The Instrumental Rabbi (A Professor McCauley Mystery)

by R. D. Abruzzese

  The Instrumental Rabbi

  R.D. Abruzzese

  Simply Living, LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 R.D. ABRUZZESE. All rights reserved.

  Professor McCauley, Jenny Smith and The Instrumental Rabbi publishing rights and all related characters and elements are TM of and © R.D. ABRUZZESE.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  Professor McCauley, Jenny Smith and The Instrumental Rabbi publishing rights © 2012 R.D. ABRUZZESE.

  For information regarding permissions, email: tir@sliving.org.

  Dedication

  To Minhtam, my love and my life.

  Chapter 1

  Storrow Drive, Boston, Massachusetts

  The sun had just passed the horizon. From the bay, the back-lit Boston skyline was bathed in an orange-yellow hue. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles buzzed down Storrow Drive, drowning out the calls of the boatmen on the river.

  In summer, the Charles River was a hotbed of activity. Swimming, sunning, boating, jogging and sailing. In many ways, this Sunday was like all the rest, and yet, it was unlike any in recent memory.

  Residents and tourists poured to the river for relief from the ninety-plus degree temperatures. Children played at the water's edge and skimmed stones along its surface. It was a time to relax, enjoy, and forget.

  Today was a typical swelteringly humid summer day, outwardly peaceful and serene. Boston was very hot this August. The scorching temperatures only fueled this recent madness.

  Linda Roth watched the activity on the river from her small, seventh floor apartment. The long shadows of twilight stretched from the base of her apartment building, across Storrow Drive, to the river's embankment.

  Soon she must go to work. She had to. There were only a handful of occupations that required Sunday evening employment. Doctors, nurses, and emergency personnel were on that list. Her job, while much less critical, was also mandatory.

  Though a great deal of people depended on her being there tonight, she was more concerned about the extra police details than those people. All throughout the day, she simmered in her apartment listening over and over to the reports of the extra police details. Local news broadcasters and public officials all tried to be reassuring.

  The Boston Police, State Police, FBI, and MDC teams had all been increased and were out patrolling every inch of the city. Squad cars cruised up and down the side streets, attempting to be particularly visible near the Subway entrances. Rhythmically, the sounds of the helicopter patrols crisscrossed the sky - as if they could do something about the terror down below...

  The “Subway Slasher,” as the press had named him, was threatening another murder before this evening was over. It was one of those familiar anonymous calls to a local radio station, just like the sixteen calls before.

  He would call, speak for a minute, describe the mutilation and mutter some religious diatribe, and then hang up abruptly. The police and FBI had analyzed each call and its associated background noise and concluded that they were all placed from different pay phones.

  The locations of the phones spanned the entire city, providing just enough information to confuse law enforcement efforts.

  Each call was specific, grotesquely detailed, and always fatal. With the sixteen murders to date, the authorities had almost nothing to go on. No witnesses, no fingerprints, no leads… nothing.

  The city of Boston had also become a victim of the knife wielding barbarian. The entire Metropolitan area was crippled with fear and anxiety and was slowly grinding to a standstill.

  Initially the radio stations broadcast the Slasher’s phone calls in their entirety. They were instant rating sweepers. The police Commissioner and Mayor finally stopped this practice after the fourth murder. The entire city had gone mad. Its imagination captivated by the madman and his demonic Subway slaughters.

  One similarity in each case was the deranged “signature” on the bodies - a large cross shape carved into the chest of the victims. The victims were all women, all in their twenties or early thirties, and all ripped apart by a tear which stretched from beneath their throats down through their navels. The horizontal portion of the cross sliced across the torso past each breast.

  Linda clutched her chest as she got up from the bed. It was time to go to work. She could understand why doctors and emergency personnel had to work, but why her? It just wasn't fair. Though most employers were subtly implying dismissal for too much absenteeism, many people had simply stopped going to work when a “warning” was issued by the police department.

  Initially, it mostly affected subway travelers, but by murder number ten, very few people would venture out in the evening after a “call.” Murder mania had severely short-staffed the Associated Food Services Corporation at Logan Airport and, as a manager, it was Linda's job to make sure that all of the dinners made their way onto the airplanes.

  “This really stinks,” she said aloud, “risking my life for Chicken Divan and tossed salad.”

  Acknowledging the inevitable, she moved to her dresser and began to get dressed. She felt the night would pass more quickly if she hustled along and got it over with.

  Passing the brush through her long, dark brown hair, she wondered about her odds in a city the size of Boston and tried to convince herself that, this time, it would be some other place, some other woman. It would not be her. It could not be her. It was not reassuring.

  Traveling down the elevator and leaving her building, she walked swiftly down the side streets that led to the subway entrance. Her mind churned with the images from the newspapers and the replays of the evening news, almost to the point of panic. A great blanket of relief settled over her as she saw a policeman standing at the entrance of the Subway staircase. She nodded politely and he acknowledged her with a tip of his hat.

  “Shouldn't be out,” he said somewhat sternly.

  “I know... I know,” she replied, “but I have to go to work.”

  Sensing her terror, he tried a more calming appeal. “Well, just keep your eyes open and you'll be just fine Miss. We've got over four hundred extra patrolmen out and about. He'll not show his face in this city tonight.”

  The Subway, Boston, Massachusetts

  Linda smiled at him slightly and walked on. As she descended the staircase, she felt even better. “Four hundred,” she thought, “surely even a madman wouldn't chance it tonight with that many policemen around.”

  When she reached the platform at the bottom of the stairs, she quickly scanned the area, ready for battle or a quick retreat. The only passenger on the platform was an elderly priest seated on a bench against the wall. He was of medium build with a dark coat, gray hair and glasses.

  He was reading the sports section of the Sunday newspaper, engrossed in its stories, and seemingly unaware of her presence.

  “How funny,” she thought looking at the newspaper, “one never thinks of a priest as just a man with interests like those of all other men.”

  She decided to lean against a column so as to have a maximum viewing angle - up and down the platform.

  “This location is safe.” she thought. “The trains are well patrolled so I only have to worry about the platform near work and that one shouldn’t be a problem.” It
seemed logical, as she knew that she could view the platform from the train before she had to exit.

  Her fears began to dim and her tensions eased when, at that exact moment, he spoke.

  “Nasty business, this murderer...” said the priest, almost upon her.

  In shock, she stepped back and then blushed, seeing the elderly clergyman's face.

  “I'm sorry father, I’m afraid you startled me,” she said trying to recover.

  “Don't you worry, my child, you'll be all right as long as you're with me. We've got a friend on our side,” he said with a smile as he placed his left hand over the crucifix on his chest. It was a strange thing, but she noticed that his eyeglasses were gone.

  In the next surreal moment, Linda's eyes winced from a glimmer of light that flashed from his other hand. Time now began to move in slow motion. As she attempted to scream, she felt the sharp, piercing steel penetrate just below her ribs.

  An immeasurable pain blasted through her abdomen as he twisted the instrument across her esophagus and toward her heart. She choked and spit as the blood filled her throat and her chest burned with fire.

  Paralyzed with pain and fear, her eyes could only stare straight ahead and focus on those of the priest. His gentle demeanor was now gone and he began to grin wildly as he twisted and turned the knife. As her world began to grow dark and cold, she stared limply into the hollow eyes of a madman, fixed upon victim number seventeen.

  Northeastern University, Boston, MA

  “You are nothing but a bunch of blind incompetents, incapable of the slightest bit of reasoning or deduction!”

  The voice that bellowed through the auditorium was that of Professor Emeritus Stuart B. McCauley. It was a familiar theme. One pronounced every semester at the close of the Criminal Justice seminar for graduate students at Northeastern University. The students relished this admonition. It was predictable, and in fact, it had become his trademark. The normally vacant auditorium was standing room only today.

  The Professor was a thin, well-toned man in his early forties with small streaks of gray rifling through the temples of his otherwise intensely dark brown hair. He looked a little worn for his age, giving an appearance similar to that of an aging, marathon runner. His dress was casual; a light striped shirt, khaki trousers, topsiders, and a simple, gold wedding band.

  The berating continued. “You have read all the facts, you have seen all of the clues, and yet, you sit there like blocks of cement, unable to discern even the slightest pittance of a theory? How unfortunate is our criminal justice system if it is to be served by you and your shallow and stagnant deductive processes!”

  The professor paused, studying the disbelief and amusement now present on the young students' faces. He walked away from the podium, strutting about the stage like a cantankerous, Shakespearean actor. The students knew this performance well and yet it did nothing to diminish their respect for the youngest Professor Emeritus in the history of the University.

  “Isn’t it blatantly obvious that the mistress, while possessed of a reasonable motive, had neither means nor opportunity?” he asked while scanning the audience.

  “Likewise, the wife, who was at the salon, is similarly removed from suspicion?” He walked about the stage with his hands resting on the back of his hips.

  “Therefore, we have simply, only two remaining suspects; Mr. Eagerton and Mr. Trouthwell. Isn’t this correct?”

  It was now that the Professor became silent. Glaring out at his audience, he looked for a response, any kind of response. The auditorium sat motionless, student’s eyes focused anywhere and everywhere, except at the stage, and at him.

  He continued glaring at the students until, to his amazement, a young girl in the front row cautiously raised her hand. She was attractive enough. She had bright green eyes with white freckled skin, small and delicate features and a crop of bright crimson colored hair. The professor studied her for a moment and then nodded.

  “Your name?” he said.

  “Jenny Smith,” she replied quietly.

  “Well now, Ms. SMITH, suppose you enlighten our audience with your reconstruction of the events.”

  “Yes…sir,” she stammered, rising slowly from her chair. It was clear that Jenny Smith took no delight in speaking in front of large groups of people.

  “It appears, to me, that Mr. Eagerton had a motive…” she began, “that is, his wife's questionable accident. However, he seems to have lacked opportunity.”

  The professor moved forward slowly to study her more closely.

  “While, on the other hand, Mr. Trouthwell certainly had the opportunity but did not seem to have an obvious motive.”

  “Continue...,” pressed McCauley quietly rocking on his heels. He resembled a cobra about to strike its prey.

  “Well,” she said softly, “I believe that they were in it together. What I mean is, Mr. Trouthwell delivered the poison by coating the inside of the glass and then allowing it to dry - “

  “And his MOTIVE?” interrupted the professor unable to control his delight.

  “Money!” replied the girl confidently. “His misfortune in the stock market left him an easy target for Eagerton's great wealth and manipulation.”

  “EXCELLENT!” bellowed the professor, looking at the audience as his voice resounded throughout the theater. “This GIRL has shamed the best of you,” he said with a wicked grin.

  He continued now only speaking to Jenny. “Obviously you noted the disappearance of the telegram...”

  “As well as the stains on the cuff of Trouthwell.” she beamed.

  The professor looked on in amazement as the young woman recited a list of clues that led to her conclusion. It became obvious to everyone in the room that she had known the answer for some time but lacked the courage to speak up in front of the large, critical audience and overbearing Professor.

  When she had finished, the Professor looked at her warmly with a smile.

  “Smith…,” he said sincerely, “if ever you are in need of a reference as you go forward, please call on me for that service. It is one that I would take great pleasure in providing.”

  Jenny looked into his eyes and couldn't be more pleased, but she sensed a slight sadness in his voice and noticed a strange, melancholic look as he turned away. She didn’t know why but it made her feel sad and somewhat uneasy.

  The professor returned to the podium and concluded the seminar. He chided the young graduates to banish their preconceived notions of crime and instead simply study the world and its diversity.

  “Open your eyes and let the world show you the solution!” he said leaving the stage amid an eruption of applause.

  “Imagine that,” he mused outside of the lecture hall, “I never would have guessed it… from that girl.”

  Chapter 2

  75 Coolidge Hill Road, Cambridge, MA

  The house on Coolidge Hill Road was a pleasant sight. A brick faced colonial with dark green shutters and white trim was surrounded by flower beds and ornamental gardens. The house and landscaping were often compared to the majestic English residences of the late nineteenth century. It was a comparison not lost on its resident, Professor Stuart B. McCauley.

  The two men walked briskly up to the front door and banged the huge brass knocker attached so prominently. As they waited, they looked like two schoolboys, shuffling back and forth, nervously studying the slate decking. The younger man held a small paper bag tightly.

  A few minutes later, the door opened, and there stood Stuart McCauley dressed in a tattered dark green Cashmere sweater and worn corduroy slacks.

  “Ah, Detective Iaconi,” he said studying the second man, “I thought it might be you. Please come in.”

  The detective and his subordinate glanced at each other as they entered the house. No one, with the exception of Commissioner Rouillard, knew that they were coming. The fact that McCauley seemed to be expecting them bothered the younger man but merely served to irritate the more experienced Iaconi.

&nb
sp; Iaconi had “worked” with the Professor several times before. Those were experiences he learned from but would just as rather forget.

  Once inside they gazed at a Spartan decor highlighted with a few, well-lit, Impressionistic 19th century paintings. Both men knew what they were looking at. These were not prints or copies.

  “Gifts... from some grateful clients,” said the Professor, noticing their awkward study.

  “Since I would not accept monetary compensation, I’m afraid they insisted on these tokens of their appreciation,” he continued with a devilish smile, “I could hardly refuse.” Iaconi walked straight down the hall and turned left into the living room trying his best to ignore the Professor and his verbal baiting.