Murder At The Mikvah (20 page)

 Twenty-six

John didn’t like Ron's office. It was a reminder of life
before.
Before Jay died. Before Ron Smith's dad—John's former partner—was forced into retirement.

During the last five years and through six phases of construction, the township had consolidated all of its municipal offices into one central facility, built around the original eighty-year-old police headquarters. The result: the Arden Station municipal complex that housed every department from
Building and Planning
to
Refuse and Recycling
. But while every other office had been tastefully refurbished with Berber carpet, neutral walls and functional workstations, Ron's remained stuck in a time warp. With its metal desk, shag orange carpet and circa-1950 wood paneled walls, the office was a total eyesore, a disturbing contrast to the rest of the department. John understood
why
he did it, but
how
Ron managed to convince the higher-ups to leave the single office untouched was a complete mystery.

“You might want to consider some new carpet, buddy,” John said, though he suspected that Ron would ignore the comment.

“John?” Ron sat at his desk, a tall glass of water in his hand, and about seven different vitamin bottles lined up in front of him. He squinted in disbelief. “What the heck are you doing up here?” Before John could answer, Ron was gesturing with his free hand for him to take a seat. Ron then proceeded to open each vitamin bottle, pop a pill or two in his mouth, and follow it with a quick swig of water.

Actually, John wasn’t sure w
hy
he was there. In the last four years he hadn't been the least bit interested in Ron's office—or the younger man's work for that matter—so he was calling the visit something of a courtesy call on behalf of Father McCormick.

“I think you should canvas the area, talk to the neighbors around the old high school,” John blurted out.

Ron stared at him blankly then shook his head. “No. No way.” He unscrewed the cap from a bottle marked
Omega 3 Fish Oil
and shook a capsule in his hand. “Think about it, John. Why should I send guys out to canvas the neighborhood? You damn well know what will happen if I do! People will start asking questions! You heard the D.A.; the last thing we need is a wave of panic running through Arden Station. Besides, this thing’s open and shut, John, you even said so yourself.”

Admittedly, John
had
said as much, and more than once. The night of the arrest. On the ride over to the rectory. The facts were indisputable: Peter Stem had been arrested at the scene, his DNA recovered from Estelle Ginsberg’s clothing. Not to mention that he had been pulled off the naked body of Hannah Orenstein. Ron’s point was valid. Why should they go knocking on doors as though they were searching for their killer?

John rubbed his temples. Despite the incriminating physical evidence, there were a few things that concerned him. Most significantly was the fact that Peter’s fingerprints hadn’t turned up a match in the system. Statistics showed that a felony of this nature was almost always preceded by other, smaller offenses; yet no fingerprint match meant Peter had never had a prior arrest. And then there was Father McCormick’s casual response to the entire situation, his constant intimations that Peter would be home soon.
As if this was all a big mistake. Some kind of misunderstanding.
Was Father McCormick simply deluding himself? Or was there more to this story? John couldn’t help but wonder:
was it even remotely possible they were holding the wrong man?

“Look, John, I know you and this priest are close,” Ron said, as if reading John's mind. “But I have to tell you, you’re starting to get some strange ideas.”

John waited as Ron gathered the vitamin bottles and dumped them with one fell swoop into his desk drawer.

“I just think you need to gather as much information as you can,” John said. “There’s been no confession. We have no idea what actually happened at the scene. All we
do
know are there are two victims, neither of which can help us out. Meanwhile our alleged perp’s not talking either… So, all I’m saying is, don’t you think you should find someone who
is
talking?”

For some reason the word
alleged
felt like a cheap shot to Ron. He shook his head solemnly. “I don’t get it John; you haven’t been interested in investigations in
years
, and now, suddenly you get all worked up and try to tell me how to do my job?”

“Look, Ron…”

But Ron cut him off. “No!
You
look, John! Peter Stem’s a loner. He’s basically been a shut in with a Catholic priest for the past fifteen years… tell me, how normal is that?”

John didn’t respond. He felt a sense of loyalty to Father McCormick and he didn’t want to belittle an individual the priest held in high regard, even if it
appeared
that individual was undeserving of such sentiment. Instead, John thought back to the night of the arrest, trying to recall something,
anything
that he might have missed. He and Robert had arrived on the scene before midnight. There had been some candles burning in windowsills in a few neighboring houses. Surely someone must have seen or heard
something
. That’s when it occurred to John: he didn’t need Ron’s blessing to go door to door! He and Robert would go about it quietly. They would ask only general questions so as not to let on…
Tonight during their shift
. They would be discreet. Besides, it would be good experience for Robert.

Ron sat up abruptly and clapped.
Earth to John.
“Here’s how it is,” he said dramatically, his palms out. “Our perp’s been living in the church for his entire adult life and now, he’s about to be evicted. Every day he watches the construction continue at the high school. Life as he knows it is drawing closer and closer to an end! Then he starts noticing the women. Each night they parade unchaperoned into the back of the building. They’re small and vulnerable… the perfect victims.”

John sighed. Ron was barely half his age, yet he was so sure he had it all figured out. He was so much like his father, Ron Sr.; both could be a bit dramatic at times. But admittedly, it was as likely a scenario as any John could think up. It was definitely better than Ron’s initial theory that Peter was a latent homosexual who hated women, an idea quickly discarded when Ron found an old
Penthouse
shoved under Peter’s mattress. That magazine was the extent of Ron’s discovery from his search of Peter’s room. Bottom line was there was nothing found in the rectory indicating either homosexual or misogynist tendencies. And there hadn’t been any anti-Semitic evidence either. That should have been a relief since it took the religion card off the table. Nevertheless, it was obvious the guy was wound pretty tight, Ron insisted, seeing how meticulous he kept his room. Too bad he didn’t feel the same commitment to his closet. According to Ron, the three-foot space looked like a tornado had hit it. But what about a weapon? Ron had expected to find one, but had come up empty handed. What kind of criminal didn’t have a gun, a knife… something! And then there was Ron’s theoretical motive. Could it possibly be true? Was it simply Peter’s pending eviction from the rectory that instigated the whole tragic event? It was such a ridiculous thing to set someone off, yet it didn’t bode well for Peter that he
did
possess all the qualities of someone who would commit such a senseless sort of crime—he was a former addict, a loner, seemingly uneducated. Yet John couldn’t get past the fact that his actions did not appear to be
pre-planned
. It was puzzling: Why that particular night? Had something unusual happened or had Peter just seized what appeared to be the perfect opportunity? That was the million-dollar question. The more John thought about it, the stronger his belief in the former.
None of it was pre-planned.
Something happened that night to set Peter off.
It was the only way he could reconcile Father McCormick’s stellar opinion of the man with the crime he was accused of committing. But he would feel a lot better if he knew
what
exactly that “something” was.

“So you still believe Peter’s goal was to shut down construction at the high school?” John asked.

“Desperate men do desperate things,” Ron said. He reached into his fridge for a yogurt and offered John one.

John laughed. “Don’t you ever get tired of all of it, buddy?”

Ron didn’t seem to understand the question.

“You know the health food, the vitamins…” John laughed. “I’d go nuts without my meat and potatoes…”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “Not all of us are born with perfect genes, John; but I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

John immediately regretted his comment. He ignored Ron’s remark and looked away while the younger man dug in to his yogurt. After a moment, he spoke up, getting back on point. “You say Peter wanted to do something that would halt construction,” John continued, his tone a bit softer. “But would shutting down construction bring back the church? Or prevent Father McCormick from moving out of state?”

But before Ron could respond, John shook his head and answered his own question. “No, those things—all of them—were a done deal.”

Now Ron looked more annoyed than ever. “You forget; we’re talking about a
crackpot
, John,
not
someone who’s thinking rationally.”

“But how do we know he’s a crackpot if he hasn’t given a statement?” John asked.

“You know what I think? I think it’s all
bullshit!
” Ron said, throwing his spoon down. “This whole
not talking
thing is an act! I think he’s just a psychopath trying to pass himself off as criminally insane. Life in a mental institution sure beats life in the state pen. The food’s better; I hear even the pillows are fluffier.”

John didn’t say a thing. If what Ron was implying was true… if Peter
was
faking it, then he was brighter than the detective gave him credit for… which meant he was smart enough to know that halting construction would do nothing to keep him in the rectory.

John shrugged. “I don’t know Ronnie…”

Ron pounded his right fist on the desk. “It’s
Ron
! Damn it, John, I haven’t been
Ronnie
since I was ten!” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “Oh, whatever… The only thing I want to think about right now is closing the file on this case. The sooner we get this thing wrapped up, the better.”

“Your dad?” John asked gently.

Ron avoided his eyes. “Yep.”

“What’s going on?”

Ron took a minute to answer. “I have to get him settled in his new place.”

John nodded. He had asked only to be courteous. He really didn’t want to start taking about Ron Sr.; it was just one more reminder of God’s cruelty. “Well, it shouldn’t be long now,” John said, pushing away his own nudging doubts. “With the case I mean. You’re just waiting on the CODIS report, right?”

Ron took a gulp of his drink. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, all business. “We should have it in a few days, and then we’ll know what this son of a bitch Peter Stem has really been up to.”

 Twenty-seven

Rachel sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, her white blouse sleeves rolled neatly up to her elbows as she peeled her way through a mountain of braeburn apples. Her Nana had promised to bake them into a pie for tonight’s dessert. It was her daddy's favorite; maybe it would make him happy. It seemed to Rachel that she barely saw her Abba anymore. He was either working or visiting Mommy at the hospital. When he arrived home, he would plaster a smile on his face and say things to the children like “I told Mommy about David losing his front tooth” or “Mommy heard all about Nana spending a few days with us!” Her brothers were satisfied with these nuggets of information, but Rachel had her doubts. She didn’t want to accuse him of being dishonest, but she didn’t understand how it was possible to talk to someone who was asleep all the time. She often wished she could go to the hospital and see for herself, but her Abba had not offered to take her, and she had not asked, partly because she was frightened of what she might find. Last year her class had gone to visit a nursing home. “Some of the men and women you will meet are very sick,” her teacher whispered before they went in. But these words did not prepare them for what they saw. Most of the residents looked like walking skeletons. The skin on their hands was pulled tight, revealing uneven purple ridges. Their vacant eyes stared into space as their young visitors sang
Purim
songs. Some residents were slumped, sound asleep in wheelchairs with breathing tubes under their noses. Two of Rachel's classmates cried.

Rachel wished someone would assure her that her mommy wasn’t as sick as the people in the nursing home. She wanted to hear that even after nearly a month, her mommy still looked beautiful, that she had the same big smile, the same bright eyes. But Rachel couldn't ask her Abba; what if her questions caused him more distress? He had dropped a significant amount of weight, and had taken to wearing suspenders to hold his pants up. She knew he wasn’t sleeping well; the floorboards gave him away each night. Behind the smile he wore for the benefit of her and her brothers, his face looked different somehow. There were deep creases along his forehead and white hairs in his beard that Rachel was certain had not been there before.

Rachel put the peeler down on the table and tucked a long curl behind her ear. “Nana, why isn’t Mommy waking up?”

She gazed patiently up at Judith who was standing at the stove, tending to a big pot of chicken soup that Lauren had put up earlier. The soup smelled delicious, Rachel thought. Lauren was a good cook, but not nearly as good as Mommy. Of course she would never say this out loud—she wouldn’t want to hurt Lauren’s feelings. The Torah said hurting someone's feelings, or embarrassing them was equivalent to murder! Besides, Lauren was trying so hard to be helpful—cooking the family’s favorite things, helping her and her brothers with their homework, and just yesterday, had volunteered to help out with the school’s Chanukah production. Rachel knew she should be appreciative of how much Lauren was doing for all of them, so why was it that she often wished Lauren wouldn’t come anymore?

Rachel watched as Judith untied the loose knot in the front of her apron. Mommy had a whole collection of aprons, the sillier the better, she always said. This one happened to be one of her favorites: airborne bagels with wings on a clouded sky background. Rachel thought it odd that Nana tied the apron in the front that way. Mommy always made a bow in the back as did Lauren, so Rachel assumed this was the right way, the
only
way. Now she wished Lauren would tie hers in the front too, like Nana instead of Mommy. Maybe it would make things easier for Yitzi. Even before Nehama was born, Yitzi sometimes slipped and called Lauren
Mommy
. And now it was happening more frequently. What if Yitzi kept calling Lauren
Mommy
and forgot about their
real
mommy? If he forgot about her, would God think they didn’t need their real mommy anymore? Would he bring her up to heaven instead of sending her home? Rachel was deeply concerned about this. As the oldest, it was her responsibility to make sure it didn’t happen.

Judith pulled the apron over her head and hung it carefully on a hook by the door. She was glad Lauren had taken the boys to the park, happy to have this time alone with her granddaughter. Private moments with
any
of her grandchildren were hard to come by. Even though Judith had been visiting every weekend now—arriving Friday afternoon, leaving Sunday—it seemed Lauren was always hovering around.

“Why, Nana?” Rachel said again. “Why isn’t Mommy waking up?” This time it sounded more like a plea than a question.

Judith patted her hair down and took a seat next to Rachel. Relaxing her shoulders she said, “Well, sweetheart, it’s very complicated…”

Rachel burst into tears. “I want to know why Mommy’s not better and Abba won’t tell me! He doesn’t tell me anything!” she said, sobbing. In a flash, she pushed back from the table, her chair legs screeching against the floor, and fell into Judith's open arms. Judith rested her chin on top of Rachel's head as she gently stroked her hair, her heart aching for her granddaughter. With Yehuda working so much, it was as if the children were missing not one but
two
parents. Admittedly, the way Yehuda had thrown himself into his work—adding classes to an already full schedule—reminded Judith of herself. Work was something he could control, a distraction from the things he couldn't.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” Judith said, actually wishing she could snap her fingers and make it so.

Rachel pulled away and looked up innocently. She wiped her wet cheek with an open palm. “
How
Nana? How will everything be fine?”

Judith gazed lovingly at her granddaughter. Rachel was the spitting image of Hannah with the same gumball eyes, full cheeks, and creamy complexion. She even had Hannah’s spirally hair, though in a slightly darker shade of brown. Oh how Judith missed her daughter-in-law! She missed her contagious laugh, her warm, genuine smile, the goodness in her heart. Hannah had never been anything but welcoming and appreciative of Judith, yet Judith had always remained a bit standoffish, using all she did for the family financially as her excuse. Money, like work, Judith realized, afforded her a wall of protection. It was hard to believe that after all these years, she had never bothered to tell Hannah how much she admired her—her ability to take such wonderful care of her large family yet still find time to teach and volunteer. Like most people, Judith never thought there was any urgency in conveying such sentiments. Now she wondered whether she would ever again have the opportunity.

At times, this all felt unreal, like one long, never ending nightmare. But sadly, this was no dream. After the initial shock and stalling of their lives, all they could do was forge on, resume living; all the while the fear of possible outcomes, the “what-ifs” hovering overhead like a swarm of summer gnats.
What if Hannah died? What if she pulled through but was brain dead?
It was all too much for Judith to wrap her mind around, so she continually
shoo
ed the thoughts away as quickly as she would any pest. It was usually at night when she was in bed—in that window between being awake and asleep—that the thoughts took hold, and Judith considered the possibility that Hannah might not make it. Without a doubt the kids would suffer immeasurable damage; they might need counseling for the rest of their lives. But after a year or so, Yehuda would likely remarry. After all, it was the orthodox thing to do. What was it she heard him say more than once
? In Beresheis, God says it is not good for man to be alone
.

The thought of Yehuda with anyone other than Hannah was troubling to Judith; a stranger acting as a surrogate mother to her grandchildren was incomprehensible. Baby Nehama never knowing her real mother? And what about Yitzi? How many memories would he have? As inappropriate as thinking such thoughts were, it was the idea of her son sharing his bed with another woman that sickened her more than anything. For some crazy reason, Judith imagined it would be someone younger, thinner, prettier.
Where the hell had this clichéd image come from?
Judith shook off the image. After all, her son was nothing like the men Judith had known! Nothing like his own father who had so callously traded them all in for a more youthful model. She must think positively!
Hannah
would
pull through, Judith told herself
.
Hannah
had to
pull through!

In a way, it was ironic how strongly Judith felt about the issue, especially since she hadn't always been so fond of Hannah. She remembered how stunned she was when Yehuda announced his engagement—stunned not in a “happy, excited” way, she would later tell Hannah, (who burst into fits of laughter each time Judith recounted the story) but in a “what did I do to deserve this?” kind of way. Who could blame her? After all, Judith hadn’t even met the girl her son intended to spend the rest of his life with. She had never seen a picture; nor could she recall hearing the girl’s name mentioned even once! Yet there he was, her twenty-two year old son, delivering this monumental news to her
over the phone
from Jerusalem
;
the words hitting her like a long-range scud missile. It was a good thing she didn’t have a heart condition she told Yehuda years later, or she would have dropped dead from the impact.

Yehuda had assured his mother that a well-respected Israeli matchmaker had made the introduction—a s
hadchan
he called her—and that he was absolutely certain that he had met his intended, his
beshert
. Judith had only been speechless on one prior occasion—walking in on her husband and best friend twelve years earlier. And just like then, she had no words.
Using a matchmaker? Having only three dates before proposing?
She didn’t understand any of it. It was bad enough that Yehuda had taken off for Israel so soon after graduation. At the time, Judith wasn’t concerned; she assumed he was merely postponing his entry into the real world and the inevitable responsibility of getting a job. In hindsight, it should have been obvious to her that Yehuda had a plan for himself. If only she had paid more attention while he was living at home, he might have even mapped it out for her.

Yehuda started showing interest in Judaism at the age of twelve, the year he and Sunny, then nine, enrolled in Jewish Day School. From day one, Sunny made her dissatisfaction known.
Why couldn’t she go back to her old school? She didn’t understand anything the Hebrew teacher said!
Sunny whined and carried on until Judith finally gave in and pulled her out. Yehuda, on the other hand, was drawn in almost immediately; he would later say that the new school felt like a second home. He was mesmerized by Jewish history and took solace in the daily prayer sessions. He heard the Hebrew language as music, saw the beauty of each Hebrew letter as an art form originating from God’s very own canvas. Judith was perplexed. She didn’t understand how a religious day school could have such a transformative effect on her son; but she was pleased to see him go from being a boy who was sad and introspective to one who was enthusiastic and vocal. Ever since the move to Florida, Judith had to practically drag her son out of bed each morning, but now he was the first one up, eager to get to school. At home, Yehuda peppered his grandpop with questions about the Orenstein family history, and pressed him to share stories of his descendents’ lives in Romania. Yehuda’s teachers marveled at his enthusiasm, but pointed out that without additional tutoring, it was unlikely he would catch up to his peers. He began working every afternoon with a young rabbi from the school, and to everyone’s astonishment, his Hebrew reading and comprehension was soon on par with that of his classmates.

Yehuda's enthusiasm for religion didn’t end there. By the end of that first year, he had convinced his grandparents to have a traditional Friday night dinner each week, when he would stand at the head of the table—a black yarmulke on his head—and recite
Kiddish
over grape juice and
Hamotzi
over two loaves of store bought
challah
.

Judith accepted full responsibility for her son’s fanaticism. Okay, so it was her father who had suggested religious school, but
she
was the one who went along with it, telling herself that a public school education wasn’t good enough for her kids. Besides, religious school would keep them out of trouble. Clearly, the fanaticism Yehuda was showing was the result of his prior lack of
any
Jewish identity. Her father, in fact, had an excellent theory: Yehuda was experiencing Judaism much like someone who hadn’t eaten for a month, and then went to an
all you can eat
buffet—he was gorging himself, not on food, but on
Torah
. Before long he would vomit it all up, or at the very least, reach a point of satiation. Then he would calm down.

But Harvey was wrong. The changes continued and it became clear that Yehuda's religious zeal was not something he would simply outgrow like an old pair of sneakers. Judith couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss as she witnessed her son's transformation. These were supposed to be carefree years; Yehuda should have been out having fun instead of praying three times a day! He should have been playing basketball like other teenagers, not studying
Gemorah
at the local orthodox shul. At a time when boys his age blew their money on comic books or arcade games, her nutty son used
his
savings to pay for new dishes and pots for the kitchen. But the true point of no return came the day he called them all together to make an important announcement: He was no longer “Ira”, he told his family. He was now using
his real name,
his
Hebrew name—
“Yehuda”.