The Mad Bunny

CHAPTER 1

A Killer Rabbit

Almost a decade has passed since Nixon was president and the last of The Mad Bunny murders, and I have finally been given permission by the parties concerned to pull together the information and to tell what is known of this strange story. Of them all, I knew most about the pathetic and tormented human who came to be called The Mad Bunny.

Of course, after he became famous, many people stepped forward and claimed to have met the furry creature of the night. However, it is best to begin with his first confirmed encounter, which in itself was perplexing, since it was not clear whether he intended it to be taken as a poor joke or as an ominous portent of the Easter holiday. My puzzled reaction was probably little different from that of most others who read that peculiar item in the Detroit Free Press. It had been a terrible winter, a dreary day, when in a barely awake state of consciousness I came across this article:

RABBIT REBUFFS PROSTITUTE

The Vice Squad of the Detroit Police made one of their periodic sweeps through the downtown area and arrested prostitute Linda Lane, 21 years of age. Ms. Lane, fetchingly attired in hot pants and a tight low-cut blouse under a red vinyl leather coat, abused arresting officers and complained that earlier that night she had been insulted by a foul-mouthed rabbit.

She explained to incredulous officers that it had been a hard evening. Her scanty outfit afforded her legs little protection against the nippy weather in Detroit, and her strolls near Cobo Hall, where a convention of the Underwriters of America was in progress, had been an unprofitable quest for patrons. Adding to her distress, just as she neared the parking lot adjacent to the Hall, she claimed a man garbed in a rabbit suit leaped from behind a car in front of her.

Hello, said the alleged rabbit in a voice muffled by a bunny mask, My name is Irving, and I want to be your friend.

Startled by this unexpected sight, Ms. Lane stepped back in fear. Yet in tribute to her profession, it had prepared her to deal acceptingly with any eccentricity that might be compatible with business. Shrewdly sensing that underneath that suit of simulated fur there beat the heart of a potential customer, she quickly regained her composure and responded in time-honored fashion: Sure, honey. You want to have some fun tonight. I can dig rabbits. My place or yours?

She then advanced toward the rabbit figure, her hand extended to clasp it by the paw and her coat opened to reveal her décolletage. To her surprise and disappointment, the form of the rabbit stepped back and appeared disgusted. Keep away from me! he threatened.

Ms. Lane assured the officers, unnecessarily, that her cleavage had never before provoked such a reaction. Though deeply offended by this rebuff to her friendly overtures, she stated, I am too much of a pro to express offense. Responding tactfully so that there would be no hard feelings that would prejudice against her being employed some other evening, Ms. Lane said she spoke beguilingly, OK, honey. Sure you won’t change your mind?

Even at this point Ms. Lane claimed she was prepared to let bygones be bygones and to accompany the rabbit-person to any nearby hotel of his choice. Thus she was further shocked by the phony rabbit’s stinging response to her cordiality. Get back, you filthy slut! shouted the so-called rabbit, no gentleman, he, I hate whores!

And then, apparently in a panic … although she admitted it is difficult to judge the emotional state of anyone wearing the mask of a grinning rabbit … the person fled from her into the parking lot and was soon lost in the darkness among the cars.

Ms. Lane insisted she had never before been so insulted in public. She demanded the police make better use of their time by arresting weirdos who prowl the streets aimlessly instead of those who use the sidewalks to provide a useful service. Lab tests at headquarters did not indicate that Ms. Lane was under the influence of any drug, and officers were at a loss to explain the significance of her complaint.

These women have become more militant lately, said an officer who did not wish to be identified, and it is possible some poor guy who was just dressed up for a party resented being accosted by her. Anyway, he didn’t do anything wrong, except express his personal opinions without tact.

* * * *

Most people must have regarded this newspaper item as filler, just something to lull the eye into assuming there are no gaps in the world of news. Only a few feminists were troubled by the attitude of the press and police, and in deference to their complaints, a hurried search of the parking lot was conducted without real concern and without any success. Irving, the not-so-friendly rabbit, had disappeared without leaving a clue. Officially, the case was filed. Unofficially, Ms. Lane’s injury was not taken seriously and nothing further was thought needed. After all, no harm had been done, and the incident was probably only a misunderstanding or harmless prank. This sanguine evaluation was soon forced to change.

Two weeks after the newspaper item appeared a sixteen-yearold girl and her boyfriend were out one evening on a date. They had attended their high school’s basketball game and afterwards had quarreled. Both became angry, and in their anger they went their separate ways. This meant that the young girl, Sharon Foster, was walking the Detroit streets late at night alone. Being attractive and aware of what could happen, she was not too happy about it.

It was bitter cold. She walked rapidly to escape the freezing gusts of wind and to get to the warmth and safety of her home. Under the dim and gloomy circumstances every shape, no matter how innocent, became menacing. The bare branches of trees seemed to her to become brittle, as if they were bones stretching to snap at her from the sky. There was no comfort anywhere. The darkness distorted and hid from her the contours of what were the familiar forms of her neighborhood. Everything was transformed into the strange, the unrecognized, the dangerous.

By the time Sharon reached the small park and playground only a block from her home, she was rushing in a panic. From the corner of her eye she saw the empty swings and slides bend toward her out of the shadows. There was an overpowering feeling … a premonition … that someone or something was about to pop up behind and grab her.

She stumbled in getting past the border of shrubs between the sidewalk and the park. Soon she would be in the corner’s light; once there, she expected safety. But as she neared the edge of the darkness, it happened. She felt a rush of something leaping from the side to the front of her. At first it registered only as a startling blur, and she stopped to avoid running into it. Then she saw that before her was the huge figure of a man dressed in a rabbit suit.

She was shocked. The materialization of her fears held her rooted to the spot. Unable to speak, unable to move, she simply looked at the large, terribly silly thing standing there.

Hello, young lady, the man’s voice panted, my name is Irving, and I want to be your friend.

Please don’t hurt me, she pleaded.

It’s a fine comment on the state of our society, said the rabbit, when an offer of friendship gets such a chilly reception. He moved toward her a bit, his paw extended.

Sharon stepped back. If you come any closer, I’ll …

You’ll what, for heaven’s sake! Threats I’m getting! What’s the matter with you? You find it so easy to make friends? Everybody but me is a winner.

He kept coming. Sharon began a feeble, tentative yell. But before she could get much sound out, the rabbit leaped at her and covered her mouth with his paw. Through his mask she heard his voice snarl: You’d better not scream, you bitch. You don’t want me to be your friend. You think I’m not good enough for you.

Using all her strength, Sharon managed to pull the paw from her mouth and twisted so she could face him when she blurted: I’ll be your friend. Is that all you want? A friend? I’ll be your friend.

He held her from him. Sure, now you want to be my friend. Hardly a flattering offer considering the circumstances. How could it ever work out? I could never be sure of your sincerity and commitment to our relationship. Who really wants you anyway? And with that, he threw her forcefully aside and to the ground. For a moment he studied her lying at his feet and seemed undecided about what to do. Then, abruptly he turned, ran into the park, and was gone.

For a time Sharon lay there trembling, uncertain if he would return. Finally she picked herself up and ran sobbing to her home. Once inside, she told what had happened to her outraged parents. They promptly phoned the police.

This time the police were concerned about the complaint, but the results of their investigation were the same. An exhaustive search of the last place the rabbit was seen, the park, proved futile. Irving had once again vanished as if he had truly dropped down a burrow. Nevertheless, the police felt obliged to take further action, in the form of the following article, reproduced in its entirety, which appeared in both Detroit papers the next day:

GIRL MOLESTED BY RABBIT

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Foster, residents of Greenview near Northland, notified police that their daughter Sharon was assaulted by a man dressed in a rabbit suit. The attack occurred at about 11

P.M. Friday night as Sharon was walking home from an athletic contest. Police noted strong similarities between this man dressed in a rabbit suit and the rabbit who recently was alleged to have insulted Ms. Linda Lane near Cobo Hall.

Police have requested Detroit citizens to be on the alert for large rabbits who appear to answer to the name of Irving or for persons who show an unusual fondness for dressing in rabbit suits. Meanwhile local authorities are intensifying their search, though they maintain there is no cause for public alarm. Police advise a friendly approach to any suspect and a cordial invitation to discuss the matter at any nearby precinct, where officers are eager to ask a few questions.

* * * *

During the next month there were many sightings reported to the police. Irving popped up in so many different places at about the same time that mass hysteria must have been aroused. How else could he have been here, there, and everywhere ? Several women in areas scattered about the city complained that they saw a rabbit peek into their bathroom and bedroom windows, wave, and offer his assistance in their disrobing. A Santa Claus at Hudson’s insisted that The Mad Bunny, as he was now beginning to be called, had jumped onto his lap, forced cheap wine down his throat, and refused to allow any child to visit until they reached an agreement on the unionization of elves. And at five weddings people stepped forward with evidence that The Mad Bunny had pelted departing bridal couples with jelly beans.

These bizarre and trivial events did not prepare anyone for the tragic turn this case took. Up till then it was agreed that while The Mad Bunny was a nuisance and a boor, he had not injured anyone deliberately. And it was even debatable whether he sought to provoke any distress. Moreover, as often happens, there were his apologists: those who found him amusing, who were vicariously pleased by his exploits, and who were secretly delighted by the frustrations of the police in locating him. Some went so far as to claim they thought him heroic and endearing.

However, on a Thursday night in February much of that changed. Whatever humor there had been in the situation turned sour and The Mad Bunny was seen as someone capable of violence and murder.

That evening Heinrich Voss, butcher and proprietor of Voss’ Strictly Fresh Meats, was slain after a sociable night of playing cards with his friends at the German American Men’s Club on Greenfield. A tight-fisted, burly man, Voss was found by his wife, Mildred, after she became worried when he did not arrive home at his usual time. Her search for him led her to the discovery of his battered, though still breathing , body. Unfortunately, medical help was unable to prevent his death the following day from the numerous injuries to his head.

Before he died Voss was able to tell his wife and the police the identity of his murderer and how he had been killed. He had been walking from the Club, still furious about an argument that he had with his best friend, Friederich Schmidt. His irritation about the quarrel and his single-minded determination to get home and rave about it were so intense that he hardly noticed the icy air stinging his face and the wind pushing him along. He was in no mood to be distracted by anyone, certainly in no frame of mind to dally for fun and games. Also it became evident in his narrative that Voss, who had little patience to keep abreast of current events, was thus one of the few people in Detroit who had never heard of The Mad Bunny. These factors do not excuse, but they make more understandable, how his encounter turned from what-might-havebeen merely comedy into murder.

In his blind anger Voss had actually bumped into The Mad Bunny, who somehow was standing in front of him in the middle of the sidewalk. Naturally Voss was bewildered. The light from a streetlamp disclosed that the unexpected obstacle in his path was the fantastic figure of a rabbit six feet high.

Quickly Voss regained the presence of mind to reason that this could not be a real rabbit and that it must be someone dressed in a rabbit suit. Being logical, he at first supposed this was a greedy teen-ager still trying to take advantage of Halloween. Whoever it was, he was impatient for the person to get out of his way so he could get home and escape the numbing discomforts of the wintry night.

He called to the person to step aside, and tried to shove past, but the rabbit kept moving in front of him.

What are you doing? Voss yelled. I have no time for trick or treats nonsense. Are you crazy or something. Get out of my way! I want to go home.

The rabbit wouldn’t budge. My name is Irving, he said, and I want to be your friend. Surely you’ve heard of me. The Mad Bunny. I’ve been in all the papers.

I don’t know any Irving. Do I know who you are in there? What the hell craziness is this about friends?

The rabbit remained immovable and replied with what Voss could only recall as having been incoherent gibberish. What The Mad Bunny really said was, I suppose, irrelevant. All that Voss could think about was his growing rage with this large, childish interference. His ill-temper exploded. He lunged forward and grasped the man in the rabbit suit about the neck, trying to choke or throw whoever it was out of his way.

But the rabbit was strong, surprisingly strong, and easily broke Voss’ hold. Voss was furious. Unthinking of the consequences, he began to strike at the rabbit with his heavy fists. That appeared to be Voss’ fatal mistake.

Viciously, suddenly, and as Voss recalled it, calculatingly, the rabbit stepped to the side and smashed Voss in the back of the neck. The blow must have added to Voss’ forward momentum and sent him sprawling to the sidewalk Dazed, he tried to protect himself, but was kicked once … twice … to the head. He lost consciousness and could recall no more. His bruises indicated he had been struck repeatedly about the body as he lay there defenseless.

The cruelty and lethal consequences of the attack were not typical of the modus operandi of The Mad Bunny, and this raised questions about whether the murder should be attributed to him. Certainly Lt. Steven Kosnowski of the Detroit Police Homicide Division did not overlook any possibility in his investigation.

Robbery was immediately discounted as a motive. Voss’ wallet was found intact, nor was any of his jewelry removed. A check on his activities prior to his murder disclosed that he had quarreled heatedly with Friederich Schmidt at the German American Club. The quarrel was petty, but Kosnowski, nobody’s fool, knew murders might come about for the most trivial of reasons.

In this instance, Schmidt, a barber, who apparently had long nursed grievances about Voss’s profiteering at his meat market, accused his friend of being a crook and of selling his thumb for twenty-three years. Voss countered that Schmidt’s tonsorial skills were limited to crew cuts and close shaves, and that he would never prosper until he learned to style hair with the dry look. Schmidt vehemently countered that the chickens Voss placed on sale were more foul than the Detroit weather. Both said things they probably did not mean, and when Voss stormed from the Club denouncing Schmidt as an inept businessman and a greaser, Schmidt remained behind to seek sympathy and reassurance.

Schmidt’s associates readily agreed with and backed up his story. Therefore at around the time when Voss and the rabbit were probably joined in battle, Schmidt was still at the Club, talking with friends and slowly coming to the conclusion that the argument should not be allowed to end their long friendship. No doubt about it. Schmidt had an air-tight alibi, and Kosnowski was convinced the barber was in the clear.

The only other conceivable suspect was Max Voss, the strapping, nineteen-year-old son of the victim. Physically he had the height and build to masquerade as The Mad Bunny, and he was known to argue repeatedly with his father about money and his father’s neglect of the family. However, both his mother and sister, Sheila, insisted Max would not carry his anger to murder and that there was a basic and genuine affection between the boy and his father. More tellingly, Mildred Voss disclosed that Max, a freshman English major at Wayne State, had been home in bed that terrible night. He had come down with a fever and a feeling of ennui after reading Walden and had fallen into a fitful sleep. Hence, in short order, all suspects were eliminated, and Kosnowski could only issue a plea for information that might lead to the capture of The Mad Bunny and warn that the rabbit could be dangerous.

For several weeks after the Voss murder the Detroit papers and television stations carried news items and features about The Mad Bunny. Almost daily someone would report sighting him. But the descriptions varied. At times he was supposed to be wearing a large flowing cape with a bold M. B. monogram and a full-face mask with a toothy grin. At other times the descriptions had him wearing a black harlequin mask, big floppy ears, a round white tail, and no cape. Rather than adjusting to the menace, people became increasingly edgy, demanding, and confused.

Periodically, Lt. Kosnowski would be questioned about the progress of the police in apprehending The Mad Bunny. There was little of substance he could say, though he diplomatically said that little at great length. After months of investigating every Irving in the Detroit metropolitan area, the police concluded that this name was probably an alias.

In this chaotic atmosphere a psychiatrist, Fritz Hasse, began to speak out through the media and in lectures about The Mad Bunny. Hasse saw the Bunny as probably an exploited worker of the Detroit assembly lines, a nonentity who believed life had dealt with him unfairly. This feeling of having been shafted, he eloquently argued, must have originated in a troubled childhood.

We are all familiar with the story of Peter Rabbit, Hasse frequently stated in interviews. "Peter was a bad bunny, not a mad bunny. We might do well to consider in just what ways was Peter so bad. Peter’s badness, according to my analysis , lay in his disobedience of his mother’s arbitrary rule to stay at home and wait patiently for her return with food. Peter, however, sought to be independent and to acquire food on his own initiative, and for these virtues he suffered trauma, near death, illness, food deprivation, confinement … he was sent to bed without his supper … and the disapproval of his mother and siblings. The person we know as Irving may have had similar experiences which caused him to identify with