William Kienzle - Sudden Death

“I hope so. I’ve got a problem. My name is Harold Drake. I’m a security guard out at the Silverdome.”

Nothing Mr. Drake was saying seemed connected with anything else he said. Clearly, he was confused and ill at ease.

“Sit down here, Mr. Drake, and tell us what the problem is,” said Koznicki.

“Well, it’s about Jack Brown. I heard you arrested him today. . for the murder of Hank Hunsinger?” It was uttered in the form of a question as Drake sat at the table the others were using.

All three officers felt tension build within themselves.

“I don’t know if I should even be here,” Drake continued. “I didn’t even hear about it myself. My wife told me about it. She heard it on the news.”

“You want to be a little more specific, Mr. Drake?” Ewing asked.

“Well, she-my wife, that is-said she heard on the news that Mr. Brown was arrested for the murder of the Hun. She said the guy on the news said that the cops-excuse me, the police-said that Brown allegedly-that the word? — left the Pontiac Inn last Sunday at ten o’clock and, uh, allegedly set up the Hun’s murder, then got to the stadium by noon when the team arrived.”

There was a pause.

“Well?” Harris said it angrily. He had a foreboding.

“Well,” Drake said, “that couldn’a happened.”

“What do you mean it couldn’t have happened!” Harris was angry and incredulous.

“He was at the stadium. He was at the Silverdome.”

“How do you know that?”

“ ’Cause I saw him. I was the guard on duty. Only I wasn’t at the gate, at my post. I was inside, in an office inside the tunnel where I could see who came in but they couldn’t see me. An’ I saw Jack Brown come in and go into the Cougars’ locker room. It was about a quarter past ten. An’ he stayed in the locker room. He was there when the team came in about noon. Everything was just like it always is.”

“And why would you not be at your post?” Koznicki asked. “Why would you be in an inside office?”

“I ain’t gonna lie to you. Just not bein’ at the gate puts me up shit’s creek without a paddle.

“I done it lotsa times. I keep a pint in that office. Hid. I can go in there and have a wee nip and still see the outside door. If somebody comes in who ain’t supposed to, I can just step outta the office and challenge ’em. It was just about foolproof until now.

“But I just can’t see Mr. Brown in all this trouble when I know he couldn’a done it. Mr. Brown’s been good to me. He’s about the only one bothered to learn my name. Always says hello to me. A real nice guy. He couldn’a done it. I saw him come in and I know he stayed. Only he couldn’a known I saw him.”

“Why didn’t you tell us all this when we questioned you the first time, a few days ago?”

“’Cause I didn’t wanna lose my job. I wasn’t gonna tell anybody, anytime, ever. But when Mr. Brown got arrested. .” Drake’s explanation seemed prematurely complete. “Well, that’s it.”

The three officers questioned Drake for a half hour more, but could not break down his story or find a flaw in it.

At length they were forced to accept the fact that, although Jack Brown possessed the information that had come to be known as the “smoking gun,” he now had a solid alibi. There was no other feasible conclusion.

Ewing took Drake’s statement, had him sign it, and warned him to stay available for any possible further questioning. Drake then was permitted to leave.

“Where is Brown now?” Koznicki asked.

“Upstairs in a holding cell.” Harris was sullen.

“What is his status?”

Ewing answered. “We’ve got the prosecutor’s recommendation for warrant, but we haven’t got the warrant yet.”

“So he is still in our jurisdiction. I believe we had better cut him loose,” Koznicki said.

“I’ll do it.” Harris’s motive was more inquisitiveness than expiation. He took the elevator to the ninth floor, was admitted to Brown’s cell, and informed him of the alibi provided by Drake.

“Poor Harold,” said Brown. “I guess they’ll can him for that. No alternative. Never mind; I’ll see he gets a job. Least I can do. I owe him a barrel.”

“Do you realize how much trouble you were in up till about an hour ago?” Harris said. “A first-degree murder charge and a pack of circumstantial evidence. I don’t have to kid you, you’re off the hook now. But I think we could’ve gotten a conviction. So what I want to know is why you didn’t tell us in the initial interrogation that you knew Hunsinger was colorblind?”

“Well, I knew I was a suspect, although I didn’t know why. From that point on, I wasn’t gonna provide any more info than I absolutely had to. Somethin’ like talkin’ to the IRS: keep your mouth shut and don’t volunteer information. ’Sides,” he looked searchingly at Harris, “if I had told you I knew about Hunsinger, what would you have done?”

Harris thought for a moment. “Probably have moved you up a notch on the list of suspects. But not much more than that. It was your lie of omission that got you in over your head.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant, it isn’t that I’m not learning something from all you’re saying, but is it okay for me to go now? I mean, am I free?”

“Yeah, you’re free. You can pick up your things at the desk down the hall.”

“I guess you’re back at square one, aren’tcha?”

“Uh-huh.” Harris was as down now as he had been up an hour before.

“Well, sorry for that. But I’m just as glad I’m out from under. “

“Tell me about it.”

Father Koesler tapped the bottom of the box; the last few flakes of Granola dropped into the bowl. He sliced a banana over the fine grain, poured in some milk, and, presto, breakfast.

He spread out the morning Free Press and scanned page 1, trying to determine which story to read first.

His immediate attention was caught by a picture at the upper center of the page. It was a photo from the paper’s files showing Cougar trainer Jack Brown standing on the sidelines, arms folded across his chest. The caption read: “Jack Brown, Cougars’ trainer, arrested for the murder of Hank (“the Hun”) Hunsinger and later released, all on the same day. Story on page 3-A.”

That took care of any doubt over which story to read first. Koesler flipped the paper open to the second front page and began reading.

He continued to spoon in bananas and cereal, but lost interest in the remainder of the paper, following, instead, his own flow of thought.

Initially, he felt happy for Brown. Then he felt sorry for the police, who would now, as the story stated, have to begin practically all over. No wonder the inspector hadn’t phoned him.

Though he had promised himself that he would waste no more of his time with the question of who murdered Hunsinger, he found it impossible not to rehash the matter.

After all, there had been times when he had been of some help to the police in the solution of a few homicides. But now that he began reflecting on those past cases, he recalled that the help he had been able to provide had usually concerned something to do with things Catholic or something that he had learned by virtue of being a priest-information more likely to be recognized as such by him as a priest than by the police as law-enforcement experts.

Was it possible it could work again? Koesler left the dining table and began to pace the living room. This was an unlikely pursuit. A venture less prone to success than hunting for the proverbial needle. But he wanted to help. And he had proved beyond a doubt that when it came to genuine police procedure, he was of less aid than the rankest amateur. So he continued to pass the suspects, one by one, through a religious filter.