Murder At The Mikvah (28 page)

 Thirty-five

As Lauren stood at the bay window, something occurred to her. It had been weeks since she had thought about her parents. Always battling that desperate need for their approval, Lauren had been so preoccupied lately she hadn't even remembered to call them.

Not that they would be happy to hear from me anyway.

Somehow, the hours spent with Yehuda and the children had filled a void that until now, she hadn't realized even existed. It was true we couldn’t choose our birth families, but what a gift it was that we
could
create a life for ourselves outside their dysfunction, beyond the restrictions.

“Something interesting?”

Lauren’s hand flew over her chest as she whirled around and caught sight of Judith. “Oh… Mrs. Orenstein… you startled me!”

Judith stood there in winter white pants and a gold blouse, looking past Lauren toward the window. “Something exciting going on out there?”

“No, I’m just waiting for Janine,” Lauren said, noting that Judith’s belt and shoes matched perfectly. They looked like some kind of reptile skin. “She’s picking me up.”

Lauren turned back to the window at the sound of a car driving by.

“Oh? And where are the two of you ladies off to today?”

The woman was so nosy! Lauren wished she could tell her it was none of her business, but she was pretty sure that wouldn’t go off very well. “Shopping.”

“Where?”

“Station Square.”

“What are you shopping for?”

Was she kidding?
Thankfully, just then, there was a light toot of the horn as Janine pulled into the driveway.

Lauren slipped into her coat, but didn’t bother buttoning it. “There’s Janine now! Gotta run.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Janine said as Lauren strapped herself in to the passenger side. “I couldn’t leave the center.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you try to do the work of four people,” Lauren said.

Janine backed slowly out of the driveway as Judith continued spying from the window, her arms crossed.

“It wasn’t that,” Janine said. “I had to ask Yehuda something, but he was in a meeting.”

“You couldn’t just jot down a message and leave it for him?” Lauren asked.

“Not for this…”

It wasn’t any of her business, but Lauren’s interest was piqued. She knew Janine would tell her. For a rabbi’s assistant, Janine could stand to be tighter lipped.

“Cynthia Bergerman’s check for $20,000…”

Lauren hadn’t known the amount before.

“It
bounced
.”

Lauren covered her mouth. “No.”

“Yep.”

“Do you think the bagel company’s having financial problems?” For some reason, this possibility made Lauren happy.

“Who knows?” Janine said. “Anyway, I couldn’t disturb Yehuda to tell him; he was busy with someone else’s drama.”

“Just what he needs right now,” Lauren said, shaking her head. “As if he doesn’t have his own problems.”

“Yeah, it was pretty intense,” Janine continued. “Sonia and Gary Lyman were in there; I heard Sonia crying. A lot.”

Lauren wasn’t surprised to hear that Sonia was meeting with Yehuda. Obviously, Hannah wasn’t available, so her husband was the next best thing. But it
did
surprise Lauren to learn that Gary was in the meeting too. Maybe he was such a chauvinist he refused counseling with Hannah, but with the rabbi—a man—he was willing. Lauren wished she could call Sonia, ask if there was anything she needed, if there was any way she could help, but she doubted Sonia would be very receptive. Not after that obnoxious comment. Lauren cringed as she relived it once again.
Sonia doesn’t seem so happy
. It was a stupid thing to say, but if Hannah hadn’t been droning on and on about marriage she would have never said it! If only she could explain this to Sonia, make her see that
she
, of all people, was not one to derive pleasure from someone else’s pain.
It isn’t what it seems
, she would say.

But she knew Sonia wouldn’t give her the chance. After all, it was bad enough to have marital problems, but to know that other people knew it too… well that was beyond humiliating. There was no way Sonia would want to face her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Janine said, glancing sideways at her.

Lauren stared back at her but didn’t say anything.

Janine’s eyes narrowed. “You think Sonia married Gary for money and citizenship.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Janine snorted. “Oh come on, it’s so obvious! She’s so gorgeous and he’s so… well
old
.”

Lauren shrugged. “I have no idea. Besides, it’s none of my business why she married him.” She turned, Looked out the window, and caught sight of what looked like a dead cat on the side of the road. “I just hope she’s okay,” she whispered. “I just hope she’s okay.”

 Thirty-six

Patty Collins had absolutely forbidden any mention of Peter Stem during the main meal, but relented now that it was time for coffee and dessert. She moved her mother's candelabra to the sideboard and began clearing away the dinner plates, stricken at how lonely the Chippendale table looked with just the two men settled at one end. It was hard to believe that seven days earlier, each chair had been occupied by one of her three daughters and their families for Thanksgiving dinner.

“To tell you the truth, Father, I’m surprised you’re so supportive of this psychiatrist thing,” John said, handing Patty his plate.

“Well, I owe it to Peter to consider all avenues,” Father McCormick replied, “especially in light of Father Pritcher's brilliant analysis.”

“Father Pritcher is the priest who thinks Peter's possessed?”

“The one and only,” Father McCormick said, making no effort to hide his disgust. “The very
notion
of Peter being possessed is absolute hogwash!” He leaned toward John and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I’ve never held Pritcher in such high regard. We were together at Seminary, you know—he wasn’t the brightest bulb then either.”

Patty entered through a heavy swinging door and placed a large serving tray of assorted cookies and cakes on the table.

“Coffee or tea, Father?”

After the death of her mother, Patty no longer retained a full time server on staff. A housekeeper to ease the upkeep demands of such a large home was not up for debate, but to be served like royalty was something else entirely. Thankfully, Patty had never been especially thrilled with the idea, because John wouldn’t hear of it.

Father McCormick looked up. “Tea would be delightful, Patricia; and I must thank you for such a lovely dinner, though once again I think I'm guilty of inviting myself.”

Patty gave him a loving pat on the hand. “The pleasure is entirely ours, Father,” she said, and meant it. In the beginning, having Father McCormick as a weekly dinner guest felt obligatory, a belated pay back for all he had done for John after 9/11. But over the past month or so, she had come to genuinely enjoy the company of the aging priest; and though she had never been partial to dogs, Samson wasn't so bad either. She winked at her husband. “I'll put the kettle on.”

“I still don’t understand,” John said after Patty had left the room. “Why a
psychiatrist,
Father? I mean, do you honestly believe Peter is mentally ill?” Though he knew better than to mention it, John couldn’t help but recall Ron Smith's comment that Peter’s behavior was all an act.

“Do I believe Peter is mentally ill,” Father McCormick repeated. “Do I believe Peter is mentally ill…” He shook his head. “Truthfully, I don't know, John. However, I
am
certain that whatever has overtaken Peter is less
otherworldly
. Drugs and alcohol have been ruled out; but unless he’s seen by an expert, how are we to know that what's ailing him is not a chemical imbalance?”

“Chemical imbalance?” John asked skeptically. He remembered Dr. Hendricks using that phrase and recommending an antidepressant after Jay died. Needless to say, he’d rejected that idea. After all, wasn’t it normal to feel depressed after someone died?

“Yes, misfiring of neurotransmitters,” the priest continued. “That’s how the psychiatrist—Dr. Danzig—described it.”

“And you're not concerned that Dr. Danzig might be biased?” John asked. Patty coughed. He hadn't noticed her return to the table.

“Biased?” Father McCormick repeated. “Because of his connection to the Jewish community? No! Absolutely not!”

There was no point pursuing it, especially since John wasn’t sure where he was going with the idea anyway. Sure, the psychiatrist’s daughter, Elise Danzig, had been at the mikvah the night of the crime, but she had been questioned by Ron and apparently hadn’t seen or heard anything of value.

“And the attorney the church hired…” John asked, switching gears, “what does he think of all this?”

Father McCormick scratched his head. He didn’t like relying on church funding for Peter's defense, but he had no choice now that the Bishop had caught wind of the situation. The diocese was still in damage control mode following the pedophile priest scandal. Now they had a potential murderer in their midst, and the last thing they wanted was more public fallout. Understandably, they would do anything to protect their own long-term interests. “Let's just say, Lance Parker is spending too much time with priests like Pritcher and leave it at that,” Father McCormick said.

“Well, it seems to me, Pritcher’s in a position to keep Lance Parker gainfully employed, right?” John asked, although he didn’t expect Father McCormick to answer. He sighed. “Peter’s lucky to have you, Father… I just hope he knows it.”

The priest’s face dropped. “I may be all he has, John. I may be the only one who believes he's innocent. It's obvious church officials think he's guilty… why else would they look to such an outlandish defense like
possession
?” He spread his open hands on the table. “Forgive me, please. I don't want to burden either of you with this. Especially when it's not your problem.”

Patty studied her husband's expression. His mouth turned down sharply, and there were deep creases in his brow. He looked so
pained
. Despite his explanation to Father McCormick about the potential conflict of interest with his being involved in the investigation, she knew there were many instances in the past few weeks when he'd considered taking a more active role in the case,
precisely
because of his relationship with the priest. But each time, he'd talked himself out of it, claiming he didn’t want his personal feelings for Father McCormick to skew his objectivity.

John didn’t need to look up to feel Patty's eyes on him. She had not been happy after his return to patrolling and would be thrilled to see him giving his full attention to investigating this—or any—case. Even in a suburb as quiet as Arden Station, he knew she worried, convinced that he was more safe in a suit and tie than a police issued uniform. He hadn't realized just how difficult this was for her until two months after he was back on the streets.

“Do you have a death wish?” she shrieked at him the day his foot was run over by the driver of a car he pulled over for speeding. He couldn’t blame her reaction. She had gotten a call from someone at the station. There was an accident, they told her. John was hurt; she needed to get to the hospital immediately. Of course she assumed the worst.

John considered his wife's words from that day and wondered on more than a few occasions:
Did
he have a death wish? It was a ridiculous question. How could he have a death wish when he loved life too much?
His life.
Maybe that was part of the problem. Life had been
too
good. T
oo
easy.
Too
perfect. Money, health, family, respect. He had it all. And what had he done to deserve it? Not a Goddamn thing as far as he was concerned. He was convinced it was fate. All of it. “I'm Teflon,” he told Patty that day while being pumped with pain medication. “Nothing bad sticks to me.”

But if it was all fate, where did that leave God?

When Jay died, John tried to drown his sorrows in booze, but each time he drank more than six beers, he got physically sick. And forget the hard stuff; for some crazy reason, his two hundred-twenty pound body couldn’t stomach more than a couple of shots. So much for becoming an alcoholic like his brother Tony. There is was again. Teflon.

But there was more. John returned to work to find Ron Sr., his partner of twenty years—more like a brother to him than his
real
brothers—unraveling. Ron couldn’t remember where his office was; sometimes he didn’t know why he was there or what he was supposed to do. Ron would show up at the station wearing two different shoes—sometimes
no
shoes—always with that pathetic look on his face, like a lost little boy. Needless to say Ron didn’t have much choice but to take an early retirement, leave with at least
some
of his dignity intact.

Two for two,
John thought.
If there was a God, why was he taking those dearest to him? Was this some kind of divine punishment for an easy, yet undeserved, life?

What John should have done is quit his job altogether. Leaving the force would have been equivalent to taking a knife and cutting off his own right arm. The perfect self-punishment. But then what? He'd be home driving Patty crazy. This was about hurting
himself
, not his wife. Well then, if he wasn’t going to quit, he might as well make himself useful, provide a service. That’s when it occurred to him:
Patrolling with rookies.
Some things they didn’t teach you at the academy, like trusting your gut. Maybe, John thought, if he gave back enough, he might earn absolution from his sins. Maybe—just supposing there was a God—he wouldn’t burn in hell.

“Honey?”

John jumped.

Patty cleared her throat, a bit startled herself. “I was just saying to Father McCormick that you had a few questions about the case.”

Before John could respond, Father McCormick piped up. “I'd be happy to answer them,” he said, “anything to help clear Peter.”

John sighed. How could he break it to the priest that despite an occasional lapse in sound judgment, he too saw a guilty man?

“Honey?”

“Right,” John said, relenting only for Patty's sake. “I was curious, Father, if you had given any thought as to Peter's motivation for lying.”

The priest sat up. “Lying?”

“Lying about having family upstate,” John said.

“Oh that. Of course,” Father McCormick said, relaxing. “Peter simply wanted me to think he had family close by so I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“Worry about him?”

“Yes. As you know, I'm scheduled to move out of the rectory in a few months. I'm sure Peter concocted the story about moving in with family so I wouldn’t concern myself with his well being.”

“Then you don’t believe Peter has something to
hide
?” John asked the question in a tone that suggested this was the more likely explanation.

Father McCormick leaned back in his chair. “Maybe the more relevant question in this case is:
Do I think Peter has had a difficult past
?” He paused, either to give John some time to ponder his question or to ponder it himself. “Well, if that’s the question,” he continued, “my answer is,
yes
, without a doubt, I do.”

The teakettle whistled from the kitchen and Patty excused herself. Father McCormick leaned over and patted Samson who had been dozing contentedly on the floor, her belly full from the big bowl of chicken and rice Patty had laid out earlier. The dog looked up, gave a little yawn and gently put her head back down between her front paws.

“When I met Peter fifteen years ago,” Father McCormick began, “he was living on the streets of Philadelphia.” The priest straightened up in his chair before continuing. “Back then, he was consuming something like two quarts of vodka a day, sleeping in alleys. It was only by the grace of God that he was still alive. Now I
can’t
tell you what his childhood was like since Peter never spoke of it, but my guess is that it was far from ideal, something he may not have been so eager to share. So I ask you: is distancing oneself from a troubled past
hiding
?” Father McCormick steepled his fingers and sighed. “I’ve been a priest for a very long time, John, and I’ve learned that leaving a part of ourselves behind is sometimes all a person can do to move forward. But do I think Peter is a criminal?” He shook his head slowly. “No, without question I
do not
.”

John understood the point Father McCormick was trying to make. To be unwittingly linked to something by chance, rather than choice was never easy. At it’s best, it was challenging, at it’s worst, paralyzing. He thought of his own family's expectations. Simple but firm: Collins boys grew into Collins men who then became Collins cops. In his family, a career in law enforcement was not just a tradition—it was an
obligation.

Throughout his twenties, John met this obligation head on. He and his three brothers patrolled South Philly like their own little fiefdom, respected by neighborhood men and practically worshipped by old Italian ladies in house dresses who fed them cheese cannoli and biscotti. Fortunately for John, he genuinely liked his vocation—didn’t mind the perks that went with it either. What he detested was being lumped together with his brothers, losing any semblance of a personal identity.

Collins Cop
.

That's what some of them actually called him! The neighborhood boys who spent their afternoons playing stickball in the alleys that snaked between lines of identical row homes…