That Day the Rabbi Left Town (19 page)

“No rubbers or overshoes?”

“Nope. Miller says he was a bit of a dandy and wouldn't be likely to wear them unless he positively had to. If he were going to stop off there, the steps and the bit of sidewalk in front of them would be clear, and the same if he were planning to go straight on to the country club in Breverton.”

Miriam came in from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. “The last,” she announced, “before I wash out the percolator.” She set them down and then returned to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes.

Lanigan took a sip and said, “Boston is taking over, which is why I'm bringing the pictures in, but I still have an interest in what happened. Now, here's what I want you to do, David. I want you to ask around about Kent—”

“I'm not in the police business,” said the rabbi.

“You've helped us before.”

“Then it was a member of my congregation who was involved.”

“Well, don't kid yourself, David. Your congregation, at least its rabbi, is involved in this. This guy was caught peeping in the window at the rabbi's wife undressing. And you remember he told Miller he'd throw him over the hedge if he caught him trespassing again.”

“But none of that was reported in the newspaper.”

“David, David, you think in a small town like Barnard's Crossing we get our news by reading the newspaper? Most of the local news we get through gossip. And you know what happens to a story when it's passed from one person to another.”

The rabbi nodded gloomily. “All right. I'll keep my ears open.”

Lanigan grunted in satisfaction. “I don't for a moment think Selig threw him off the ledge, or even saw him. Selig used a snowblower twice. The first time was around two o'clock, and the second time around half past five. I figure Kent came along around five, maybe had a heart attack and fell. By the time Selig starts plowing the second time, Kent is covered, at least to the extent where he wouldn't be seen by Selig. And then he gets covered real good by the snow from the second plowing. We know that because he was lying on plowed snow—as well as covered by it.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“It stopped snowing around half past six. Now, if we'd had any sort of thaw, maybe part of the body would have been exposed, but it was bloody cold the whole weekend, except we had bright sun Sunday morning when the patrolman peed and uncovered his shoe. And it looks as though this cold is apt to continue for a while, something about the jet stream coming down from Canada.”

Miriam came into the room again, but this time she had her coat on and a scarf covering her head. “I'm ready,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Lanigan, rising. “Let's go.”

Chapter 29

No sooner had Bradford Ames taken jurisdiction of the Kent case for Suffolk County than he immediately got in touch with Detective Sergeant Schroeder of Boston's homicide squad, whom he most liked to work with. Because he came from a wealthy family, Bradford Ames, a chubby, chuckly man of fifty-five whose expensive clothes never seemed to quite fit him, had been able to go into that branch of law he was most interested in since he was not concerned about making his living at it. He was primarily interested in criminal law and litigation, so through family influence he had joined the district attorney's office even before he passed the bar exam. And he had remained on year after year, his influence steadily growing. District attorneys came and went. They were political figures primarily, and if they were smart, and most of them were, they permitted themselves to be led by him and profited by his instruction and direction.

As for Sergeant Schroeder, a tall, thin, dour man with a black crew cut now graying at the temples, he was the same age as Ames, and although he did not understand the district attorney's sense of humor, or his enthusiasms, he was fully aware of the effect of his preference for him on his standing in the Boston Police Department.

“The Kent case, Sergeant,” said Ames. “We'll be handling it. I've just spoken to Assistant District Attorney Tomasello of Essex, and he tells me we'll have the photos tomorrow morning. Chief Lanigan—remember him?—will probably bring them in himself. Now I'd like you to go over to the college and find out who saw Kent last.”

The English office was on the second floor of the Administration Building, and on Monday morning, when Sergeant Schroeder came a few minutes before ten o'clock, it was a busy place with the various members of the department hurrying in to gather books and notes and then hurrying out to meet their ten-o'clock classes. Since he was not in uniform, they assumed he was perhaps a book salesman who was there to see Professor Sugrue, the head of the department.

He reached into his pocket and brought out the leather folder in which his badge was pinned so that he could show it and stop one of them, but the hurried exodus continued, and within a couple of minutes only one was left, and he was striding toward the door.

“Hey, just a minute—” he called.

But the other said, “Sorry, mister, but I haven't got a minute. I've got a class at Wentworth, which is at the end of the street. Professor Sugrue will be along in a couple of minutes. He's probably the one you want to see.” And he was through the door and gone.

Sergeant Schroeder was annoyed. He was not used to having his authority flouted, but short of chasing after the man, there was nothing he could do. So he wandered about the room, studying the bulletin board, looking curiously at whatever papers had been left exposed on desktops, and was in the middle of reading a handwritten letter, seemingly from a student explaining a failure to hand in a paper on time, when Professor Sugrue entered the room.

The sergeant looked up guiltily at the tall, gangling figure who was looking at him questioningly, and stammered, “I'm just waiting around to see a Professor Sugrue.”

“I am Professor Sugrue.”

“Oh, swell, I'm Sergeant Schroeder, Boston Police Department, Homicide.” And this time he was able to show his badge.

“Homicide? This is in reference to Professor Kent? I thought he'd had a heart attack.”

“Well, he may have. But there's some question about it, so we're investigating.”

“So how can I help you?”

“For one thing, I'd like to know who saw him last before the Thanksgiving vacation.”

“Let me see.” Professor Sugrue flipped the cover on a small metal box and thumbed through the cards it contained. “Let me see, Wednesday. Professor Kent had a four-o'clock on Wednesday, and so did Professor Fine, Professor Handy, and Professor Morrow. Those are late-afternoon and evening classes, you understand, and I'm under the impression that all of them canceled their classes for the day because of the storm, you know. Called in before noon. Handy and Morrow come from a distance; one is from Gloucester and the other from Ipswich. Professor Fine lives in Newton, but he walks with a cane, and I supposed he thought the going would be treacherous.”

“Yeah, I know. I know Professor Fine.”

“Do you? Of course, Professor Kent was not affected since he lives next door, you might say. I suppose I should say ‘lived' instead of ‘lives.'”

“How about those with three-o'clock classes that end at four? They might have seen him.”

“Three o'clock is the last hour of the regular session. Let's see, Professor Miller has a three-o'clock, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But he didn't come in today; he has a bad cold. Then there's Sarah McBride. She's really Mrs. Baumgold, Mrs. Lew Baumgold. Her husband is a lawyer in Salem, but she calls herself Ms. McBride, at least here. She should be along in a few minutes. She has an eleven-o'clock.”

“And I don't suppose you saw him, did you? You weren't around that afternoon?”

“As it happens, I was, but I didn't see him. I was in the library most of the afternoon. I got back here to the office around a quarter past four. Miller and McBride must have gone by that time. Oh, someone came in to ask about Professor Kent. A Mr. er—some Italian-sounding name. He'd been once or twice before to see Professor Kent. He came in to ask if Professor Kent was teaching a class. He'd gone to his house and rung and knocked and received no answer, so he thought he might be teaching a class. I told him he wasn't, and he said he'd go back and try again, that maybe he'd been tied up, been in the John.”

“How did you know he wasn't teaching his class?” asked the sergeant.

“Oh, on my way from the library, I passed his classroom. It was empty, and there was a notice on the door saying that Professor Kent would not be meeting his four-o'clock class.” He pushed aside the card file and leaned back in his chair. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. Was he liked in the department? Did he have any enemies, you know, guys who didn't like him?”

“We-el, he didn't have many friends.” Sugrue was obviously uncomfortable. “He was an old man and had been here longer than anyone else in the department, and some felt that he took advantage of his seniority to—to—”

“To throw his weight around?”

“I'm sure he didn't intend to. It was just that—that—er—that other people might have interests or attitudes that differed from his. Oh, here's Sarah McBride now. Maybe she saw him. I'll have to run along now. Appointment with the dean.”

“You are Mrs. Baumgold,” said Sergeant Schroeder.

“Guilty,” she replied. “But here I'm Sarah McBride.”

“I am Sergeant Schroeder, Boston Homicide.” He showed her his badge. “Wednesday, you had a class at three o'clock which ended at four.”

“I had a class at three, but I ended at half past instead of four.”

“Why?”

“Because of the storm, of course. Less than half the class came, and those who did welcomed an early start. And it was the start of the vacation.”

“So you ended the class and came back here to the English office?”

“That's right.”

“Was anyone here?”

“Yes, Professor Kent was sort of lounging around. He asked me to go to the room where he gives his four-o'clock and post a notice saying he would not be meeting his class.”

“And you went?”

She nodded.

“Why didn't he do it himself?”

She shrugged, then said, “He liked to have people do things for him.”

“And then you came back here?”

“Just to get my things.”

“And he was still here?”

“That's right, although he kept saying he had to go home and get dressed for this party he was going to. But I just got my things and hurried out.”

“Why?”

“Because if I were alone with him, he'd be apt to get avuncularly affectionate, put his arm around my shoulder to show me something interesting. That sort of thing.”

“What class did you have before this one?”

“I had a one-o'clock.”

“All present for that one?”

“No, only five out of thirty showed up. I cut that class short, too.”

“So why didn't you cancel your three-o'clock? I gather from Professor Sugrue that most of the other members of the department canceled their classes for the day.”

“Well, I sort of had to hang around. Lew, my husband, was in town. He had business in the courthouse. He lives in Barnard's Crossing and we were going to spend Thanksgiving there. The original plans were that he would pick me up here and we'd drive home when he got through: But he didn't call, so I figured he was tied up. He called me later in the afternoon to tell me that he hadn't driven in; he'd taken the bus. I didn't care to take the bus out to Barnard's Crossing and then wade through a foot or more of snow for a couple of blocks to get to the house. So we agreed I'd come out by train Thursday morning and he'd pick me up at Swampscott station. And that's what we did.”

“Did your husband know about this—this avuncular affection of Kent's?”

“Oh, yes. And so did the members of the department.”

“Didn't your husband mind?”

“Of course he did. He wanted to come and see him and read him the riot act, but I persuaded him not to.”

“Why? Why didn't you want him to tell him off?”

“Because I'd lose my job.”

“You mean he'd tell Professor Sugrue to fire you?”

“Oh, he wouldn't tell Sugrue. And I don't mean that I'd get a notice from Prex telling me to clean out my desk. I wouldn't be fired in the middle of the year. I just wouldn't be reappointed next year. You see, I don't have tenure, and I'm the only member of the department without a Ph.D. Professor Kent doesn't have one either, but that's different; he has tenure, for one thing, and he's got a kind of drag with the trustees, as near as I can make out.”

“You mean he might tell the trustees not to renew your contract, and they'd do it?”

“Oh, I don't suppose he'd do it that way. He'd probably tell them that he'd been watching my work and thought they ought to hire someone with more experience. That sort of thing.”

“And your husband? When you told him not to protest or anything, he just let it go?”

“He doesn't like it, of course. He told me to stay out of his way. And that's what I do. If he's alone in the office, I stay clear of it. Once or twice he called and asked me to get a book out of the library for him and bring it over to his house, but I always managed to get out of it.”

“Your husband, he's with some law firm?”

“Uh-huh. Schofield, Petrillo and Langerham, in Salem.”

Schroeder jotted the name down in his notebook.

Chapter 30

Most of the class were already seated, and the rest came in along with the rabbi as he entered his office. No sooner was he seated in his leather chair than one of the students called out, “Hey, Rabbi, did you see this morning's paper? Did you see the story on Professor Kent?”