But there’s no arguing with MacAllister once he’s made up his mind, once his red face creases into its smug folds, once he thinks he knows. You do as you’re told, like a child in religious school.
So here I was, uncomfortably edging my way into the shivah, the room where the mourners, family of the deceased Rabbi Weissman, were receiving guests to comfort them.
A hushed room, covered mirrors, a buxom woman in a formless dress, torn at the collar in memory of the dead, her head modestly draped in a scarf, dabbing red eyes. The rebbetzin, I guessed. Mrs. Weissman. Two young men, Rabbi Weissman’s sons, on either side, one with earlocks and a Hebrew book open on his lap, the other looking more modern, with The Jewish Way in Death and Mourning in his hand. A bevy of people, men with yarmulkes, women with wigs or scarves, long skirts, long sleeves. Murmured snatches reached my ears: “Yes, he was a tzaddik, a holy man...” “To think, such a tragedy!” “A murder — in our community — what next—”
I elbowed my way gingerly to the front. Conversation ceased, as a dozen Orthodox eyes turned to look at me. A stranger in their midst. A stranger who should belong.
“Rebbetzin Weissman? I’m sorry to intrude, I know what a difficult time this is for you, but I need to ask you some questions. I’m Jack Schwartz.” I displayed my badge.
“Oy, more questions?” She turned her red eyes toward me. “I thought I’d answered them already and genug schoin, enough, let me be.”
I shrugged, feeling worse than ever. “I’m sorry, really, but I’ve been assigned to the case, and I always ascertain the facts for myself.” (Indeed, that had been my undoing in the religion: take nobody’s word for things, not the rabbis, not the Talmud, and trust nothing that I haven’t experienced. A bad idea for a religion which relies upon the testimony of others.) I glanced at all the open-mouthed visitors, glaring at me. “Is there someplace where we can talk privately?”
Of course not, I realized. Stupid of me. No Orthodox woman would converse alone in a room with a man. I was about to apologize yet again when, as if on cue, the guests all rose, muttered the obligatory Hebrew words of consolation — “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem” — and filed out, leaving Rebbetzin Weissman and her two sons.
An awkward silence, punctuated by sobs. I opened with the usual questions.
“Where was your husband when he was killed?”
“In his study at the shul — at the synagogue,” she translated for my benefit.
“Why was he there?”
She shrugged, a look of disbelief on her face. (You mean you don’t know? What kind of detective — and worse, what kind of Jew — are you anyway? it said.) “He always saw congregants in his study. They came to him in droves, especially at night. After evening services and his evening Talmud class. He rarely came home before ten o’clock at night. I always said to him — Levi, you work too hard. You should take better care of yourself. But he was such a devoted man, always doing chesed, acts of kindness and charity. He always put the congregation before himself.” And she began to cry again.
“Mama, don’t,” said the earlocked son, handing her a tissue.
“Father was like that,” said the second son, the modern one. “And such an exponent of the faith! I wasn’t always religious — I strayed away from the Torah — but he brought me back with his love.”
I didn’t want to hear this, the eulogies, the paroxysm of posthumous worship. “So who came to see him that night?”
“I don’t know. Levi never talked about who came with shailos — you know, religious questions — or for counseling. It was personal.”
“But he had a diary,” Modern Son added quickly. “You should find it in the top right-hand corner of his desk.”
I wrote that down. “Any enemies?”
The three began talking at once, a hubbub of denials. I held my hand up.
“No one, especially a rabbi, is universally loved. Come on, tell me the truth.”
Exchanges of glances, a few “hmm”s and “er”s. Then a big sigh from the rebbetzin. “All right, yes, there were a few. But you can’t seriously suspect someone within the shul? Surely it was an outsider, maybe a hit-and-run driver who shot him through the window of the study as he drove by on the street, maybe some anti-Semite, a neo-Nazi, there’s a whole bunch of them in the next town over—”
“We’re investigating all that. A neighbor thought she might have heard a car, we’re looking into that, but we can’t rule anything out.”
“Even other Jews — I can’t believe that, that another Jew would—”
The familiar irritation rose to the surface like a rash. “Jews aren’t immune. They’re — we’re — as prone to pettiness and crime as anyone else.” My voice was sharp; I realized I’d have to tone it down or these people would never open up and trust me. “Just tell me — please. Was there anyone in the shul who disliked your husband?”
“Well. There were a few people who made tsuris for him, tried to block his contract renewal. Reuben and Rachel Glassner. They’ve hated my husband because he didn’t visit Reuben’s father in the hospital. He couldn’t help it,” she burst out, “nobody told him old Mr. Glassner was sick till it was too late — but they won’t believe that. And Simon Siden, he thinks my husband’s sermons were too long.” A pause, the rebbetzin’s knuckles pressed to her eyes. “Oh, and Judah Mackler. He thought my husband’s religious rulings were too lenient. Oy, was he angry that my husband allowed KosherTaste Caterers to cater in our shul, because there was that scandal about rabbinic supervision there a few years ago, and lots of Orthodox Jews won’t eat their food.”
I scribbled busily. “Anyone else?”
Another pause, more glances exchanged, more sighs. “No, but — you’ll check the neo-Nazis? My husband, he was a Holocaust survivor.”
“I’ll check everything.”
The rebbetzin nodded, grasped her sons’ hands.
“Anything else you can tell me?”
She shook her head, her eyes welling again.
“Anything about your husband? How did he spend his time? Did he have any hobbies, involvements, something which could help me to—”
The babble of praise broke out. Hospital visits, charitable acts, hours spent over Talmudic tomes. “He loved to read mysteries,” the modern son mentioned diffidently.
“Ssh.” It was a sort of hiss from the earlocked son. “It doesn’t honor our father’s memory to have people know that.”
I swallowed the bile that had risen bitterly to my throat. “What kind of mysteries?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the young man said, glancing apologetically at his brother. “Whenever Father wanted to relax, he used to read Sherlock Holmes. He had a copy here, and one in his study at shul.”
Thank God. It made the late unfortunate Rabbi Levi Weissman a bissel more human.
I put my notebook away and turned to leave. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out.”