The Good Rabbi-A Murder Mystery
Conclusion
The Story thus Far
After one of the good rabbi's congregants, Fred Siegel, confesses he wants
to kill someone, the rabbi's wife finds a menacing note on their doorstep:
"IT'S YOU." The rabbi meets with the police, but they are unwilling to take
action. Spying on Fred, the rabbi learns nothing. Back at his office he
finds a second note: "IT'S YOU I WANT." His secretary Penny tells him Fred
was just there and is now going to the rabbi's home. Yelling "call the
police!" the rabbi races off to protect his family. "You're going to get
me," he says aloud to himself. "But you're going to get more than you
bargained for."
Conclusion
Racing home, the rabbi could already see Fred grabbing hold of the screen
door, his massive forearms ripping it off its hinges. He tossed it into the
front lawn. Then Fred's huge boots kicked down the front door--four,
five--on the sixth kick the frame splintered and the door crashed into the
front hall. The rabbi's wife and daughter were inside. The rabbi had told
them to go next door, to be safe, to wait until the police got there, but
they didn't. Why? Why were they still inside? They were hiding in an
upstairs closet, his wife's hand over his daughter's mouth to keep her from
crying out.
Fred was downstairs shouting, throwing lamps and vases, Shabbat
candlesticks, framed family pictures, all smashed on the floor. Next to go
was the rabbi's sacred letter collection. Ripping open the strap of the
soft leatherbound folder, Fred was tearing the letters, chucking them in
the air, mashing them into the carpet.
It's you, Rabbi! It's you!
The rabbi drove like a maniac. He had to get home before Fred headed up the
stairs, before his daughter's whimpering led Fred to their closet and
certain catastrophe.
Why?! Why us?!
His wife's cries echoed in his head. It wasn't fair. Just because he was
there, because he was the rabbi, he was subject to this--people's sores,
their gushing wounds--all of it flowing over him. Pus and pain. He'd had
enough.
Now he saw his wife on her knees, pleading for Fred's mercy, summoning all
her strength, hoping, somehow, to snap him out of it, to make him see
reason.
Just don't hurt my daughter! Please, do what you want to me, but please,
please, please...
The tires squealed as he turned onto his street. He accelerated, careening
down the block, driving to save his daughter.
There were three police cars in front of his house. He slammed on his
brakes and skidded to a halt, narrowly missing a hydrant and a telephone
pole.
He recognized Detective Harry standing on his front porch, talking to his
wife, her arm wrapped protectively over their daughter Abby's shoulder as
Abby hugged her stuffed animal. A group of uniformed cops stood by their
cruisers, chatting. They seemed in no particular distress.
"Rabbi," Harry called.
"Daddy," Abby shouted. She ran down the path and jumped into his arms. He
held her close. The uniformed cops quieted down, watching the scene.
"Honey, we were so worried about you." His wife kissed him on the cheek and
held his arm with startling strength. "When Penny called from the office,
we didn't know what to think. Fortunately the police got here right away."
"Any sign of Fred?" the rabbi asked Harry.
"His wife said he's not home from work. She hasn't heard from him. I have a
car out looking."
"Thanks," the rabbi said.
He felt emboldened, almost like a warrior, standing shoulder to shoulder
with the detective. He had responded bravely, yes decisively, to protect
his family. He hadn't stopped to analyze the situation, to judge the
philosophic merits of several different perspectives. He had acted.
It was a cool, pleasant evening. The large trees lining the street were
blowing gently in the breeze. Neighbors, all wondering about the police,
stood on their lawns and gathered on the sidewalk in small clusters. In a
moment the rabbi would walk over and tell them everything was under control.
Then he saw a car parked two houses down, partially hidden behind some
hedges. A sinister place for a car. The rabbi could make out a shadow in
the driver's seat, watching intently. Spying. He could feel it.
"There!" he shouted, thrusting out his arm and pointing directly at the car.
Immediately the taillights came on, the engine started, and the car rushed away.
"Who was it?" his wife asked.
"I didn't see."
"We'll check it out," Harry said. He barked out a few crisp instructions on
his walkie-talkie. Almost instantly, a cruiser's lights flooded the front
yard. Then it sped off.
"Do you think it was him?" the rabbi's wife asked. "Do you?"
"I couldn't tell."
"We'll know soon," Harry said. "Best get inside now."
Suddenly exhausted, the rabbi let the detective usher him and his family
into the safety of home.
* *
*
Fred was parked behind Kefalidis' liquor store, in the back corner of the
lot, in the shadow of a dumpster. He'd been there for the past hour, just
sitting, thinking, weighing the possibilities of setting the store on fire,
thinking how there were probably dozens of clues he'd left already, plus
the chemical traces, tire impressions, fibers too minuscule to wipe away,
all the tracks would lead the police knocking at his door. And of course
there was the most obvious clue. Who would most want the new liquor store
burnt down but the man who owned the old liquor store?
But mostly Fred just sat and felt sorry for himself. Here he was, a just,
honest fellow who worked hard and loved his wife, who went to services and
donated money to the temple. So why was he so loaded with misery? His
business was failing, he couldn't have any children, his faith was
crumbling, he was on the edge of becoming a criminal.
He'd gone to the rabbi for counsel and for what--to hear the same advice
you'd get from any stranger on the street.
On the other hand, perhaps the rabbi didn't know what to say because he
really believed that he, Fred, was going to kill someone. How would the
rabbi know that he was just trying the idea on for size, seeing how the
words sounded, hoping that just by wanting Kefalidis dead the bright red
neon above his shiny liquor store door would never come on again.
But now, in the car, the matches in his lap, the rag stuck in the milk jug
topped with gas, Fred realized the rabbi's advice was more profound than
he'd first suspected. The rabbi was doing him a favor by taking him
seriously. Because, after all, what do you tell someone who says they want
to kill another human being?
Fred heard the rabbi's voice in his head. Don't do it. Talk to the police.
Then something clicked and Fred realized he didn't want to go to jail. He
wanted to sell wine. He liked it. He liked the idea of people making toasts
with glasses filled with a Merlot he'd suggested, gracing a picnic with a
Chardonnay he'd recommended. He was no killer. His performance in the
rabbi's office was just that--a performance, and this pretending to be a
menacing assassin was really an act of cowardice. He dropped the milk
container, still reeking of gasoline, in a garbage can in front of an
all-night deli, not worried if his fingerprints covered it since he'd done
nothing wrong.
* *
*
The rabbi's wife had made hot chocolate for Abby and coffee for Harry. The
four of them were sitting at the kitchen table, not really saying anything
(no one was quite sure what to say) when the front doorbell rang. The rabbi
got up to answer it, but Harry put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"You wait here," Harry said. "Let me see how volatile he is."
From the kitchen the rabbi heard the muffled, excited voices of Harry and
the officer. Then the door closed. Silence. The rabbi looked at his wife.
"I'm sorry this all had to happen to you, sweetie," she said, echoing his
earlier thoughts about her. But now the rabbi had to question, what exactly
was happening? And he was still troubled by his nightmare of Fred invading
his home. Why? It wasn't fear; he felt safe now with the police there. He
was disturbed by its climax, the decimation of his precious letters, his
legacy. Then it hit him: his letter collection had become his congregation;
he was more concerned with his words than the people to whom they were
addressed. He remembered a story about a wise rabbi, a tzaddik, who, while
walking home at night through his village, sees a man who had recently
died. Why are you here? the rabbi asks. You were such a good man in your
life, there was no need for you to come back. The man replies, Rabbi, a few
nights ago I was sitting in my room thinking about what a good person I
was, flush with the many good deeds I had done in my life. And in that glow
of celebrating my goodness, I died. That's why I have come back.
The front door opened.
"Could you come here a moment, rabbi?" Harry called.
The rabbi glanced at his wife; she nodded encouragement. Steeling himself,
the rabbi headed toward the front hall.
Standing there, dwarfed by the uniformed officer, was his secretary, Penny,
her hands fluttering helplessly, a sorry, lopsided smile stuck on her face.
At the sight of the rabbi, she burst into tears, blubbering something that
sounded like I'm sorry.
"This was the person in the car," the trooper said.
"And she's confessed," Harry added, the slightest touch of irony in his voice.
"Confessed to what" the rabbi said.
"She said something about some notes she left on your front door. On your
desk. Some kind of love notes, I gather."
Peggy buried her head in her hands and turned toward the trooper, who had
no choice but to drape a long, muscular arm over her bony shoulder.
* *
*
The police cruiser was parked in front of his house when Fred pulled into
the driveway. What were they doing here? How could they know? A thought
flashed in his mind--take off--but he knew the cops would easily track him
down before he got far. Besides, Fred had a problem with backing up
quickly--he got confused and inevitably started steering the wrong way.
He'd almost backed into his neighbor's shrubbery that time he was in a
hurry to pick up a pizza with mushrooms and extra cheese. Imagine what he'd
do fleeing the law.
"Fred Siegel," the trooper said, getting out of his car.
"Yes."
"I need to have a word with you."
Just then the front light went on and Fred's wife came running out of the house.
"I was so worried," she said. "The police have been looking all over for
you. They wouldn't tell me why. Did you do something, Fred? Did you do
something you shouldn't have?"
The trooper jogged across the lawn and faced the Siegels.
"We just seeded that grass," his wife said.
"Sorry, ma'am. If you could both just wait here a moment."
He turned away and spoke rapidly into his walkie-talkie. Listening to the
garbled response, he turned back to the Siegels.
"Sorry, sir. False alarm I guess. Call Detective Harry Klavan at the
station in the morning." He handed Fred a card.
"Sure," Fred said.
"And he wants you to call the rabbi, too."
"Okay," Fred said.
"You people take care now. Sorry about the inconvenience."
"Sure."
The trooper walked back to his car, careful this time to stay on the path.
He started the engine and drove away quietly into the night.
"What was all that about?" Fred's wife asked him.
"I'm not exactly sure," he said. "I guess the rabbi will clue me in tomorrow."
He slipped his hand into hers and together they walked up the steps into
the house. There was a lightness to his step Fred hadn't felt for a while.
How odd it is, Fred thought, that though he hadn't really come close to
burning down Kefalidis' store, the fact that he stopped himself, that he
gained control of himself, probably helped him more than if he'd gone
through with it. Maybe he'd try to explain that to the rabbi tomorrow,
right before he made him the offer on the wine.
* *
*
The rabbi sat alone in his basement next to the furnace, his collection of
letters piled on his lap. He wanted to shove them into the fire. But he'd
forgotten that the furnace had been off for the past few weeks, and
besides, he wasn't sure how to open it.
His letters. They were the culprit in this whole ridiculous, embarrassing
mess. He'd been hiding behind them for so long, he'd forgotten how to deal
with real people. His congregants had become his readership, and like many
writers, he'd fallen into the bad habit of writing for himself, infatuated
with the sound of his own words.
The good rabbi stood on a chair and stored his box of letters on a shelf
above the workbench. They'd no doubt be laughing about this down at the
police station for weeks: how the rabbi confused a secretary's love notes
for death threats and mobilized the entire force. The story could become
legendary, retold to each new group of rookie cops, becoming more fantastic
from year to year.
Still, it was the safety of his family he had defended, and men had been
doing whatever it took to protect their homesteads since the beginning of
civilization.
He sat for a moment at his workbench and thought about poor Penny. He never
believed he was the type of man women had crushes on. He would need to talk
to her. For his own piece of mind. And hers. She was probably embarrassed,
humiliated even. No doubt there was an emptiness in her life. He would try
to help her find some kind of peace. He felt sorry for her.
But not for Fred. The rabbi was angry with the wine merchant, and would
tell him so. Tomorrow he would call Fred and insist he come down to the
office. Then he would question him and chastise him, persisting until the
rabbi got to the bottom of this mystery. Who did Fred want to kill, and
most importantly, why? Then he would get Fred to seek professional help. Or
alert the police. It was time for action. He was through with
philosophizing. Enough with the letters. It was fitting that his own words
would come back to haunt him. He just wondered why it had taken so long.
He turned off the basement light, leaving behind in darkness a part of his
life which would be better tucked away until he could understand it more
fully.
"I'm coming up," he called to his daughter. "I'm coming up to tuck you in."
Bob Sloan is the author of the detective novel
Bliss, Dad's Own Cookbook, A
Stiff Drink and a Close Shave--The Lost Arts of Manliness, Dad Cooks Up a
Party, and HI-FIs and Hi-Balls--The Golden Age of the American Bachelor.
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