by Alan L. Moss
***
“You guys go,” Michael whispered to the kids. “I just want a few minutes alone with your mother.”
Michael stood by the gravesite, still wondering how this could have happened. He looked up at the gray sky and flinched, feeling a chill from the cool Northeast wind. Karen would have hated this day, he thought.
The three of them — Michael, Lisa, and Mark — were in a strange state, going through the motions, not thinking or feeling. With no warning and so little time to reflect, shock governed. The rabbi from the Island’s small temple saw the report of the accident in the morning paper. He was at Michael’s door first thing the next day. He was a godsend, telling Michael how to proceed with the arrangements.
Karen was estranged from her parents, who resented her marriage to 'a Jewish bureaucrat'. In death as in life, her parents remained spiteful. Both in their nineties, they didn’t have the class to mourn the loss of their own daughter.
Two couples from Maryland with whom Michael and Karen socialized in the old days, Michael’s sister, and several of Karen’s friends from her psychologist job at the high school came to the brief service at a local funeral home. All of them had to start their drive home before the ceremony at the cemetery.
Michael was surprised to see Officer Kiley at the service.
“When we see a fine woman such as your wife victimized, the Department likes to come by to show our regrets,” Kiley said, looking Michael in the eye.
Michael stared at the freshly-turned soil where the body of his mate lay. The thrill of holding her, of making her laugh, of feeling her respond to his advances was gone. The life left for him would have to be lived without her honesty, her ability to see situations for what they were. For all that mattered, his life ended too.
Although the kids insisted Michael go home with one of them, he decided to stay at the beach and hang onto the remnants of his lost life with Karen. The hint of her perfume, her favorite chair, the throw that kept her warm on cold nights, and the bed that hosted their resurgent lovemaking — he would keep these symbols alive as long as he could.
***
For the next few weeks Michael experienced a loneliness he never knew. Except for Samoa, Michael was a loving and loyal partner. Now, he was lost, walking on the beach for hours, skipping meals, and sleeping little.
Except for calls from the kids and a few visits from the rabbi, who encouraged Michael to go to religious services, he lived a solitary existence. His interest in Stephanie and Samoa died with Karen. He would spend the rest of his days and nights in mourning, expecting little and giving nothing.
CHAPTER 6
INVESTIGATION
June17, 2004
Manahawkin, N.J.
John Kiley was a veteran of the small Long Beach Island police force. He worked by the book. He spent the past eleven years keeping his beach town safe for summer vacationers, homeowners who rented their properties, and the small number of Islanders who lived there year-round. Mostly, that meant controlling the Island’s growing traffic problems, especially on in-season Saturdays when renters grudgingly returned home and their replacements rushed in to begin their vacations.
He dealt with a few robberies and one or two minor drug busts a year, but nothing serious. No murders, no rapes, none of the violence he grew to despise as a New York City policeman. After fifteen years of the horror of big city crime, he couldn’t deal with the daily barrage of brutality. On LBI he maintained peace and order and had a normal life.
Something about Karen Bloom’s car crash raised suspicions he hadn’t felt in years. He got the call while cruising LBI’s main drag, flipped on his siren, and sped to the scene.
When he arrived, two paramedics were packing up their supplies near the smashed Audi. John rushed to the car to lend assistance when a young man directing traffic yelled over.
“Driver’s dead. Only one in the car. I saw the whole thing. Had to run like hell to avoid being hit. The Audi crossed the median, sideswiped a Kia van that pulled into the Home Depot parking lot. Then, it slammed head-on into the utility pole. She never tried to stop. My guess is she had a heart attack and was dead when it happened.”
Kiley verified with the paramedics that the woman was deceased. Then, he stared at the accident scene, analyzing each relevant angle. The eyewitness account, which seemed to make sense, was repeated by the shaken driver of the van. Kiley found no skid marks, no indication that the driver attempted to avoid the crash. The force of the wreck was so great that the air bag couldn’t prevent a mortal impact between the driver’s head and the windshield.
The two paramedics asked if they could remove the body and transport it to the morgue in Manahawkin.
“Hold on,” Kiley replied. “I want to snap a few shots.”
Kiley jogged to his patrol car and removed the Nikon from his trunk. He took several pictures of the Audi from various positions around the vehicle, inside and out, to create a solid record of the crash.
Then, he nodded at the ambulance crew.
“Okay, guys, you can remove the body.”
The tow truck driver positioned his flatbed to pick up the Audi and bring it to the police lot.
“Are we clear to remove the vehicle?” the driver asked, tugging on a black Phillies baseball cap pulled down tightly over his forehead.
John Kiley paused, looking at what was left of Karen and Michael Bloom’s family car.
“Hold on a minute, chief,” Kiley responded. “I want to look underneath.”
The officer snaked his way under the car, moving toward the front end. Antifreeze was dripping from the radiator, which split open like a Jersey tomato. Inching his way toward the engine block, Kiley pulled a small flashlight from his shirt pocket and turned it on. In spite of the car’s damage, the brake line and drive shaft remained intact, but both bore the unmistakable signs of foul play. Clearly, this crash was no accident or heart attack.
Kiley yelled out from under the car.
“Hey, chief, can you pass me my camera?”
“Sure, Officer,” the tow truck operator said as he plucked the camera off the cruiser’s hood and handed it down to Kiley. He took numerous shots, covering every conceivable angle, then, slid out from under the vehicle and told the tow truck operator he was free to remove the car.
The two officers directing traffic said they would clean up the debris in the road. As Kiley was about to head back to the station, the police Chief pulled up and got out of his patrol car.
“What do we have, John, heart attack?”
Kiley removed his cap and looked intently into the green eyes of his boss, a solidly built man of sixty.
Speaking in hushed tones, Kiley answered.
“’Fraid not, sir. Been under the A4 and it’s been tampered with big time. Someone fixed the breaks and driveshaft. Got about thirty shots of the handiwork with my Nikon.”
Shaking his head, the chief instructed Kiley to notify the next of kin but to keep his suspicions to himself.
“Have our mechanic go over the car, and if the autopsy results check out, we’ll call the state boys and launch a homicide investigation.”
***
It was eight days after Karen Bloom’s death. John Kiley and the Chief had an appointment with two state investigators. They would brief them on their findings, suggest next steps, and find out what role they wanted to play.
Neither man liked working with the state police who didn’t hide their feelings of superiority. However, their participation was needed to gain access to the warrants and wiretaps required for an indictment.
***
Bob Kite and Sam Crawford walked into the modest LBI station and grabbed some coffee and donuts, hiding their enthusiasm for free food. Both men stood at more than six feet, had short black hair, and sharp features. After a fifteen-minute discussion of the Phillies’ chances to make the playoffs, the four men, sitting around a table half-filled with open files, got down to business.
Kite, the senior dete
ctive, started.
Looking at Chief Warren, he tried to get a sense of why they were there.
“Okay, guys, what do we have?”
As usual, Chief Warren turned to Officer Kiley.
“I’m going to let John fill you in, if that’s all right.”
Kiley pulled out a black binder and flipped pages until he came to his starting point.
“On Wednesday, June 9, I got a call to assist with a traffic accident on Route No. 72, just outside the Home Depot parking lot. When I arrived, I observed a silver Audi A4 crashed head-on into a utility pole. The driver was deceased.”
Kiley explained the details of the crash and put down his notebook. Looking at the two state detectives, his tone became more intense.
“I found no skid marks, no indication that the lady driving the vehicle had attempted to stop. At first, we thought heart attack. Just to be sure the car hadn’t been tampered with, I crawled under and examined the driveshaft and break line. Both were intact, but they had been engineered to cause the car to veer out of control.”
The state detectives grimaced and Detective Kite interrupted Kiley.
“Look, John, I know you’re a solid officer, but how do you know the breaks and shaft weren’t simply damaged in the accident?”
Kiley pulled a manila envelope out from under some papers and slid it across the table. Kite opened it and studied the enlarged photos. Then, he passed them to Crawford.
More serious now, Kite addressed Kiley again.
“Did you have a mechanic examine the car?”
“We did. Cal Carmin down the Sunoco maintains all our vehicles. According to him, the break line was cut to create a slow but accelerating leak. The drive shaft was drilled, punctured, and its main cable sliced to eventually throw the car out of control. Carmin said it’s impossible the damage occurred in the crash. According to the autopsy, the victim died of massive head trauma, not a heart attack.”
Kite and Crawford looked at each other, convinced their initial thoughts about the case were mistaken. They said nothing but both were at the same place, they would have to get involved.
Kite began.
“Okay. Who was the victim and who might have wanted to kill her? Are we sure she was the intended victim? Was she married? What does the husband do? Was there a boyfriend? Is the husband playing around? Is there a large insurance policy? What’s the bank account look like? Is there a computer in the house? How about cell phone records? We’re going to need all of that before we can even think of an indictment.”
Kiley and Chief Warren exchanged looks that reinforced their mutual disdain for the lack of respect underlying Kite’s laundry list.
“Let’s see,” Kiley mused, “maybe we can fill in some of your blanks. The victim is Karen Bloom, wife of Michael Bloom, former Chief Economist for the Wage-Hour Division in Washington, D.C. They live in a modest beach house on Maryland Avenue. They moved here a few years ago when Michael Bloom suffered a stroke and had to retire from the Labor Department on disability. According to the neighbors, they appeared to be a loving couple who are usually inseparable.”
“But not during the fatal drive,” Crawford inter-rupted.
Kiley continued, ignoring the comment.
“I want to see if there’s anything behind the facade. I’d like to get a judge’s order to review their bank account information, insurance policies, and how much they’re worth. If this information supports going in that direction, then, I’d like a search warrant for the house and grounds. Also, I’d like to get my hands on the computer Bloom claimed he was using when the crash occurred.”
“Of course,” Kite responded, “there might be an entirely different explanation. Maybe the killer or killers were after the husband and encountered one of the few times when they weren’t together. They wanted Michael Bloom but were unlucky enough to get the wife alone.”
“We thought of that and we’ll check it out,” Kiley answered, “but who wants to murder a disabled econo-mist? Shit, no one understands those guys anyway. Being out of Washington for three years and without work, how could he present a threat to anyone?”
Kite slid his chair back and addressed the group as he prepared to leave.
“Send us a copy of your files and we’ll put the paperwork together to look into Bloom’s insurance and bank accounts. That should take about a week. Then, we can see where we go from there.”
CHAPTER 7
ESCAPE
July 1, 2004
Beach Haven, Long Beach Island, N.J.
Sleep was the enemy. Michael Bloom couldn’t endure the nightmare that turned his stomach, soaked him in sweat, and caused his heart to pound with such force that, after waking, it took hours to calm down.
It was always the same. Karen kisses him goodbye, gets in the car, and drives from the beach house to Route No. 72. Michael checks out the window to make sure she’s gone. Then, he hurries over to the computer to search the Internet for pictures of Stephanie.
Instead of finding Stephanie, his computer screen plays a movie of Karen’s final seconds, every gruesome detail. Paralyzed, Michael can’t tear himself away. The car shoots across the median as Karen turns directly into the camera and screams Michael’s name. Then, the A4 sideswipes a van and crashes head-on into a utility pole, crushing Karen’s skull. Michael wakes up sobbing uncontrollably, knowing her death was his fault.
So far this night the demons had let Michael rest. Whenever they stayed away, he was blessed with a few hours of deep sleep that renewed his spirit, but then his recurring nightmare or the reality of facing another day without Karen would erode his mettle, and he would be dispirited once more.
***
At first, Michael refused to recognize the sound, his mind and body clinging to the rare oasis of tranquility, but the high-pitched ring of the telephone wouldn’t surrender. Michael opened his eyes and glanced at the alarm clock, registering the ridiculous hour for a call. He made his way to Karen’s side of the bed, picked up the receiver, and held the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Is this Michael Bloom?” a deep male voice asked.
Resisting the temptation to hang up, Michael answered.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m not able to identify myself, but you must listen carefully and take what I say seriously. In four hours the LBI Police, along with representatives of the New Jersey State Police, will come to arrest you for the murder of your wife, Karen Bloom. They will rope off your house, seize your computer and other belongings, and build an airtight case against you. Whether you’re guilty or not, the odds are you’ll never be free again. You will spend the rest of your life behind bars or you will be executed.”
Michael couldn’t absorb what he just heard and began to think he was stuck in a sequel to his recurring nightmare.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look, Dr. Bloom, the police have proof that your wife’s death was not an accident, but caused by skillful tampering with your car’s break line and driveshaft. The fact that you weren’t in the car and that you’re the beneficiary of a two-hundred and fifty thousand dollar life insurance policy is enough for them. They’re convinced that further investigation will uncover an affair with a younger woman or similar motive, and that will be that.”
Now fully awake, Michael sat up. Half of his senses told him he was hallucinating and should let the nightmare play itself out. The remaining half of his consciousness, the half that remembered the recent calamities in his life, ordered him to pay attention.
“We took out that policy when I was sick,” Michael protested. “If something happened to Karen, I wouldn’t have been able to take care of myself. The policy was to cover the costs of home health care, but I’ve improved so much in the past few months we planned to cancel it.”
“Look, Dr. Bloom, consider me a friend who knows something about you and doesn’t want you to be incarcerated the rest of your life. If I were you, I’d go on a long
vacation before you’re charged or asked not to leave the state. If they catch up with you, you can honestly claim you weren’t aware of their suspicions. If they don’t find you, maybe you can establish a new life somewhere else.”
The line went dead.
Michael sat motionless, frozen in the dark. How could the police suspect him of such a heinous act against the love of his life? He could explain the insurance policy.
Then, he came to his senses. It was always the husband. It was O.J. It was the guy who had his wife killed at a rest stop on the Garden State Parkway. It was that rabbi from Cherry Hill. Why would the police look any further?
The insurance policy provided motive. The course he completed in auto maintenance at the Montgomery County Community College years before furnished opportunity. Or, perhaps, the police figured they would locate a mechanic Michael hired to do his dirty work. Regardless, why hadn’t Michael accompanied Karen on her shopping trip? They were always together. Why not then? Who was he kidding?
Then, there was Stephanie. Once they had his computer, they would see all of his searches for her and her husband. Was Michael obsessed with this Samoan beauty? Asking the right people in American Samoa would uncover their affair. Tracing their movements in recent months would put both of them in Atlantic City at the same time. Would a jury believe it was all coincidence?
Michael didn’t know the caller, but he realized the man had done him a favor, a favor that could save his life.
It was twenty after two in the morning and he decided to seize the moment. He could miss Karen in jail or he could miss her on the run, and on the run seemed the better alternative. He got out of bed to prepare for his escape. He thought about hiding nearby to make sure the call wasn’t a hoax but quickly concluded that such a move would be too risky and would eat up vital hours.