The Instrumental Rabbi (A Professor McCauley Mystery)

by R. D. Abruzzese

  Over that period of time they collected volumes of evidence of Welfare fraud, unnecessary surgical operations, and shoddy medical procedures. Chandler was running the medical equivalent of a high volume meat market and double or triple charging the government in most cases. Many times he charged for procedures that had not even performed.

  The evidence in the case of the operating room death was never strong enough to be used in trial but it was enough to make Chandler settle out of court. He agreed never to practice medicine again and his license was subsequently revoked.

  That settlement, coupled with his past community service, got him a reduced sentence on the other fraud charges. After eighteen months of legal maneuvering, Chandler received a sentence of fourteen years. He served eleven.

  After his release from prison, Chandler moved to Charlestown and began an unlicensed practice in the underworld. Through his prison contacts, he began servicing the needs of the local gang and criminal elements and performing a “low cost, cash only” surgical procedures on illegal aliens.

  He also did work for some of his more affluent, former patients. These were the procedures that were just too “sensitive” for public, or even private, hospitals. It was once such procedure that he had to perform tonight.

  Chandler opened the top drawer of his dresser and stared in at the rows of surgical instruments. He reached down and grabbed a small black bag from the floor. This looked like an ordinary physician's bag. Placing it on top of the dresser, he began to selectively remove instruments from the drawer and deposit them into the bag.

  When he was satisfied with his selection, he closed that drawer and opened the one beneath. From there, he filled his bag with some of the other necessities of the surgery; latex gloves, sponges, clamps, sutures, alcohol, wipes… and a small, black plastic pyramid.

  As he prepared to leave, he walked to his tiny refrigerator, opened it and removed a bottle of gin. He opened the bottle and gulped the gin down until the excess rolled from the corners of his mouth. He put the cap on the bottle, placed it back on the top shelf of the refrigerator and removed a small, stainless steel Thermos bottle from the second shelf.

  He placed the Thermos bottle in his black medical bag, turned off the overhead light, grabbed a large black handled carving knife from the counter, and walked out the door.

  Cohasset, MA

  “SMITH, I need you!” shouted McCauley into the telephone. “Can you pick me up at my house in 45 minutes?”

  “I... I think so,” mumbled Jenny as she sat up on the sofa feeling quite disoriented. She looked out of the window and guessed that she must have fallen asleep for at least an hour. It was now dark outside. “I need to take a shower and --”

  “NO!” shouted McCauley. “NO TIME for showers. Just splash some cold water on your face, get dressed, and come right over!”

  “Alright, I'll be there just as soon as I can. Is it important?” she said trying to wake up.

  “He's killed... again.” said the Professor softly with a touch of reverence.

  Jenny put down the phone and rushed about the house. First, into the shower, then her bedroom, and lastly, back to the bathroom in an attempt to do her hair. She estimated that from the Professor's phone call it had taken her less than twelve minutes to get ready.

  There was no way she would see him again without a shower and a little makeup. As she set the lock on her front door, she glanced at the wall clock in the living room.

  “My God!” she exclaimed. It was 3:15 a. m.

  Back Bay, Boston, MA

  McCauley was in no mood for conversation this morning. Jenny glanced at him as they drove through the narrow streets of the city. The pale streetlights cast a stark whiteness over his face.

  He seemed to be much more troubled than when she had left him only a few hours before. He had the look of a man deep in thought, consumed with information and reflection. She wondered if perhaps he had discovered something new about the case.

  Although this thought was exciting to her, the idea of trying to engage him in conversation while he was in this type of mood was more effort than she cared to undertake at this hour of the morning.

  They drove in silence through the mostly empty streets, finally coming upon the flashing red, yellow, and blue lights of the Boston Police Department, the MDC Police, the State Police, and one lone ambulance.

  “Looks like we may have caught a break on this one.” said Detective Iaconi as the Professor and Jenny approached the crowd. “He's been seen.”

  Melanie Sorenson lived in one of the renovated, fourth floor, brownstone condominiums that Boston's Back Bay had become famous for. She was one of hundreds of single, middle class females that lived near and worked in the financial district of Boston.

  They are the clerical support system; some would say the backbone, of a multibillion-dollar financial system that extends worldwide. Without their data processing, copying, and collating, electronic fund transfers would come to a halt. International currency transfers would collapse.

  This valuable position allowed Melanie to afford the rent of a condominium in such a prestigious location but she could not do so without a roommate.

  It was her roommate who was the witness. It was her roommate who called the police. It was her roommate who watched the disgraced ex-surgeon hack at a lifeless body.

  Unfortunately, it was her roommate whom the EMTs had just sedated and were transporting to the hospital. Her roommate would never recover from this night or what she had witnessed. Eventually, she would be institutionalized, a silent, broken sentinel, forever replaying a scene in her locked and impenetrable mind.

  “The roommate is the witness,” continued Iaconi, “but I'm afraid the poor thing is too upset to talk.”

  “Well, what GOOD is a witness if she cannot be interviewed?” shot back the Professor obviously irritated with Iaconi. Jenny had never seen him so upset. He continued to lash at Iaconi each time the detective attempted to speak about the crime scene.

  Iaconi tried valiantly to give pertinent details as the Professor examined the body of Melanie Sorenson but each time the Professor blasted him for some error in judgment or oversight. Finally, the detective just gave up; he was also tired, physically and mentally.

  He simply stood in silence as McCauley performed his analysis of the murder scene, occasionally calling out to Jenny, who could not bring herself to approach the body, to scratch down a note or remind him to follow up on something.

  After an excruciating hour of examination the Professor was finished and visibly exhausted. The butchered remains of the girl paled in comparison to the horror left frozen on her face.

  Buried in the base of her exposed intestines was a small, black plastic pyramid. McCauley sensed that the murderer was now beginning to enjoy his horrid work, perhaps even terrorizing the victims just prior to their death.

  Melanie's torn and shredded body could have been hacked up with an axe from its appearance. The carving knife was now becoming a weapon of delight in the hands of the once famous surgeon.

  “We're leaving now Iaconi, keep us informed if something else should arise,” whispered the Professor walking toward the car.

  “Won't you be stopping by the station?” asked Iaconi somewhat confused.

  “NO, WE WILL NOT!” blasted the Professor. “I am sick and tired of these murders and your inane paperwork and procedures are your own responsibility!”

  Jenny looked compassionately into the eyes of the detective as she turned and began to follow McCauley

  “MISS!” shouted Iaconi in a voice so authoritative that it froze both Jenny and the Professor in their tracks. “Would you be so kind as to tell that bone-headed bookworm that we've got the eyewitness on tape!”

  “What?” said McCauley, almost in a trance.

  “The roommate...” continued Iaconi more slowly, “Like I tried to tell you all night. She called 911. We've got her voice and a description of the murderer on tape!”

  Police Hea
dquarters, Boston, MA

  “This isn't going to be pleasant, Miss.” said Detective Iaconi in a polite, concerned voice, looking directly at Jenny.

  “I know, but I want to hear it,” she replied.

  “Are you sure Jenny?” asked the Professor. It was the first time since they met that he had called her by her first name, a fact that was lost on everyone in the room except Jenny.

  “Yes, I'm sure, thank you, Stuart,” she said looking at him with a soft smile, “let's get on with it.”

  They were all seated at Police Headquarters in one of the interrogation rooms on the second floor of building C. The black and white tiled floor was worn and shiny and smelled of fresh wax.

  The oak conference table that held the tape recorder was a carved colossus with deeply etched initials scattered along its surface. The underside contained enough displaced chewing gum to power an entire little league baseball team.

  Seated in the dimly lit room were Jenny Smith, Stuart McCauley, Detective Iaconi, Commissioner Paul Rouillard, and Theresa Stevenson, a portly, black, 911 operator who was on call when the roommate first telephoned.

  “The first sounds you'll hear will be the date and time stamp which is an automatic voice attendant. This is activated each time a call is received. After that you'll hear me answer and then...” She broke off slowly and looked at Jenny with a kind and caring glance. “Are you sure Miss?”

  “Quite sure,” said Jenny, now feeling a little annoyed with the patronizing attitudes.

  “Just how bad could it be?” she wondered. It was a question that would soon be answered as Theresa Stevenson switched on the recorder.

  The first thought which occurred to Jenny was how odd the period of silent hissing sounded before the automatic attendant “spoke.”

  “September 4th, 12:37 AM,” said the dry, monotone machine voice.

  “911.” The voice was that of Theresa Stevenson.

  “HELP HER! HELP HER! HE'S KILLING HER!” screamed the roommate hysterically into the phone line. “Oh, Pleeeease God, Pleeeease...” She was crying uncontrollably.

  “Where are you located? Where are you?” It was Theresa, the professional, at work.

  “Pleeeease, oh, PLEASE! HE'S HACKING AT HER BODY! THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE! I THINK HE'S KILLED HER! SHE'S NOT MOVING! SHE'S NOT MOVING!”

  “Calm down and tell me where you are. Can you tell me your location? We will have a squad car there in just a few minutes. Turn away from the window and catch your breath and tell me where you are. Tell me where you are.” Theresa's slow repetitive voice training was designed to penetrate the most frightened and confused minds.

  “.... Back Bay Arms...” said the roommate quietly sobbing. “I looked out... to see if Melanie was home and I saw HIM... speaking to her. Then he pushed her back between the cars and she fell down...” The roommate was crying violently.

  “Take it easy Miss, take it easy. We have a car on the way. You're going to be fine. Can you still see him?” asked Theresa trying to extract the maximum amount of information while keeping the girl talking.

  “No… he's gone! But, Oh GOD...SHE'S ALL BLOOD! SHE'S ALL CUT OPEN AND THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE!”

  “Turn away from the window.” said Theresa.

  “SHE'S ALL BLOOD!” screamed the roommate. “HER STOMACH IS SLICED OPEN AND THERE'S BLOOD EVERYWHERE!”

  “TURN AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!” said Theresa, now forcefully. “Turn away, close your eyes and only listen to my voice!” She was trying desperately to save this girl.

  “She's DEAD!” said the roommate between sobs. “She's dead and the Rabbi's gone...” and with that she broke into a murmuring, incoherent series of whimpers. Not known at the time, but those were the last words anyone would ever hear her say.

  Theresa Stevenson turned off the recorder. The hardened, expertly-trained Police professional, who had been through this type of call a hundred times before, looked over at Jenny with tears streaming down her face.

  “Thank you, Theresa,” said Paul Rouillard sympathetically, “that will be all for now.”

  Theresa nodded and walked out of the interrogation room. Jenny watched her leave and then looked back at the table. All three men had a wispy glaze over their eyes and all three men were staring directly at her.

  “I'm fine,” she said defensively while choking back tears, “really... I'm ok, I’m OK.”

  Later, as they walked to the car, there was a strange silence between her and McCauley. Jenny kept replaying the sound of the roommate's voice and her penetrating pleas for help over and over again in her mind.

  McCauley was solemn, deep in thought and as serious and focused as Jenny had ever seen him. When they reached the car, she broke the silence.

  “Stuart, do you think that it's some type of religious ritual?” she said softly.

  McCauley looked over at her. His eyes were strained, bloodshot and tense. He responded to her question with an odd reply.

  “I swear to you Jenny… if it takes me a lifetime, I'll get him. I'll hunt him down and I’ll make him pay for this... I swear...” His voice dropped off and he was staring straight ahead of them with almost no expression on his face.

  “You need some rest.” she said thoughtfully scanning the side of his face. “I guess we both do.” She wondered if he'd ask her back to his house when she dropped him off. “A good night's rest and we can start in on the Rabbi lead first thing in the morning.”

  McCauley recoiled from her so violently that she stepped back in surprise. His face had transformed to a contorted veil of anger and outrage.

  As his face quickly reddened, he shouted at her, “The Rabbi… my dear Miss Smith, is merely an instrument!”

  Chapter 5

  Easton, CT

  Alan Dietris woke with a start. He hadn’t slept well last night and had just drifted off to sleep a few hours ago. As he reached over for the clock, he noticed the sun streaming through the curtains in the living room of his one bedroom suite situated in a middle class neighborhood of the sleepy little town of Easton, CT. “Christ,” he thought aloud, “another day wasted by this damn 2nd shift.”

  Alan was a genetics technician at the A.G. Bhermann research facility on Buck Hill Road in Easton. The research facility RS1 was a rural outpost for the giant Switzerland-based Bhermann company whose US headquarters was in Rutherford, NJ.

  The small, highly secretive Connecticut facility employed only 29 people; 1 administrator, 1 VP of strategic resources, 2 administration assistants, 5 researchers, 6 technicians, and 14 members in the security detail. Their work was cutting edge, very classified, and meant to be kept from prying competitive eyes and the other employees of the 20,000 member Bhermann workforce. At least this was what Alan was told when hired.

  He had only been with Bhermann for two months. After high school and a brief tour in the Army, Alan completed a 2-year program in microbiology at a local community college and received his CMT certification.

  He had worked for three years at Bayer’s nutraphamacutical facility in Milford but found the work routine and the money disappointing. When a former Bayer employee approached him with the opportunity to work at Bhermann, he jumped at it. “Why not,” he thought. “It’s twice the salary.” The only drawback that he could see was the fact that it was second shift with hours of 3 p.m. to 11 p.m.

  “What the hell,” he thought, “I’m single and I can do this for a while. If it becomes an issue, I’ll just quit. At least I only overlap with the Bhermann PhD researchers a couple of hours each day. Most of the time, I’ll just be working on my own.”

  He thought back wistfully about his interviews and his first day on the job. He likened the security screening and background checks to the top-secret clearance that he had received in the Army, only Bhermann was much more thorough.

  Their screening involved researching his background and interviewing everyone. They even visited the town that was his birthplace and interviewed his elementary school teachers. They met twice with his
ex-wife in North Carolina. They gave him seven psychological examinations and a total of twelve interviews with ten different people.

  About half of those interviews were with psychologists, as far as he could tell, although they never volunteered their credentials. A.G. Bhermann wasn’t concerned about security, they were fanatical about it.

  The fanaticism was only reinforced by his first day on the job. He still remembered driving up the long private road as it wound its way through the 18 acre Bhermann campus.