Murder At The Mikvah (35 page)

 Forty-seven

Ron returned to the office several minutes later, flecks of snow in his hair. Visibly exhausted, he didn’t bother removing his damp coat. Instead, he collapsed in his chair, leaned back, covered his eyes and let out a little groan.

“I hope you don’t mind that I helped myself to a bottle of water.” Lewis said, breaking the ensuing silence.

Ron waved him off. “Whatever,” he said, putting his head down on the desk.

“Headache?” Lewis asked.

Ron closed his eyes. “Yeah, well, I don't have to tell you… that’s the least of my problems.”

“Stage six, I assume,” Lewis said.

Ron's eyes popped open. He sat up, a questioning look on his face.

“Your father. His Alzheimer’s. It presents like stage six,” Lewis said.

Ron's face visibly relaxed, as if he just remembered that psychiatrists were medical doctors first. He took his time rolling up each shirtsleeve, avoiding Lewis's eyes. “Yeah. That’s right. Stage six.”

“It’s very difficult to see a loved one change so dramatically,” Lewis said.

Ron leaned back in his chair and cast his gaze toward the window. The snow was slowing down. “Change? It's more like
deteriorate
! Half the time he doesn’t know who he is… doesn’t know who
I
am.”

A fly buzzed by in a panic, looking for a way out.

“Who’d have thought a whisky drinking, chain smoking bull of a man could turn into…”

“Chain smoking?” Lewis interrupted. “After his remark to Violet I wouldn’t have thought he was a smoker.”

Ron laughed, rolling forward in his chair. “Oh, he was a chain smoker all right—at one point smoking two packs a day—tried to quit a million times, but never could. Mom couldn’t stand it; she made him smoke in the garage, threatened to leave him if he didn’t quit. I think that was part of the reason he worked such long hours—at least he could smoke in his office without her barking down his throat.” He shook his head. “Isn't it crazy how things turn out? For years Mom was worried about him getting lung cancer—and what does he end up with instead?
Old Timers!
” Ron gave an exaggerated shrug. “Sorry, that's slang for Alzheimer’s. You know what they say, if you can't laugh…” He sighed loudly. “Well, anyway, at least he finally quit smoking, right?”

Lewis nodded sympathetically. “How did he manage to do it?”

“Quit? Oh, it was easy. One day, about three years ago he forgot he was a smoker and just quit cold turkey.”

Lewis smiled. “It reminds me of a colleague of mine who worked with a patient with multiple personalities,” he said. “Two of the personalities smoked, the third was a health nut—exercised every day and was repulsed by the mere thought of lighting up. Shows the power of the subconscious mind, doesn’t it?”

“To hell with the subconscious,” Ron said, puckering his lips and blowing air toward the ceiling, “I’d take my chain smoking dad back in a heartbeat. Even if he got lung cancer or emphysema, at least he would remember who the hell he was!” Ron rested his elbows on the desk and sighed. “The way he is now… well, I'm sorry to say it, but he can be a real pain in the ass—even when he's lucid! Don't ask me how Violet does it. The crap that woman puts up with…”

“Violet is his full time nurse?”

“Uh huh.”

“Does your father still live at home?”

Ron nodded. “Mom took care of him up until six months ago when she died.
Stroke
.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Caring for him really took a lot out of her,” Ron continued. “In hindsight, I probably should have… maybe if I had… well, it’s too late for
shoulda coulda woulda's
now, isn’t it?”

“Does your father know about her death?” Lewis asked gently.

Ron shook his head and sighed. “His doctor thought it might be better this way.” He rolled back in his chair and reached down into his fridge. “Vitamin water?”

Lewis held up his half full water bottle. “I’m good.”

“The doctor also thought it would be best if I moved back home—you know, to help.”

They sat in silence, watching the fly whack itself repeatedly against the window, buzzing in frustration.

“So much for trial and error, huh Doc?” Ron said, gesturing toward the window with his chin. “Don't know why the little bugger wants out so bad anyway, not with the snow coming down like it is.”

Lewis wouldn’t let the detective change the subject. Everyone could use a bit of talk therapy now and then.

“How long has your father had the disease?”

Ron thought for a moment. “It’s hard to say when it began. I can tell you when I started
noticing,
though. It was about seven years ago—Dad was only sixty.”

Lewis was surprised at the disclosure of Ron Sr.'s age. He appeared to be at least a decade older.

“And what were the initial signs?”

“Well, for one thing, he started slipping mentally… couldn’t remember names, cases. It wasn’t a big deal at first. His partner and I were able to watch his back for some time but then it got so bad, he had to go.”

“And you've run things in this department since then?”

“Not at first, but then when John—Dad's partner—left, I just naturally took over. That surprises a lot of people. They think because I'm younger, I don't have as much experience… But to those skeptics I say this: Arden Station isn't exactly a huge metropolis, is it? Besides, I grew up with a father whose idea of small talk was
postmortem dental identification.
” He laughed. “You can imagine what our dinner conversations were like. Mom said all the talk about dead bodies is what kept her a size six!”

Lewis suddenly remembered his own self-absorption at the dinner table, talking about the latest research, the newest meds. He'd give Elise five minutes to talk about her day before the floor was his and he'd be off, talking human behavior for the remainder of the meal. At the time he didn’t think there was anything so terrible about it; after all, he was educating his daughter, giving her a leg up on information she would need in medical school!

“Besides,” Ron continued, “I worked six years under Collins and my dad. On the job training doesn’t get much better than that.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question about this office?” Lewis asked, gesturing with his hands.

Ron gazed at the window where the fly had all but given up, standing quietly on the thin ledge. “I asked them to leave it this way,” he said. “On Dad's good days, I like to bring him here. See, this office was Dad's second home. At first, I thought maybe it would help him… maybe even cure the Alzheimer’s.” Ron laughed. “It's obvious I was pretty darn naïve about the disease back then! In any event, visiting this old place
has to be
a comfort to him.” Ron shrugged. “Or maybe I just like believing that it is—I don’t know. But, bottom line is he was a great dad and I owe him at least this much. Besides, it won't be much longer. He's moving soon. After that, the office will get a complete overhaul.”

“Moving?”

“There's a facility in Florida—not far from Miami. Mom found it a year before she… Anyway, he was on the waiting list. Well, wouldn’t you know, his name came up and I got the call last month, a couple days before this Peter Stem case took over my life…” He sighed. “They only give you ninety days to move in or you forfeit your slot…”

Lewis understood the situation. “Do you have any siblings, or other family members who can help?”

Ron shook his head. “Nope. The only family is my father's brother, but trust me, he has his own problems. Besides, it's not an issue now that John's working the case with me. It'll be over soon and I'll be able to get Dad squared away in no time.”

Lewis was struck by how much the detective had gone through in the past several years. He had seen plenty of people crack under milder circumstances. It was a wonder the man was able to get out of bed in the morning. “Why don't you
go with him?” Lewis asked.

Ron looked at Lewis like he was crazy. “I
am
. I'm the one moving him into his new home… I just told you.”

“No; what I meant was, why not
stay
once you’re there?”

“Stay?” Ron repeated. “What's the point?”

“The point is simply to
be
with him,” Lewis said. “I'm sure I don't have to tell you the life expectancy of Alzheimer’s patients, especially at stage six… It's not very long. In the meantime, your dad still has his lucid moments, why not take advantage of them before it's too late?”

“Just like that,” Ron said, snapping his fingers, “just like that I should move permanently to Florida?”

Lewis sighed. “Look, I'm not telling you what to do. And I don't have to tell you what it's like to lose someone unexpectedly since you've been through that recently, but what I will tell you is that I've counseled many people in my career—individuals who knew they were going to die—and it's true what they say: in the end, very few things matter. The physical things are meaningless, as are our worldly accomplishments, how much money we've made, how many hours we've clocked at work…” Lewis lowered his voice. “What's important are our relationships, being surrounded by loved ones, spending time with those we hold dear.”

 Forty-eight

It took the custodial staff nearly an hour to transform the conference room to meet Lewis's specifications. He wanted a more comfortable environment, he had explained to Ron, one more conducive to relaxation than the stark interrogation room where he first met with Peter. So, as directed, the Formica table and five of the six chairs were removed from the room, as were all wall hangings, holiday decorations, township maps and whiteboards. In addition to a single armchair—which Lewis would be using—a long side table was spared. It was needed to set up the camera and sound equipment for taping. A tan upholstered couch was brought in, along with a couple of throw pillows, blankets and a tall floor lamp. Lewis decided it would be best to forgo the harsh fluorescent bulbs and keep the lighting subdued.

The door to the room opened, and Peter entered with a guard close behind. Thanks to Father McCormick’s more frequent visits, Peter was well stocked with clean clothes and toiletries. Today he wore tan khaki pants and a long sleeved black polo shirt, and appeared to be better groomed than the heavy set guard in his faded brown uniform. Had it not been for the fact that Peter was incarcerated, or his inability to communicate coupled with the glazed, far off look in his eyes, one would hardly suspect the man was troubled.

“Hello, Peter,” Lewis began, “I’m Dr. Danzig. We met a few days ago… Do you remember?”

Peter didn’t respond, but did appear to be processing the doctor’s words on some level. He allowed Lewis to take his arm and lead him slowly to the couch. “Peter, if it's all right, I’d like to remove your shoes and have you lay down. There are pillows and blankets… try to make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

After Peter was settled, Lewis pulled his chair up close to the couch. He did a final review of the list of questions Ron had given him, then signaled for the guard to go.

“Peter,” Lewis began, speaking very slowly and deliberately, “I want to use a technique called hypnosis on you. I’m sure you’ve heard of it in cases where people are trying to quit smoking or lose weight. Father McCormick told me that years ago you had a successful session with a hypnotherapist as part of your AA program to stop drinking. Is that right?”

Peter stared straight ahead, unresponsive, yet with a twinkle of understanding in his eyes.

“You were asked to concentrate on the therapists voice,” Lewis continued. “Do you remember that?”

It could have been Lewis's imagination, but Peter appeared to nod slightly.

“With your permission, Peter, I’d like to get started. You will never lose control. With hypnosis, you will merely be entering a deep state of relaxation…”

Peter closed his eyes and placed his folded hands on his chest, which Lewis took as a non-verbal consent to proceed. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper and began. “Peter I want you to concentrate on your breathing… I want you to breathe deeply. Inhaling deep breaths… with each breath, your lungs are filling. Imagine a balloon inflating… good… and with each exhale, the air is released… the balloon is emptied… good…”

Peter shoulders relaxed. His lips parted slightly as he took steady breaths.

“Now I want you to imagine you are in a forest. A beautiful, soothing forest. There are trees all around you. Tall trees that stretch high into the sky.
Breathe
… Good. It’s a cool day, not too cool… the temperature is perfect. The sun’s rays are shining through the trees. The sun feels warm and comforting against your skin… keep breathing… deep breath in… good.. and out…. good. You are happy in these woods, Peter… There is a lovely smell around you. The smell of fresh clean air, the smell of pine. And there are beautiful sounds… the soothing chirps of birds high in their nests. You are so happy and peaceful here.
Breathe
… good… You are safe here… completely safe… Good… keep breathing deeply… deep breaths in… good… and out…”

Peter’s chest rhythmically rose and fell with each breath. His eye lids fluttered.

“Now I’m going to count to five and you are going to be in state of complete relaxation,” Lewis continued. “Your body and mind will be completely relaxed. I will ask you questions and you will answer them… One… Two… Three… Four… Five…
Good
.”

Lewis looked over at the camera. It had been turned on before Peter was brought to the room. The green light was flashing.
Here we go.

“I'm going to continue calling you
Peter
, is that all right?”

Peter nodded.

“Peter could you tell me how old you are?”

“Thirty-six.” Peter’s speaking voice had a pleasant sound. Not especially deep and manly, but certainly not effeminate. It was the voice of a neighbor, or husband or dad.

“Thirty-six. Good. Peter, could you tell me where you live?”

“I live at St. Agassi. 524 Trinity Lane in Arden Station.”

“Do you live alone?”

“No. I live with Father Herbert McCormick.”

Lewis was tempted to probe in to Peter's true identity, but was concerned that Peter might have developed a strong identification with the assumed name,
Peter Stem.
If so, it would be risky—on a psychological level—to challenge it. It was better to wait and get that information later.

“Peter I want to take you back… back six weeks, to October. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Sunday, October 23rd. It’s 7:00 PM at night. What do you see?”

“I’m eating dinner.”

“What are you eating?”

“Chicken parmesan.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I'm with Father McCormick. We always eat together.”

“Is there anything else happening at this time?”

“We're watching
Wheel of Fortune
. I'm telling Father the spaces and the letters. He just reminded me to buy dog food tomorrow.”

“All right. Good. Very good. Now I want to move ahead twenty-four hours. It’s now Monday, October 24
^th
, 7:00 PM, what do you see?

“We're eating dinner. Pork chops and apple sauce… watching Wheel of Fortune.”

Lewis couldn’t help but smile at the homey image Peter painted. “Good. It’s now 7:30 PM. Where are you? What are you doing?”

“I’m in the kitchen washing dishes and then I have to check all the windows.”

“Why do you have to check the windows?”

“The storm… some of the windows have weak latches. They might blow open.”

“I'd like you to move ahead now Peter. The dishes are finished. You're checking the windows.”

“I'm upstairs at the windows now. I see a car over at the high school… It's one of the old ladies. They come at night before the others.”

“Who are the
others
?”

“The girls.
Women
. They show up every night. They didn’t always, but now they do. Sometimes two of them, sometimes more. It's different every night.”

“Do you watch them often?”

Peter nodded.

“How long have you been watching them?”

“Since the summer when they started coming. I use binoculars.”

Lewis glanced at his notes. “Tell me about the van. What color is it?”

“It's red. There's a dent in the back.”

“Are there any other vehicles?”

“Besides the backhoe? No, not yet. One of the old ladies always comes first, a few minutes before the others—wait, I see one coming now.”

“Another car? What kind is it?”

“A Volvo. I think it's white.”

Elise.

Lewis took a deep breath and fought to keep his objectivity, even as he imagined Peter watching his daughter without her knowledge. He swallowed. “Tell me what you see.”

“She's getting out and walking to the back. She's wearing a long raincoat; her hood's on… I can't see her anymore…”

Elise was inside.
Lewis felt a wave of panic. Presently, he knew his daughter was safe and sound; but there was no denying that hearing a play by play by the alleged perpetrator of a murder was unsettling. Things could have ended very differently.

“Now what do you see, Peter?”

“Nothing. No one else is coming.”

“Okay, let's move ahead fifteen minutes.”

“Here comes someone. It's the lady from the Volvo. She's getting back in her car and pulling out.”

Elise going home.

“It's 8:30 now,” Lewis said. “What do you see?”

“Nothing… But I hear Samson whining. I should go check…Oh; here comes another car.”

“What kind is it?”

“A Lexus… a blond lady is driving… she’s crying… now she’s getting out… carrying a huge bag…Wait!” Peter's voice conveyed his sudden concern. “There's someone else…”

“Who is it Peter? Who do you see?”

“A man.”

“Was he in the car with the woman?”

“No.”

“A different car?”

“No… I don't see another car.”

“Can you tell me what this man looks like?”

“Tall. He's wearing jeans and a ski jacket. It's hard for me to see…” Peter squinted then sat up abruptly. “No! NO!…”

“What’s happening, Peter?”

“He grabbed her!”

“Grabbed who?”

“The lady from the Lexus… She's trying to pull away from him, she's trying to break free… but he pushed her down…He’s hurting her!” Peter was hugging himself now. “I can't watch. I don't want to see…” Suddenly, Peter dropped his arms and tilted his head, as if listening intently to something.

“What is it, Peter?”

“It's Samson! Something's wrong.”

“Where is Father McCormick?”

“Sleeping. I have to check on Samson. I'm going downstairs now… I'm in the kitchen.”

A single tear formed in the corner of Peter's eye and trickled down his face.

“Is Samson okay?”

“No! Her paw is bleeding! There's glass everywhere! It's from the door… Father McCormick is here now. He's saying something but I don't pay attention… I'm busy bandaging up Samson's paw.”

“I'd like to move ahead in time, Peter,” Lewis suggested gently, “You’re now finished bandaging Samson's paw. Where are you? What do you see?”

“I'm getting some supplies from the basement to board up the door.”

“What time is it?”

“10:00.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. Father McCormick went back to bed.”

“What do you do next?”

“Check and make sure she's okay.”

At first, Lewis thought he was talking about Samson. “How will you do that?” he asked.

“Go back to the window and look.”

So it wasn’t Samson at all. Peter was concerned about the woman from the Lexus.

“Did you ever talk to any of the women you watched, Peter?” Lewis asked as an aside.

“No, but I went over once and hid to see them close up.” Peter shook his head remorsefully. “It’s gone. The Lexus isn't there.”

“Are there any other cars in the lot?”

He nodded. “There's a blue van.”

“Do you see anyone?”

“No… they're all gone. Wait… here comes someone.”

“Another car?”

“A black SUV.” Peter suddenly became agitated. “It's him… He's
back
!”

“The same man?”

Peter furrowed his brow. “Uh huh. He's getting out of the car.”

“Do you know this man?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him?”

Peter squinted. “He's middle aged. Maybe forty-five or fifty.”

“How can you tell?”

“The way he walks. He's kind of stiff.
Shuffling
.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

Peter's agitation was obvious. He was now taking short, shallow breaths. “He’s wearing a long coat and a hat with strings. Boots.”

“Can you see his face?”

Peter ignored the question. “He's looking for a way in! He’s going around. He's going inside the gate! Oh no!… He did it! He went inside!” Peter was squirming now. He pulled his legs in and hugged his knees toward his chest. “He's going to hurt them… I know who he is!… I know what he's going to do! He's going to hurt them!”

Lewis was somewhat confused. Peter had just stated that he
didn’t
know who the man was.

“Are you saying you
recognize
this man, Peter?”

Peter clenched his fists. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he nodded. “Uh huh. It’s her old boyfriend!”

Lewis sat up. “
Whose
old boyfriend?”