The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  “Purimfest? He could have said anything he wanted, and he says, ‘Purimfest, 1946’? Purim, the holiday commemorating the story in the book of Esther? Creepy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, I would. Very creepy.”

  “So what do you think? Coincidence?”

  “The Purim/Holocaust connection or the murders?” Jamie asks.

  “The Purim/Holocaust connection,” Rabbi Silverman confirms.

  “It’s not about what I think. I’m trying to figure out what the killer is thinking, and to understand the pattern.”

  “I see,” Rabbi Silverman responds, shrugging his shoulders.

  Jamie can see that Rabbi Silverman’s excitement ebbs at her statement. She realizes the importance that Rabbi Silverman can play in her case. To mollify him, Jamie goes on, “No, I mean, I do see that there is a connection. I’m just focused on what is driving this guy so I can catch him. There is a murderer who will kill again. This is a lot to take in. I’ll have time to churn it over for myself later.”

  “I understand.”

  “One thing that I am now totally convinced of is that the one responsible for these murders knows this same information, whether he is paying someone to do it for him or he is doing it himself. You have been so helpful,” Jamie assures him.

  “Listen, this is only the tip of the iceberg. There is more. There are so many other codes throughout the Torah.”

  “More connecting Purim and the Holocaust?” Jamie asks.

  “Well, no, this is about all I know about the Purim/Holocaust link, but there are more fascinating examples.”

  “I have to focus on the Purim/Holocaust theme for right now. If you think of anything else, will you please call me? Here is my card. Anytime, 24/7.”

  “Sure, but for me it is 24/6, you know. The Sabbath and all,” Rabbi Silverman adds with a smile, taking the card.

  “Ha-ha, yeah. So 24/6 it is. Call me if you think of anything.” Jamie smiles back.

  Rabbi Silverman walks her out to the parking lot and waits until she gets into her car, then disappears back into the Kollel Learning Center.

  Jamie takes a deep breath and lets out a long sigh before starting her car. That was way too much religion for one day. At least she is walking away with something. Now she has to let it lead her to the killer. Somehow.

  Chapter 33

  Jamie drives back to the FBI campus and returns to her office at the NCAVC building. Before she can even enter her office, Whitehouse is on Jamie’s heels.

  “Agent Golding? You need to call this number right away,” Whitehouse spits out and slaps a sticky note into her hand.

  He’s in a good mood today. Jamie she tries to hold back a smile.

  “Thanks,” Jamie calls after him as he runs back into the maze of cubicles. She looks at the number and name written on the sticky note. “Detective Ciborowski of Edison, New Jersey.” Curious. Maybe it has something to do with the case.

  Hurrying to her desk, Jamie quickly dials the number on the sticky note.

  “Detective Ciborowski, what can I do for you?” The voice on the other end is smooth and deep, with a bit of that familiar Jersey accent.

  “Hi, this is FBI Special Agent Golding. I’m returning your call,” Jamie explains.

  “Ah, I’m glad you called back. After I saw the press conference, I was sure that a case I worked on last year is the work of your serial killer,” Ciborowski tells her excitedly.

  “Great,” Jamie manages to say before he continues, undeterred.

  “Back in August 2011, an older gentleman was murdered in his home,” Ciborowski informs her. “You wouldn’t believe the—.”

  “Right, so what makes you think there is a connection?” Jamie interrupts, anxious to get to the point.

  “Despite the decayed state of the body, the coroner has determined that the cause of death was strangulation.

  “Decay?”

  “Oh, I was trying to explain that. The guy was a bachelor, lived alone. He was quite the hoarder. Hardly came out much. It took a while before the neighbors called the police, noting that something was wrong. It was one of those NCFOs—you know, neighbor complains of a foul odor.”

  “Yes, I know what you are talking about, but what connects it to my particular case?” Jamie asks, marking that August does not fit the pattern.

  “An old man strangled with a wire.”

  “Was there a note left near the body?”

  “Oh, right, there was a note left near the body,” Ciborowski beams through the phone.

  “What was written on it?”

  “In large print, it had the initials ‘H.F.’ On the bottom right, in a small font, it had ‘adal’, and ‘ya’ on the bottom left. On the back of the note was, ‘I was here on August 8, 2012’, as if he knew he wouldn’t be found right away and wanted us to know when it happened.”

  “That’s my perp. So what did the coroner determine for the time of death?”

  “Well, the body was discovered on September 5th, and wait…I’ve got the report right here…Yep, according to the forensic entomologist, the cycle of the blowfly puts the time of death around 28 days earlier. Around the body, and especially the neck wound, were found adult flies, eggs, and half-inch maggots. Basically it means it is quite plausible that Mr. Burton was murdered on August 8th.”

  Jamie had learned all about the life cycle of the blowfly and how it is used to determine time of death. The fly arrives soon after death and looks for a moist area on the corpse on which to lay eggs—the eyes, the nose, open wounds, and others. The eggs hatch to maggots within 24 hours, and you have a new cycle to follow, from larvae to pupae to the next generation of flies. What stages of blowfly you find will determine the amount of time since death. About three weeks after death, you see the second generation of adult flies emerge. From there, you can add more time, depending on whether you find their offspring to be eggs, larvae, pupae, etc.…It is a surprisingly accurate method.

  “What is the name of the victim?”

  “Tomas Burton, no ‘h’.”

  “Could you fax me all of your police reports, pictures, or any other information pertaining to this Tomas Burton that you have? And any evidence or forensics found at the crime scene?”

  “I already talked with your secretary, and he gave me your fax number; so we are faxing it all right now, as we speak,” Ciborowski informs her. “The victim really was a total hoarder. I mean, stuff was piled to the ceiling in every room. There was literally only a small path through the junk. The place was eventually condemned.”

  “Perfect.…” Jamie answers, writing down some of the information Ciborowski has already given her. She stops writing as she blurts, “A hoarder like on that TV show?”

  “That’s right,” Ciborowski confirms.

  Great, Jamie thinks. All of the other crimes scenes were cleaned of any evidence. Now she might be piled with too much stuff, stuff that probably will not produce any information remotely related to the murder. She rolls her eyes, wishing that she had not cursed the lack of evidence.

  “Is there any way I can visit the crime scene?”

  “Nope, the place has since been demolished, and a new house has been built. But we do have plenty of crime scene photos, and I could draw you a map of the layout of the house. It’s a case I will never forget,” Ciborowski adds with a childish snicker.

  “Right. Did anyone see anything? Neighbors or friends?”

  “No friends, sadly. And, like I said, the neighbors did not hear or see anything. All they noticed were the local county papers stacking up on the driveway. After four weeks of newspapers, the neighbors decided that Mr. Burton did not go on an extended vacation. Besides that, the stench was beginning to reach people walking on the sidewalk in front of the house.”

  “What about his family?”

  “None that we know of. The state disposed of the remains. The guy seems to have been a total recluse, with no family. He was also an immigrant,” Ciborowski tells her, then adds, �
��And, despite being here for years, he never made friends with any of the neighbors. They…well…they tolerated him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tolerated him’?” Jamie inquires with an arched eyebrow.

  “He wasn’t exactly known for being the grandpa-next-door. More like the old codger, who would shoot you if you trespassed on his property. We interviewed a few of the children, hoping that they would have seen something while on summer vacation, but all we got were tall tales about the creepy Burton who eats children.”

  “We had one of those in my neighborhood as well,” Jamie muses. She cannot remember how many kites, Frisbees, balls, and other toys were lost to children in the neighborhood when they fell into the old man’s yard.

  “Well, as he got older, the guy never kept up the outside of his home. It became such an eyesore that people in the neighborhood took turns mowing the guy’s yard, just so they wouldn’t have to look at it. He was the type of neighbor everyone hated and wanted off of the block, but whom they also felt sorry for.”

  “Well thank you, Detective Ciborowski. I will call you again if I need anything. And did Whitehouse give you my information?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “Call me if you discover anything new.”

  “Will do, but we’re not really looking.”

  “Thanks,” Jamie replies, ignoring his sarcasm. She hangs up the phone and looks at her notes. In the chronological sequence of Haman’s sons, Adalia and Aridatha had been skipped. Here is Adalia.

  There is a knock on her door.

  “Here are the faxes that just came in from the Edison, New Jersey, P.D.,” Whitehouse tells Jamie in his usual monotone, as he sets the papers down in front of her.

  She adds Tomas Burton to her notes.

  What does August 8th mean on the Jewish calendar? By now she knows better than to think it is just a random date.

  Chapter 34

  When the Germans arrived in March of 1944, things quickly changed for the worst. I was twenty-two. First, all Jews were required to register, and each of us had to wear the yellow Star of David on our clothing at all times. It could not simply be on a single piece of clothing only. If you wore a coat over your dress, accidentally hiding the yellow star, the punishment was either being beaten close to death or shot. So every piece of clothing I owned had the yellow Star of David prominently displayed. The badge was meant to shame us, but I chose to use it as a symbol to remember God instead.

  Second, many daily freedoms and pleasures were forbidden to us by the Germans. No Jew was allowed to use public transportation, go to the movies, visit coffee houses, or be seen out at night. It made it impossible to socialize with my friends. Even Mary, my childhood friend who lived right across the street, began to avoid me and my family. The time was terrible and lonely. Watching Mary live a normal life across the street, having girlfriends, visiting the movies, and receiving suitors—all while I could hardly leave my home without persecution and fear.

  Only for a month did these inconveniences last, but what would come next would make those old rules seem kind. It was Passover the day the Hungarian police came by our home and told us to pack. We were being deported to the ghetto. They instructed us to pack a bag and bring food. Our silver was taken right before our eyes. One of my brother’s friends older brother was the Hungarian policeman that evicted us. He was screaming at my grandmother, asking her where we hid the money. Before she could even answer, he hit her with the butt of his rifle. My 68-year-old grandmother hit with a rifle in her own home. We packed what we could and were thrown out into the street. Little did we know that whatever valuables we brought with us would be instantly confiscated by the Nazis.

  We lived in a beautiful home. What would happen to it? How long would we be gone? Three generations of my family had lived there. That building was more than a home, but a museum of love and memories.

  The unknown gnawed at our hearts. So many horrifying rumors had come to our ears that we hardly knew what to believe. Were we going to leave our home country, to never return again? Would we ever come home again? What were the Nazis going to do with us? We trembled in fear of the unknown, our fates not our own, and God our only comfort.

  When the Hungarians came to evict us to the ghetto in April of 1944, our neighbors came to watch and laugh at us. Even Mary and her family. Mary had just gotten engaged, and her mother loudly announced, as we were driven from our home, “Look, Mary, you won’t have to live with us after you get married after all. You can have their house.”

  Mary smiled and laughed with the rest of the neighbors at our tribulation. She called to us telling us that we did not need our things where the Nazis were taking us. Seeing her out there, I had hoped that our bond from childhood would still be there. Surely, seeing the injustice of our situation would have softened her heart toward us. Mary, my one-time best friend, would come to save me from the Nazis in some way. I begged my friend to help us, but in return, she used profanities and called me names. That moment in time is etched in my memory forever. The hateful look upon my friend’s face as she spat out the words, “Go to hell!”

  My mind could hardly wrap itself around such hatred. How had a bond of friendship and love turned into a hate due to a collapsing political situation? How quickly the tides turned against us. I had done nothing to Mary to receive such a response, nor would I have given that response to anyone under any circumstances. The world had changed so much around me, and, at that moment, I came to understand that I knew nothing about evil or the nature of man.

  Chapter 35

  Jamie savors her opportunity to sleep in on this Saturday morning. She has nothing planned except for a long run. She keeps reminding herself that she should call Barry Shapiro and see how he is doing. If he is going through a hard time, he probably will not admit it over the phone. She decides to plot the start of her route at his house. She’ll do a “pop-in.” Shap is the kind of guy who loves the pop-in. At least, he used to be. She gets on Google Maps and drags the cursor to change the route, until she has made a loop that is 10.6 miles.

  She arrives at Shap’s house at 10:30. The lawn is well-manicured and the driveway is blown off. All of the blinds are closed.

  Shap opens the door before Jamie even rings the doorbell. He is surprised to see her, and gives a quick glance over his shoulder, as if he is checking to make sure that there is nothing sitting out that he does not want her to see. He clearly hopes she did not notice, and he steps outside and closes the door. He is fresh and clean-shaven. He is dressed in pressed khaki pants and a green polo shirt. Jamie explains how she has not seen him in a while and wanted to stop by. She cocks her head towards the door, motioning that it is time for him to invite her in.

  Once inside, Jamie immediately sees that the house is immaculate. Everything is intentionally-placed, from the angle of the chairs, to the large art books turned a few degrees to contrast the rectangular shape of the coffee table. It looks like the residence of the most type-A personality imaginable. And it is a striking contrast to the last time she was at his house. Not that it was messy, but it at least looked lived in. This looks like he is selling and having an open house. He does not appear to be hung over and definitely does not look like he is strung-out on drugs. He looks like someone that would be getting to work fifteen minutes early every day and not like someone slacking off.

  “Okay, who is she?” Jamie queries sarcastically.

  Excuse me?”

  “Who is she? What girl has you cleaning your house like it’s part of the Smithsonian?”

  “I guess I’m going through a neat phase. About time, right?” Shap responds as he makes a slight adjustment to an already-straight picture on the wall. “Her name is Nikki.”

  “I knew it!”

  Barry Shapiro has always been an enigma to Jamie. In college, he was the biggest partier she ever knew. Her first impression of him was of a total stoner freshman, who would probably flunk out his first year. He spent hours every day skateboarding and bei
ng the most popular guy in all of fraternity row. To her dismay, he was already a grad student who had finished his Bachelor’s with a 4.0. He was either genius-smart, or he had incredibly disciplined study habits when no one was watching. His behavior in grad school convinced Jamie that it was the former.

  By the time Jamie started her run home, she had come to the conclusion that, if anything, Shap had become more serious, and not frivolous and lax. She did get him to retell a couple of stories from the wild and crazy days, which brought out the same-ol’ Shap. Whatever was going on with him at work was none of her business.

  Chapter 36

  “Hey, Agent Golding?”

  Jamie looks up to see Kim Hammond from Research standing at her door.

  “Yes?”

  “Here is all the background information we could dig up on the victims and where they were during World War II,” she says, handing Jamie a huge stack of files.

  “Thanks.” Jamie shrugs, pulling the first file off the stack.

  She sees that the file has Jules Henning’s name on the tab. Jamie begins to read the file.

  Jules Henning, born January 11, 1923, in Argentina…

  “Strange,” Jamie thinks to herself, “not really a Spanish name now, is it?” There is something more to his story. She reads further down the page. It lists the time and dates of his immigration to the United States. It also includes his marriage date, the date of birth of his daughter, and information from his job.

  After browsing a few pages, Jamie finds the name Ingrid Schwab circled on Jules Henning’s Argentinian visa application to the U.S. Interestingly, she is listed as a relative that lives in the U.S. Henning claims that Ingrid Schwab is his sister living in Albany, New York. Of course, it is possible to have a sister with a different last name.