Murder At The Mikvah (5 page)

 Six

There was a snapping of fallen branches as John turned the police car into the high school parking lot, immediately spotting a backhoe, which looked as though it had been abandoned in mid scoop. There was one other vehicle in the lot: a blue minivan, parked directly under a tall streetlight. Robert called in the plate number while John stepped out of the car and began surveying the 15 ft. chain link fence enclosing the main building. Looking beyond the
no trespassing
and
danger
signs, John fixed his eyes on the impressive looking stone structure of the former high school. In some ways it was as if no time had passed since his own children had attended St. Agassi. Behind the scaffolding, the building looked relatively unchanged, better even. John knew that the historical society had something to do with this fact. The original stone had been repointed to preserve St. Agassi's original beauty—huge gray blocks flecked with mica, famously quarried over a century ago from a neighboring county. A towering stone archway sheltered two solid oak doors with large brass handles. This entrance had once opened into a vestibule leading to the administrative offices, but John recalled that most students used the side doors near the gymnasium, a more direct route from the bus circle to the lockers and classrooms. In his mind’s eye, John could still see his three daughters scooting through those very doors, their backpacks flailing behind them. John shook his head in amazement.
Where had the time gone?
He and Patty had made the best decision of their lives sending their kids to St. Agassi. In a town where it was typical to see sixteen year olds driving new
BMW
’s and wearing
Gucci
, the ethical teachings and structure of St. Agassi helped keep their feet planted securely on the ground. Each of his daughters had chosen paths for themselves that made them happy and him proud. Liz, the eldest, was a nutritionist with twin girls. Francine, pregnant with her fifth child, taught creative writing in the Chicago public schools; and Paige, the youngest and most idealistic, was building homes in Sri Lanka.

John turned and gazed across the empty field where St. Agassi Church stood, raised on a slight incline. The grass had been matted down from decades of absorbing the parking overflow of churchgoers. During its more vital years, Father McCormick’s Sunday mass was attended by upwards of four hundred people, a sharp contrast to the parish as it stood now, barren and dark. Next door, a single light shone from the second floor of the rectory, probably Father McCormick’s room, John figured. The single light looked so
lonely
. He tried to remember when he had last seen the priest. For that first year after Jay's death, there were frequent visits, but once John returned to work, their weekly meetings had ceased, and communication was all but reduced to holiday cards and an occasional phone call. John felt a sense of shame as he stared at the lonely rectory. After all the support Father McCormick had given him! How could he have let so much time pass? He made a mental note to call the priest in the morning, maybe even invite him to dinner. Patty, for one, would be pleased he had thought of it; she'd been on his case to call Father McCormick for a while now.

Within a minute, a crackly radio transmission identified ownership of the minivan to Yehuda & Hanna Orenstein of 62 Willow Lane. John requested backup and the two officers got to work, panning the scaffolding with their flashlights, tracing the outlines of each window. There were no visible signs of a forced entry. Marie, the 911 operator, had told the dispatcher that according to the caller, a part of the building was in use, which meant there had to be public access
somewhere
. Somehow the driver of that van had gotten inside.

John glanced down as something caught the corner of his eye. The blacktop was broken up in places—probably from the construction—with pockets of rain puddles. Then he saw it. A worn leather strap that looked like it had come off of a pair of binoculars. Suddenly there was a gust of wind, followed by a clang—the sound of metal on metal—coming from the side of the building. With a gloved hand, John carefully pocketed the strap and motioned to Robert. The two took off, quickly discovering the source of the noise: a construction gate slightly ajar with a padlock dangling loosely from a long flat hinge.
Access
. Fortunately the moon was full, because in contrast to the brightness of the parking lot, the side of the building was pitifully lit by a couple of industrial lights, each temporarily affixed to metal piping along the brick wall.

The two men proceeded cautiously through the gate and along the blacktop. A second construction fence ran parallel to the walkway, dividing it from several old tennis and basketball courts sitting at the bottom of a steep hill. For years, this had been a favorite sledding spot of local kids. Extending well beyond the courts was a vast open space. John remembered it had once hosted grassy fields for baseball, football and soccer. After years of neglect, it was now covered with random patches of dirt and weeds. Several hundred feet away, a row of 40-foot evergreens lined the outermost edge of the field, creating a natural separation of church property from what was once a sprawling private estate, but had more recently been sold and subdivided into ten residential lots—
Trinity Lane Estates
, the development was formally named; though informally, it was known simply as
The Estates
. Through some breaks in the trees, John noted that the entire street of homes had lost power. A few candles flickered on windowsills, but the others were pitch black. Now that the worst of the storm was over, most people had probably called it a night and turned in.

The two men continued down the path. Muddied with footprints, it led the way toward a bright red awning, which looked perky and out of place given the austerity of such an old building. Robert reached the door first. As expected, it was locked; but even after a few calculated body slams, it wouldn’t budge. He ran back to the car to retrieve a crowbar from the trunk. In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.

“That’s our backup,” he said, jogging up the path. He began working the crowbar into the hinge of the door.

“Even with that thing, it's gonna’ take about ten good kicks,” John said calmly. “Make sure you hit the lock dead center.”

Robert dropped the crowbar and took a few steps back. He turned to his side, brought his leg up and gave a quick snap toward the door.

“Hit it with your heel of your foot—always the heel,” John instructed. “Remember, you want to hit it dead center!”

Robert took a deep breath, pulled his leg back and gave it another kick, this time hitting the lock head on.

“That’s it! Keep at it, just like that.”

By the fifth kick, Robert was drenched in sweat, but the lock was noticeably weakened.

“Now use the bar to pry her open,” John told him. “We’ll be in there in thirty seconds.”

He gripped his pistol with two hands, prepared to meet whatever was beyond the entrance. Robert grabbed the crowbar and wedged it between the door and the lock. He gave it one last kick and the door flew open. He flipped the crowbar to his left hand, and pulled out his gun with his right.

A small gust of wind pushed a pile of dry leaves behind the two men as they bounded into the room, weapons held in outstretched arms.

“Police! Freeze!”

There was no response, but they knew better than to let their guard down as they took a look around. The large open space resembled an upscale medical office and they stood on a white marble floor in what appeared to be the reception area. A circular desk was on the right, adjacent to a waiting room containing four upholstered chairs, a glass coffee table and a built in bookshelf filled with neatly shelved hard covers. The walls were cream colored with hand painted faux vines.

“Call an ambulance!”

Robert had dropped behind the desk where an elderly woman lay motionless on her stomach, an overturned wire basket on the floor next to her. Blood dripped from a deep gash on the back of her head. Shards from the crystal vase that had hit her were scattered about the floor next to a small pair of binoculars.

“No pulse,” Robert said weakly. He noted the woman's comfort shoes; they were tan with laces, the exact pair his grandma Betty started wearing last year after her knee surgery. Was that a tear he felt on his lip, or was his nose running? He looked away from the body and willed himself to focus on three tiny white tubes that had evidently spilled from the basket.
Dead Sea
Mineral Exfoliant.
This was Robert’s first dead body and he was beginning to feel dizzy.
Do not pass out,
he told himself. The last thing he needed was to hear it later from the guys down at the station.

Do not pass out. Focus on the lotion.

There were some foreign letters printed on the tubes above the English
—Hebrew
, Robert figured, relieved to be feeling stronger by the second.

The sounds of feet running up the pavement meant that backup had arrived.

“Ambulance is thirty seconds behind us,” one of the backup officers announced. “And we have four men surrounding the building.”

The paramedics flew in and began attending to the woman.

“You all right there partner?” John asked, patting Robert on the shoulder. He took note of the binoculars and lotion samples, glad that his partner had the wherewithal not to touch anything.

Robert removed his hat and wiped some sweat from his brow. “Yeah, fine man. I'm good.”

“Good, because chances are the perp's still here,” John said. “You're sure you can do this?”

“Just lead the way,” Robert said, flipping his hat on.

The hallway runner was soiled with mud. There were six closed doors along the walls—three on the left directly across from three on the right. In a less tense situation, Robert might have done his Scooby Doo impersonation, the one that drove his girlfriend nuts.

“You take the right; I'll go left,” John said, gesturing with his chin.

Hand squarely on his holster, Robert tipped open the first door. It was a large bathroom with a separate tub and shower, toilet and sink. A Granite countertop was covered with an array of neatly placed women's toiletries—makeup remover, Q-tips, toothpaste, floss, tweezers, comb, nail clippers. A wrap around mirror extended from the counter to the ceiling. Robert briefly caught his reflection and cringed. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked frazzled. But who wouldn’t be after discovering a dead woman? He slid open the tinted shower door—cobalt blue tiles with white edging. Inside were a few bottles of shampoo, soft soap and a mesh sponge
.
To the right of the shower, three terrycloth robes hung loosely on wood hangers; next to them, a shelf held a neat stack of white towels and washcloths.
Must be some kind of spa for women
, Robert thought. Women loved this shit, especially his girlfriend. With all her talk about facials and massages, this was her kind of place. It looked like someone had poured some serious money into this place, too. Robert checked the cabinet under the sink—just ordinary rolls of toilet paper and boxes of tissues—then backed out of the room.

“Full bathroom?” John asked, nearly bumping into him.

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“Because that’s what all five of the other rooms are, and they’re practically identical.”

Then they heard it—a low moan coming from the far end of the building. Without hesitating, and with John leading the way, they bolted toward the source of the sound. Rounding the corner, they stopped at the side of a closed door.

“Police Officers! Identify yourself!”

Silence

Robert reached for the door handle and slowly turned it. It was unlocked
.

John took his position along the wall on the opposite side of the door.

“On the count of three,” Robert whispered, his hand still on the turned knob.

John nodded.

“One… two… THREE!”

Robert shoved the door open and bounded into the room. Gun extended, he was nearly overcome by the harsh smells of urine and chlorine.

“FREEZE!”

John scanned the room. Approximately twenty-five square feet in diameter, the floor and walls were completely tiled in blue and white. A square pool was in the center. It had seven tiled steps leading down into the what appeared to be between four and five feet of water. A sturdy metal railing ran alongside it for support.

“Freeze!” John yelled again. He pointed his gun toward a hunched male figure on the floor. The man sat on his knees less than a foot from the top step of the pool, his body arched over a motionless woman, who lay naked with her legs spread and feet dangling into the water. The man shook uncontrollably and his chest heaved.

“Williams, Patterson!” Robert shouted. “Get in here!” He looked with disgust at the man who wore no shirt or shoes. Drenched jeans hung loosely at his hips revealing striped boxer shorts. Even with four officers now crowding the room, the man continued to be unresponsive. It wasn’t until John grabbed the man’s arm, that he appeared to even notice he had company. He flinched and looked at John with an expression of pure rage. Instantly, he jerked away and turned back to the woman, wrapping his arms possessively around her, clinging to her like a child might cling to a toy he didn’t want to share.