Murder At The Mikvah (23 page)

Judith rubbed her temples, racking her brain, trying to picture Goldberg Academy. She couldn’t.

Yehuda seemed to read her mind. “Mom,” he began gently, “have you ever been to Goldberg Academy? Wait… hold on a second; Lauren’s calling me.”

“I’m pulling out now, Yehuda.” Judith said when he returned to the call. “Tell me, do I make a left or right on Clemson?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” he said. “Lauren’s on her way to the school. She’ll get them.”

Judith swallowed. “But you said Rachel’s was home…”

“One of the neighbors is staying with her until Lauren gets back.”

“I’m sorry Yehuda.”

“It’s okay… Just go to the house… I’ll see you there later.”

“Yehuda… I….”

“The kids will be fine, Mom. Lauren has everything under control.”

Of course she does
, Judith thought, gritting her teeth.

 Thirty

The lobby was huge, over a thousand square feet. Father McCormick knew this because of the sounds. It was more than voices; it was the
tap tap tap
of fingers on keyboards, the whistles and toots of e-mail being sent and received, the cracking of knuckles, the scraping of chairs—typical background noises that human brains noted and filtered within nanoseconds. But for Father Herbert McCormick, insignificant sounds felt like an ambush; and now, as he sat across from the detective, struggling to focus on the younger man's words, the sounds bombarded him, sprung away, then bounced along the walls, ceiling and floor like rubber balls. Disconcerting as the rush of sounds could be, Father McCormick often welcomed them like a group of old friends. His sight had deteriorated to the point where he could only make out shadows, so he relied on the ricocheting sound waves to lay out the parameters of unfamiliar territory. Though he couldn’t explain exactly how he did it, he did know that there was nothing at all supernatural about the process. Bats used the technique—like a sort of sonar—to navigate their own dark worlds.

They sat on wide cushioned chairs tucked far off in a corner, about fifty feet from a group of cubicles that housed secretaries and lower level administrators of the various township departments.

The detective spoke first. “Thanks again for coming down, Father,” Ron said, as he regarded the priest. From the waist up, Father McCormick was pristinely dressed, his crisp priest's collar peeking out from a black overcoat; but below the knees, his dark trousers were flecked with gold dog hairs. The culprit—a golden retriever companion dog—lay patiently at his feet. Ron remembered Samson from his search of the rectory. Today the dog looked like he could use a good brushing. The priest's dress shoes were in need of some attention too. Scuffed up and dirty, they practically begged for a polishing.

“No trouble at all,” Father McCormick said, although the truth was he rarely left the rectory without Peter. “We took a cab.”

“Good. Well, let's get started.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for John?”

“John?” Ron was momentarily confused. Then he remembered that John and the priest had known each other a long time. “Oh, you mean John
Collins
?”

“Yes, he'll be joining us, right?”

“No. I'm afraid he
won't
be.”

The priest furrowed his brow. “John was at the rectory with you during the search; I assumed you worked together.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Ron said. “But nowadays John's specialty is patrolling Arden Station at odd hours of the night.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Ron said. “Had enough, I guess.”

“Since when?”

Ron did a quick calculation. “It's been five years or so.”

Father McCormick sat quietly for a moment, trying to make sense of it.
Five years
. He had been counseling John regularly back then—after Jay died—but John never mentioned a thing about switching departments. Why would he? John
loved
investigative work. He had paid his dues, he told the priest more than once, and was now living every cop's dream. He was a
detective
!

Besides, John was an
alpha
. He liked to take charge, especially when it came to the more challenging cases, though admittedly these were rare in a town like Arden Station. The
John Collins
Father McCormick knew was a real star, naturally gifted, and had a wall full of awards and certificates of recognition to prove it. During the priest's very first visit to Windmere, Patty had led him to John's study where she proudly read each one to him, frame by frame. No, it just didn’t make sense. John was not someone who would
willingly
take a back seat, especially when it came to a job he not only loved, but also excelled at.

“Does your dog need water, Father? He’s panting up a storm.”

Father McCormick snapped out of his private thoughts and made a mental note to speak to John directly. He held up his hand. “No, no. Thank you for the thought, but Samson’s fine. She’s a working dog you see—never been in a police station before; I imagine it’s quite exciting for her.”

“Oh, so, Samson's a
she
huh?” Ron asked. Somehow that possibility hadn't occurred to him. He laughed. “Then I bet she’s catching a whiff of the male canine unit downstairs and…” He stopped speaking mid-sentence when he caught sight of one of the secretaries—a young woman who had recently returned from maternity leave. She was glaring at him from her cubicle. He held his hand up and gave her a little salute.
Sorry
. She shook her head disparagingly and turned back to her desk. Ron scratched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He didn’t know why he said such stupid, inappropriate things sometimes. It was like he regressed to his idiotic frat boy days. It didn’t happen often, but still it concerned him. Maybe something was seriously wrong with him. Maybe he should see a neurologist. Well, he would have to remember to apologize to the woman. Even if it was intended in dog context only, the last thing he needed was to be accused of sexual harassment.

“You said I would be able to see Peter,” Father McCormick said, ignoring the detective's last remark. “I assumed that was the reason you asked me to come down?”

“Yes, well, about that…” Ron said, quickly regaining his composure. “It seems there's a bit of a problem.”

“Problem? What problem?”

“As you know we couldn’t get a match on Peter's fingerprints.”

“Yes, you mentioned that to me on the phone,” Father McCormick said. “And I told you I wasn't surprised. Peter has never been arrested.”

Ron wondered how the priest could be certain of this, but he didn’t ask. “Well, that's not all,” he said.

“Then what is it?”

“This is where it gets complicated,” Ron said. “Seems we couldn’t get a positive I.D. on Peter Stem the
individual
either.”

“I don't follow.”

“Let me give it to you straight, Father,” Ron said. “Peter may not be who you think he is.”

Father McCormick furrowed his brow. “I still don't understand.”

“Peter Stem may not be Peter Stem.”

Father McCormick shook his head and waved his hands. “No. You're mistaken. Peter has family upstate… You just need to contact them.”

Ron sighed. “Have you personally met any of Peter Stem's family?” he asked.

“Well, no.”

“Spoken to them on the phone?”

“No.”

“But surely they've called the rectory?”

“Not that I'm aware of,” Father McCormick admitted.

Ron paused and then responded, accentuating each word as if the priest was deaf as well as blind. “They. Don’t. Exist.” He immediately regretted speaking this way.
Impulse control.
Impulse control was another symptom for the neurologist.

Father McCormick leaned back in his chair. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said softly.

“I don't know what to make of it either,” Ron said. “I thought you could help.”

“But how can I could possibly be of help?” Father McCormick asked. “You've already looked through Peter's things.”

“Yes, and found nothing of value,” Ron admitted, more to himself than the priest. “No birth certificate, no passport, not even a damn driver's license…”

Father McCormick drew in a deep breath which Ron mistook for a shocked response to his use of the word
damn
. But what the priest was actually thinking was:
All this time, Peter had been driving illegally, without a license!

“After living together for so many years, you and Peter must have developed a close relationship,” Ron continued.

Father McCormick nodded his affirmation.

“You probably trusted him completely.”

“I still do.” Father McCormick said.

Ron studied the priest carefully. With the exception of his eyesight, he appeared to have all his faculties intact. But his choice of words spoke volumes. The fact was, someone his age would be easy to take advantage of, especially by a former addict. Addicts were known to be manipulative.

Father McCormick knew what the detective must be thinking—that he was a religious fool who had been taken for a ride. Of course he would think that! After all, the man believed Peter had committed murder. And while it was not unusual for someone to accept assistance from the church while getting back on his feet, a fifteen year retreat was something else altogether. How could Father McCormick possibly describe Peter to someone who had never met him? How could he explain that the alcoholism, the life on the street, was
not
the true man, but a mere cloak that he had worn until he’d been saved? Maybe Father McCormick could start by telling the detective about the time Peter had performed the
Heimlich maneuver
on him while choking on a chicken bone, literally saving his life! Maybe he should mention the time Peter nursed that baby rabbit back to health…

Ron cleared his throat. “You had a close relationship and trusted Peter completely, yet somehow he never told you his
real
name? Or where he was
actually
from?” Ron spoke with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “With all due respect Father, are you certain Peter Stem was the only name he gave you? Is it possible you might have forgotten?”

“Forgotten? No, Detective, I haven't forgotten,” Father McCormick said. “I knew him only as
Peter
. Peter Stem.”

Father McCormick placed his trembling hands in his lap. He tried not to show it, but he was troubled by what the detective was suggesting. How
could
he have lived with someone for over fifteen years and not known who they were? Granted, he respected Peter’s—or anyone’s—right to privacy, but still, shouldn’t he have known the true identity of the man sharing his home? For a split second, he felt panic surge through his body. Ever since he found out about Peter's arrest, he had remained completely at ease, certain there was a simple mix up that would be sorted out quickly. But time continued to pass. Peter was still behind bars. And now, after learning the news that Peter might not be who he claimed to be, it was difficult to remain confident. Had Peter been manipulating him? Had he been using the church as a place to hide? The worst of it—something the detective was likely already aware of—was that for the past fifteen years he had paid Peter's salary out of his own pocket. Now he wondered, by paying Peter in
cash
, had he unwittingly helped a fugitive stay hidden?

“I expect Peter will need a lawyer,” Father McCormick said. For the first time, he was beginning to process the reality of Peter's situation.

“There's no need. We’ve assigned a public defender to him,” Ron said. “But seeing that Peter hasn’t spoken a single coherent word since he got here, the attorney hasn't gotten very far with his client. Now, if you have someone else in mind… ”

A woman from the cubicles approached them. “Excuse me, Detective, but Elise Danzig just called. She'll be a few minutes late.”

Ron thanked her and glanced at his watch. “If you're still interested Father, I’ll take you to see Peter now.”
Take you down to the Peter-stem-cell.

“Something funny?” Father McCormick asked.

Ron hadn’t realized he’d been guffawing out loud at his private joke. He cleared his throat.
God!
What the hell was wrong with him?
“No, nothing; nothing at all,” he said, trying to conceal his momentary panic. “Are you ready?”

Father McCormick stood and gripped Samson's leash firmly in his hand.
Danzig. Danzig
. The name was familiar but he couldn’t place it. He pushed the thought aside for the time being, and followed the detective down a freshly carpeted hall to the interrogation room. The room was little more than a cinderblock square, approximately twenty feet by twenty feet, with a heavy metal table and four folding chairs. There were no windows, but the space was lit brightly from overhead by long fluorescent bulbs housed in plexiglass encasements. An elaborate audio-visual recording system was tucked away, high above and out of reach, in a far corner of the ceiling.

As soon as Father McCormick sat down there was a low boom—unexpected, but not frightening. Samson did little more than perk up her ears a bit. Evidently the air had kicked on, because a steady hum began, followed by the flow of cool air from flat vents on the ceiling. Father McCormick hugged himself as the cold stream hit his face. Air conditioning in November? Was this part of the interrogation process? Physical discomfort as a way to obtain information? He suddenly felt protective of Peter. Any fleeting doubts about Peter's innocence were fading quickly into the background and logic was returning. He
knew
Peter. Peter was no murderer! The fact that Peter had been found at a crime scene didn’t make him guilty, just unlucky. Peter was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as the saying went. But admittedly, what Father McCormick couldn’t explain was what the heck Peter was
doing
there in the first place.