Murder At The Mikvah (32 page)

 Forty-two

Ron Smith was preoccupied with one of his puzzle books, rhythmically tapping his pencil on the page, when Lewis appeared at his office door. Ron motioned blindly toward one of the chairs. It wasn’t until Lewis had taken a seat, that the detective looked up and stared directly into the psychiatrist’s eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to know a six letter word for
obstinate
, would you?” he asked.

Lewis didn’t immediately respond. The question sounded like a joke. After all, he had just spent over an hour with the alleged killer, Peter Stem. Surely, the detective would be eager to hear what he'd discovered!

“Any thoughts, Doctor Danzig? The word is
obstinate
.”

Lewis leaned back and scratched his head. So it wasn’t a joke. “Obstinate,” he repeated, then thought for a moment. “Have you tried
mulish
?”

“Mulish?” Ron asked, skeptically, “Is that even a real word?”

Lewis closed his eyes and nodded. He was feeling a bit punchy after his session with Peter. It was only about 4:00 PM, but felt much later—probably because of the darkening sky.

“Yes, I'm certain you'll find
mulish
in Webster’s dictionary, Detective.”

“I would never have thought of it,” Ron said, shaking his head as he scribbled it in. His eyes lit up. “That’s it…
mulish
works! Man, that one’s been bugging me for days!”

“My pleasure,” Lewis said, fighting back a yawn. The mustiness of the room wasn’t helping. “Could we get some fresh air in here?”

“Oh yeah, sure thing.” Ron set his puzzle book aside and unlatched the one window in the room. The sudden noise from the street below was abrasive to Lewis, but the crisp December breeze more than made up for it.

Ron returned to his desk and leaned down into his fridge. “Water? Pomegranate juice?” he offered.

“Water would be great, thanks.”

“I’m eager to hear how it went with Peter,” Ron said, not sounding eager at all. At the moment, he seemed more interested in reading the nutrition label on his juice. “This stuff has enough antioxidants for an entire football team!” he announced happily.

Lewis smiled politely. “Yes, that's good stuff—a bit tart for my taste though.”

The detective took a giant swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, you had your session with Peter… ”

Lewis nodded and leaned over, reaching into his briefcase. He pulled out a thin stack of stapled papers and handed them to the detective. “This is a report of my observations. If you like, I can summarize what I've found.”

“Be my guest,” Ron said.

Lewis took a swig of his water and then began. “If you recall, Detective, my objective in meeting with Peter was to determine if his present state is indicative of a psychiatric condition or something more.”

“Right. Go on.”

“Foremost, I’ve concluded that there is absolutely nothing to support the theory of demonic possession. During our time together, Peter’s affect remained stable, he made no threats to me, said nothing about the church or God, displayed no extraordinary physical abilities…”

“So you think he’s faking the whole thing?” Ron asked eagerly.

Lewis raised his eyebrows, surprised. “
Faking
? No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Ron puffed up his cheeks and blew air toward the ceiling. “Don't tell me you think he's actually
insane
then?”

Lewis sat back and frowned. “Insane is not a term I like to use.” He held up his hand at Ron’s attempt to interrupt, then continued. “I
will
say with all confidence that Peter is indeed suffering from a psychiatric condition. Something has caused him to temporarily disassociate from reality.”

“So it's not an
act
?” Ron asked, genuinely perplexed.

“No,” Lewis said, shaking his head adamantly. “
Again
, his condition is definitely not an act. Peter is in the actual throes of a stress induced state of acute psychosis.”

“Stress induced, you say?” Ron made no effort to conceal his annoyance. He finished what was left of his drink and shrugged. “Murder's a stressful job all right; I'd say it's up there with air traffic controllers,” he mumbled.

“Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing what triggered the psychosis,” Lewis continued, ignoring Ron's statement, “but whatever the event was, it happened in close proximity to his arrest.”

Ron remembered Father McCormick's claim that Peter's behavior was completely normal all morning and throughout the day of the crime. This actually gave some credence to Dr. Danzig's suggestion that a specific
trigger
set him off.
Damn
. They had plenty of physical evidence linking Peter to the crime. But now it looked as though Peter would be claiming temporary insanity. That type of defense would take much longer and frankly, Ron didn’t have the time.

“How long do you think he’s been in this state of psych…”

“Psychosis,” Lewis clarified.

“Right.”

“Well, again, that would depend on the time of the trigger, Detective. I wish I could tell you if Peter became psychotic before or after you found him at the crime scene,”—Lewis shook his head—“unfortunately, I can't help you there.”

“How long?” Ron asked. “How long will he be like this?”

“Actually, that's the good news. He can come out of his dissociative state at any time. In fact, there are indicators that he is starting to come out of it
now
. Indeed, that is one of the reasons I advise maintaining his current living accommodations, rather than moving him to a special facility.”

“
Special facility…
as in a
loony bin
,” Ron mumbled, and as expected, Lewis didn't respond.

“Well, is there any way to speed things up?”

“Speed up Peter coming out of the psychosis?” Lewis pursed his lips. “Actually, there may be a way.”

Ron made a rolling motion with his hands. “Good… What is it?”

“Hypnosis.”

“Hypnosis?” Ron repeated, surprised. He had expected to hear about some kind of prescribed drug—a shot in the ass, maybe.

Lewis nodded.

“Hypnosis would bring him out of his fog sooner?” Ron asked.

“Psychosis,” Lewis corrected. “And it
may
help. There's a good chance, but there are no guarantees,” Lewis said.

Ron shrugged. “It's worth a shot, I guess. I'll call Father McCormick and let him know.” He picked up the phone, and almost as an after thought asked, “Was there anything else in your report?”

“Well, Peter said something that might be of interest.”

Ron stopped dialing and nearly dropped the phone. “Hold on. You’re telling me Peter
spoke
to you?”

“Yes. Like I said, he's showing signs of recovery.”

“What did he say?” Ron asked, his eyes wide. “Did you ask him about the murder?”

Lewis shook his head. “No, we didn’t have a dialogue, as you’ll see when you watch the tape. He was too agitated; he wouldn’t have responded to my questions anyway. But what I found interesting was he kept repeating one particular name—
Suzanne
.”

Ron scratched his forehead. “Suzanne?”

Lewis nodded.

“That’s all he said? Or was there more?”

“There were other mumblings—completely incoherent—but
Suzanne
was loud and clear. I thought the name might mean something to you.”

Ron shook his head. “I’d be happy just knowing who
Peter
is.” He whacked his pencil against his desk. “
Suzanne… Suzanne
… I don't know. She could be a girlfriend, an ex-wife, even another victim… Wait!” he said suddenly, then reached over and grabbed the case file. He rummaged through it until he found the paper he was looking for. He scanned it intently, all the while holding up a single finger so Lewis would stand by quietly. After a few minutes, he looked up at Lewis, shook his head and let out a big sigh. “Apparently, mikvah use is such a private matter, they don’t keep official records, but this is a list of married orthodox women from the community who might
potentially
use the mikvah. I thought maybe the name
Suzanne
would be… well, you would think with over a hundred names there would be at least
one
Suzanne!” His shoulders dropped and he laughed out loud. “But
no
, that would be too easy, right?…Well, it was worth a shot.” He shook his head, pulled out his clipboard and scribbled something on a blank page. He would need to run the name Suzanne through the national missing persons database, though single name searches usually took days to sift through. More time that he didn’t have.

Suzanne.

He suddenly remembered what Father McCormick had told John Collins.
Peter had a girlfriend. He would disappear for a couple of days at a time…
John had nudged him about it, told him it might be worth looking into, but truthfully, Ron hadn't given it any consideration until now. Was Suzanne this elusive girlfriend's of Peter's? If so, could she help unravel the mystery of Peter's identity?
He
looked at his watch. It was nearly 4:40 PM. He picked up the phone, then remembered: Violet was expecting him by 5:15 and he promised he wouldn’t be late.

 Forty-three

Giovanni’s
on Crescent Avenue was a third generation family owned barbershop. It was run by Marco Giovanni, the sixty year-old grandson of Paolo Giovanni, who had emigrated from Italy in 1918. Paolo’s older brothers were skilled stonemasons who had the good fortune of finding steady work during the building boom of the 1920's, while Paolo set up a small, but profitable barber shop under the tiny apartment the family shared.

The single block stretch of Crescent Avenue had once been a thriving hub of family owned storefronts—a pharmacy, a butcher, a tailor, a baker—and in it’s heyday enjoyed the bustling daily business of wealthy suburbanites. With the modernization efforts of the township—which included the building of large strip malls and the subsequent in pouring of national retail chains—the small hometown businesses began to suffer. Giovanni’s
managed to stay afloat, but Marco knew that once he retired, Giovanni’s
would be no more. He wasn’t sure if he was more heart broken about losing business to places like
Hair Cuttery
, or the fact that not one of his four sons had the slightest interest in cutting hair and trimming beards.

It was nearly 8:00 PM when John Collins and Ron Smith were welcomed into Giovanni's by the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra singing “The Lady is a Tramp”. The song reminded John of the shop down in South Philly, where Jacko Spinelli, at the ripe old age of eighty-four still cut John’s hair each month. But the music played in Giovanni's was piped out of an I-pod speaker system, surprising for a shop that in its ambiance transported you back to the 1940’s. An eight-track player would have been more fitting.

Four adjustable chairs lined one of the walls, each facing an unframed rectangular mirror. Glass bottles of
Barbisol
, combs, razors and shaving supplies adorned the counter space at each station. In a corner, three captain’s chairs sat catty corner behind a table scattered with magazines and newspapers. The barbers: Marco, Lloyd, Len, and Vincent—their names were neatly stitched onto their matching blue striped smocks—showed no discomfort upon seeing a uniformed police officer enter the shop. After all, cops needed haircuts too.

John had not been surprised to learn that the psychiatrist, Dr. Danzig, believed Peter was suffering from some sort of mental trauma. Unlike Ron, John had never considered that Peter's behavior was an act.
Defecating in your pants
? Now that would have been
some
acting! John had been a bit intrigued—though not surprised—by the news that Peter had repeated a name during the psychiatric evaluation.
Suzanne
. Well, at least now Ron was giving some attention to Peter Stem's personal life. And miracle of miracles! He and Ron finally agreed on something—that Suzanne was likely the girlfriend Father McCormick spoke of during dinner at John’s house.

The thing that
had
been a complete surprise to John was the CODIS report. As luck would have it, the results had just come in, and they were
negative
. Negative meant that Peter's DNA, collected in surplus from the mikvah, had not been recovered from
any
other U.S. crime scene in the past twenty plus years. Mental trauma or not, it was hard for John to believe that Peter's crime was an isolated case. This entire situation, which at first seemed so open and shut, was getting more and more bizarre. Actually, now that John thought about it, there was no way Suzanne could be Peter's girlfriend. The way things were shaping up, that would just be too easy.

Was there anyone who would know more about this girlfriend of Peter's?
John had asked Father McCormick at Ron's request. Ron had been right in assuming the priest would be more forthcoming if John were to make the call.
As a matter-of-fact, there was someone,
Father McCormick told him. Peter had a friend—a barber named Vince Manicotti. He worked at Giovanni's. Perhaps Vince could provide some answers.

“Is there a Vince Manicotti here?” Ron asked, reaching into his coat pocket.

A couple of the barbers started snickering. The youngest looking of the group straightened up. He had a thick head of black hair, slicked back behind his ears.

“It's not
manicotti
like the noodle; it's
Mancotti,
pronounced man-cot-ee. If that's who you want, then I'm your man.”

Ron flashed his badge, “I’m Detective Ron Smith,”—then pointed to John—“and this is Detective John Collins.”

Detective.
The mere sound of the word resonated through John’s entire body like a shot of testosterone.

“Like it or not, you're on the case now,” Ron had told John on the ride over. “I won’t take
no
for an answer. Consider it a favor to Dad.”

“We'd like a word with you, Mr. Mancotti,” Ron continued.

“Ron
Smith
?” Marco spoke up from his station at the door.

Ron spun around.

“Are you Ron senior’s son?”

Ron nodded reluctantly.

“Well, I’ll be!” Marco slapped his thigh. “I used to cut your Daddy’s hair! That was
years
ago when you were no higher than my knee!”—He pointed to his knee—“and boy oh boy did you love that pole outside!” He stretched his arm, proudly indicating the barber pole mounted outside the front window. “You used to lean up against the glass and watch it spin and spin… that’s all it took back then to make the young ones happy—no need for videos or X Bag…”

“X
Box
!” corrected Len from two chairs down, who was meticulously trimming his customer’s right sideburn.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Marco said. “Sheesh!”

Marco's attention quickly returned to the detective. “I used to tell you jokes when you came in, do you remember?” he asked, his face lit up with excitement.

“No, sorry.”

“Here’s one: where do sheep get their hair cut?”

“I have no idea.”

Marco snickered.

“At the ‘baaaa rbersop’! Get it? The baaaa rbershop!”

“Yeah, that’s pretty funny,” Ron said, forcing a polite smile. He turned to go.

“Wait! Here’s another one. Lloyd just told me this one…”

Lloyd looked up from the beard he was trimming and gave a little salute with his finger. “Someone’s gotta give Marco some decent material once in a while, or we’d be listening to sheep jokes all day!”

The others laughed.

“Ha ha… very funny,” Marco said, narrowing his eyes. He turned back to Ron and rubbed his palms together. “Okay, here it is: why do barbers make the best drivers?”

Ron stretched his neck from side to side. “No idea.”

Marco smiled eagerly. “Take a guess!”

“No clue.”

“C’mon Guess!”

Ron looked at his watch.

“Barbers make the best drivers because they know all the short cuts! Get it? They know the
short cuts
!” Marco snorted sounds of laughter. Tears streamed down his face. “Ha! That’s a good one!” He leaned forward, clutching his stomach, then grabbed on to his chair for support, subsequently spinning his customer about ninety degrees.

“Careful boss, you don’t want to get yourself worked up!” Lloyd said over the sounds of Marco’s hysterics.

Lloyd glanced over at John and Ron who were waiting for Marco to compose himself. “He’s already had two strokes you know.”

Marco slapped his knee, still laughing. His face was beet red. “… the short cuts! I love that one!” After another minute or so of knee slapping, Marco brushed himself off and exhaled loudly. “Whew!… Yep, you and your dad were attached at the hip! Hey, how’s old Ron doing, anyway?”

“Fine. He’s fine,” Ron said, not wanting to get into it. He now regretted not sending John out here on his own.

“Well, you tell him Marco Giovanni says hello! You tell him to stop bein’ such a stranger!”

“Sure. I’ll tell him.”

Satisfied, Marco started whistling and went back to cutting his customer’s hair. The forty-year old average looking guy had been sitting perfectly still, looking down at his hands during the entire exchange. Tiny drops of sweat had slowly made their way down his forehead, picking up speed steadily as they continued along the bridge of his nose, before splashing on his black smock. The guy hadn’t paid over a year’s worth of outstanding parking tickets, and there was a warrant out for his arrest. It was just his luck that not one but
two
cops would show up on a Friday night in the middle of his haircut.

Vince Mancotti led the two detectives to a back room. It had a full sized retro refrigerator from the 1950’s, and a brand new microwave oven.

“Have a seat,” Vince said, pointing to an ugly plaid couch, piled with magazines—Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Garden, and Oprah. “Oh, let me get those,” he offered, quickly gathering them up into a neat pile. He shrugged. “Len’s wife… she hangs out here… likes to keep an eye on him. What are you gonna’ do?”

“You guys stay open late,” John said, taking a seat across from Vince.

“Well, things are tight. The whole block’s on extended hours. Marco would have us working ‘round the clock if we’d go along with it.”

“We have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Mancotti,” Ron said, opening a folding chair that was leaning against a wall.

“You can call me Vince.”

“Vince, I'll get right to the point: we're here to ask you about Peter Stem.”

“Pete? Is he okay? I haven’t seen him in a few weeks. Did something happen?”

“He’s fine, we just have a few questions… You’re a friend of his, correct?”

“Yes. We’ve known each other for almost ten years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah it is. Pete and Father McCormick—from St. Agassi—get their haircuts here… uh, is Pete in trouble or something?”

“We’re not at liberty to say. Just a few questions, and then you can get back to work.”

“Okay…”

“What was the nature of your friendship?”

Vince leaned back. “Well, we’re not gay, if that’s what you're asking.”

Ron eyed the Oprah Magazine. “That’s not what I meant, but okay.” In truth, he hadn’t ruled it out.

“We hung out, like any normal guys… watched TV, had a few beers now and then—that’s all.”

“I thought Peter was a recovering alcoholic,” John interjected.

“You're right. He is. That's why he drinks these. He pulled an empty
O'Douell'
s bottle out of the trashcan. “Marco drinks them too.”

Ron nodded. “Did Peter ever exhibit anger issues?”

“Pete?” Vince laughed. “Are you kidding me? Pete’s one of the most mellow guys I know… and the nicest—he’d give you the shirt off his back.”

“How is he with women?”

Vince shrugged. “He likes a pretty girl as much as the next guy, I guess.”

“Was he ever hostile toward them?”

Vince leaned back in his chair, as if distancing himself from the question. “Never.”

“Did you ever know him to express frustration or anger toward
anyone
?”

Vince crossed his arms. “No… Aren't these the same questions?”

Ron ignored him and took a deep breath. “Does the name
Suzanne
mean anything to you?”

Vince scrunched his forehead, thinking, then shook his head. “No. Should it?”

Ron looked over at John, who had been diligently taking notes. He sighed, not at all surprised that they had hit another dead end.

“You wouldn’t by chance know about any girls Peter was seeing would you?”

“Seeing?”

“Father McCormick said there was someone in Peter's life. A
girlfriend
.”

“A girlfriend? ” He shook his head. “No one comes to mind… unless…”

“Unless?”

“Maybe he's thinking of Lydia.” He scrunched his forehead. “But that's been over for a while now.”

“Doesn’t matter. Any idea where we could find this Lydia?”

“Yeah, sure I do,” Vince replied. “She works at the Riley's Drugs next door.”

The lights were on, but Riley's pharmacy was closed. Ron looked at his watch. It was just about 8:30 PM.
So much for the whole block staying open late.
Pretty stupid business decision to close early, he thought, especially if you were a mom and pop shop competing with the likes of CVS and Rite Aid.