The Mourning Sexton (7 page)

Part Two

“Take care, your grace, those things
over there are not giants but windmills.”

Sancho Panza to Don Quixote

CHAPTER 9

“D
oovid?”

The hoarse whisper registered somewhere along the edge of his consciousness.

“Doovid.”

Louder this time.

Hirsch looked up from his prayer book. Mr. Kantor stood before him, eyebrows raised. He was holding out the
pushke
. Hirsch fumbled for his wallet, removed a pair of dollar bills, and stuffed them into the silver box. Mr. Kantor nodded and moved down the aisle.

Hirsch tried to focus on the service, but his thoughts kept returning to yesterday's meeting. Granger refused to elevate his cause-of-death scenario above hypothesis. Nor would any competent pathologist, he assured Hirsch. Without an autopsy, no one could be certain that Judith Shifrin had been murdered. The existing evidence was strongly suggestive but incomplete. The only potentially conclusive evidence would have been a fractured hyoid. Manual strangulation occasionally fractured the hyoid, which was a small bone in the neck area near the base of the tongue. Even a pathologist as second-rate as Sam Avery would have checked the hyoid, Granger said. Moreover, Judith's X-rays indicated no such fracture.

In many cases, Granger explained, exhumation of the body, even years later, could provide the necessary confirming (or refuting) evidence. But not here. As the copy of the death notice in Judith Shifrin's file confirmed, a Jewish mortuary prepared her body for interment, Rabbi Zev Saltzman of Anshe Emes officiated at the funeral, and she was buried (next to her mother) in an Orthodox cemetery. Observant Jews do not embalm their dead, believing that the soul's return to God is dependent upon the body's swift return to the earth.

For dust you are and to dust you shall return.

Three years after her burial, Judith Shifrin's corpse would have no remaining relevant soft tissues to examine.

So now what?

The day after Jack Bellows's press conference, Hirsch had shifted his focus to the Ford Motor Company. If Jack the Ripper wanted to throw down the gauntlet, he was prepared to pick it up and smash him in the face with it. He'd assigned one of Rosenbloom's brightest paralegals to research accidents involving Ford Explorers. She'd already found him an Explorer accident database at a Web site maintained by a national organization of plaintiffs personal injury lawyers specializing in SUV crash cases. Each day, he'd called another two or three of the lawyers listed on the site who'd handled accident cases against Ford. Although he didn't have much yet, he'd come across a few promising leads, or what had seemed to be promising leads before yesterday's meeting with Henry Granger.

Strangled her?

Was it even conceivable?

He tried to visualize Brendan McCormick—six foot four, at least two hundred sixty pounds these days—choking little Judith Shifrin.

Strangulation was a crime of passion.

Obviously.

No one committed a premeditated murder by strangulation.

What could have set off that type of rage in McCormick? An affair gone bad? Announcement that she was pregnant? He tried to imagine a scenario that would end in her death.

Nothing.

He thought back to the rumors he'd heard during their assistant U.S. attorney days together. Vague rumors about McCormick's sexual antics at Mizzou. About rough stuff with football groupies—some involving McCormick alone, others involving several players at once. Rumors about one such incident that ended with the young woman in intensive care.

Just rumors, though. McCormick was never charged. None of them were. Which didn't prove a thing, of course. Back then, athletic departments of the major football schools tended to view sexual assaults as a cost of running a successful program. Boys would be boys, and when something got out of hand, there were influential alumni standing by to help keep things quiet.

Just rumors.

Then again, he'd once witnessed McCormick's rage up close. Almost twenty-five years ago. Several of the assistant U.S. attorneys had gone over to Broadway Oyster Bar for drinks after work. There'd been a blues band playing that night, and the place was jammed. Bodies jostling against one another, a haze of cigarette smoke in the air, waitresses squeezing through the crowd with drink trays held aloft, the blues harp wailing and the electric bass thumping. He'd been standing directly behind McCormick when it happened. A skinny guy with long hair and a scraggly mustache was working his way through the crowd toward the men's room. A mug of beer in his hand, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Someone bumped him from behind. He staggered against McCormick, beer slopping over the edge of his mug, cigarette burning a hole in his shirt. McCormick stepped back, shirt wet, clearly pissed off. He shouted something at the skinny guy, who said something back—Hirsch couldn't hear over the din. McCormick suddenly punched the guy in the stomach. As he doubled over in pain, McCormick grabbed him by his hair, jammed his head under his left arm, and started pounding him with uppercuts. By the time several of them pulled him away, the guy was unconscious and bleeding from his nose and mouth and ears. McCormick would have killed him if they hadn't intervened.

“Page one sixty-nine,” Mr. Kantor called out. “The psalm of the day.”

Hirsch looked down at his
siddur
and turned to the correct page. He silently read the English translation:

O God of vengeance, Hashem. O God of vengeance appear! Arise, O Judge of the earth, render recompense to the haughty. How long shall the wicked, O Hashem, how long shall the wicked exult? Your nation, Hashem, they crush and they afflict. Your heritage. The widow and the stranger they slay, and the orphans they murder. And they say, “God will not see and God will not understand.”

The words blurred.

He lifted his head. The men on either side of him continued chanting. He stared at the ark, his thoughts roiling.

What in God's name had happened that night?

Rosenbloom glared at him from behind his desk, his hands gripping the handles of his wheelchair. “Are you fucking insane?”

Hirsch shrugged. “I don't know what else I can do.”

“I'll tell you what else you can do, you crazy bastard. You can settle that goddamn case right now and walk the fuck away.”

Hirsch shook his head.

“What?” Rosenbloom demanded.

“I can't do that. Not after what I've learned.”

“After what you've learned? What exactly do you think you've learned? You got some guesswork from a retired Quincy. What's he call it? A working hypothesis. Guess what? His goddamn working hypothesis has already been refuted by the actual goddamn medical examiner who examined her body on the night of the goddamn accident. You don't have any
hard
evidence to contradict those findings. You got no autopsy. You got no body. All you got is
bupkes,
my friend.
Bupkes.
”

“That's because I haven't started looking yet.”

Rosenbloom rolled his eyes heavenward. “Oh, my God, Samson, listen to yourself. You're actually thinking about trying to build a three-year-old murder case against a federal district judge? And from scratch? Talk about insane. No, it's worse than insane. It's suicidal.”

“If Dr. Granger is right, this really is a wrongful death case. I can't just walk away from that.”

“Of course you can. This is a free country, pal. Start walking.”

“It's not the right thing to do.”

“What's right have to do with it? It's the smart thing to do.”

“You sound like a lawyer.”

“Because I am one. And so are you. We're talking about a lawsuit here, not an Elizabethan revenge play. This ain't Hamlet,
boychik,
and you ain't Prince Hal.”

Rosenbloom paused and sighed.

“Come on, Samson. Get real. You'll never prove he killed her. Never. And even if you could, which you can't, so what? That's not going to bring her back to life. She's dead, and no matter what you do she's going to stay dead. Forever.”

Rosenbloom shook his head.

“Listen to me, Samson. The old man wants to preserve her memory, right? You can do that, and you can do it now, before he loses the rest of his own goddamn memory. Squeeze a nice settlement out of that fat piece of shit, pocket our fee, and tell the old man to use the money to build her a memorial.”

The receptionist buzzed on the speakerphone.

“What is it?”

“I have a call for Mr. Hirsch on line four.”

Rosenbloom said, “Take a message, Lois. Tell them he's in a meeting.”

“It's a judge, sir.”

“Which one?”

“Judge McCormick.”

Hirsch and Rosenbloom stared at one another across the desk. After a moment, Rosenbloom pressed the intercom button. “He'll take it in here.”

Rosenbloom looked at Hirsch and nodded toward the phone.

Hirsch leaned over the desk, lifted the receiver, and depressed the blinking light. “Hello?”

“Mr. Hirsch?”

“Yes.”

“Hold for Judge McCormick.”

A short pause.

“David?”

“Yes.”

“Bet you thought I'd forgotten all about your lawsuit.”

“I assumed you were busy.”

“You can say that again.” A grim chuckle. “I've been on a killer pace, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you and poor Judith. How's the case going?”

Hirsch held Rosenbloom's gaze. “It's still early.”

“I caught Jack Bellows's circus act on the tube last week. Off the record, David, he was way out of line. He ever tries a stunt like that in one of my cases, I'll wring his neck. Anyway, I'm calling because I should finally have a break in my schedule the week after this one. How 'bout we get together that Friday afternoon and talk about your case?”

Hirsch took out his pocket calendar and checked the date. “Okay.”

“Say about two?”

“That works.”

“I'll see you then.”

CHAPTER 10

H
irsch didn't need a psychic to figure out the cause of the professor's attitude. When he'd phoned her that morning, she'd been pleasant enough until he told her his name, at which point her voice turned cold. He had soldiered on, explaining that he had filed a wrongful death claim on behalf of Judith Shifrin and needed to talk to her about the case. She'd been reluctant to meet but finally agreed, telling him that she had office hours that afternoon between two and four. He told her those times didn't work, pretending to have a conflicting appointment, not wanting to explain the real reason. He'd suggested they could meet somewhere on her way home. Anywhere. Perhaps for a cup of coffee. He told her it was important. He promised it wouldn't take long. Eventually, she relented. Kaldi's at five, she told him. He told her thanks. She hung up.

He arrived there ten minutes early, wanting to be sure they would have a table with some privacy. He ordered a cup of coffee and carried the steaming mug over to the table. He took a chair facing the door. The coffeehouse was half empty, its late-afternoon patrons consisting mostly of college students hunched over textbooks, one per table.

After the telephone conversation that morning, he'd gone to the law school's Web site to look up Professor Adelaide Lorenz—partly so he'd recognize her when she came through the door, partly to find out who she was, and partly to figure out why her name sounded familiar. She'd certainly reacted to him as if they had a history, and not a pleasant one at that. Maybe she'd been in private practice before going into academia. If so, perhaps they'd had a professional confrontation years ago, maybe a skirmish in some lawsuit. She'd hardly be the only adversary he'd pissed off back then. Then again, the chill in her voice might not be tied to a particular lawsuit. It could be general disdain for the conduct that put him in jail. She'd hardly be the only member of the profession to shun him.

Or perhaps her frostiness was truly personal. That was his real fear. He didn't remember any conquest named Adelaide Lorenz, but the names and faces blurred together. During those final years, coked up or boozed up, he'd been the king of the one-night stands, a serial seducer of dozens and dozens of young women. Paralegal, junior associates, secretaries. Quickies on his office couch at night, stand-ups in bathroom stalls at bars, trysts in their little studio apartments as he pretended to admire their taste in art or books or music while maneuvering them toward the fold-out couch. Pumped 'em and dumped 'em—that was his modus operandi. If there was a Hell, that part of his life guaranteed him a miserable spot several levels down.

But the photograph on the Web site hadn't rung a bell. He would have thought that he'd remember someone that attractive.

Her biography didn't ring any bells either. Professor Adelaide Lorenz had earned her bachelor of arts magna cum laude from Wellesley College and her juris doctor with honors from Stanford University, where she'd been an editor of the law review. She'd clerked for a federal circuit court judge for two years and then gone into private practice, mainly representing plaintiffs in employment discrimination cases. She'd joined the law school faculty of Washington University in St. Louis seven years ago.

He'd run a search on her in Nexis, which turned up three articles from the
Post-Dispatch,
all on a nasty custody battle with her ex-husband. She'd married a Stanford classmate the summer after graduation. They divorced eight years ago, back when she was still in private practice. During the dissolution proceedings, her ex-husband—ironically, a divorce lawyer himself—launched a nasty custody battle over their son, Benjamin, who was six at the time. She didn't back down, and eventually prevailed.

The search also picked up a feature article on the Family Justice Legal Clinic that she ran as part of the law school's clinical program. Dozens of law student volunteers, mostly women, staffed her clinic, which provided legal services to the victims of domestic violence and child abuse. The article gave her age as thirty-nine. That was two years ago. According to the article, everyone at the clinic—students, staff, and clients—called her Dulcie.

That's what Judith had called her as well. The Hanukkah card she'd sent to Judith a week before her death was signed, “Love, Dulcie.”

He was sipping his coffee when she stepped inside the coffeehouse a few minutes after five. He stood and offered a friendly smile. She nodded in acknowledgment, glanced at his coffee mug on the table, and stepped toward the counter, her manner clearly telling him not to even bother offering to pay.

He studied her as she placed her order. She was dressed in black—
Vogue
magazine black. Black leather jacket, black turtleneck sweater, black wool skirt hemmed above the knees, black tights, and black leather boots. The color seemed to highlight her striking Mediterranean features—strong nose, curly dark hair down to her shoulders, high cheekbones, olive skin. He definitely hadn't slept with Adelaide Lorenz. Even in the fog of alcohol and cocaine that swirled around those quickies, he would have a remembered a woman that striking.

She paused at the sideboard to pour milk in her coffee and then came over to the table. They shook hands. She had a firm grip.

“Professor, I'm David Hirsch. Thank you for meeting me here.”

She placed her mug on the table. “You can call me Dulcie, Mr. Hirsch.”

Her tone was cool, professional.

“And you can call me David.”

As she hung her jacket on a hook on the wall, he noticed the swell of her breasts beneath the turtleneck, the elegant sweep of her neck. She had the aura of an athlete, of someone who worked out regularly. She also had the aura of determination, of someone who'd be a formidable adversary in the courtroom or the boardroom.

She took the seat opposite him. Lifting the mug with both hands, she studied him over the rim as she sipped her coffee. Her eyes, dark and enormous, seemed to blaze with intensity.

She said, “You have some questions for me about Judith Shifrin?”

“I do”

“I have some questions for you first.”

“Fire away.”

“Did you know Judith?”

“No.”

In the background came the sudden gurgle and hiss of the espresso machine.

“How did you get the case?”

“Her father approached me.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you a friend of her father?”

“Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“We belong to the same synagogue. He approached me after services one morning last December. He wanted to hire me to file a lawsuit on his daughter's behalf. All I agreed to do was look at the file. Unfortunately, I discovered that the statute of limitations was about to expire.” He gave a shrug. “I filed the lawsuit.”

“But you don't believe in it.”

“I didn't back then.”

“But now?”

He gazed at her. “I do.”

She took a sip of coffee. “What's my connection?”

“You were close to her.”

“What makes you say that?”

He described the results of his search yesterday afternoon. After Judith's death, her personal belongings had been boxed and stored in Abe Shifrin's basement. In one of those boxes he'd found a shoebox filled with birthday and holiday cards that Judith had received over the years going all the way back to high school.

“I went through the cards one by one,” he said. “During the last three years of her life, she received a few cards from some out-of-town friends, but the only people in St. Louis who sent her cards were you and her aunt Hannah. I matched the names on the cards with the birthday reminders on her personal calendars for the last several years of her life. The only two St. Louis birthdays on there all three years were yours and her aunt Hannah's. She had Judge McCormick's birthday on her calendar two years before she died, but not the last year.”

“No one else?”

There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

Hirsch said, “There are others if you go back farther. She listed someone named Reggie Jordan for several years. Saved his birthday cards, too. Judging by what he wrote on them, I'd guess he was a boyfriend.”

“He was.”

“There was nothing from him for the last three years of her life. I assume they broke up.”

“They did.”

“During law school?”

She nodded. “They met in college. He was a year older. After graduation, he got a job as a stockbroker. They broke up toward the end of her first year of law school.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not really. I met him once or twice on campus, but I didn't know Judith that well at the time. It wasn't until the spring of her second year that she started volunteering at the clinic. Reggie was history by then.”

“Does he still live in St. Louis?”

“I have no idea.”

He glanced at his notes. “Do you know Judith's father?”

“Never met him. Never want to.”

He let that one sink in. He'd heard the spike of anger in her voice. She must have as well, because she was staring at her coffee mug.

He asked, “Did she talk to you about her father?”

She studied him as she sipped her coffee. “What does that matter?”

“Her mother is dead. She had no siblings. That means her father is her closest surviving relative.”

“So?”

“So their relationship is relevant for damages.”

She pursed her lips. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay.”

Hirsch picked his words carefully. “I've spoken with her father about their relationship. I got the sense that it was somewhat troubled. He refused to go into any details. I'm not sure that he could even if he wanted to. He's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Although the disease is in an early stage, his memory is already erratic. What little he told me, though, is consistent with what I found—or didn't find. There were no birthday or Hanukkah cards from him. His birthday wasn't on any of her calendars. It was as if he didn't exist for her.”

“Oh, he existed for her”—her nostrils flared—“that was the problem. Her father was a narcissistic bastard.”

She shook her head in disgust. “What do you know about her mother?”

“I know that she died when Judith was in high school.”

“Her mother was an invalid. She was bedridden from the time Judith was in fifth grade and died when Judith was in high school. By then, Judith was cooking her father's meals, washing and ironing his clothes, darning his socks, cleaning his house, and listening to him whine every night and every morning about what a hard life he had.”

She paused and shook her head sadly. “That was her junior year of high school. Think about what you were doing your junior year, and then think about Judith. He wouldn't let her go away to college, of course. Wouldn't hear of it. She attended Washington U, but she lived at home. While her college friends were partying or hanging out at coffeehouses or gathering in dorm rooms to talk into the wee hours about life, she was stuck at home cooking his meals and washing his clothes and cleaning up after him. He kept her trapped at home.” She paused and then smiled. “Until the great escape. It happened after her sophomore year of college.”

“That's when she met Jordan?”

“Yes. Reggie was everything her father wasn't. He was tall and sweet and bighearted and African American. Two weeks before the start of her junior year she moved out of her father's house and into Reggie's apartment.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right. Her father went berserk. Literally cut her out of his life—emotionally, financially, every way. He refused to see her or have anything to do with her. Total rejection.”

“Did they ever reconcile?”

“Never.” She sighed. “It so pained Judith. She used to talk to me about it. That's how I know all this. The poor thing was confused. One day she'd feel sorry for him, and the next day she'd hate him. She'd have these terrible waves of guilt and depression. She worked up the nerve to reach out to him when she was in law school, but he totally rebuffed her. She didn't give up, though. The last time she tried—” Dulcie paused, her eyes suddenly watering.

She took a deep breath and seemed to will herself back from tears. “That last time was about a week before she died. It was the first night of Hanukkah. She made a plate of potato
latkes
and homemade applesauce and took them over to his house. She rang the doorbell. He opened the door, stared at her, and then closed it in her face.
In her face
.”

The memory clearly infuriated Dulcie.

“She called me that night sobbing. She was devastated. Absolutely devastated.” Dulcie stared at him. “Some father, eh?”

He said nothing, letting the story sink in.

After a moment, she gestured at his empty coffee mug. “You want a refill?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

The story of Judith and her father made him sad. He thought of the terrible remorse that must have haunted Abe Shifrin. He was well acquainted with that emotion. As he thought of that final confrontation between father and daughter, he could almost hear the sound of that front door closing. He thought of that sound reverberating in Abe Shifrin's mind. Echoing through the years. Echoing as he stood over her open grave as the dirt from his shovel clattered down onto her coffin. Echoing in the flare of the match as he lit that first
yahrzeit
candle in his empty home. Echoing in the clatter of bare tree branches in the winter winds as he lay awake in bed. There was an echo to hound you to your grave—or at least until the Alzheimer's finally silenced it.