by Alton Gansky
“The whole family was home. They heard nothing.”
She snapped her gaze to Bud. “How can that be? Several men beating another isn’t the quietest thing. What are they, old and deaf?”
“Nope. Young family. I think the body was dumped here.”
Carmen looked back at the body. “Why would anyone beat a man to death then cart him to another location and offload the corpse? Seems risky. College Avenue is four lanes of constant activity.”
“The fence might be one reason. Once on the property, it’s impossible to be seen from the street, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s a hate crime.”
Carmen and Bud covered the body again. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me, partner.”
“Our vic is one David Cohen.”
“Jewish? There are a lot of Jews in San Diego, Bud. Let’s hear the rest of it.”
“This property is owned by Beth Shalom Synagogue. The guy who lives here is the congregation’s rabbi.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Does he know the vic?”
“I haven’t told him who it is yet, so I don’t know. Wanted you here first. You’re good at judging reactions.”
“Okay, give me a few minutes to look around. Then we’ll cut the techs loose to do their thing. We can interview the rabbi then.”
“Gotcha.”
7
Rabbi Joel Singer was younger than Carmen figured. She’d expected an old man with a gray beard and a large black hat. What she got was a man in his mid-thirties, with curly black hair, a thin, short beard, and piercing eyes. He was dressed in khaki pants and a dark, long-sleeved shirt. Nikes clad his feet. She guessed him to be close to six feet tall, maybe taller on days when there wasn’t a battered body left in his front yard.
The inside of the house was clean and simple. No art on the white walls. The furniture looked less than two or three years old, the carpet was clean. A sofa with cloth, flower-print upholstery sat next to the rear wall of the living room, occupied by a lovely woman with shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes tinted red and swollen from the flood of tears they held back. To her right sat a girl whom Carmen estimated to be six years old, and snuggled under the woman’s left arm sat a dark-haired boy who would no doubt break many hearts when he got older.
She chastised herself for the last thought. The kid looked frightened out of his mind.
Had the parents told the children about the body, or were they just picking up the fear from mom and dad? Police cars on the street and strangers milling around the house would certainly have started a stream of questions, the kind only young children could ask. Carmen smiled at the children.
Bud Tock took the lead. “Rabbi, this is my partner Detective Carmen Rainmondi. We need to have a word with you and your wife, if we may.”
The children inched closer to their mother.
“I don’t think my children should be left alone at the moment, and I don’t want them to hear what we have to talk about. This has been very frightening for them—for us.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
Carmen cut Bud off. “We can chat with them individually.” She stepped to the children and crouched in front of them. “Hi. I’m Detective Carmen.” She looked at the little girl first. “What’s your name, darling?”
The child looked at her mother. Mom nodded.
“Neria. It means ‘Light of the Lord.’”
“That’s beautiful. Neria. I like that.” Carmen faced the boy. “How about you, champ? What’s your name?”
Like his sister, he looked to his mother for permission and got the same nod. “Aviel.”
“Aviel. It’s a strong name.”
The boy smiled. “It means ‘The Lord is my father.’”
“Nice. Listen kids, I need to talk to your dad here for a little bit. You know, grown-up talk. Do you mind waiting in another room? Your mother can go with you.”
The woman rose. “Come, children.”
Carmen pushed to her feet and wondered when getting up from a kneeling position required a grunt. “May I have your name, ma’am?”
“Naomi. Naomi Singer.” She didn’t bother to say what the name meant. Instead, she led the children down a hall.
Carmen moved to Rabbi Singer. He motioned to the dining room. Like the living room, the space faced the front yard. Also like the living room, the window shades had been drawn. Carmen couldn’t blame him. They sat around a simple wood table stained by craftsmen to look like walnut. They sat. “I can make some coffee if you like.”
“No, thank you, sir.” Bud took the lead, as Carmen had expected. Her job was to listen and watch. “How did you come to find the body, Rabbi?”
“It’s in my front yard; how could I not find it?”
Bud smiled. He wielded a smile that could calm an angry, starving bear.
Singer lowered his head for a moment. “Sorry. I’m a little shaken.”
“I imagine you are, Rabbi. I’ve been in this business longer than I care to admit, and this has put me a little off my game. Start from the beginning.”
“I rose early. I usually do. It’s quieter then, if you know what I mean.”
“I know, Rabbi. I’ve got kids at home. Boy and a girl. Eight and four. They can make more noise than a room full of monkeys.”
Singer smiled at the image. “Anyway. I’m the rabbi at Beth Shalom. I guess I already told you that.”
“No problem, sir. My partner hasn’t heard any of this. You said earlier you were going to the synagogue. Why?”
“I wanted to pick up a couple of books. It’s Pesach and I wanted a few things for my sermon.”
“Pesach?” Bud tilted his head.
“Passover.” Singer rested his hands on the table. “It’s one of the high holidays. An eight-day celebration of the deliverance of the children of Israel from Egypt. The first two and last two days of the Pesach are . . .” He seemed to search for a term that his Gentile visitors would understand. “. . . non-work days. Only work that has to do with health and welfare can be done. Well, that and worship. The days in between allow for more kinds of work. Today is one of those days.”
“And you were going to walk?” Bud put his hands on the table, mirroring the rabbi.
“Yes, sir. I almost always walk. It isn’t far. Just a few blocks.”
“Go on.”
Carmen took notes in a small pad. It was old school, but still the easiest way to record comments and observations.
“It was about six. My wife and children were still in bed. I went out the front door and locked it behind me. I was, maybe, three steps from the front stoop when I saw . . .” He directed his gaze to the table. “When I saw the body. It was . . .” His face went white, and for a moment Carmen thought the rabbi would take a header onto the wood flooring of the dining room.
“Take your time, Rabbi.” Bud leaned back, and as was often the case in interviews, the subject leaned back too. “I know it had to be quite a shock.”
“Shock? The word doesn’t begin to cover it. I almost fainted. I don’t think I’ve ever fainted, but that—that just about did the job.”
“Then what did you do? Did you go to the body?”
He shook his head. “Should I have done that? I mean, he looked dead to me. Really dead. I’ve seen lots of dead bodies, but nothing like that.”
“Wait a minute.” Bud held up a hand. “You’ve seen a lot of dead bodies? You were in the military?”
“No, I meant—” Singer inhaled deeply, slowly. “It is Jewish custom that family or someone from the synagogue sit with a body until it is buried. It is a sign of respect. I am a rabbi, the son of a rabbi who was the son of a rabbi. I have sat with many corpses.”
“I see,” Bud said. Carmen wasn’t sure she did. Bud pressed on. “You t
old me earlier that neither you nor your wife heard anything during the night?”
“Nothing, Detective.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
Singer thought for a moment. “The children were in bed by 8:30. We retire early. Usually by ten.”
“That was true for last night?”
“Yes. I read for about half an hour after that, then went to sleep. I heard nothing. I asked the children if they heard anything last night. They said no. Was he killed in our yard?”
Bud shrugged. “Too early to say, Rabbi. The forensic team is just getting started. Still, I doubt it. He was beaten so badly that you would have heard the struggle, unless you had the television turned up.”
Singer blanched. “We didn’t watch television last night. We don’t watch it much. News mostly. Never developed the addiction.”
That was an odd phrase.
“How long . . . I mean . . . before the body is moved?”
“It will be a little while, Rabbi. Sorry. We can’t move the body until we have the whole scene photographed, searched, and documented.”
“I was hoping to get the family out for a while. You know, put some distance between them and”—he motioned to the front yard—“that.”
“I understand.” Bud shifted in his chair. “Is there a back door? Another way to the street?”
“No. There’s a fence all the way around the property.”
“I see. Well, we will be as fast as we can, but it will take some time before we can release the scene. I wish we could do more.”
“You’ve been very kind, Detective. Please let me know once the coroner arrives.”
“Medical examiner,” Bud corrected. “Of course. I have a few more questions, sir. Have you or the people at your synagogue experienced hate crimes of late?”
Again, Singer shook his head. “No, the neighborhood is very respectable. Oh sure, occasionally we hear a slur or there will be a bit of graffiti, but nothing serious. Why do you ask?”
Before Bud could answer, a light went on in the rabbi’s mind. Carmen could almost see his eyes glowing.
“Wait. Are you saying . . . the victim is a Jew?” His blinking increased and his jaw went slack.
“We found identification on the victim. Do you know a David Cohen?”
“Baruch dayan emet.” Rabbi Singer pushed back from the table. His hands shook.
“Excuse me?” Bud leaned over the table as if his gaze could fix Singer to his chair.
“It can’t be. Not David.”
He pronounced the name “Da-veed.”
“So you know him?”
“Yes, David is our cantor.”
“Cantor? What’s a cantor?”
“It’s a position in the synagogue. A cantor leads the congregation and music. I-I must go to the body.” He stood.
“Wait a minute, Rabbi. We’re not quite done.”
“Naomi!” Singer’s voice roared through the house.
Bud was on his feet and standing between the rabbi and the front door before Carmen could scoot her chair back. “Rabbi, just wait. We don’t know it’s the same person. David Cohen is a common name.”
Singer, who had been slack-jawed and pale a moment before stood with teeth clinched and red-faced. “In this neighborhood? Near our synagogue? On my property?”
Naomi appeared in the living room without the children. “What? What is it?”
“Call the chevra kadisha.”
“Oh no.” She raised her hands to her mouth.
“David Cohen. David . . .” The rest of the words failed to launch.
“Baruch dayan emet.”
What did that mean?
Singer spun to face Bud. “I must stay with the body.”
“I can’t let you do that, sir.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Bud stiffened. “Actually—”
“Bud!” Carmen stood, then approached the two. “Rabbi, you may stay near the body, but you may not touch it, or interfere with our team. Is that clear?”
“There are traditions to be upheld.”
“Sir . . .” Carmen lowered her voice. “Rabbi, you can do nothing for the man from a holding cell. I know your traditions are important, but so is catching the person or persons who did this. Do you agree?”
“Yes, but we must prepare his body for burial.”
Carmen didn’t break eye contact. “Rabbi, there will be an autopsy.”
“We bury as soon as possible. Usually within a day.”
“Not this time, Rabbi. You must let us do our work. We’ll do our best to accommodate your beliefs, but some things are not negotiable. Clear?”
He said yes but didn’t seem happy about it. Naomi had come to his side. Carmen let a few moments pass then looked to Bud. “Let’s get a uniform to stand with the rabbi so he doesn’t accidentally contaminate the scene or interfere with chain of evidence. How’s that sound?”
“Fine by me.” Tock said.
“You okay with that, Rabbi?” Carmen smiled.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m just in shock.”
“Who wouldn’t be? We’ll make sure you can stay near the body, but we have to be careful about our investigation. Understood?”
“Yes.” He stepped to a bookcase and removed a black book. “Can we go now?”
“Sure.” Carmen addressed Bud. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“Gotcha.”
Once the men had left, Carmen had a question for Naomi. “What was that you said?”
“What I said?”
“Yes. Your husband said it too. Said it when he learned the victim was Jewish. “Baruch something something.”
“Baruch dayan emet. It means, ‘Blessed be the one true Judge.’ It’s something Jews say when they hear about the death of another Jew.”
With that, Naomi broke into tears. Carmen had seen such sorrow many times.
It never got easy.
8
Carmen left the rabbi’s wife to comfort her children who had, as only children can do, adopted the grief of their parents. Seeing one’s mother in tears was unsettling no matter the age of the child. The rabbi’s children were very young, unable to understand what had happened, but they knew their mother was beside herself.
As Carmen exited the house she heard the little girl say, “Don’t cry, Mommy. It will be okay.”
Carmen wished that were true. Such violence committed on the doorstep left wounds that never healed. Carmen knew that for a fact. Tunnel vision was a horrible thing for the eyes, but it could do a world of good for the mind. Focus on the work. Block out anything not related to the investigation. Facts. Evidence. Logic. Careful procedures. Those things mattered. Everything else was a distraction. Think like a laser, not a spotlight. That was her philosophy.
Pity it seldom worked.
Before the door closed behind her, images of her own mother’s hysterical weeping washed forward in her mind. A uniformed officer had come to their door late in the night to deliver the news of the tragic auto accident. He looked suitably sad, expressed his regret at the news, and said detectives would be by to ask questions.
The officer left.
The night darkened. Carmen’s mother went from weeping in the front yard to screaming. It took Carmen and her father fifteen minutes to get her back into the house. She cried for a full week. Shelly had died on Clairemont Mesa Boulevard; Carmen’s mom died that night in a small home in East Clairemont. Not physically. She lived many years longer, but her heart, her spirit, perished that night.
It took a moment for Carmen to realize she had stopped walking. The buzz of a gathering crowd, the drone of slow-moving traffic on a busy College Avenue, a blend of voices hung about her head, waiting for attention.
She raised her eyes and took in the scene. Two uniformed officers stood just on the other side of the yellow police ribbon. A small crowd had gathered, and she recognized reporters from a local radio news station and two television stations. The officers stood tall with shoulders back, beefed up by their bulletproof vests, which made them look thicker and more powerful than they were.
Bud was leaning over the body again. The rabbi stood near by, never moving from the spot Bud had assigned him. No doubt Bud had made it clear that a few careless steps could ruin an investigation and therefore a prosecution. Carmen started Bud’s direction but stopped when she saw motion at the barricade. A tall, dapper man in a dark gray suit was pushing through the crowd. He stopped and spoke to the uniforms. Hanging from the man’s suit coat pocket was a SDPD badge. He smiled and one of the officers chuckled. Then the unthinkable happened: the man stepped to the yellow tape and lifted it. He was about to enter the crime scene.
“Hold it, Chief!” Carmen raised her voice enough to stop Assistant Police Chief Barry “Butch” Claymore in his tracks.
Carmen hustled his way, doing her best to show no emotion. The emotion she felt, she didn’t want to express to the force’s newest assistant police chief.
“Morning, Detective Rainmondi.” At least he knew her name. She wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
“Good morning Assistant Chief. How may I help you?”
“Just doing my job, Detective. Word is spreading about the—let’s call it unique situation—of the murder. I thought I’d take a quick look.” He reached for the barricade again. Carmen stepped in front of him. The two patrolmen moved a few steps to the side, no doubt putting distance between them and what might become a war.
“I’m sorry, Chief, but protocol demands I limit the number of people trafficking the scene.”
His smile dissolved. “Do I need to remind you that I outrank you, Detective?”
“No, sir. I congratulate you on your promotion. I’m certain your leadership will be a big boost to the department.”
“Are you being sarcastic, Rainmondi?”
“No, sir. I just can’t let you on the scene. Rank has nothing to do with it. Protecting the evidence on scene does.”
