William Kienzle - Sudden Death

There was of course the Bible discussion group. That was religious. He sifted through things he had heard various members of the God Squad say in relation to the passages they had examined. But what to look for? Violence? The most violent statements he could recall, usually endorsing some of the more ferocious sections of the Old Testament, had come from Hunsinger.

As he continued to recall statements that had been made by individuals, something else, related but not identical, began to surface. He couldn’t identify it, nor could he afford the luxury of waiting for a magic moment when, unbidden, it would make itself clear. So he continued to focus on individuals and their commentaries on the Bible. Meanwhile, he threw open a neutral gear in his mind that permitted a good deal of stream of consciousness to run freely.

Something. Something. Something. Something about the Scriptures themselves. Not about anyone’s comment on Scripture. The Scripture itself. An image came to him of the blind man Christ cured in stages so that he saw, but in a confused way. No, that couldn’t be it; he’d been down that path before.

But it was Scripture that was knocking at the back door of his consciousness. But what Scripture? Something he’d heard or read recently. Something he’d tried to develop into a homily. Something he had looked at, in a confused way, like the blind man recovering his sight. Something looked at the wrong way. That meant there must be a right way of looking at it.

Of course! That was it! Looking at it the wrong way versus looking at it the right way.

Slow down, now. Must be cautious. Just recovered from a major league blunder. Can’t be wrong a second time. Not so close to the first time. Let’s just check all the seams. See if there are any holes. Well, yes, a few possible holes. But, by and large, it seemed to make sense. The more he thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make.

Just a couple of phone calls to set things up. Then, put the theory to the test.

“Thank you ever so much for meeting me here, Inspector.”

“Not at all, Father. . although I must admit your call surprised me.

“I don’t blame you. After embarrassing you with the Galloways, I don’t suppose you ever expected to hear from me again. . at least regarding any investigation.”

“Father, if only you knew how frequently we are wrong in our theories. Even in an investigation that eventually proves successful, we often encounter many dead-end roads. You have nothing to be embarrassed about or to apologize for.”

“Nevertheless, I feel a bit awkward. I just couldn’t subject Lieutenant Harris or Sergeant Ewing to another round of my own serial, Father May Not Know Best. That’s why I’m especially grateful you agreed to meet me here. Sorry, too, about the traffic. We had to park so far down the street.”

“Walking is good exercise. We should do more of it.” Koznicki tipped his hat as they passed in front of Holy Redeemer church. Koesler had almost forgotten the gesture. But Koznicki’s tip of the hat put the priest in mind of his own father’s teaching him the custom. It was a sign of reverence for the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the church. Koesler resolved to renew the custom in his own life. He never ceased to be amazed at how much he had to learn from others.

Koesler rang the doorbell and waited patiently. One could not expect old people to run to answer the door.

The familiar face of Mary Frances Quinn appeared. She greeted Father Koesler reverently but appeared a bit tentative toward his extra-large companion until Koesler performed the introductions. Mary Frances ushered them into the unilluminated living room. Again introductions were made.

Koznicki, after being seated, carefully studied Grace Hunsinger. Why did she remind him of a small animal about to be cornered? Her eyes darted about as if seeking some avenue of escape. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.

“Mrs. Hunsinger,” Koesler began, “we won’t take much of your time. I just want to talk to you a little bit about your son. But first, I wonder if you would mind looking at the numbers in this book and telling us what you see. Just take your time and read the numbers, if you will, as I turn the pages.”

Koesler opened the book to the first page.

Grace adjusted her bifocals. “Twelve.”

Everyone could read that, thought Koesler, as he turned to the next page with its number eight.

“Three.”

Koesler turned to five.

“Two,” Grace read.

Koesler turned to twenty-nine.

“Seventy.”

Koesler turned to seventy-four.

“Twenty-one.”

Koesler turned to seven.

“I don’t see any number there at all.”

“I think we need go no further,” said Koznicki.

Grace removed her glasses. “What was the meaning of that?”

Her hands were trembling slightly.

“That was a test of your color sight, Mrs. Hunsinger,” Koesler said. “It indicated you have what’s called a red-green deficiency.”

“I. . I don’t understand. “ Her hand fluttered at her hair.

“I think it means you couldn’t know that when you mixed the strychnine with the DMSO and switched that bottle with the shampoo that there was a difference in the colors. The DMSO is clear. The shampoo is pink.”

A remarkable transformation affected Grace. Her entire body seemed involved in the deep sigh she uttered. Her hands relaxed in her lap. “You know,” she said so softly as to be barely audible.

“You tried to tell us often enough, didn’t you, Grace?”

She nodded, giving every indication of being relieved.

“Grace!” Mrs. Quinn exclaimed. “What does he mean?”

“According to Inspector Koznicki here,” Koesler proceeded, “and in what you said to me, you held yourself responsible both for your son’s sight disability and for his death. But after making the statements, you backed away from them slightly, stating your responsibility in remote terms: that if you had done this or that differently, your son would not have turned out as he did. The confession was there, but it was sort of up for grabs.

“We chose to look at the statements through our viewpoint. Taking on blame for a child is common with many parents. Taking a greater responsibility for their children’s behavior than they ought or need to. If we had been looking at those statements through your eyes, we might have taken them more literally. But that was not likely.

“But if we had been seeing things from your point of view, we would have asked ourselves why you felt responsible for your son’s colorblindness. Because you just happened to be his mother and, as such, gave him his disability? I don’t think so. If you had normal vision, and there were any hereditary cause involved, it could just as easily have come from his father. Why should you think you were responsible unless there was something wrong with your vision and you thought you had passed that defect on to your son? I checked with Dr. Glowacki, an ophthalmologist, and he said there is no evidence that colorblindness, total colorblindness, is hereditary. But that would not have prevented you from thinking it was so.

“But if you have a color deficiency-and you do-why does it not show up in your home decor? I think the answer lies with Mrs. Quinn. The first time I met you, Mrs. Quinn, I believe you told me that you and Mrs. Hunsinger take care of each other as best you can. That the two of you seem to combine your skills and abilities. You get along, I think you used the phrase, like yin and yang?”

“That’s true,” Mrs. Quinn said.

“Mrs. Hunsinger took care of the house, didn’t she, Mrs. Quinn, doing much of the cleaning and cooking? You took care of the door and, among your other responsibilities, you probably took charge of the decorating?”