Murder At The Mikvah (16 page)

One thing she was absolutely certain of—she didn’t have much time. She had to prove herself before it was too late. Before Hannah woke up and made sure she never saw any of them again.

 Twenty

Tova slid the last tray of almond
mandelbrot
out of the oven, removed her oven mitts, and took a seat at the kitchen table. The chicken and kugel were ready, and the challah had been braided and baked earlier in the week. There wasn't much else to do except maybe make a salad, and since Shabbat dinner would just be the two of them, she wasn’t concerned with tidying up. She knew Saul would have liked having guests tonight—he said it might lift her spirits—but the truth was, ever since Estelle's funeral, the
last
thing Tova felt much like doing was socializing.

She grabbed a pair of scissors and opened the box that had been delivered earlier from the printer. They were the new brochures ordered last month—she had nearly forgotten. Well, socializing could be put on hold, but work certainly couldn’t. She pulled on her reading glasses to get a closer look. On the glossy front page was a photo of a peach tree next to a beautiful pond. Tiny flecks of light shining on the water gave the appearance of daybreak. A white life ring with rounded lettering
J.W.- S.O.S.
bobbed lazily in the water. Inside, along the entire top of the tri-fold,
Jewish Women-Supporting our Sisters
was printed in bold lettering.
One out of every ten Jewish women is, or has been a victim of domestic abuse. Most never come forward, and spend years suffering silently
…”

Tova’s thoughts turned to one woman in particular. It had taken several months of bi-weekly calls, but the woman had finally started opening up about her husband. Verbal put-downs, threats, withholding of money. Initially she had felt embarrassed about calling and Tova had to convince her that even without physical scars, this was in fact abuse. Hopefully it would never
turn
physical, but Tova knew better. These things almost always escalated. It was just a matter of time. In the meantime, she advised the woman to document
everything
. This information would be vital if and when she finally decided to leave.

Tova always found it difficult to understand the young woman—and was constantly asking her to repeat herself—but during the last call, nearly two weeks ago, she had found it virtually impossible. The woman could barely speak, she was hyperventilating so much. Her husband had threatened to kill her, she said, admitting that it wasn’t the first time. Tova told her to get out immediately,
insisted
that she get out immediately. In fact, Tova was suddenly so concerned for this woman's safety, she did something her training advised her never to do—she gave the woman her full name and home address. “You always have a place to stay… come right now… come any time,” Tova told her, right before the line went dead. If only Tova knew who she was, where to find her. But these women always punched in a certain two-digit code before calling, a fail proof method of concealing their identities.

After that call, Tova had waited up nearly all night, finally falling asleep on the couch after 4 AM. But the woman never came. And she hadn't called since. Did that mean something had happened? Had her husband actually done it? Had he killed her? Tova's heart sped up.
Has Vashalom.
God forbid.
She remembered the woman once saying that her husband traveled often on business. Maybe he was away and the abuse had stopped, at least for now. If it had, then the woman would have no reason to call. Tova prayed this was the case. She prayed the woman was okay.

Tova sighed and reached for a tissue to wipe her eyes. It had always sickened her to think that there were men out there who would willingly hurt their wives, but she had once been naïve enough to believe it wasn’t a problem within the orthodox community. That is, until it happened to her own child, the eldest of her three daughters.

It started with verbal jabs
: The house wasn’t clean enough, the soup was cold.
Thank God Mira had the sense to get out the first time he smacked her. Who would have guessed that a Torah educated, God fearing man could so easily raise a hand to his wife? It was then that Tova began broaching the subject with other religious women. She was shocked to find that if not directly affected, most knew of
someone
who had been abused by a boyfriend or husband. Investigating a little further, Tova learned that abuse in the Jewish community, including child abuse, was routinely swept under the rug. People were reluctant to speak out for several reasons. Foremost, they wanted to distance themselves from any involvement with such matters. Many feared repercussions within the community itself such as difficulty obtaining a proper
shidduch
or marriage partner for their sons or daughters. Then there was the fact that the abuse was viewed as inherently shameful—a personal or communal failure that would be a stain on Judaism if the larger public were to find out. Lastly, many people were concerned about the Jewish Laws involving
Loshon Hora
, or improper speech. There were strict prohibitions against speaking about any individual in a way that could damage their reputation or impact their livelihood. Strange as it seemed, these people were more concerned with the potential
aveyra
of speaking improperly
than with the safety and well being of others.

Tova believed that abused women would be less reluctant to come forward if they had a safe place to speak anonymously. This was her motivation for starting up a local
S.O.S.
chapter. Along with a small group of volunteers, she posted flyers around the community and took out several ads in local newspapers. The phone started ringing almost immediately. Women called from Jewish communities in Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Delaware. They were orthodox, conservative, reformed, and reconstructionist. Tova was surprised at how many callers were not Jewish; one woman explained that she was afraid to call her church hotline for fear that someone might recognize her voice. There were some that considered themselves atheists, and even a few men. Tova tried to help them all. She was armed with lists of resources: recommendations for safely leaving an abusive relationship, locations of women's shelters, lawyers who were willing to represent abused women and their children
pro bono
. But despite the extensive training she received at the national
S.O.S.
headquarters in Georgia, Tova quickly learned that above all, most callers simply wanted someone to
listen
. Initially the phone lines would be manned from Tova's home. Fortunately, David Tuttle had heard about the project and had generously offered to provide a space for
S.O.S
. in his new Jewish Life Center. The entrance would be in the back, discreetly placed next to the mikvah, so as not to attract attention. The new facility was slated to be ready by early summer.

Was.
That was the definitive word. With the recent attack at the mikvah, Tova doubted that she would ever see that day. Really, no one could blame Mr. Tuttle if he just sold the property and wiped his hands clean of all its problems once and for all. There had been so many stops and starts on the project, she wondered if Mr. Tuttle had ever considered, like her, that it just wasn’t meant to be. Of course this would mean
S.O.S
. would remain homeless until a new opportunity presented itself. But none of that was important. What mattered was that Hannah Orenstein pulled through, and that the man responsible got the punishment he deserved. Tova sighed. That was the
only
bright side to this whole ordeal.
They had the man in custody
! No one else would be hurt—at least not by
that
lunatic! Tova had learned that the attacker had been a homeless alcoholic wandering the streets of Philadelphia. The story went that some years ago, the priest of St. Agassi—Herbert McCormick—had offered him a job at the rectory. That was nearly fifteen years ago and the man had remained with the priest ever since.

Though it was Tova’s nature to feel compassion for any individual facing tough times—especially addiction—given the circumstances of this particular case, it was simply impossible. In fact, it was Tova’s opinion that compassion may have played an unfortunate roll in the crime itself. After all, wasn’t it feelings of empathy that had induced David Tuttle to keep the rectory open during construction? Ha! So much for being a
mensch
!
Tuttle’s intention was to appease church parishioners by accommodating their priest. Instead, it looked as though having a bird’s eye view of St. Agassi's transformation is what fueled a criminal's growing animosity.

Tova grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. Poor, poor Estelle! Surviving the holocaust only to be killed by yet another anti-Semite! The senselessness of it all was just one more thing for Tova to ponder as she lay awake at night. She had known anti-Semitism all her life, was all too familiar with the faces it took. She had seen it as a girl, watching her father, a salesman from Chicago struggle to make ends meet because people wouldn’t do business with a Jew. Tova remembered the way people stared when she and Saul first settled in Arden Station twenty years ago. They were one of the first religious families to move to the area. In all fairness, some people were simply curious—they had never seen an orthodox family up close before—but others had disgust on their faces as they drove by, gawking from car windows at the Katz family walking to
shul
on Saturday morning. Even shopping at the supermarket with her large brood of six children provoked attention, her three young sons traipsing through the aisles in their unusual garb of
kipas
and
tzi tzi’s
. But now, Tova was well over sixty years of age. Her children were grown and she was a Bubbe. How was it that ignorance and intolerance still persisted in the world? What had happened at the mikvah was pure evil as far as she was concerned. As much as she tried, she couldn’t fathom a level of hatred so deep that a man would attack two innocent women.

It could have been me
.

If Esti hadn’t gone into labor that night, I might not be standing here today.

The thoughts haunted Tova. But her relief at being unharmed was coupled with guilt. She was the one who had called Estelle to fill in at the mikvah; and now Estelle was dead.

It could have been me.

She stood up and went in search of her book of psalms; lately the words of
David HaMelech
had been a daily source of comfort.

Maybe her husband was right; maybe she needed to get out of Arden Station, spend some time in Monsey with Esti and the grandkids. Either that or she would have to make an appointment with a professional, find someone to listen to
her
for a change.

 Twenty-one

The heavy door made an unsettling screech as John Collins and Ron Smith stepped out of the morning light and into the dark vestibule of the St. Agassi church rectory. It was still early enough that a light October frost lingered on the boxwoods outside, a reminder that winter was just around the corner. John had not been looking forward to this visit, the first with Father McCormick since his rectory employee, Peter Stem had been officially identified as the man arrested at the mikvah. John had no idea what the priest's condition would be.

Father McCormick greeted them at the door wearing black dress pants and a Penn State sweatshirt. It was then that John remembered that Father McCormick was a Nittany Lion fan.
Odd
. If the priest was getting ready to watch a football game, how troubled could he be about Peter's situation?

“That door's solid cherry from the original carriage house,” Father McCormick said. He chuckled, “been making that same noise since the day I moved in, over thirty-five years ago. Enough to drive a person batty!”

“Well, it does add character to the place,” John said, relieved to hear the priest joking. He took a moment to admire the intricate carvings on the door. Over the years, he had come to learn a thing or two about old homes and character.

“And at least you never have to worry about surprise visitors,” Ron added, wiping his feet on the rubber mat.

“Father, I'd like to introduce you to Detective Ron Smith,” John said.

Ron shook the priest's hand, and then reached into his overcoat. “I have the warrant right here, Father.”

The priest waved him away. “Even if I
could
read it, Detective, it wouldn’t be necessary,” You needn’t have gone to such trouble. I would have allowed you to pick your way through the entire rectory—even my own possessions—to your heart’s content. All you need do was ask.”

“Well, as much as I appreciate that,” Ron said, a hint of superiority in his voice, “in order for anything we discover to be admissible in court, I need one of these.” He waved the paper in the air and tucked it back inside his coat pocket.

Father McCormick shrugged and led the men into the foyer. “You can hang your coats here,” he said, indicating a wrought iron coat rack, bare except for a red windbreaker and checkered derby cap. “Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink? Something to warm you up? Hot cocoa perhaps?”

“No, thanks, we're good,” Ron said, answering for both of them. His eyes darted about the room in anticipation. “It’s best we get started right away.”

“Of course,” Father McCormick said. “Shall I show you around then?”

“No need. We'll be fine,” Ron said immediately.

“As you wish.”

John detected a hint of disappointment in the priest’s voice. It didn’t take a genius to see that Father McCormick was lonely. St. Agassi had been long closed and many of the former parishioners had died off or moved away. Those remaining were old themselves, and unlikely to venture out for a visit, especially during the colder months.

“I must warn you, finding your way around the rectory can get confusing—especially with the two staircases.”

“I'm sure we'll manage,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.

“Well, if you have any questions…”

Ron sighed. “We’ll be sure to let you know, Father.”

As John glanced around, it occurred to him that in all the years he had known Father McCormick, not once had he set foot inside the rectory. After Jay died, nearly all of their personal meetings were held at Windmere, perhaps one or two in the church office on those rare days when John agreed to take communion and offer confession.

The first thing to occur to John was that the rectory shared the same beautiful wood floors as St. Agassi Church. But sadly, the similarities ended there. The rectory felt cramped and stuffy, like it needed a good shake and airing out. It's ceilings were low, it's walls dark and depressing. This was a startling contrast to the forty-foot ceiling and multi-colored stained glass windows which once adorned St. Agassi Chapel. John couldn’t help but compare Father McCormick’s modest living conditions with his own sizeable dwelling. Few would expect a cop to be living in a place like Windmere; in much the same way, John would never have imagined that a man of God could be living so unremarkably. But beyond essentials, John reminded himself, housing details probably didn’t matter much to Father McCormick. He was a simple man, more interested in people than objects. He preferred gestures to aesthetics. Small things like homemade pie or a kind letter touched his heart, brought tears to his eyes. Even more remarkable to John was the priest's unremittingly acceptance of his lot in life. What wasn’t a blessing, Father McCormick considered a challenge, an opportunity to grow closer to God. It was unfathomable to John that the priest had shown no anger when the archdiocese elected to shut down St. Agassi, nor was he the slightest bit resentful over his ever-debilitating physical handicap. John recalled one time in particular when he asked Father outright whether he considered his blindness a divine punishment. It was just a few weeks after Jay's death and John was feeling brazen. But Father McCormick remained stoic and simply reiterated his long-suffering faith: If God saw fit that he no longer have vision, then how could he be angry or frightened
?
“Jesus never said it would be easy… our troubles are what bring us closer to the Lord.” At the time, John thought this last statement was a bunch of
B.S.,
and if the person saying it had been anyone other than a blind priest, he might have told him as much. Instead, he continued prodding Father McCormick, trying to get him to admit that he
was
angry at God—that he had a
right
to be angry at God. But the priest wouldn’t budge. “I'm like
Didymus the Blind
,” he said, “I pray not for physical eyesight, but for illumination of the heart.” It didn’t matter. At that time, with the loss of Jay so raw, John had enough rage in him for the both of them.

Father McCormick made his way to the living room. He moved confidently, slipping around a coffee table without the use of a cane or the help of Samson, his companion dog, who was nowhere in sight. Paneled in dark wood, the room was modestly decorated. A worn couch and two high back chairs were set caddy corner to a blackened stone fireplace, a stack of wood piled neatly to the side. Tucked away in the far corner of the room, a single reading chair and pedestal table stood next to a built in bookshelf. John stepped aside to take a closer look. There was the usual array of bibles, catechisms and psalms, but John was surprised to see a wide variety of non-religious titles as well, including Agatha Christie, John Grisham and James Patterson—all in Braille.

“Isn't that something?” John fingered a few of the spines. “Who knew they printed all those books in Braille?”

“Peter found them on the world wide web for me,” Father McCormick said. “I also listen to books on tape; Peter gets them from the library.”

John couldn’t get a mental image of it—the same disheveled man arrested at the mikvah with soiled pants carefully selecting
books for the blind
from the public library. No; John just couldn’t see it.

“Hey; how about we get this show on the road already!” Ron interrupted from the stairs. His voice conveyed his growing impatience at what must have appeared to be some kind of sentimental reunion between John and Father McCormick.

“You go on ahead,” John said, motioning with his arm. “I'll meet up with you in a few.”

Ron shrugged and headed up the steps, while John and Father McCormick took a seat by the fireplace. The priest placed a green crocheted blanket over his legs. Neither one spoke for a minute.

“I'm sorry,” John said, finally breaking the silence.

“No need to apologize,” Father McCormick replied immediately. “You’re just doing your job.”

John rubbed his knuckles. Clearly, Father McCormick didn’t understand.

“What is it, John? What's troubling you?” the priest asked. “If you’re worried about inconveniencing me with this search, I assure you, it’s no trouble…”

John shook his head. “No; it’s not that…”

“Then what is it?” the priest asked, his forehead creased.

“I was rough on him,” John blurted out. “When I arrested him… I sprained Peter's arm, Father.”

Father McCormick took a deep breath and leaned back. “I see.” Then to John’s surprise, he smiled. “Well, I'm certain it was unintentional, John,—an unfortunate error.”

In truth, John shouldn’t have been surprised by the priest's complete understanding and patience. After all, Father McCormick had spent a lifetime listening to people bare their souls. But John wasn’t so sure the roughness had been unintentional. Throughout his entire career in law enforcement, he had always kept his cool. He prided himself for never once using unnecessary force on the job, and now suddenly
this
—nearly breaking the wrist of an unarmed man! Maybe he needed to return to therapy.

“There's more?” Father McCormick asked when John didn’t respond.

“Maybe if I realized who he was I wouldn’t have… I mean, I should have at least recognized him!”

“Oh, so that's what this is all about,” Father McCormick said, leaning back. “You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, John. Peter kept to himself most of the time, and if my memory serves me, the two of you were never formally introduced.”

“That's true… we weren't,” John agreed, feeling slightly vindicated. Father had a knack for that too.

The priest sighed. “I hear Peter's not doing so well.”

John shook his head. “He's still not talking.”

The priest frowned. “That's what Rose Downey told me.”

Rose was the daughter of a former parishioner who ran the
Books Behind Bars
program. When Peter had been taken into custody, he had been carrying no identification on him. It was Rose’s recognition of him two days later that enabled police to ID him as Peter Stem.

“Well, Peter has always been on the quiet side,” Father McCormick said. “Perhaps in time…”

John couldn’t believe his ears. Did Father McCormick think Peter was simply being shy? “Actually, Father, the public defender assigned to Peter wants to have him evaluated for competence to stand trial,” he said.

“Competence? Trial?”

Had John been meeting the priest for the first time, he might have questioned
his
mental health, but he knew Father McCormick was sharper than others half his age; besides, the priest had done all the appropriate things—called Estelle Ginsberg's brother to offer condolences, contacted Rabbi Orenstein to inquire about his wife Hannah's condition.

“Father,” John said gently, “Peter has been arraigned on murder charges. He may be looking at time in prison.” John purposely substituted the word “time” for “life”. He was about to say something else when Samson suddenly ran into the room, her tail wagging happily, despite a short bandage on her front left paw.

“Must be ten,” Father McCormick said, patting her head.

John instinctively checked his watch. It was ten on the dot. “Father, did you hear what I said? Peter is in serious trouble…”

The priest ignored him and stood up. “Samson eats a late breakfast… Come on John, I'll get you something hot to drink.” He paused and gestured toward the hall stairs. “By the way, that other detective…what is it he's looking for exactly?”

“Anything that would help explain what Peter was doing at a Jewish mikvah,” John said, again choosing his words carefully. Given the priest's questionable mental state, the last thing he wanted to do was admit to Father McCormick that they were looking specifically for weapons and white supremacist materials.

Samson, in the meantime, had run ahead and was waiting eagerly by her food bowl in the kitchen, her tail slapping into a pantry door with each hardy wag.

“All right, my girl, I know you’re hungry!” Father McCormick chuckled as he leaned over to give her a pat. He scooped a cupful of dry kibble from a Rubbermaid container and poured it into her bowl with practiced accuracy. While the priest filled a second bowl with water from the sink, John glanced around the room. The decor was drab and looked like it hadn’t been updated in years. The floors were covered in yellow linoleum and overhead, harsh, industrial looking fluorescent bulbs flickered and clicked. A stainless steel counter held a deeply set sink and several appliances, including a chrome toaster and a
Proctor-Silex
coffee maker, each at least thirty years old.

“Did you have a break-in Father?” John asked, his eyes fixing immediately on a back door partly boarded up with plywood and strips of black duct tape.

“No, nothing like that,” Father McCormick said as he laid a filter in the coffee maker with surprising ease. “Samson went and put her paw through the glass storm door. Saw a squirrel or something outside.” He scratched his head. “Strangest thing, completely out of character for her! Dr. Wentz says she has to wear her bandage for two weeks—the poor girl—but I bet she's learned her lesson!”

Samson looked up from her food bowl. John would have sworn he saw remorse on her face. Sometimes he thought dogs had more sense than humans. He had always wanted a dog, but could never talk Patty into it.