He stalked to the window, shoved the drapes aside, ignoring the fall of dust that I’d meant to vacuum but hadn’t. Then he jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and marched over to where I was sitting, watching him do battle with himself.
“Lynne. No doctor could have done a thing like this.”
“You want me to quote you chapter and verse of atrocities committed by physicians? Ever hear of Auschwitz?”
“Okay. Okay.” He jammed his fists deeper, threw his head back and regarded the ceiling for a moment, as if there were words printed up there for him to recite. I knew exactly what he was going to say. And he said it.
“Jewish doctors don’t do things like this!”
I leaped up and began applauding.
“Terrific. Absolutely wonderful, Bobby Gentile. You’ve caught on to the secrets of my race; of my species; of the set-aside group of humans who are immune to behavior performed by any other group of humans.”
“No, Lynne, what I mean is ...”
“I know, darling. Some of your best friends ... and in fact your best lover is a Jew. Well, Nebraska, let me tell you something you might have forgotten. Something I will never have the luxury of forgetting. That nice Brooklyn College boy, the sweet-natured, obedient, doting only son of hard-working, self-sacrificing parents, that really nice Jewish boy, nineteen years old, blew up the airplane his parents were on. And blew up my parents along with his own; and I think ... I’m not sure of the numbers, but he also blew away ninety-something other people.”
Bobby Jones sighed and spread his hands helplessly and said, “Dr. David Cohen, from day one up to and including what he plans to have for breakfast tomorrow morning. You want it, I’ll get it.”
But reluctantly. That was the one major flaw in Bobby Jones, his reluctance to approach an investigation totally with the born prosecutor’s point of view: that anyone, at all, can do anything, at all; is capable of committing the most unimaginable acts, given a set of circumstances—emotional, physical, personal, mental, environmental, whatever.
Most of us manage to muddle through life avoiding the combination of motives, circumstances and opportunities that could make monsters of us. In fact, most of us, given a strong motive, in an ideal situation in which to commit atrocious crimes, would not.
But many of us would; a great many of us would. This is where Bobby Jones and I part company. His approach tends to be that of devil’s advocate to my accuser-general.
So now, we had to find out about Dr. David Cohen. At least, one of us was taking the open-ended point of view.
CHAPTER 21
THE FIRST TWO SIGNIFICANT pieces of information re Dr. David Cohen were one, he resided on East 69th Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenues; two, he was a runner.
Of course, any number of people lived in that area, and probably four New Yorkers in six were runners. But he was the particular New Yorker who Sanderalee Dawson claimed had told her he had crossed from Fifth Avenue to Central Park West via the 72nd Street transverse. Which would be a logical cut-through for David Cohen, if he wanted to cut through the park. For whatever reason.
Dr. David Cohen was called by his emergency service at 5:05 A.M., Wednesday, March 7, 1979, and asked to report to New York Hospital re possible microsurgery. He was at home at the time of the call and apparently had been sleeping. Which meant nothing, one way or the other.
Sanderalee Dawson, prodded further, gently, persuasively by Lucy Capella, stated she was sure—she thought—that during the course of the terrible struggle she jabbed/stabbed her assailant. She guessed with her silver unicorn. She wasn’t totally sure of any of this. It was a passing impression. But yes; she might have stabbed him; jabbed him; scratched him. It was hard to say. There were blank periods; blackouts. Only one thing remained positive: it was him—David Cohen.
Carefully, arrangements were made through the doctor in charge of the case, Dr. Roger Fernow. He was told a believable story by ex-Sister Lucy, whom no one could credit with a lie and who therefore was our most perfect liar: it seems that Sanderalee had developed some kind of aversion to the doctors involved in the rejoining of her hand. Apparently they recalled to her the terror of the event. Could it possibly be arranged, at least for the next few days, that she be attended by Dr. Fernow, at the instruction of the surgeons? So that this hysteria she had developed would not interfere with the information she was now giving to Lucy? No problem, my dear. Is it true you were a teaching nun once? My, my. You must have quite an interesting life story.
Dr. Martha Chan had a quiet visit with Sanderalee. Good old Dr. Chan, sweet face crinkled, told Lucy Capella, “It seems you’ve replaced me as confidante-in-chief. If something unexpected develops, call me.”
Dr. Cohen’s life story, as researched by Bobby Jones, wasn’t particularly interesting; certainly not incredible.
David Leonard Cohen: born 3/12/42, Doctor’s Hospital, Man. Mother: Edna Rubin Cohen, housewife, business partner; Father: Samuel E. Cohen, manufacturer woolen goods, business partner w/wife; weight: 7 lbs. 6 ounces; length: 21”; normal delivery; no previous births.
Education: attended Dalton School, 1947–55; Bronx HS of Science, 1955–59; Cornell Univ., 1959–61; Berkeley, 1961–63; Columbia School of Physicians and Surgeons, 1963–67. Interned: Columbia Presbyterian; resident: LI Jewish Hospital. Married: Melissa Wise; OR nurse, Columbia Presbyterian Hosp., March 12, 1970; Beth Sholom, Manhattan. Wife deceased: April 10, 1974—accident (autopsy/inquest report requested).
Dr. David Cohen returned to Col. Pres. Hosp.—further training orthopedics; studied NY Hosp. Joint Diseases—spec. training orthopedic surgery; studied one year clinic—Switzerland—orthopedic surgery/plastic surgery. Taught Col. School of Physicians and Surgeons—specialty, ortho. surgery; worked in Veterans Hosp.—Wash., D.C., and New York City; also in Los Angeles: specialized treating victims of severe disfiguring trauma—i.e., burn victims; disfiguring limb injuries.
1977: teamed up with Drs. Esposito and Waverly—participant in new microsurgery. Taught techniques at Columbia. Dr. Cohen is one of the very few specialists in the world doing this type of surgery; patients are referred to him and his team from all over the world.
Dr. David Cohen has run in the Boston and NYC Marathons.
Dr. David Cohen was rejected for military service because of a physical condition—not specified (note: will check out—B.J.).
The rest of the report contained standard information: his financial standing (no outstanding debts; pays bills on time); has driver’s license; owns 1978 Mercedes SL 450; Dr. Cohen has resided at current address, 48 East 69th Street, tenth floor, for past nine years. Good reputation; nothing derogatory noted.
Dr. David Cohen has never instituted nor been involved in any lawsuit.
Dr. David Cohen has never been arrested; never fined for any violation; never—as far as can be ascertained—been committed to a mental institution, or received psychiatric therapy.
Dr. David Cohen owns a summer cottage in East Hampton; he plays tennis; jogs/runs. Good health; average build and appearance. Dr. David Cohen has a “normal, active social life”; he has been known to date a number of women, generally professional women—doctors, nurses, etc.
“What do they do on their dates, Bobby Jones, hug and kiss in the old-fashioned way, or what?”
“You want I should find that out for you, Boss-Lynne, you just say the word and I’ll find out for you.”
I flipped through the report.
“What happened to his wife? Melissa Wise?”
“I’m getting the synopsis of the inquest in about”—he consulted his wristwatch—“one hour. When are you going to interview the good doctor?”
“Soon. And unless he was sleeping that night with a couple of very wakeful bedmates, actually he has no verifiable alibi.”
“Yeah, but then neither do I,” Bobby Jones pointed out.
“Yeah, but then Sanderalee Dawson hasn’t fingered you,” I reminded him. “What physical c
ondition kept him from military service?”
“I’ll have that by tomorrow the latest.”
“Maybe a Jekyll-Hyde syndrome?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Good. I would like that very much. Except of course Jews don’t have the old J-H syndrome, which everyone knows comes from eating pork.”
“Every day I learn something new from you, Lynne.”
“I hope so. My job is to teach. Now get lost, Nebraska.” Lucy Capella reported that Sanderalee had, indeed, told Regg Morris most of what she had told us. I had an appointment with Regg for late in the afternoon, the aim of which was to seek his cooperation. We wanted to maintain a silence for as long as possible. If that was at all possible.
Bobby Jones returned with a synopsis of the inquest report; the full minutes would be forthcoming in a day or so. What we had was intriguing to say the least; suspicious to say the most.
On April 10, 1974, at 11:00 P.M., Mrs. Melissa Wise Cohen, wife of Dr. David Cohen, fell or jumped from the balcony of their residence on the tenth floor at 48 East 69th Street. She was clad in a nightgown; no evidence that she had been drinking. Died of massive internal injuries and listed as DOA on arrival at Emergency, NY Hospital.
According to Dr. Cohen, his wife had suffered for many years from manic-depressive syndrome. She was being treated by lithium therapy and had been stable for at least three years. Mrs. Cohen was an OR nurse of extremely competent reputation. Dr. Cohen states that his wife had stopped all medication for a period of about two months. On the evening of her death, he reports she was just beginning to enter what he recognized as a “high swing.” During this time, she tended to behave in a highly irrational, overexcited manner. Dr. Cohen states he and his wife had been watching TV news in their bedroom when his wife rose from bed, began talking about a vacation they were planning. She became very exuberant (note: typical behavior of a “high swing personality”); she “danced” through the living room, describing what clothes she would wear on the forthcoming trip to Mexico. Dr. Cohen states his wife went onto the balcony. He asked her to come back inside; it was raining lightly; she would get wet. States his wife began “to dance about,” turning her face up to the rain; states that as he approached his wife, to restrain her, she somehow pulled herself to a sitting position on the railing, facing him, her back to the street; that she suddenly thrust her arms over her head and as he dove for her, she toppled backward and fell, landing in front of the building.
She was dead on impact. If one injury hadn’t killed her, another had. Any one of at least four of the massive injuries could have caused death.
Her psychiatrist, a Dr. Calendar, testified. His testimony was not included in the synopsis.
Finding of the inquest: death by accident.
“What do you think about this, Bobby J?”
“What am I supposed to think about it? A kind of strange way to go, I guess.”
“Did she jump or was she pushed? What was that old song? You remember a song like that?” Funny theme for a folk song; funny way to die.
“Her parents still alive?”
Bobby Jones dug into his notebook, flipped through, held up the address. “I have an appointment with them tomorrow morning at eleven A.M. They live in Forest Hills. They own a bakery on Queens Boulevard. Want to come with me?”
“Yes. It might be interesting to meet with someone who has less than a kind word to say about the good doctor Cohen.”
“What makes you think they won’t vouch for him? That they won’t tell you what a saint he was for putting up with their nutty daughter?”
“Oh. Just a feeling. How about this Dr. Calendar? What the hell kind of doctor is he, letting her go off medication when she was still swinging up and down?”
“That gentleman is coming in to the office tomorrow morning at ten A.M. Kind of strange: he actually offered to come here, rather than have me talk with him at his office at the hospital.”
“The plot thickens, Dr. Watson.”
“And leads where, Ms. Sherlock?”
“Who the hell knows? Listen, I’m having the Honorable Regg Morris in this afternoon. I’d kind of like you to sit in on it. Sanderalee made her accusations to him before she told us. That’s why he was so damned edgy with me that night he dropped me off. I’m a little worried about him. About his tendency to talk very loud to whoever—whomever?—will listen. Particularly media people. We’ve got to impress upon him the importance of keeping big mouths locked shut.”
“He looks like the unimpressionable type, but I’ll back you up all lean.”
The phone rang and the office secretary popped his sweet young head in the door and told me, “Lynne, it was him. The District Attorney. Mr. Hale. He wanted to know if you can come up to his office right away. Something about a TV documentary. I said what you told me to say: that I’d see if I could find you and get back to him right away.”
“Tell him you couldn’t find me. Can you do that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good boy. Bobby, get out of here and get me those minutes from the inquest. I want a line on this psychiatrist, Dr. Calendar.”
“I’m on my way. Just one more thing, Lynne.”
“Yes, Bobby?”
“Wanna have at it?”
“Bobby Jones, is that what they teach you in Nebraska? That’s a hell of a way to talk to your boss.”
CHAPTER 22
THIS MEETING WITH REGG Morris was different from our previous encounters. Instead of magnetism, he gave off repellent rays. He was wary, watchful, hostile, suspicious and judgmental. What he wanted to know, basically, was what I intended to do with the accusation made by Sanderalee Dawson.
“We are conducting an intensive investigation into all aspects and possibilities of the case,” I told him.
“We are conducting an intensive investigation,” he repeated, mimicking my words. He shook his head and his laugh was very unpleasant. Finally, he looked directly across the desk at me. His black, angry eyes sought to impale me.
“And to what end is this intensive investigation into all aspects and possibilities being conducted, Ms. Jacobi?”
“To the ends of justice,” I said, somewhat pompously. We were both having a highly dramatic moment. I have been known, on occasion, to rise to other people’s dramatic moments.
“To the ends of justice. Um. Very, very impressive. Now let’s just examine what we have here. What we have here is one terribly injured, just-about-destroyed young black woman. A black woman in her prime: the prime of her ability, the prime of her power to influence, the prime of her political awareness, the prime of her activism. Cut off and destroyed: mutilated; violated; her effectiveness obliterated. By one man. One white man. Whom she has now positively identified to you, the representative of the established power, the organization to whom a black woman must appeal. For justice, as you said. For justice. And here we sit, you and I, and your ‘main man’ here, my blond, blue-eyed friend, a paradigm of the American male.”
Coolly, Bobby Jones ducked his head and said, “Thank you, Dr. Morris. Very kind of you.”
“Yes, very kind of me, indeed.” His eyes slid back to mine. There was a tightening, tensing of the large muscles across his shoulders, a stiffening of his body. He softened his voice even more; a good, effective technique. Bobby and I did exactly what he intended for us to do. We strained to hear him.
“So here we sit. And the accused, whom Sanderalee Dawson has positively identified, whom she has pointed out to you as the man who assaulted her so viciously, where is he, Ms. Jacobi? Where is he?” Regg Morris looked all around the room. He lifted the corner of a folder from my desk; he ducked his head under the desk. “Is he here? Is he incarcerated somewhere? Is he locked up so that Sanderalee Dawson—and all women like her—are safe from his attack?”
“Dr. Morris, this is all very entertaining and dramatic, but it is all very premature. The reason I asked you here today was to brief you on where our investigation stands at this mo
ment. And to elicit your cooperation so that nothing impedes or interferes with this investigation in any way. We are working toward the ends you want to serve: justice. We are doing it in our own way. Dr. David Cohen is under investigation. Now, all that I am going to tell you from here on is confidential. If you reveal anything you hear in this office, you might very well jeopardize a case we are working to build. I’m asking for your cooperation at this point. That’s why I asked you to come to my office this afternoon.”
We sat poised, watching each other. There are some situations where, to establish dominance, you force the other guy to make the first move, blink the first blink, lick the dry lip. There are other situations where you establish who’s in charge by taking the initiative: deciding to break the contest, deciding when it is to end. Games. Games. More of life’s little games.
I stood up and turned my back on Dr. Regg Morris and looked out toward the street. All I could see was a portion of the brick wall of the building next door: pale gray light; dampish. Two-three-four. Turn; smile; sit down; speak.
“Dr. Morris, you’ll agree that on the face of it, we have a rather delicate situation.”
A grudging nod; more an inclination of his head. An agreement to listen for a while.
“We are, I assure you, taking Ms. Dawson’s accusation very, very seriously. But you can understand that an accusation, without backup proof, without any solid physical evidence, is very fragile. I couldn’t even begin to think about taking this to a Grand Jury at this point. What we are doing—what my people are doing—is backtracking. We are researching into every aspect of the accused’s life that might shed some light on what kind of person he is. We know his public credentials. He is world-famous for the techniques he has developed in a very specialized field of surgery. We are looking for the other side of the coin: the unexpected side of the personality. Maybe he is a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde. That would be one explanation.”
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