Now You See Me... (22 page)

Chapter 39

I don’t remember what Nechama said when I saw her. She was standing outside the study when I opened the door. I mumbled good-bye and managed to wait until I was in my car before bursting into tears. Ten minutes later I was still sitting. The key was in the ignition. My hands were on the wheel. I was too distraught to drive.

My head was pounding. I swallowed two Advil tablets and downed them with a long swig from a water bottle I always take with me. But analgesics wouldn’t erase the memory of my spiteful, childish outburst.

“You hurt me, I’ll hurt you back, harder.”

And nothing I could say would erase the pain I’d seen in Rabbi Bailor’s eyes. I hoped Nechama hadn’t overheard. It was one thing to wound the rabbi, another to wound their marriage, which, from what I had seen, was already strained by their daughter’s disappearance.

The truth about an awful truth is that it isn’t always necessary to share it. And as Bubbie G says, a word is like an arrow—both are in a hurry to strike. Though fourteen years had passed, that day, I realized, I had been in a hurry to strike.

The West L.A. detectives’ room was almost empty when I arrived, close to four-thirty. Jessie was at her table. She looked up when I approached.

“I’m about to head home,” she said. “If you’re here for information, Molly, I don’t have any.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“That’s about all I
do
have. How can I help you?”

I pulled up a chair and sat. “I had an interesting conversation with Melissa Frank today. She told me Greg was planning to go public with proof about the cheating that was taking place at Torat Tzion.”

“Adam Prosser.” Jessie nodded. “Ms. Frank phoned this afternoon and gave me his name.”

“Prosser is the reason Greg was fired,” I said.

Jessie raised a brow. “Ms. Frank didn’t tell me that.”

“Melissa didn’t know.” I summarized what I’d learned from Justin. “Melissa told me the secular studies principal, Dr. Mendes, was talking to Shankman about his returning to Torat Tzion. Prosser’s father is on the school board. Suppose the father goes to Shankman’s apartment to cut a deal. Prosser says he’ll agree to let Dr. Mendes reinstate Shankman if Shankman drops the cheating charge. Shankman refuses. Things take a violent turn. Shankman is killed.”

Jessie had been listening with interest. She tapped her fingers together. “And where is Hadassah Bailor during all this, Molly?”

“Not in the apartment. Shankman either frightened her or assaulted her. She escaped before Prosser arrived.”

“We have the clothes Hadassah was wearing when she came home Friday night, Molly. A white skirt and sweater. Mrs. Bailor laundered the clothes, but the lab found bloodstains in the seams.”

I swallowed hard. “How do they know it’s blood?”

“They used antihuman hemoglobin. It’s an antiserum that reacts specifically and only with primate blood. So unless Hadassah came in contact with a bleeding monkey, the blood is human.” Jessie wasn’t smiling. “My guess is the lab tests will show it’s Shankman’s blood. So while your theory is interesting, it doesn’t account for the blood on Hadassah’s clothes.”

“But you won’t know for sure that it’s Shankman’s blood until you have the lab results, right? When will that be?”

“Ordinarily, the lab would spray Luminol on the suspect area and examine it in a dark room, or in a container. Any blood would show up with a bluish color. But Mrs. Bailor used bleach. On silk and satin—interesting, don’t you think?” Jessie paused. “Anyway, some bleaches react with Luminol and give a false positive. So the lab is doing DNA analysis. That takes at least two days, probably longer.”

“It might not be Shankman’s blood,” I said. “I talked to someone today who suspects that Hadassah was cutting herself. Self-mutilation?”

Jessie nodded. “Who told you that?”

“Cheryl Wexner. She worked with Hadassah on her college applications. They became close.”

I told Jessie what Cheryl had noticed. I also told her about the marks I had seen on Hadassah’s arm, about the stained tissues. About her father’s comment, that she always wore long sleeves.

“Suppose you’re right,” Jessie said. “Hadassah leaves before Prosser arrives, and the blood on her clothes is hers. Who cleaned up Shankman’s blood? Prosser?”

“Yes. And he moved Shankman to the car and staged the crash to cover up the murder.”

“But what about Hadassah’s belongings? She was in that apartment from Monday through Friday, Molly. We found hair fiber and other trace evidence on the bed and on the sofa. We matched it to fibers on clothes we found in her closet. Why would Prosser remove Hadassah Bailor’s things? Leaving them for us to find would be smarter. It would point us in her direction.”

Jessie was right. I considered, then said, “Maybe Rabbi Bailor removed them Saturday night.”

“We searched his home and his office, and Hadassah’s locker at school. We didn’t find anything. Not her cell phone, or the purse the friend said Hadassah was using, or her house keys.”

I wondered if Rabbi Bailor had stashed Hadassah’s belongings at his brother-in-law’s house. “Speaking of phones, can you find out if Hadassah called anyone Friday night?”

“We subpoenaed her cell phone company’s records. We should have that information tomorrow.”

“What about Shankman’s land line?”

“His phone has an LCD display and a record of the most recent outgoing and incoming calls. No calls Friday. In fact, no calls since the previous Saturday. A lot of people use their cell phones as their main phone.”

“And Shankman’s cell phone?”

“He made several calls to Ms. Frank and to his home number. He also phoned Torat Tzion, the L.A. Times, and the Bureau of Jewish Education.” Jessie hesitated. “And the law offices of Mulligan, Raslin, and Prosser.”

“Interesting.”

“That doesn’t mean Prosser went to Shankman’s apartment, Molly.”

“I know. Did you find any fingerprints, aside from Shankman’s?”

“Hadassah’s. We lifted her prints from items in her house and matched them to prints we found in the apartment. We found Ms. Frank’s prints, and her daughter’s. Ms. Frank told us she visited Shankman several times.”

I pictured Kaitlin on the swing, saw her curls flying. “That’s it?”

“We have unidentified prints that match prints we found on the Altima. Shankman’s prints, by the way, were on the steering wheel, but not on the handle or driver’s door.”

“Maybe the prints belong to one of the Prossers.”

“Or to Rabbi Bailor, or his son. I know you’re trying to help prove that the Bailors aren’t involved with Shankman’s death, Molly. Unfortunately, Hadassah
is
involved. Her father may be, too. Or her brother.”

“Did Rabbi Bailor tell you where he was Friday night?”

“He said he was at a party for a newborn boy, and then he responded to an emergency call.”

So the rabbi was being consistent either in his lie, or in his truth. “Detective Drake, we know Shankman was killed Friday night. Rabbi Bailor wouldn’t have driven Shankman’s car on the Sabbath, even to protect his daughter. The brother wouldn’t have done it, either.”

Jessie shrugged.

“Can you tell me what killed Shankman?”

She swiveled in her chair.

“Detective Connors believes I betrayed his confidence,” I said. “I didn’t identify Shankman to Rabbi Bailor or anyone in his family.”

She studied me a moment before answering. “I can’t give you all the details, Molly. I can tell you the victim’s shirt was soaked with blood, and there was some blood on both front headrests in the vehicle, but comparatively little blood on the seat or seat backs, or in the back of the vehicle. If he was alive when he sustained the injuries from the crash, and those injuries caused massive bleeding, there would have been blood spatters all around him. The fact that we found so little blood suggests he was dead when he was placed in the car. People don’t bleed postmortem.”

I nodded. “What about the murder weapon? You asked me if I had touched any of the knives.”

“The medical examiner hasn’t done the autopsy yet. Until he does he can’t determine the cause of death. But from his preliminary findings, which he based on the size and nature of the wounds, Shankman sustained several types of injuries.” Jessie neatened a stack of papers. “I really have to go. I have a date, and I don’t want to be late. You may know him. Ezra Nathanson? He teaches at Ohr Torah. Your husband subbed for him a few times.” She cocked her head. “Did I say something funny?”

“On Sunday, when you said Zack was a rabbi, I thought you’d checked us out. You made me nervous.”

“I intended to,” she said, seriously.

“I do know Ezra. I didn’t know he was seeing anyone.”

“We’re taking it slow. As I mentioned, I’m studying Judaism, but I’m not ready to commit to Orthodoxy.”

“You said you found out recently that you’re Jewish?”

Jessie nodded. “My mother was a hidden child during the Holocaust. She was the only one of her family who survived. She married my dad—he’s Episcopalian—and never told him or anyone else that she was Jewish. I found out by accident when I came across some photos of her family.”

I tried to imagine what Jessie must have felt. Shock? Confusion? Hurt? “What about your mother? Has she found her way back to Judaism?”

“Hardly.” Jessie smiled wryly. “And she’s not thrilled that I have. It’s a challenge. But life is definitely not boring.”

“So how did you meet Ezra?”

“That’s a long story.” She moved her chair back and stood. “Maybe we can talk more another time. I
really
have to go. I’ll walk out with you.”

“One more question?” I rose and returned my chair to the adjoining table. “What was in the box in the closet?”

“Nothing. Interesting, because we found blood on the inside and outside of the box.” Jessie picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “If you want to help the Bailors, Molly, convince Hadassah to talk to us. If she doesn’t, as soon as we get the lab results about the blood, I’ll have to arrest her. I really don’t want to do that.”

“Even if she killed Shankman in self-defense?”

“If that’s what happened, why doesn’t she tell us?”

Chapter 40

Over an early dinner I told Zack what I’d said to Rabbi Bailor, and felt like crying again during the telling.

“I don’t blame you for being upset, Molly,” Zack said. “It was unfair of Rabbi Bailor to blame you for what happened. You were anxious to find Hadassah.”

“I told him it was his fault Shankman chose Dassie. That was a horrible thing to say, even if it’s true.” I poked at the roast chicken on my plate. “And it may
not
be true. How do I know what was going on in Shankman’s head?”

“Give it a day or so, Molly. Then, only if you want to, you can call Rabbi Bailor.”

“I can’t face him, Zack. His daughter could have been killed, a man is dead, and I’m focused on my own petty hurts over something that happened fourteen years ago.”

“You admired him. You felt he let you down. It’s hard to get over something like that. I’m sure Rabbi Bailor feels terrible about what he said, too, Molly.”

My eyes teared again. I wiped them with a napkin.

“Did you ever consider confronting Rabbi Ingel?” Zack said a few minutes later. “He’s the one you’re really angry at, Molly.”

“Oh, please.” I put down my fork. “The man is in total denial. He’d never admit he was wrong. I saw him at a wedding after my divorce. I could tell what he was thinking from the way he looked at me: ‘You see, Malka, I was right about you,’ ” I said, mimicking the rabbi’s high-pitched tone. “ ‘You’re a failure.’ ”

Zack laughed. “You sound exactly like him. But isn’t it possible that you were being sensitive, Molly?”

“It’s possible,” I admitted. “I felt like a failure. And I’m not exactly objective about the rabbi. Mindy says I give him too much power over me. Every time I see him, all those emotions come flooding back.”

“He doesn’t represent Orthodoxy, Molly. For every Rabbi Ingel, there are tens of open-minded, sensitive, compassionate rabbis who don’t use fire and brimstone to force their students into a cookie-cutter mold.”

“I know. I married one of the good ones.” I smiled. “But it took me a while to figure that out.”

I had told Zack about the doubts I’d had in my late teens about Orthodox Judaism, about the questions I’d been afraid to ask. I’d drifted away. Then one evening, two years later, Mindy had dragged me to a lecture where I’d heard a dynamic, fascinating rabbi, very much like the Rabbi Bailor I had first known and admired. I had signed up for his class out of curiosity and had gradually found my way back to Orthodox observance.

Zack said, “Rabbi Ingel’s still at Sharsheret, so your mom sees him all the time, right? Isn’t that awkward?”

“She’s not a fan. Basically, she and my dad feel sorry for him. They think he’s sincere in his zealousness, but narrow-minded and clueless. And tactless.” I sighed. “I need a hug, Zack.”

“I’d love to give you a hug. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t make the rules.” I ate an asparagus spear.

“So what did Detective Drake tell you?” Zack said.

“Trying to change the subject, huh?” I repeated what I’d learned. “So maybe that
is
Hadassah’s blood on her clothes, not Shankman’s.” I looked at Zack’s face. “You don’t think so, huh?”

He shrugged. “It’ll be interesting to see who Hadassah phoned Friday night, if anybody.”

“Detective Drake hopes to know tomorrow. By the way, she’s dating Ezra Nathanson.”

Zack raised a brow. “Ezra and a cop? Huh. She’s Jewish?”

I told him about her background. “She seems very nice. More important, she’s investigating the Prosser angle.”

Zack left to teach a Talmud class. I cleared the dishes while I talked to Edie and to Mindy, who told me Liora had flown to New York the night before. A
shidduch
date, my mother confirmed when I phoned her.

“On paper, he sounds great,” my mother said.

“On paper they all sound great. Speaking of paper, how’s your book?”

“I’m still blocked.”

“Tell me what has you stumped.”

Fiction was infinitely more appealing than reality. We talked plot for half an hour. My mother hung up to take her nightly walk with my dad. I watched
Scrubs,
then phoned my friend Irene.

“I miss seeing you every
Shabbos,”
she told me after we’d caught up. “Why did you have to get married and switch to your husband’s
shul?”

Irene always makes me smile. “It kind of goes with the territory. Irene, what can you tell me about cluster suicides?”

“For one thing, they account for only five percent of suicides. Why?”

I told her about Hadassah and Batya Weinberg, and Greg Shankman.

“I heard about that on the news,” Irene said. “What a tragedy. So you think Shankman planned to kill himself and get Hadassah to do the same?”

“Either that, or murder-suicide. I know it sounds crazy.”

“It’s not crazy at all, Molly. Suicide among young people has been on the rise. They’re under greater stress than they ever were—stress from school, peers, family. And there’s a romantic image—Romeo and Juliet. They don’t think about the messiness of death. They do it to make a point, or to make someone feel sorry. Do you know for a fact that the Weinberg girl killed herself?”

“No.”

“She died last year, you said? Cluster suicides are defined as three or more suicides that take place in a short period of time in the same area—like within a school, or a town. But there are copycat suicides. That’s when someone kills himself because a friend has done it, or a celebrity. Often, the attraction is the notoriety or glamour. What makes you think Hadassah was contemplating suicide?”

“I don’t know that she was. But from what I’ve learned, she’s been depressed, overwhelmed with school, lonely. She was very upset about Batya Weinberg’s death and the deaths of the other kids she knew. Also, someone close to her thinks Hadassah is cutting herself.”

“Oh.”

I didn’t like the “Oh.” “Is there a correlation between cutting and suicide, Irene?”

“Some people—mostly cutters—say the release of tension provided by cutting
prevents
suicide, but most therapists believe there’s an increased risk. Not every person who self-mutilates is suicidal, Molly, but cutting the wrist is a step closer to slitting a wrist.”

I pictured Hadassah’s scarred arm and winced.

“Several of my patients self-mutilate, Molly. Most of them are teenage girls, although one woman is in her forties. Some tear their hair. Some burn themselves. Most of them cut themselves—with razors, staples, safety pins, knives. Whatever’s available.”

“I found a few unbent staples in Hadassah’s trash can,” I told Irene. “But why do they do it?”

“Did you see
Thirteen?
That was in theaters last year. It’s about a teen who self-mutilates.”

“Holly Hunter played the mom, right? I didn’t see it. It sounded too depressing.”

“It’s definitely not a feel-good film. To tell you the truth, I worry that susceptible teens may see films about self-injury and get ideas. There’s a whole culture of cutters. They have websites. They have a cut-of-the-month club, where they get together and show off their latest cut.”

“Nice,” I said.

“They do it for the glamour and the attention. But underlying all that is a serious emotional problem. Basically, a teen who cuts into her skin is lonely or suffers from family neglect. She has feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing. She may be depressed. She may be overwhelmed with school. She may be grieving over someone she’s lost. A lot of cutters have other psychological problems. They may be bipolar, or have eating disorders.”

So much of what Irene had described fit Hadassah. I thought about Hadassah’s clothing. Size 0. “I get the psychology, Irene. But how does cutting make this person feel better?”

“She’s in emotional pain, right? By cutting herself, she’s localizing the pain and bringing it to the surface. And she’s relieving the tension.”

“And when the tension builds?”

“She cuts again. Sometimes the cuts get infected. Or she cuts too deeply, or too close to a vein. I had one patient who shared a razor with a male friend. The friend was HIV positive. Lucky for my patient, she tested negative.”

“Very lucky,” I said.

“Cutters self-mutilate with increasing frequency and intensity. It’s like with any addiction. After a while, two glasses of Scotch doesn’t give you the high they did. So you drink more. Cutting is a tough addiction to break, but with therapy, there’s a good chance. There’s a hospital-based program in Naperville, Illinois, that treats only patients who injure themselves. It’s called S.A.F.E. ALTERNATIVES. The clinical director, Wendy Lader, says skin is a bulletin board. By cutting themselves, teens are saying, ‘Can you see how much pain I’m in?’ ”

“Now you see me.” I felt overwhelmed with sorrow for Irene’s unnamed clients, for Hadassah Bailor, for anyone who felt the pain of invisibility.

“You said Hadassah’s home,” Irene said. “How is she?”

“She’s not talking to anyone.” I explained what I had witnessed. “Her father says she may be suffering from post-traumatic stress.”

“That could very well be. Is she under a doctor’s care?”

“Yes. Dr. McIntyre. He’s a psychologist, or psychiatrist—I’m not sure. He teaches a class at Torat Tzion.”

“Well, as long as she’s under his care.”

“So from what I’ve described, Irene, do you think she’s at risk of killing herself?”

“How can I answer that, Molly? I’ve never met her. I’ve never talked to her. But the trauma of whatever she went through—being controlled, being manipulated, possibly assaulted—none of that bodes well. And from what you told me, she still hasn’t dealt with whatever pushed her to cut herself in the first place. And suppose she killed this man, even in self-defense. She may still feel responsible for his death, and for bringing all this trouble to her parents’ doorstep. I assume her family knows she’s cutting herself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if they don’t know, they should.”

I had intended to tell Rabbi Bailor before our conversation took its emotional turn. The way things were now, I didn’t feel comfortable calling him. Maybe I would raise the subject with Dr. McIntyre.

Irene and I talked a while longer. After I hung up, I logged onto the Internet and responded to several e-mails, among them two letters from fans. I checked my Amazon ranking. Still in the 20,000 range. Then, on a whim, I visited J Spot.

I recognized most of the names in the chat room, including Birch2. I made a mental note to talk to Sara again about her online activities.

DJ2440: So the odds of getting into medical school aren’t great un-
less you’re a music major.
Lucky7: Musicology, not biology.
M&M: Lame-o-rama.
Jewcy: Say something, Birch.
Birch2: Not much to say. I have to do homework. ’Night.
M&M: Don’t go up a tree, Birch.
Lucky7: LOL
Birch2 has left the room.
Aleph36: Dude, you’re putting me to sleep. You guys are boooooor-
ing!!! Kerry was better than this.
M&M: My parents split their vote.
DJ2440: I’m Bushed.
M&M: Ambushed?
Lucky7: Hey, ToraTora. Where’ve you been?
ToraTora: Bora Bora.
Lucky7: LOL
ST613 has entered the room.
M&M: Hey, ST. Shalom.

I stared at the screen. ST613 was Dassie. Just hours ago Rabbi Bailor told me his daughter was emotionally spent. Now she was well enough to get out of bed?

Maybe he didn’t know.

Lucky7: What’s up, ST?
ST613: Not much.
Jewcy: Still down in the dumps, huh?
DJ2440: Like last night? Tell us why.
ST613: Nothing special.
M&M: ST is blue. Boo-hoo.
Jewcy: Cool it, M&M.

So Dassie had been in the chat room last night, too.

Lucky7: So why are you sad, ST?
ST613: I’m okay.
M&M: A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, why the long
face?
Sinai: LOL
DJ2440: ROFL
ToraTora: ROFL
M&M: My mom was sad yesterday, ’cause JFK was killed Novem-
ber 22.
DJ2440: My mom and dad talk about where they were when they
heard.
Lucky7: Where were you when they dropped the charges against
Kobe Bryant?
Sinai: My teacher was killed.
M&M: No way!
Lucky7: When?
Sinai: Friday night. It’s been on the news.
DJ2440: So what happened?
ST613 has left the room.
M&M: Give, Sinai.
Sinai: Remember I said a teacher cheated on the AP exam? He’s the
one.
DJ2440: Dude!
Lucky7: Killed, how?
Sinai: His car went over a cliff and landed on rocks.
M&M: Yuk! Splat!
Lucky7: Gross, M&M.
Sinai: They’re saying someone killed him and put him in the car to
make it look like an accident.
DJ2440: OMG
Sinai: He was a nice guy. . . .