A Pain in the Tuchis

by Mark Reutlinger

  “And that’s why she wants an autopsy? To show that my mother was murdered?” Daniel’s voice was rising; clearly he did not like this idea.

  “No, Daniel dear, not to show she was murdered, but to show she was not. Just, as I say, to put the matter to rest, especially in her mind. So she should not forever wonder about it. I mean, on the off chance there was some…some foul play, as they say, would you not want to know that, and to find the person responsible?”

  Daniel shook his head slowly. “No. I mean yes, I would want to find the person responsible, if such a thing had happened; but no, I don’t believe any such thing did happen, and something a very sick woman might at some time have said doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to violate my mother’s body and disturb her final resting place in order to find out. And in any event, as I’ve already said, an autopsy is contrary to Jewish law, so that should end the matter.”

  He then took a breath after this long speech and said, “I’m sorry. I know you are just trying to help and have my—and my mother’s—best interests at heart. But I hope you understand why I can’t agree to an autopsy.”

  Mrs. K took Daniel’s hand and looked at him kindly, like a mother at her son.

  “That is your right, of course,” she said softly. “And I understand about halacha. But let me try just once more to convince you. First, your aunt Frances is a very kind person and she clearly loved your mother, her sister, from all we have seen while she has been living at the Home. I’m sure you can understand how she must feel, having been told what she was told. It would be a real kindness to relieve her mind, even at the expense of disturbing your dear mother’s rest.”

  Daniel looked down and was silent for a while before saying, “Yes, I understand, and I’d like to help Aunt Frances. But remember it would still be prohibited by Jewish law. I can’t get around that.” He clearly considered that this point should end the discussion. But Mrs. K, as usual, had anticipated this.

  “Yes, there is still halacha. But perhaps we have resolved this remaining obstacle.” I admired how Mrs. K had made it as if Daniel had said he would allow the autopsy if only halacha permitted it, which is not exactly what he said and probably not what he meant. And of course on this question, she was already prepared.

  “Ida and I stopped in to see Rabbi Braunstein before coming here. We explained the situation as we have explained it to you and asked whether it is true that under the circumstances Jewish law would prevent you from permitting the autopsy.”

  Daniel looked a bit surprised at this information and waited to hear what his rabbi had said. He probably realized Mrs. K would not have brought it up if it supported his position.

  “Of course,” Mrs. K went on, “it is not a simple question. But what question of halacha is? Scholars spend their entire lives arguing over how to interpret a word or two in the Torah. But on one thing he was clear: if the question is whether, under the circumstances we have discussed, you would be justified in permitting an autopsy, his answer was yes.” This was, of course, literally true. That Daniel would also have been justified in doing the opposite, and that the rabbi himself believed denial of the autopsy was the stronger case, she neglected to mention. But that was not the question, was it?

  Daniel closed his eyes and put his head between his hands, shaking his head slightly back and forth, as if trying to make sense of all of this information and emotion that was running around inside. I felt sorry for him and wished Mrs. K and I had never become involved in this sad story. I especially wished Mrs. K had not agreed to take Fannie’s side, it being so unlikely Vera had died from anything except her illness.

  Finally Daniel looked up at us and said very softly, “I have to go back to work now, and I can’t think straight about what you’ve told me. I’ll think about it tonight and let you—let Aunt Frances, that is—know in the morning. Is that okay?”

  Mrs. K put her arm around Daniel’s shoulders and said kindly, “Of course. This is a difficult decision even in the best of circumstances. Take whatever time you need to, and let your aunt know. However you decide, I’m sure you will be doing what you believe best. That is all anyone can ask.”

  She gave him a pat on the arm as she and I rose to leave. He got up also and returned to his work.

  But clearly he would not have his mind on his work this afternoon.

  It might be best, I thought, for the rest of the day not to order from him a prescription.

  —

  The next day, as Mrs. K and I were sipping our morning tea in the lounge, Fannie came over looking excited. She sat down next to us and said, “I just received a telephone call from Daniel. He said he had spoken with you and had decided to allow the autopsy. I’m so relieved.”

  Mrs. K took her hand and said, “We are pleased too, Ida and I, because it is best for everyone that this matter be resolved one way or the other. And it should be resolved before anyone else learns of what your sister told you. Can you imagine the talk around the Home, even if there is nothing suspicious found?”

  “Mrs. Bissela would have a field day, would she not?” I said.

  Mrs. K just rolled her eyes.

  “So what is your next step?” Mrs. K asked Fannie.

  “Well, I’ll get in touch with Dr. Menschyk, of course, and get the ball rolling so we can put this awful matter behind us as soon as possible.”

  “Fine. Keep me and Ida informed. Obviously, we are quite interested to find out the results of the autopsy. Of course, we all hope they are negative, and that your sister died of perfectly natural causes.”

  “Of course,” replied Fannie, and she stood up and walked away.

  Mrs. K and I watched her go and could not help but feel sorry for her.

  “Poor Fannie,” Mrs. K said as we returned to our tea. “If the results of the autopsy are negative, she has stirred up such a fuss for nothing. But if they indicate murder, what she will have stirred up will be far worse than a fuss.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It will be only the beginning of a very long ordeal, from which no one comes out happy.”

  And in the end, no one did.

  Chapter 9

  It apparently takes a while for all the paperwork needed for an autopsy, and then of course to perform it and analyze the results. So it was not until several days later that there was the next development.

  Mrs. K and I were sitting in the lounge as usual after breakfast, reading our magazines, when she nudges me and says in a surprised tone, “Ida, is that not the policeman Corcoran who just came in the door, together with that shlumper Jenkins?”

  “You mean the one who looks like that Inspector Dalgliesh from television?”

  “Yes, and the one who looks like Columbo, only much messier. I wonder what they are doing here this time.”

  I should mention for those who might have missed it, there was an earlier incident here at the Home involving a resident who died while eating Mrs. K’s excellent matzoh ball soup—it is too complicated to explain—and these were the two detectives who investigated the case. I know that Corcoran, who is clearly the brains of the pair—not to mention the looks—was quite impressed with Mrs. K’s ability to figure out the solution to that case.

  “Have you talked with this Corcoran since he was last here on that case involving your soup?” I asked.

  “Yes. Do you remember my telling you he had called me about a month later and invited me to lunch? I think you were away visiting your sister at the time.”

  “That’s right. And as I recall, you said you and he had a nice chat.”

  “He is really a very charming young man, you know. He not only thanked me for helping him avoid a bad mistake, but he said he might someday call on me again, should the need arise. That was very nice of him, and I assumed he was just being polite, but now here he is, and I wonder what it’s all about.”

  What it was about we learned later in the day from, who else? From Mrs. Bissela, the resident yenta. How she manages to find out what other people cann
ot, and so quickly, is a complete mystery to me, but she obviously has her sources.

  Mrs. K and I were talking with Isaac Taubman in the lobby of the Home when Mrs. Bissela comes up behind us and taps Mrs. K on the shoulder. When Mrs. K turned around, Mrs. Bissela whispered something in her ear. Mrs. K looked a bit annoyed, but she turned back to us and said, “Pardon us for a minute, Isaac. Apparently Hannah has something important she wants to tell us and she says it cannot wait.”

  Taubman is always the gentleman. “Of course, Rose,” he said. “I was just on my way out for a walk anyway, so we can talk later.”

  We thanked him and then made our way to the lounge. We poured ourselves some tea and sat down next to Mrs. Bissela, who I could tell was very anxious to say something. As soon as we were seated, she looked at Mrs. K and said, “I know you and Ida are very interested in how Vera Gold died, may she rest in peace. You and Ida and of course her sister, Fannie.”

  I have no idea how Hannah learned of this, or how she learns of anything for that matter, but we could not deny it, could we?

  “Well, I have heard that a couple of police detectives came to visit Pupik this morning, and apparently they told him that Vera did not die from her disease, but somebody, shall we say, hurried her along.”

  I was shocked, of course, having pooh-poohed the idea from the beginning, and I am sure Mrs. K was surprised as well, although if so she did not reveal it in her face. She calmly asked, “You mean she was murdered?” I chimed in with “How? Why? By whom?”

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Bissela did not have any of these answers. All she knew, she said, was that it was now a police matter. And that Pupik was not at all pleased about it. He is not pleased about almost anything, but at least here I do not blame him.

  We thanked Mrs. Bissela for the information.

  “Well, I thought you two would like to know,” she said. “I assume we shall all learn more about it soon.” What she meant was that she would find a way to learn more, and then we would all know.

  We talked a few more minutes, but there was no more information to be had, and Mrs. Bissela went on her way.

  Mrs. K and I just looked at each other for a minute after Mrs. Bissela had left, absorbing the news. Then something occurred to me.

  “So do you think Fannie knows this already?”

  Mrs. K laughed. “Now, Ida, do you think if Hannah Bissela went to the trouble of telling this to me, someone who is only very indirectly involved, that she did not already tell Vera’s sister, who got the feathers flying in the first place?”

  I had to admit this was extremely unlikely.

  “Actually,” Mrs. K went on, “since it was Fannie who arranged for the autopsy, she probably knew from Menschyk or someone else even before Hannah told her. In any case, I would not be surprised if we are to hear from Fannie very shortly.”

  But as it happened, it was not Fannie from whom we next heard, but the policeman Corcoran, of whom I have already spoken. In fact, he was at that moment making his way across the lounge toward where we were sitting. Jenkins was trailing after him, looking dyspeptic as usual whenever we have seen him. I would like to think that by him it is just a permanent condition and not anything personal about Mrs. K and myself.

  “Hello, ladies. It’s been a while,” Corcoran said when he arrived by us. He smiled warmly and offered his hand, and we each shook it. Jenkins arrived a few seconds later. No hand, just a nod. A real sourpuss is that Jenkins.

  The two policemen sat on a sofa opposite us. Even sitting it was quite a contrast between them: slender and handsome Corcoran, with his dark hair combed back and thin moustache, wearing a nice pressed pinstripe suit; pudgy and shlumpy (unkempt) Jenkins, his thinning hair combed to one side and his wrinkled suit sitting on him like it could not quite find a comfortable place to lie down.

  Jenkins took out a notebook and pen. What is it they say in the TV shows when one is talking with a policeman? Anything we say may be taken down and used in evidence against us? I was very much hoping we were not being suspected of something!

  Corcoran looked over at Jenkins and gestured he should put the notebook away. Jenkins did, but he did not look happy about it.

  We talked for a few minutes about things that had happened since that other case I mentioned had ended. Corcoran said he is now “Inspector,” which I assume is a promotion from whatever he was before. Eventually he got around to why he was visiting.

  “As much as I enjoy chatting with you ladies, you’ve probably guessed that I’m actually here on business.”

  We nodded.

  “So I’ll come right to the point. As you doubtless know, Vera Gold, one of the residents here, passed away last week.”

  Again we nodded. Neither of us was surprised that Vera was the reason the detectives were here.

  “Well, it turns out that her death was not from natural causes, as had been assumed. Either by accident or otherwise, Mrs. Gold apparently died from the medications she had taken.”

  Mrs. K and I stared at each other, both of us trying to understand just what Inspector Corcoran was saying. He had not said she was murdered; not in so many words, at least. Just that it was not “natural causes.” It could have been an accident. Mrs. Bissela might have gotten the story wrong.

  “Now, the reason I’m telling you this,” Corcoran went on, “is that I’ve already spoken briefly with Mrs. Kleinberg, Mrs. Gold’s sister, and as I understand it, she was the one who first raised the possibility that her sister’s death was not—not as it appeared, and she told you this. You then were instrumental in persuading Mrs. Gold’s son, Daniel, to permit an autopsy and, well, here we are. Is that correct?”

  Both of us nodded that it was.

  “Right. That being the case, I can speak freely with you about the matter, as you are, shall we say, principals in the story so far.”

  I was not sure I wanted to be a “principal” in a murder, if that is what it was, but Corcoran was smiling and it did not appear this meant anything bad.

  “Besides,” Corcoran continued, turning toward Mrs. K, “I find it both pleasant and very informative to talk with you, Mrs. Kaplan. Who better to consult about this little drama and the various characters in it? And you too, of course, Mrs. Berkowitz,” he added, looking then at me, “if that’s okay with you both.” It was nice he wanted not to leave me out, although I knew it was mostly Mrs. K he wanted to consult. So would I.

  “Yes, certainly, we’ll be glad to help any way we can,” Mrs. K said. “Won’t we, Ida?”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course,” I said. Nu, as long as I am not being suspected of anything, and neither is Mrs. K, the policemen can ask me anything they want. In fact, it might turn out to be much more exciting than reading about it in the newspaper later.

  “Good,” Corcoran said. “Now you’ll understand that whatever we discuss will be in strict confidence. I and Sergeant Jenkins here will not repeat what you tell us to anyone who doesn’t have to know, and we ask that you do the same.” He then added with a little laugh, “I’m aware things get around a place like this very fast, just like they do in any close community. Let’s see if we can cut this particular discussion off at the source.”

  We both nodded. “Does that include Fannie…I mean Mrs. Kleinberg?” Mrs. K asked. “After all, she is the one who brought us into this in the first place.”

  “Yes, I know. Let’s just say use your judgment. As I said, let’s not discuss this with anyone who doesn’t need to know. And I might add that I’ll try not to tell you anything you don’t need to know. Of course what Mrs. Kleinberg already knows is no problem. And she knows everything I’ve already told you. But that’s all we said to her.”

  That seemed clear enough.

  “Could I ask,” Mrs. K said, “what medicine it was that caused Vera’s—Mrs. Gold’s—death?”

  “I don’t see any harm in that, although again let’s keep this kind of detail just between us for now. It’s actually a bit strange. You may or may not have been
aware that Mrs. Gold was being treated for, among other things, a mild case of schizophrenia.”

  “We did know she had some…some mental issues,” Mrs. K said.

  “Right. For that she was taking a drug called”—and here he took out his own notebook and flipped through the pages until he found what he wanted—“called ziprasidone. Perfectly normal, considered safe. Took it every evening. And the autopsy revealed that ziprasidone was indeed in her system when she died.”

  Now if Corcoran had said she was taking aspirin, I would have had no problem. But although I am writing here the name of the medicine as if I right away understood, the truth is that at the time Inspector Corcoran said the name, it was, as they say, Greek to me. Maybe even Sanskrit. I later had him write it down for me so I could include it here.

  “The problem arose,” he continued, “when somehow—we don’t yet know how, of course—Mrs. Gold also ingested another drug, called”—and again he looked at his notebook—“sibutramine, which had not been prescribed for her. In fact, it has not been prescribed for anyone for some time, as it was taken off the market a few years ago.”

  “Taken off the market?” said Mrs. K. “Why was that?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, but apparently there were health risks involved.”

  “What was it a medicine for?” I asked.

  “It was an appetite suppressant, some kind of a diet pill.”

  “And why would a person like Vera, who was maybe the last person here who needed a diet pill, have taken such a medicine?” Mrs. K asked.

  “Exactly,” said Corcoran. “And even if she wanted to lose weight, how and why did she take a pill that’s been off the market for so long? Where, or from whom, did she even get it?”