, you’re in over your head. You should have stayed in sales and I should have stayed in public relations. You shouldn’t screw around in people’s lives.”
There was a deathly silence. It seemed fortunate that Galloway and Whitman were separated by the full diameter of the round table.
Koesler glanced into the dining room. No doubt about it, Marj Galloway was paying dedicated attention to what was going on in here.
Finally, Jack Brown broke the silence. “Since you brought this whole thing up, Bobby, about the Hun’s murder,” he turned to face Cobb, who was seated at his right, “it just pains the hell out of me that everybody has left you out of this conversation.”
“What d’you mean, Brownie?” Cobb rejoined. “What’s biting at your ass?”
“Well, it’s like what Mr. Whitman was sayin’ just a few minutes ago. He was talkin’ about how Bobby Cobb never got the publicity he shoulda got while the Hun was out doin’ a good job of takin’ care of Number One.”
“With apologies or gratitude, whichever is appropriate, to Mr. Whitman, I get my share of headlines and I’m on the tube regularly. I get paid on time. Why should I give a damn whether the Hun gets three more lines than I do?”
“You can tell that to people who don’t know you, Bobby, but I know you good. You gotta be on top. You think ahead. You lay good plans. Just like you set things up good in a game, keep the offense moving, and plan the next series of downs. I mean, you got your life all set up. And there’s nothin’ wrong with that. But you gotta be Number One. You sure as hell would know if the Hun got three more lines than you did. And, by damn, you would care. But with the Hun gone, you wouldn’t have to worry anymore; whatever anybody else on the team did, you would very definitely be Number One. And that’s what you want.”
“Sure I want it. But is that any believable reason to kill a guy?”
Koesler had his doubts about that too. It didn’t seem to him to be a sufficient reason to commit murder. But, again, it could supply a motive, no matter how unsubstantial, where there had been none before. While Bobby Cobb had had the opportunity to kill Hunsinger, the police had been unable to come up with any motive for him to do so. Now there was one. Koesler would also report this exchange.
“But while we’re on the subject,” Cobb continued, “how about you, Brownie. “Brown’s objection was stifled when Cobb continued. “And why would a trainer, whose only job is to keep players healthy, kill one of those players? Well, what if the player in question took it upon himself to lead as many teammates as possible into
