“Several months? How come I haven’t seen anything about it in the newspapers?”
“Because we’ve kept it quiet. Whidden works for the Department of Energy. Out of the Argonne lab. The fact that he’s missing constitutes a pretty serious security breach. Even the local police are unaware of it.”
“But what’s the connection with Philip Montgomery?”
“Whidden was a disciple of sorts. He was a member of Montgomery’s Truce of God church.”
“Well, I guess that is a connection.”
“And there’s something more. It has to do with Montgomery’s writings.”
“Writings?”
“Yes. Montgomery used to do a lot of writing for Truce of God. He published pamphlets regularly. But his writings ceased for a number of years, as if he’d retired or maybe even passed away. The last one we found is dated October 1968, more than twenty years ago—except for what Argonne security found in Dr. Whidden’s locker.”
“Why, what did they find?”
“A new Montgomery pamphlet. And it’s dated January 1989, just three months ago. Right about the time Whidden went missing.”
“Hmmm…but still, why does it mean he might be involved in Whidden’s disappearance?”
“The pamphlet pertains to the very research Whidden was conducting. A new theory of evolution—something to do with inherited memories. It supposedly turns Darwinism on its ear. At least part of what Montgomery wrote he could only have learned about from Whidden. This evidence makes it pretty certain that the two have been in contact, and—”
“And that’s why we’re having lunch.”
“David, the truth is I’m always looking for an excuse to see you. But seriously…you have to know that you’re renowned for your memory. I mean you were the only guy on the debate team who could remember word for word every important citation—the guy who never needed a note card. I just thought if you remembered anything Montgomery’s daughter may have told you, about her church, or her father…”
“I do remember something,” I said as a thought suddenly surfaced.
“See, you are an idiot savant. What?”
“She lived with her aunt. I don’t know if that’s especially helpful. I just remember her as one strange lady.”
“Yes, we know about her already. And delusional is a better word for her. In fact, she was committed to a mental institution before the rest of the family moved away. She’s still there, but unfortunately, she’s not lucid. We tried talking with her, but it was useless.”
My mind scanned its archives for an image of Mary’s aunt. The picture came and went quickly: the frail, short body, the gray hair pulled back tightly from her face. The recollection made me shudder. Then another thought occurred to me.
“Michael, have you asked Benny if he remembers anything about the Montgomery family? After all, he’s the one who lived right across the street from them.”
“Actually, when I spoke with Benny about the whole Kennedy assassination thing, I did ask him.”
“And?”
“He recalled a few things that we’re checking into now. You should reach out to him, David. He was your best friend for a lot of years.”
I looked away from Michael, feeling uncomfortable and guilty. I didn’t say anything in response, causing an awkward silence.
When I noticed the waiter open the door of the private room and look in on us, I asked him for the check—which he gave me immediately. The Berghoff waiters are a little bit like independent contractors. They handle cash transactions right at your table, providing customers with change from their own wallets. As he loomed over us waiting to be paid, Michael made an effort to reach into his pocket, but I waved him off and paid the whole check. Although he was in many ways far more successful, I made more money. My uncle Bert is a very generous guy. The waiter thanked us and left us to ourselves again.
“Next time it will be your turn,” I assured him.
“Oh, you thought I wanted to pay?” Michael said, feigning surprise. “Actually, I only wanted to give you this. He had fished a piece of paper out of his pocket with some numbers on it and gave it to me.
“It’s my new home number,” he said, attempting to sound nonchalant. “If you think of anything else, give me a call there.”
“New home number?”
“Well, I’m living in an apartment, for now. Here, downtown. Hopefully it’s just temporary.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah well, me, too. Anyway, I’m hoping Michelle and I can work things out. But if you happen to think of any thing—call me at that number, not at the office.”
“Sure—but why not the office?”
“My phone there may not be so secure these days.”
“What! Now you’re sounding like Benny.”
“No offense to Benny, David, but heaven forbid.”
It took me a minute to push myself up and out of the plush upholstered booth, since my hands sank half a foot beneath my butt before I gained the necessary leverage. Michael was able to rise with just slightly less effort.
When both of us were standing, I shook the hand of the only Niles West High School graduate, besides myself, who knew what it felt like to be announced as the first place winner of the Illinois State Debate Tournament, even if the feeling lasted for only two days, until Michael had discovered a tabulation error, which he of course reported. It meant we had actually finished number two.
“You realize,” I said as our hands were still clasped, “you’re really not doing me any favors triggering all of these memories of Mary Montgomery.”
Michael looked at me quizzically for a moment before he released my hand. “It’s finally happened,” he declared, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What’s that?” I asked, puzzled.
“The first chink in your memory bank.”
“What do you mean?” I replied, more perplexed than ever.
“Well, the Montgomery girl you speak of—the one who was our age—her name wasn’t Mary. It was Magdalena—and she went by Lena. Mary was her younger sister.”
“That’s impossible, Michael,” I protested. “There’s no way I could have gotten them confused. I never met a younger sister.”
“I know,” Michael agreed. “You couldn’t have. Mary Montgomery died at age eleven, in 1965—the year before the party for Benny’s dad.”
I had promised my uncle I would work late that evening on a new case that was potentially a big one for us. A student skydiver had been severely injured when the suspension lines of his parachute got tangled up so it didn’t open properly, and he hit the ground at nearly free-fall speed. Since he’d signed a waiver beforehand, I had to figure out a way to get around that.
I had my dinner delivered to the office, but I found it difficult to concentrate on my research. The information Michael shared with me about the existence of two Montgomery girls—one of them the dead younger sister of “my Mary”—haunted me. None of it made any sense.
I didn’t get back to my apartment until the ten o’clock news was already underway. I turned on my television in time to see a weather map depicting a cold front approaching Chicago from the northwest. Just as the weatherman started to explain the significance of the various arrows and color patterns that filled the screen, the words BREAKING NEWS appeared across the bottom, and the broadcast shifted to a news anchorman.
“We have just received news of the death of US Attorney Michael Eisenberg,” he stated in somber tones. “The body of the thirty-nine-year-old government official was found on a downtown Chicago sidewalk at a little after nine this evening. He apparently fell to his death from an upper floor of a nearby apartment building. This is all we have now, but please stay tuned for further details. Again, US Attorney Michael Eisenberg, dead at age thirty-nine.”
Chapter 8
April 14, 1989
Shalom Gardens is a Jewish cemetery located just outside the city of Chicago. It is the final resting place for
most of the areas well-to-do Jews who have passed away since the early sixties. Those who had died before then were likely laid to rest in one of the run-down Jewish cemeteries located in the ghetto neighborhoods of Chicago’s west side where Jews once called home.
The Gardens—as it’s commonly called—is undoubtedly where I will spend the rest of eternity, unless the earth is smashed to smithereens by some wayward asteroid. With its verdant acres meticulously groomed, it looks like a park or a botanical garden. You have to drive pretty far into it before you see anything resembling a tombstone or a grave marker, since the first several hundred yards of the winding road meandering through it reveals only trees, fountains, and spectacularly landscaped flowers and shrubs. But despite all of this, it doesn’t fool me. The place is still a cemetery.
In any case, Shalom Gardens was where my friend and former debate partner, Michael Eisenberg, was to be buried. The funeral service for someone as important as a US Attorney is bound to attract not just friends and family but also a wide array of dignitaries and dignitary wannabees. A kind of celebrity status attaches to being associated with an up-and-coming government superstar like Michael. It drew not only the actual rich and powerful—from the courthouses, boardrooms, and law firms of Chicago—but it also attracted the formerly influential and those moderately important people who hoped one day to be perched atop a pedestal as high or higher than Michael’s.
Given the number of luminaries in attendance, I was not surprised to see several media vans parked alongside the small service road near Michael’s canopied burial site. His funeral was news after all, so it wasn’t surprising that the local TV stations would cover it. And although the three camera crews were positioned behind a barricade at a respectful distance from the site, just their presence alone felt crass to me.
Before the service began, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Sheldon Goodman standing next to me. Sheldon was another former classmate from Niles West High School. Like me his chosen profession was law, but unlike me he was a criminal defense attorney. Nor did he have a squeaky clean reputation, as he reputedly attempted to buy off an occasional witness or two. Sheldon often had dealings with Michael and the attorneys Michael supervised, since he was involved in defending criminal prosecutions.
“Hard to believe, huh, David?” he said to me as he stepped on the butt of the cigarette he’d just been smoking. “What a great guy and a great attorney. Wasn’t he your debate partner in high school?”
I nodded my head in agreement but didn’t say a word.
“Do you see that blond woman standing to your eleven o’clock,” he continued, “the one who’s by herself, wearing the long black coat?”
I looked where he indicated. She wasn’t hard to spot—tall, regal, and unattainable-looking, like an ice princess. “Uh huh,” was all I said, trying to discourage the conversation.
“She’s the reason we’re here, you know,” he whispered with the satisfaction of having the inside track.
“I doubt that,” I replied, becoming increasingly annoyed by Sheldon’s banter. “We’re here because Michael’s dead.”
“Yeah, of course,” he responded. “But Michael was having an affair with that bitch. That’s what did him in. Not that I blame him—just look at her, for God’s sake.”
Instead, I stared back at Sheldon, trying hard not to let my anger show—albeit unsuccessfully. My voice rising, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
Sheldon seemed to savor the fact that he’d finally piqued my interest. “Listen, Michael died one of two ways,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know about this stuff. It’s what I do. Either he committed suicide, in which case it was because of her, since she caused him to leave his wife and he felt guilty about it. Or he was murdered—pushed off the balcony of his new apartment. And if that’s how he died, my money’s on the blonde as the one who pushed him. Michael probably told her he was going to patch things up with Michelle, and the bitch went crazy. Either way, it’s because of her that we’re here.”
“Why don’t you go to the FBI with your theories?” I said in a condescending tone. “I’m sure they’d be very interested.”
“Well, that might work,” he said with a smirk, “but Miss Blondie is an FBI agent, if you can believe that. William Sessions must be doing his recruiting at the Miss America pageant. She was working with Michael on one of his investigations, my trusted sources tell me, and…well, even a saint like Michael couldn’t resist a piece of ass like that. I can’t believe she has the gall to turn up here, rubbing it in Michelle’s face!”
Now I did want to take a longer look at this woman. But I felt that if I did, it would give credence to the smut this hack criminal defense lawyer was spouting about Michael. That was when I remembered that Sheldon had acquired a reputation as long ago as high school for being a gossipmonger. Evidently, he still was.
Instead of looking at the attractive FBI agent, I observed Michelle Eisenberg. Surprisingly, the bereaved widow didn’t appear as grief-stricken or overwrought as one might expect. She seemed almost passive, an objective observer at her husband’s funeral. Her two daughters were standing on either side of her, their faces convulsed with anguish. But I noticed that Michelle didn’t hold them close or clasp their hands in hers.
As the pallbearers brought Michael’s casket from the hearse to the burial site for the start of the service, as all eyes were on that solemn procession, I saw Michelle looking in a different direction. I followed her line of vision, and it led directly to “Miss Blondie,” as Sheldon had referred to her. When I looked back again at Michelle, I saw the first stirrings of emotion on her face. But what I witnessed wasn’t feelings of grief or bereavement—it was scorn. Which told me there was probably at least a grain of truth in the sordid tale Sheldon had related. It troubled me that someone as honorable as my former debate partner could succumb to the wiles of a harlot, even one dressed up with the title of FBI agent.
Regrettably, the media crews weren’t mindful of the need for silence when they were setting up their equipment; but once the graveside service began, they quieted down. I noticed that one of them—an older, redheaded man, obviously quite religious—managed to balance his bulky camera on his shoulder so he could manipulate the lens with one hand and cross himself with the other when the rabbi recited Psalm 23: “…though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
When the service concluded, I decided to visit the gravesite of my grandfather, Victor Miller, who was also buried in the Gardens. He died when I was still in high school, and although I used to visit his grave often, I hadn’t been back in several years. He’d been laid to rest about fifty yards away from Michael. After all the other mourners had dispersed, I sauntered over to my grandfather’s tombstone. I spent only a few moments there, just long enough to picture his joyful face when he would sing songs to me in Yiddish.
By the time I walked back to my car, the area was nearly empty. The cameramen, too, had packed up their gear and were heading for their vans—all except the man who had crossed himself during the recitation of Psalm 23. It appeared he was still filming, his camera aimed at the last of the mourners as they accessed their cars and drove off. Perhaps some news outlets would find his footage of the funeral attendees interesting, I thought, but I couldn’t imagine why.
As I got into my car, I noticed that his and mine were the last remaining vehicles on the service road. By then, he had finished filming and was having some difficulty fitting all his equipment in the van. He dropped his tripod and appeared not to notice. When I saw him approach the driver’s side of his vehicle with the tripod still on the ground, I dashed over to retrieve it for him before he pulled away
“Wait a second,” I called over the sound of his engine revving. “You forgot this.”
He opened his window and reached out with a scrawny, skeletal arm to take it from me. Instead of a word of thanks, I was greeted with silence and an expression of displeasure, as if I’d unsettled him in so
me way. I noticed that there was a tattoo on his bare forearm consisting of a series of numbers, like those of a Holocaust survivor. But this man was no Holocaust survivor. The numbers on his arm were 713111. The same numbers that were dangling from Mary’s – I mean Lena’s - silver bracelet the night we met.
Chapter 9
April 15, 1989
The day after Michael’s funeral, I told Miss Jordan that I wouldn’t be taking any calls. I had fallen behind in my caseload, and I couldn’t afford any interruptions, even if one involved the possibility of a new client.
Miss Jordan was a sweet, nurturing black woman who’d been working for my uncle Bert since I was a kid. She watched over us like we were family, which to her mind meant she could disregard our instructions if she thought it was in our best interests. So frankly I wasn’t surprised when shortly after ten in the morning, she buzzed me on the intercom to say there was someone in reception who wanted to see me.
“Miss Jordan,” I scolded in response, “I thought I told you—I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“That you did, young David, sir,” she whispered, “but I don’t think you figured on something like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, confused by her intentional ambiguity. She often made me guess at her meaning.
“Come out to reception and see for yourself. I think you’ll thank me for the interruption.”
I had learned long ago there was no point in arguing with Miss Jordan. I put down the file I’d been reviewing, and headed down the hallway to the reception area. I feigned a scowl as I walked by Miss Jordan’s desk to signal my displeasure at having my instructions ignored. She took no notice of it whatsoever and simply nodded in the direction of the person waiting for me.
I expected to see someone in a wheelchair or gripping a walker, escorted by an able-bodied friend. The success of our practice was very important to Miss Jordan, and she wouldn’t want me to miss an opportunity for a lucrative new case. A severely injured person is like a dollar sign to those in my line of work.
When the Past Came Calling Page 4