Murder At The Mikvah (38 page)

 Fifty-three

John awoke to the sound of his wife’s voice. Patty stood in the doorway, the cordless phone in her hand. Dressed in jeans and a turtleneck, she looked like a woman closer to forty than sixty. He sighed. Apparently, Patty had worried more than he realized. Now that he had left patrolling and returned to investigations full time, twenty years had come off her appearance, virtually overnight.

“It’s Ron Smith,” she said, handing him the phone.

Light filtered through the plates of stained glass. The sun appeared to be just coming up. John rubbed his eyes and took a quick look at his watch.
4:33
. He looked again at his wife. Why was she dressed so early? Then it dawned on him. The sun was
setting
. It wasn’t 4:30 AM, it was 4:30 PM
.

Patty saw the confusion in his eyes. “It’s okay,” she said. “You were off today.”

Right. He was off today. But how could he have fallen asleep? He wracked his brain. The last he remembered, he had come in to the chess room this morning with a cup of tea. That was about 9:00 AM or so. He glanced around, eager for confirmation. Sure enough, the mug was resting on the table beside him, nearly half full. He must have been exhausted. John pushed himself to an upright position, feeling the cumulative effects of several hours spent hunched in a chair. The left side of his neck had cramped into a tight knot. He groaned and placed the phone against his ear. Pain pulsed down his arm, sending a shock wave only matched by the news Ron Smith delivered.

“You know that Familial CODIS search…?”

“Of course,” John said, taking a sip of the coffee Patty handed him. “The
Familial
report,” he laughed, “if I remember correctly, you didn’t see the point of running it.”

Ron should have expected the ribbing. He deserved it. “Yeah, well, I thought after the first report… anyway, as luck would have it, they found someone with Peter's family DNA.”

John leapt to his feet, nearly spilling his coffee. “I'll be right down.”

John drove on autopilot, and by the time he arrived at the station, there was a bustle of activity. Two huge events had occurred within the last twelve hours, while he was sound asleep in the chess room. The first involved Hannah Orenstein. She had awakened from her coma, and according to her doctor, was officially out of harms way. The second had not yet been released to the general public: the alleged killer, Peter Stem had been released—all charges dropped by the DA.

Ron spread the contents of Peter Stem's file out on his desk.

“He's in Michigan State Penitentiary serving two life sentences,” Ron said, running his hands through the top of his scalp. He pushed a computer print out across his desk toward John.

John took a look; it was a rap sheet for some guy named
Roy Bunton.

“Roy Bunton is Peter's biological father,” Ron explained. “In 1976 he killed Peter's mother—Gail Michaels—along with Peter's twin sister.”

“Peter had a twin?”

“Uh huh. You want to take a guess what the twin's name was?”

John didn’t have to think long. “
Suzanne
?”

Ron nodded. “Peter witnessed the entire thing from under his bed. He was seven, didn’t know Roy Bunton was his father. To him, the guy was just his mom’s ex-boyfriend.”

John closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Man oh man… that’s gotta screw a person up.”

“From the report, it was pretty gruesome too… I’ll spare you the details; you can look it over yourself.”

“So Peter was essentially an orphan?”

“That’s right,” Ron said. “After the murder, he was placed in the foster care system until he graduated school at age seventeen.”

“Did you speak to any of his foster care parents?”

“
One
. Hettie Wimsdale from Flint Michigan. Peter was in her care from age fourteen to seventeen.”

“And?”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “And boy, did that woman like to talk!” He read aloud from some notes he had taken. “Peter was extremely shy, didn’t have many friends. He ran track in school, but was happiest when he was fishing with her husband—his foster dad—Hank. They’d fish by some dam in Genesee County—caught white sucker and channel catfish. And get this, Hettie said sometimes after a storm, the water would look like chocolate milk.”

John leaned back. “Chocolate milk. Just like Lydia Richter said.”

“Yep.”

“So, Peter’s back at the rectory now?” John asked.

“Uh huh. He’s back with Father McCormick and being overseen by Dr. Danzig.”

John nodded. He would call Father McCormick when he had a free minute, though he doubted that would be anytime soon. Peter exonerated meant they still had a killer to catch. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us, buddy,” he said to Ron.

Ron grinned at the word
us
. He looked like he was mustering up the courage to say something, but John cut him off.

“It’s going to be a long day… I hope you have enough vitamin water in there,” John said, pointing with his chin.

Ron leaned back and took a look in the fridge. “Let’s see… Extra Ginseng, B-Vitamins…Yeah, I’m good,” he said, playing along.

 Fifty-four

“Let's go through it again,” John said.

Ron took a deep breath and flipped back to page one of the transcript. This would be their third review of the same information in the past hour and a half. But Ron shouldn’t have been surprised. He had watched his dad with John all those years and knew this was how John liked to work. Unlike most people whose brains shut off after staring at the same material over and over, John claimed the creative centers of his brain turned on—like lights set on a timer—the longer he pondered an unsolved case.

“Transcript of hypnotically induced deposition of Peter Stem surrounding the events of Monday, October 24th,” Ron began. He hadn’t slept a wink last night and was getting punchy from exhaustion. Coming up with this long, drawn out title was mostly for his own amusement.

John leaned back with his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, waiting. Ron continued, serious now. “Peter and Father McCormick eat dinner at the rectory at 7:00 PM. After dinner, Peter heads upstairs to close windows. At approximately 7:30 PM, he's positioned at the second floor hall window with his binoculars and sees Tova Katz's van pull into the high school lot.”

“The original mikvah attendant,” John said out loud. It was more of statement than a question.

“Up until Estelle Ginsberg came to fill in later,” Ron added.

“And Tova corroborated the time?”

“Yep. Tova Katz confirmed that her arrival time was about 7:30.”

“But then she had to leave prematurely,” John added.

“Her daughter went into labor,” Ron said.

“Okay, we know Estelle Ginsberg, the back up attendant didn’t drive, so how did she get to the mikvah?”

Ron flipped through his notes on a separate pad. “Hannah Orenstein picked her up.”

“How do we know?”

“Tova called Hannah at approximately 9:30 PM and asked her,” Ron said. “Minutes before that, she called Estelle Ginsberg, asking her to fill in. Hannah and Estelle arrived at approximately 9:50 PM; Tova left about the same time.”

“The phone lines were down. How did she call them?” John was beginning to sound like a drill sergeant.

Ron shrugged. “Cell phone. Same way her husband called her to tell her about the baby.”

“We have those records?”

“Right here.” Ron held up a fax from the wireless carrier.

“Good,” John said, smiling. He was glad to see Ron paying more attention to details. “So getting back to the time sequence…”

“Right. At 7:30, Peter sees Tova Katz's van. A few minutes later he spots a white Volvo, driven by Elise Danzig. Elise exits her car and goes into the building. Approximately twenty-five minutes later, Elise gets back in her car and exits the lot, once again leaving Tova alone in the mikvah.”

“And these times were corroborated?”

“Yes, Elise Danzig confirmed the times.” Ron took a deep breath and continued. “About 8:30 PM, Peter sees a black Lexus pull in.”

“Do we have an ID on that?”

“No.”

“A woman exits the vehicle,” Ron continued. “She’s alone.”

“Physical description?” John asked.

Ron scanned the page. “Blond. That's all we have… Oh, but this might be important: Peter claims she was crying in her car before she got out.”

“And we have a pretty good idea what she was might have been crying about,” John prompted.

“Right. The Caucasian male who shows up without a car… guy just walks right on to the lot.”

“Could be from
The Estates
across the field?”

Ron shrugged. “It's possible, though we don't know which direction he came from. We
do
have a physical description on him, though. Peter describes him as tall, wearing jeans and a ski jacket.”

“And there's a scuffle between him and the woman?”

“That's right. But Peter doesn’t stick around long enough to see what happens. He hears Samson carrying on downstairs.”

“Samson put her paw through the glass door,” John said. “According to Father McCormick , she was reacting to an animal outside.”

Ron did a quick perusal of the transcript and shook his head. “There's nothing on the transcript to indicate that Peter actually saw the animal himself.”

John recalled that Father McCormick hadn't seen an animal either, he had merely
assumed
there was one.

Ron continued, “Peter proceeds to bandage up Samson's paw, then he boards up the hole in the door and returns to the upstairs window at 10:00 PM. By this time, both Tova Katz's van and the Lexus are gone; and there's no sign of the man.”

John took a deep breath. “The problem is this hour gap. While Peter was tending to Samson, we don't know who else may have come on the scene.”

“True, but then Peter
does
see the man again,” Ron continued, “only this time he drives up in a black SUV.”

“And we have no idea who this guy could be,” John said.

“No clue, but according to Peter, he tried to access the building.” Ron looked up. “…And that's where we lose him…”

“The guy?”

“Yeah, him, and
Peter
too. Seeing this guy
shook Peter up so much that he moved away from the window and hid in his closet.”

John couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. According to Dr. Danzig, this point marked the official onset of Peter's psychotic episode. In fact, immediately after the rectory search, Ron had commented about how neat and orderly Peter's room was—everything but the closet, which Ron said looked like a tornado had hit it.
Unbelievable!
All along, the evidence was right there, staring them in the face! What grown man makes a protective fortress for himself inside a closet?… Burrows under a pile of shirts? If only John had paid closer attention to Ron's words! Or better yet, if he had actually gone upstairs that day instead of having coffee and a chat with Father McCormick in the kitchen! Maybe if he had seen it with his own eyes… Peter would have gotten out, gotten the help he needed, that much sooner.

“Yep,” Ron continued, “he dove right into that closet—didn’t even bother moving his shoes—just pulled his clothes off the hangers and
buried
himself! I didn’t see it for what it was at the time… the perfect place for a little boy to hide from the bogey man.”

“Well, now we know
why
,” John said, rubbing the spot on his arm where Peter had bitten him. Animals, John realized, weren't the only ones who bit. Children did too. And sometimes, they even wet their pants.
It was all so darn obvious now that they understood Peter was reliving the event he witnessed as a boy!

“The coroner put Estelle's time of death between 10:15 and 10:30,” Ron said. “Where was Peter at that time?” He flipped a page and answered his own question. “Still hiding.”

John reached for the transcript and took it from Ron. “According to this, he doesn’t even
leave
the rectory until about 11:00 when Father McCormick hears the front door screeching,” John said. “He gets to the mikvah door and it's open. There's no sight of the man, but he sees Estelle Ginsberg unconscious on the floor. Peter goes in, locks the door behind him…”

“Supposedly to lock out the bad guys…” Ron interjected.

“Just
one
guy. John said, “…or the memory of him.”

“Inside, Peter tries to resuscitate Estelle,” Ron said.

“…Which explains his saliva all over her face and mouth,” John added.

It was pretty incredible to John to think that Peter could actually attempt pulmonary resuscitation while in a psychotic state, but Lewis had assured him that it was possible. He explained that people do things on autopilot all the time, comparing what Peter did, to 'zoning out' while driving to work; somehow you pull into your parking spot with no idea how you got there.
Sometimes the brain decides to run the show on it's own
, Lewis said.

Ron continued. “Peter runs like a wild man through the entire facility—leaving his prints on every door handle—until he comes to the ritual pool room and spots Hannah underwater. He jumps in, pulls her out, pumps water out of her lungs.”

John nodded. “And by the time Robert and I barge in, he's clinging to her like a crazed lunatic.”

“It's still the most unbelievable thing I've heard in my life,” Ron said, shaking his head. “He saved Hannah Orenstein's life! The guy’s not a murderer, he's a goddamn hero!”