Murder At The Mikvah (31 page)

“No. Nothing.”

“You were about to say something Lauren, so say it.”

Lauren pointed to the lettuce. “It's better to shred it with your hands.”

“Pardon me?” Judith had expected something else.

“The lettuce—ripping it preserves more of the nutrients than cutting does.”

Judith vaguely remembered hearing this piece of information years ago on a television ad.

“The
lean and green
campaign,” Lauren said as if reading Judith's mind. “I helped run it for the California growers association.”

“That job of yours certainly gave you quite an array of information, didn’t it?”

“I’m a walking
Trivial Pursuit
game, I guess,” Lauren said.

Judith considered the lettuce. Then, she picked up the knife and without giving it a second thought, resumed her chopping.

 Forty

That particular Shabbat dinner would not go down in Orenstein history as one of the family’s more festive meals. To start things off, Sonia and Gary had arrived late with sour faces and appeared not to be speaking to each other. Sonia still wore her sling and judging from her body language, it was apparent that she wanted to be as far away from her husband as physically possible. When he approached her from behind to help her off with her coat, she flinched. And before the food had even been served, she kept inching her chair further and further to the right, until she was practically sitting on poor Rachel's lap. Baby Nehama, as if picking up on all the negative energy, cried the minute the blessings were recited, and despite being passed around the table, would not stop fussing.

“Maybe she's tired,” Judith said from the other end of the table. It took Lauren a minute to realize that Judith was actually saying:
put my granddaughter to bed
.

“I come with help,” Sonia told Lauren, standing up abruptly. At that, Gary shot her a disapproving look, which only Lauren seemed to notice.

Upstairs in the baby's room, Sonia stood next to Lauren while she changed Nehama's diaper. The baby continued her fussing while Lauren slipped her out of her tiny velvet dress and white tights and into some fleecy feet pajamas. The change in clothing seemed to trigger some recognition in Nehama, and she finally began to settle down.

“Beautiful baby,” Sonia said soothingly stroking Nehama's cheek with her uninjured arm, “such beautiful baby… ”

Lauren gestured for Sonia to take a seat on the footstool while she sat in the rocking chair patting Nehama's back. Usually it only took five minutes of slow rocking before Nehama conked out completely.

Lauren gazed at Sonia. Even in the dimmed light of the nursery, Sonia's hair looked brittle, and her complexion pale. She had dark circles under her eyes as if she was either sleep deprived or crying too much. It was hard to believe that Lauren had once viewed Sonia as a living Barbie doll. Now she looked as though she had been mishandled, thrown against a wall even.

Lauren let her gaze move to Sonia's arm. She had to know how it happened… maybe the darkened room would offer a veil of protection, make it easier for Sonia to open up.

“Is everything okay, Sonia?” Lauren asked gently.

Sonia bit her lip and shook her head.

Lauren's heart sped up. “Is it Gary?”

Sonia nodded. “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Gary is not a bad man. He loves me…”

Lauren was shocked at how quickly Sonia admitted the source of the problem. This wouldn’t be so difficult after all. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Sonia wiped away a tear. “In my country, these things—between husband and wife—they are private.”

Maybe this wouldn’t be so easy after all.
But now, Lauren finally understood.
It was cultural pressures that kept Sonia from leaving her abusive husband!

“Sonia,” Lauren pleaded, “even though it feels uncomfortable, sometimes we
need
to confide in someone.” Lauren would have preferred saying what was really on her mind:
Don't take his abuse! You deserve better! You must leave him immediately!!
But Sonia didn’t give the go ahead, so Lauren kept these sentiments to herself. She stood up to put the now sleeping Nehama into her crib. Her back to Sonia, she thought about all those wasted sessions with Hannah. Hannah probably had
no clue
what was actually going on between Sonia and Gary.

“Sonia,” Lauren said, returning to her seat, “if you ever decided you wanted to… is there
anyone
you can… is there someone you feel comfortable
really
opening up to?” More than anything, she was looking for confirmation that Sonia was in fact confiding in Tova Katz from S.O.S.

Sonia thought for a moment, as if determining if what she was about to say was self-incriminating. “Yes,” she said, blotting her nose, “there is someone.”

 Forty-one

Lewis wasn’t sure if he was expecting Abe Vigoda or the guy from Hawaii 5-0, but it was the much younger, well-groomed Detective Ron Smith Jr. who met them in the lobby of the police station. Ron was the antithesis of the overworked, unkempt T.V. persona of Lewis's generation. The detective couldn’t have been more than thirty-five; and dressed in suit pants, a pressed shirt and tie, he looked more wall street than forty-second street. Though average height and build, he was exceptionally lean and buff, the picture of health. His dark hair was slightly damp; his face was cleanly shaven, but flushed—like he had just come from the gym—and he smelled of expensive cologne.

Lewis introduced himself, and then Elise, who had driven him to the station.

Ron smiled politely. “Yes, it's nice to see you again Ms. Danzig.”

“Remember, Dad—I had to give a statement,” she whispered to Lewis in response to his confused expression.

“Oh, yes; of course… how could I forget? The
routine
statement,
”
Lewis said. Now he gave her a look like she should know better than to frequent places where murders were committed.

Elise sighed. “Call me on my cell when you’re ready,” she said, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

Lewis followed Ron down a narrow corridor lined with tasteful black and white photos of local rail stations. As they rounded the corner, a glittery handmade sign with the words
Happy Thanksgiving!
written in orange and black marker came into view. A few turkey cut outs sat on the floor, propped against the wall.

“Out with the old, in with the new,” Ron said. “By next week the snowmen and reindeer will be up. The office girls get a kick out of decorating.”

They reached Ron’s office and the instant Ron pulled open the door, Lewis was overtaken by the heavy air. He grimaced at what smelled like a stale combination of sweat and tobacco, and instinctively scanned the room for the source of the odor. The furnishings looked old and worn: a couple of ripped leather chairs and an old metal desk, bare except for some picture frames and a pencil holder filled with sharpened pencils and pens. To the side was a stack of puzzle books—word search, crossword puzzles,
Suduko,
and hidden pictures. These must be for the detective’s children, Lewis thought.
He remembered the countless hours Elise had spent at
his
office. She especially liked to tidy up his waiting area, stacking magazines into neat piles, rearranging the furniture, watering the ferns. Sometimes she sat next to the receptionist and sketched, usually pictures of the family—seven year old Elise in the middle of Lewis and Iris, all three of them with huge melon rind smiles. There were other drawings too—Lewis in his office with a floppy eared dog sitting on the couch; in his hand a sign with the words
Dr. Danzig, Pet Psychiatrist
. That was one of his favorites, drawn just a month or so before everything changed.

Though he and Iris wanted and planned for a large family, Elise was their only child. Those were the days before in-vitro was an option. But, it was probably for the best since Lewis couldn’t imagine loving another child as much as he loved his daughter. The feeling was mutual. Elise idolized him.
I want to be just like you Daddy
she would tell him.
I want to help people.
He assumed she would go to medical school. She certainly had the brains for it, graduating in the top ten of her high school class. But that plan got scrapped fast enough when she met Evan her junior year of college.
I never really wanted to get my medical degree
is what she told him right after she announced her engagement. Maybe it was because Elise was his daughter—his baby—he never quite figured out why, but he never felt Evan deserved her. Even after they were married, Lewis never corrected his son in law when he called him “Dr. Danzig”. He couldn’t bring himself to be called “Dad” by the man who had led his daughter so far off course.

“Dr. Danzig, I’d like you to meet Father Herbert McCormick and Attorney Lance Parker. I understand you've spoken already.”

Ron Smith's words snapped Lewis out of his reverie, and he focused on the occupants of the room. Two men—one in a plain brown suit, the other in all black with a priest’s collar—stood up. A harnessed golden retriever lay contently by the priest's feet on a shag carpet of limp orange worms.

“Yes, that's right,” Father McCormick said. “Doctor Danzig and I had a private telephone conversation a few days ago.” He extended his arm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Danzig.”

“Likewise,” Lewis said. Elise had mentioned that Father McCormick was blind, but somehow it hadn't completely registered until now.

“Gentlemen, Ron said, “let's move this meeting to the conference room. It’s a little crowded in here.”

Lewis couldn’t help but notice that the detective had been eyeing his office uncomfortably, as if just noticing it's dated condition for the first time.
What was an office like this doing in a newly renovated building?
Lewis wondered. But whatever the reason, he was relieved to be relocating the meeting. The stench was making him nauseous. He wondered how the young, seemingly hygienic-minded detective could stand it.

Minutes later, they were all comfortably settled and breathing easy around a large table in the conference room. Ron opened a thick notebook and perused a few pages before speaking. “All right then… Dr. Danzig, as you know, Mr. Parker is representing Peter Stem.”

“Yes, yes we all know each other,” Lance Parker said, impatiently. He turned to Lewis. “Let's get right to the point, shall we? I'm allowing you two hours to analyze my client for the sole purpose of ruling out a psychiatric condition.”

Lewis tried hard not to stare at Lance Parker’s ridiculous comb-over.
“
Ruling out
?”

Lance folded his hands on the table. “Correct.”

Lewis's feathers weren't so easily ruffled. “Oh? Are you a psychiatrist, Mr. Parker?”

“No,” Lance said, “but I have worked closely with the church for nearly a decade now… I've heard about these cases.”

“Heard about what cases?”

Lance rolled his eyes as if this whole conversation was a waste of his time. “Cases of
demonic possession
.”

“You've heard about such cases,” Lewis said, “but have you actually
seen
one?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Lance stammered. A long black hair fell forward in his eyes and he immediately pasted it back in place. “It wouldn’t have been safe—especially during the exorcism.”

“I see. So it must be a pretty intense undertaking—an exorcism.”

Lance crossed his arms defiantly. “Yes, that's right.”

“Then before you perform something as intense as an exorcism,” Lewis said, “is it really so much to ask for a non-invasive evaluation, maybe even some therapy?”

Lance shrugged. “As far as I'm concerned, the exorcism
is
the therapy.”

Father McCormick shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“With all due respect Mr. Parker,” Lewis said, “the two are polar opposites.”

Lance held up a finger. “Hold on just a second,” he said. “What exactly makes you qualified to say that? As far as I know you have no church affiliation.”

“I’m board certified and licensed to practice psychiatry in six states, including Pennsylvania,” Lewis said, looking him straight in the eye. “During the course of my forty-year career, I've published over a hundred papers in all areas of neuropsychiatry and human behavior. And no, Mr. Parker, I have no church affiliation. I had my Bar Mitzvah probably around the time you were born; but, as you can probably guess, it wasn’t in a church.”

Father McCormick chuckled and Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything, so Lewis continued. “Now, as I was about to say: psychotherapy, whether directed toward the conscious or the
un
conscious mind—and I am presuming that in an exorcism we are talking about the
unconscious
mind since the idea is that a separate entity has overtaken the person's consciousness…”

Lance stared at him like he was crazy. “Would you mind speaking in English?” he asked dryly.

Lewis sighed. “Bottom line—psychotherapy on any level requires years of intensive study, training and clinical experience,” he said, then turned to Father McCormick. “I admit I don’t know what type of training is involved with the performance of religious exorcisms…”

“Not much,” mumbled Father McCormick.

Lewis reached into his briefcase. “I brought some data on the subject which you gentlemen may find interesting.” He placed a thin manila folder in front of him on the table. “This is from a published study which concluded less than five years ago.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, opened the file, and began reading. “Over a fifteen year period, twenty-two individuals with alleged demonic possession were examined. What was found was that these individuals were actually suffering from disorders ranging from mania and schizophrenia to epilepsy—there was even one case of Tourette's syndrome!” Lewis removed his glasses and looked up at the men. “Without exception, each person in the study was found to have a DMS-III defined condition.”

Lance raised a finger in opposition. He had thought long and hard about the evidence in this case. A jury would be hard pressed to reconcile Peter’s arrest at the crime scene, and pleading insanity was a risk, a risk Lance figured he could avoid if it was proven— or at the very least
suggested—
that Peter was possessed. As far as Lance Parker knew, ‘the devil made me do it’ defense had never been tested in criminal court. But surely, any reasonable jury would agree that resisting Satan was beyond the control of any mortal being.

“To play devil’s advocate…” Lance began. Pleased with himself, he turned to Father McCormick—“no pun intended Father!”—then back to Lewis: “How do you explain cases where the behavior can be described as nothing else
but
demonic? Do these studies of yours offer an explanation for cases where the person behaves in ways that are completely out of character?”

Lewis removed his glasses and nodded his head thoughtfully. “Actually yes, there is an explanation provided. Foremost, it is important to understand that the behaviors of the so-called ‘possessed’ show a marked resemblance to the behaviors of those with electrochemical, neurochemical, or other physical and emotional disorders. The research has also shown that often times the individual is influenced—actually encouraged—to exhibit the ‘possessed’ behavior expected. Although the studies I mentioned were all instances where other medical conditions were present, I think we can safely assume that in cases where
none
are present, the behaviors are being reinforced.”

Lance scrunched his forehead, obviously unhappy with the doctor’s extensive knowledge on the subject.

“Now, if this man, Peter is l
evitating
…” Lewis began. It was a partial attempt to diffuse the palpable tension in the room.

Father McCormick laughed. “Dr. Danzig, I assure you, he is not.”

“Well good. I want it to be clear from the start that I am in complete opposition to exorcisms in general, and the prospect of one being performed in this case specifically,” Lewis said. “So I must tell you up front: if your plan is to conduct one, then my involvement here ends.”

Lance Parker smirked. “Well, then we have a problem.” He turned to Father McCormick. “Father Pritcher has stipulated that an exorcism be conducted…”

“Yes, Lance,” Father McCormick spoke over him. “I’m fully aware of what Father Pritcher has said. If you recall, I assured Father Pritcher that once we exhausted all other avenues, I would give him my full support in that area.”

“And he was satisfied with that?” Lewis asked. “Frankly I'm surprised that this priest—Father Pritcher—could be so adamant about an exorcism, yet give the go ahead for a psychological evaluation.”

Father McCormick smiled and patted his dog. “Yes, well, lucky for us, Pritcher’s always had a soft spot for animals. He spent some time with Samson and she won him over.” He glanced sideways at Lance, who was slumped in his chair pouting. “With all due respect to Father Pritcher—who has been kind enough to see to it that Peter has the legal representation he needs—I think it's reasonable that we let Dr. Danzig examine Peter, evaluate him
before
we go and start sprinkling holy water around.”