Everyone could discern that one, Koesler remembered.
“Eight.”
Uh-oh.
“Five.
“Twenty-nine.
“Seventy-four.”
There was no doubt about it: Marj Galloway was not color-deficient.
“Seven.
“Forty-five.
“Two.”
It had to be her husband, Jay. Koesler could almost see, in his mind’s eye, probably even at this very moment, Jay rumbling through the test, unable to correctly discern any number but the first.
“There’s no number on this page at all.”
Koesler could envision Lieutenant Harris grudgingly admitting the validity of Koesler’s theory. The priest was not a vindictive person; he would not rub it in when next he met Lieutenant Harris.
“Sixteen.
“Is that it? That was pleasant. Did I pass? Do we go on to the Rorschach test? Do you have any nice little ink blots for me to identify?”
“You did very well, Mrs. Galloway.” There was no trace of acrimony or chagrin in Koznicki’s voice. Seemingly, he was genuinely pleased that she had done well.
Koesler, eyes darting from side to side, a reaction foreign to him, was waiting for something. The phone rang. That was it.
After several rings, which Koesler felt to be a dozen, the phone was answered. A moment later a no- nonsense working woman appeared in the archway. “Is there an Inspector Koznicki here?”
“I’ll take it.” Koznicki unfolded from the chair and went into the dining area.
“Koznicki,” he identified to the caller.
“Ned Harris here, Walt. How’d it go with Marj Galloway?”
“She has normal color vision. “
“Same with her husband. We had a devil of a time convincing him it wasn’t necessary to call his lawyer about thirty seconds after we entered his office. But he settled down when he saw what the test was about.”
There was a pause.
“There is more?”
“Yeah. We told him his wife was taking the test too. That was one of the reasons why he agreed to take it without benefit of counsel. He asked why we were giving both of them color vision tests. That was after he’d passed it with flying colors … no pun intended.
“So we told him that color perception was relevant to our investigation and that we’d noticed the rather odd color scheme of his living room, and we were just checking. I’ll give you his exact reply.”
Koznicki could hear the pages of Harris’s notepad being riffled.
“He said, ‘Marj doesn’t have any trouble with color; she just doesn’t have any taste. It’s about the only flaw in an otherwise Ms. Perfect. I never paid any attention to her horrible sense of decor because she is such a good piece of ass.’” There was just an instant’s hesitation. “I don’t suppose you’d want to pass that entire quotation on to the good Padre.”
“No.”
“Now, would it be okay if we get on with the
“Yes.” Koznicki let the sarcasm pass without comment and replaced the receiver on the phone. He reentered the living room.
“Was that-” Koesler began.
“Yes. That was Lieutenant Harris. His results were negative also.”
Koesler’s spirits sank.
“We will be leaving now, Mrs. Galloway.” As he spoke, Koznicki looked about the room, seeing it in a different light. It was true, the furnishings were an uncomplementary mixture of colonial, contemporary, and just about every other style.
“I hope you’re finished. I mean I hope this is the last time I will be subjected to a random interrogation regarding a dead person I don’t give a damn about.” It was evident that Mrs. Galloway was not amused.
“Mrs. Galloway,” Koznicki spoke firmly, “this is an investigation into a crime. . into murder. We go where the investigation leads us. But we will make every effort not to trouble you further, unless it becomes necessary.”
Outside the house, Koznicki told Koesler of Harris’s report, omitting what it was that Galloway most appreciated in his wife.
It was a silent ride back to St. Anselm’s. Koznicki felt very sorry for his friend. As for Koesler, he could recall, wincingly, times past when he had felt extremely foolish. The present moment might not represent the nadir of foolishness in his life. But it ranked.
They did not have far to go. Just an elevator ride to the basement of the Silverdome. Harris and Ewing showed their badges and entered the Cougars’ dressing room, only to find that almost everyone, including the man they wanted to see, was on the field. So they walked up the ramp to the playing surface. The Cougars were fortunate this week that no other major activity was scheduled for the Silverdome. Otherwise, their artificial turf would have been removed or covered and they would have had to search for some other practice facility.
The scene that greeted the two officers was one of organized chaos.
In one corner, offensive and defensive linemen crashed into each other. In another, linebackers stutterstepped as they practiced intercepting passes. From the other end of the stadium could be heard a recurring and resounding thunk as a football was repeatedly propelled off the foot of the punter to soar into the upper reaches. Midfield the passing personnel of the offense were scrimmaging against the defensive backs.
Through it all, the voice of Coach Bradford, who was with the scrimmaging players, could be quite clearly heard. “I wanna see some urgency in those third and fives.”
They were practicing third-down formations, each scrimmage simulating a third down with five yards to go for a first down.
Bobby Cobb slapped the ball in his hand and retreated while the offensive players ran their pass patterns and the defensive players retreated to cover their zones. Cobb’s throw was long and deep, intended for a wide receiver who was going full speed. Then the receiver, “hearing the footsteps” of the defensive back who was closing in, at the last moment backed off, and the ball fell harmlessly to the turf.
“Ritter!” The returning receiver hung his head. “I don’t care how much you get paid,” Bradford blazed, “but you’re not gonna get it free. Desire, Ritter! Desire, drive, dedication, execution! They go together, Ritter!”
Harris and Ewing walked along the sidelines until they reached the Cougars’ bench where the trainer, Jack Brown, was standing.
“Mr. Brown,” Harris began.
“Brownie,” said the trainer; “everybody calls me Brownie.”
“Okay, Brownie, could we talk to you for a few minutes?”
“Sure. Do you mind if we go into the locker room? I’ve got some things to do down there.”
“Good idea.”
They retraced their steps to the locker room. Place kicker Niall Murray, left ankle encased in an ice pack, reclined on a training table. The detectives, of course, knew Murray, but not the man standing next to him. They were introduced to John Owen, the team’s public relations representative.
Owen, face seemingly set permanently in a concerned frown, addressed Brown. “So, what we got?”
“An ankle.”
“How bad?”
“Bad bruise and swelling. I’m hopin’ the ice’ll bring it down. It’s gonna be sore.”
“How’d he get it?”
“Special team drill. A pileup. Somebody kicked him. An accident.”
“How many times you been told to stay away from the point of contact!” For the first time in this exchange,
