“Did you get angry when he wouldn’t stop crying?”
“No. But I checked him at both ends, you know, like it said to in the training manual I got at the babysitting workshops I took. He didn’t have a diaper rash and his gums weren’t red either. He wasn’t extra warm. There was no sign of a new tooth coming in as far as I could tell.”
The first time they left me alone in the little room, I figured they had reached my mom and dad. But they came back without them. Instead they brought in a policewoman carrying a video camera and a baby doll in a dirty yellow onesie. They started in again.
“Show us how you lifted him out of the tub.”
“How did you hold him when you picked him up this time?”
“Show us how you got him into his PJs.”
“Show us how you put him into the crib.”
“Did you drop him?”
Over and over I stood up and pretended the table was the bathtub or the crib and showed them how I had taken care of Timmy. The lady cop filmed this part. Finally they all left, except for the doll.
I hoped this time they really were calling my parents. I was so tired. The ham and cheese sandwich they brought from the vending machine was cold and gross, but I ate it. The same sour-faced woman who took the video came with me to the bathroom and stood right outside the stall while I peed. I could see under the door her foot tapping on the floor. When I washed my hands, I could see her sour face right over mine in the mirror. When we got back to the little room, she finally left. I hoped this ordeal was over, that my mom and dad were waiting in another room.
So I was confused when the bigger detective came back again without my parents. He sat down at the end of the table nearest me, leaned towards me, and started talking like he was my best friend. “Meryl, thirteen is a little young for babysitting. How does it feel to have so much responsibility so young?” Before I could tell him for the millionth time about the babysitting workshops I’d gone to and my certificate, he interrupted. “Have you had much actual experience taking care of babies?” I couldn’t believe how rude he was, talking right over my attempts to answer him. His voice got louder. “Meryl, lots of people, adults even, have no patience with crying babies. No one can blame you for trying to make him stop bawling. Did you give that brat a little shake to make him shut up?” He sounded crazy. I was really scared. I shook my head and that’s when I saw that my hands were shaking too and one leg.
That’s also when he jumped up and started shouting down at me. Then he bent over me and yelled right into my ear. I can still feel his spit spraying all over my cheek and hear him yelling, “Show me, Meryl. Show me how you shook that kid. I can see why you’d do that. Anybody would. Show me!” For a minute I was confused again and I clapped my hands tight over the Timmy doll’s ears so he couldn’t hear, wouldn’t be scared too. “Meryl, is that how you got Timothy to stop crying?”
I only learned Timmy was dead when I was charged with killing him and arrested. I learned later that this doctor thought perhaps little Timmy had died of a new condition called Shaken Baby Syndrome and so he called the police like he was supposed to. I was so sad to hear that sweet little Timmy was dead. And I just didn’t get how anyone could imagine that I had shaken him to death. Shaking was one of the “Don’ts” listed in red in my babysitting workshop training manual.
When my parents were finally told where I was and what was going on, I’d already spent a night in jail. They hired a lawyer who argued successfully for me to await my hearing at home wearing an ankle monitor. This house arrest lasted six long months. But when my case finally went before a judge, he dismissed the charges because the evidence, including the video that lady cop made of parts of my interrogation, was inadmissible. Here’s exactly what the judge said. “The detectives ignored well-established police procedure: A police officer cannot Mirandize or interrogate a child under fourteen without a parent or other adult representative present.” So because the case against me did not go to court, I was not found guilty of killing Timmy Schwartz.
The shrink had been right. Writing about her interrogation and ultimate triumph had been helpful, and reading about it was still helpful. Meryl had been only thirteen, a kid. Two decades later she’d taken the new name Miranda because of the failure of those incompetent and bullying cops to Mirandize her properly, and this name had become a source of strength. So when morning finally came, she used that strength to get up and lay out an appealing breakfast for her guests. If necessary, of course she would talk with Detective Ladin. She told herself she could handle his questions. She hoped there was news about the identity of the homicide victim at the factory and that the police would find and arrest his killer soon.
CHAPTER 5
Yakima Valley a Winter Wonderland? Not so Much
If your idea of a winter wonderland includes being greeted by a detective bringing news of a gang-related killing directly across the street from the new inn where you’ve reserved a cozy room, then Breitner’s B & B is the place for you. Otherwise, keep driving….. Boise Tribune
Miranda slammed her laptop shut and produced a smile for Steve, who was usually the first to hit her breakfast bar and the first to leave. But that morning he had the pregnant and heat-packing Angela Lacey for company. In between dollops of Greek yogurt, Angela glanced at her phone and declared, “They’re still not naming the guy who got killed across the street. Can’t get in touch with his family. They must be away or something.” Miranda thought she knew exactly what that “something” might be. She was startled to hear herself speculating aloud. “There are quite a few Orthodox Jewish guys staying in the Valley now to help in the fruit processing plants with the koshering of the juice-grape harvest. And yesterday was the first day of Rosh Hashanah.”
The rep’s brow furrowed.
“It’s the Jewish New Year and a very important two-day holiday.” Miranda was again startled, this time to hear herself explaining one of Judaism’s High Holidays. “It’s kind of a Sabbath, too. Orthodox Jews don’t answer the phone on the eve of this holiday and for two days after that. It’s a holy time.”
“So these Orthodox guys wouldn’t be working in the plants on this holiday, right?”
Miranda had expected Angela’s question. “Most likely the koshering inspectors are allowed to make their rounds, because the grapes have to be processed as soon as they ripen. So the commandment to keep kosher trumps the commandment to do no work on this day. But even though the inspector himself could be working, his family wouldn’t answer the phone.” She fell silent, recalling the lonely wail of the shofar that had spoken so eloquently to her. Maybe the young man’s ages-old solo had been more than a call to prayer, had been a warning. Or a call for help. The fact that someone, maybe her shofar blower, was murdered right across the street pushed her once again to her tiptoes.
Before she could speculate further, Michael texted to say he wouldn’t be in to finish repairing the shed roof that day. He offered no explanation. This was odd. But now that classes at Heritage had begun, perhaps he had a paper due or a big exam to cram for. She was so preoccupied with staying calm and keeping her guests calm that she didn’t dwell on it.
Instead, she spent the next half-hour fielding questions about the signi-ficance of Rosh Hashanah and the basics of keeping kosher, and then, newly enlightened, Angela went off to make her rounds of medical offices. So Miranda was pleasantly surprised when Steve lingered over a bran muffin and a cup of coffee. She wanted to thank him for his beer and his endorsement in the wake of the detective’s visit the previous evening. But before she found her tongue, he spoke. “Mandy, I’m tired of eating tacos or pizza by myself. Will you have dinner with me tonight? After your guests check in, of course.”
Miranda was so astounded by Steve’s invitation that she said yes. What she actually stammered was, “Okay. Okay. I only have one other party due tonight. If they get here before, say, seven, okay.” Only later did she wonder how appropriate it was for an
innkeeper to date guests or for her to end this already bizarre Rosh Hashanah by going out with a churchgoing Christian on the very first real date she’d had since her failed experiment with Jim in college. Jim was the obliging lab partner she’d contrived to lose her virginity to during her freshman year. After this sticky fiasco, also an experiment for Jim, Meryl had decided sex was overrated. But Miranda was beginning to rethink that.
As soon as Steve was out the door, she left the dishwasher unloaded, the goodies on the counter, and the guests’ breakfast dishes piled in the sink. She was in a hurry to take her trusty companion to the local veterinary clinic. Rusty showed no signs of the malady that had caused him to squirt poop the evening before, but she knew she’d feel better if she had him checked out. And as soon as Dr. Cynthia examined him and announced, “He’s fine this morning,” Miranda felt better until the doctor asked, “Did he get into your household cleansers or rug shampoo or eat anything unusual outside yesterday?”
For an instant, Miranda was thirteen again and indignant at the suggestion that she’d been less than vigilant. Then she reminded herself that she was thirty-three and Dr. Cynthia was just doing her job. “No. On one of our outings yesterday he showed his usual interest in whatever crap littered our path, including the remains of a rodent.” She winced recalling the little pile of bloody bones and fluff, perhaps dropped by a sated raptor to be picked clean by an earthbound critter. “I steered him away from it. And I keep my cleansers where he can’t get at them even if he wanted to.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Dr. Cynthia fondled Rusty’s ear as she spoke. “Next time bring me a stool sample if you can. If he’s pooping liquid, try to catch it in a cup or bring me the rag or paper you use to wipe it up. You can put it in this.” She handed Miranda a plastic bag with the clinic’s name on it.
Miranda drove back to the B & B, relieved and eager to restore order to the kitchen which was also the lobby. She’d just opened the dishwasher when Detective Ladin returned. This time he didn’t reach out to Rusty who stopped barking at a word from Miranda. The detective talked fast. “Like I said, Ms Breitner, I’m back. But while we talk, I need a favor. Can I charge my cell and use yours or your landline to make a quick call?” He held up his cell phone. “My damn phone’s outta juice and I gotta report back to Sheriff Carson. Then I’ll be free to question you.” He made it sound as if being grilled by him was an opportunity she’d been waiting for all her life.
Miranda pointed to an outlet just below the countertop, moved the landline phone to where he stood, placed her cell next to it, pointed at a stool, and, as pleasantly as she could, said, “Coffee?” When he nodded and grabbed the landline’s receiver, she poured him a cup of coffee, put out milk and sugar, and moved the plate of now-cold muffins to where he could reach it. When the detective nodded again, she took that as a thank you and, conscious of his narrowed eyes on her, resumed unloading the dishwasher while keeping her ears open.
“Sheriff, Ladin. I’m using the landline at the B & B across the street. Saving my cell. Rabbi Alinsky’s not answering his phone, so I went over to the Finest Western where they stay to ask him to help me get in touch with the victim’s next of kin, right? The receptionist told me Alinsky and his crew aren’t around because today’s some big Jewish holiday. Like their Sabbath only more extreme. That’s why we couldn’t get him on the phone.” There was a pause. “Me either. But I’m tellin’ you word for word what she said.” He was silent again. “Yeah, I checked the rooms myself. According to this same receptionist, the rabbi drove all the koshering inspectors who aren’t on shift over to Seattle right before this holiday started. So they’re all in their church in Seattle praying.”
Shelving dishes with her back to the detective, Miranda allowed herself an eye roll.
“I know, Sheriff, I know. We gotta get up front on this before the press… I get it that having a visitor, a Jew yet, iced most likely by a gang wannabe in the Fruit Basket of Washington just might turn off some tourists and business people.” The detective nodded at Miranda who’d just refilled his coffee cup. She felt his eyes tracking her even as he responded to his boss. His scrutiny was more creepy than flattering. “No, Sheriff, I’m not being a smartass. But, Sheriff, we can’t do anything without talking to next of kin.” Miranda began counting the number of times he said “Sheriff.”
“Yeah, Sheriff, she’s sure they didn’t go to the church they have in Yakima.” Miranda tried not to smirk at the idea of a group of Orthodox Jews celebrating Rosh Hashanah in a Reformed Jewish temple where a female rabbi reads the Torah and men and women sit together. “I asked her twice. Yeah, Sheriff, but I got an idea. How about I talk to the kosherer on duty at the processing plant in Grandview? Then I’ll meet you back at the crime scene. And here’s a heads up. I just left there and the owner, Mr. Hindgrout, is totally steamed cause he had to stop production! But he can’t stop the damn grapes from ripening. He wants to talk to you personally, Sheriff. He wants us cops and the victim off his factory floor.” While apparently getting an earful, the detective took a bite of the blueberry muffin.
When he spoke again, his gruff voice was suddenly silken with reassurance. “No worries, Sheriff. I got this. I’ll drive to the plant in Grandview and talk face to face to the koshering inspector at one of the two plants there. Maybe he can tell us how to reach the victim’s family or the rabbi. Then I’ll meet you at Hindgrout’s.” With the blueberry muffin in one hand and grabbing his barely recharged phone with the other, he added, “I’m on my way, Sheriff. I’ll be in touch.” Pocketing his phone, he rushed out, saying only, “Thanks, Ms Breitner. I owe you one. I’ll be back a little later.”
This visit did little to reassure Miranda. How could a brown-nosing detective who couldn’t even keep his cell phone charged possibly solve a murder? She knew it was unrealistic, but she wanted real detectives to be like the ones in Blue Bloods, Rizzoli and Isles, or Law and Order that she and her dying mom used to watch on TV. She still watched them. There the cops were smart and gutsy, hardworking and idealistic. But this real cop was so inept she was tempted to feel sorry for him until she remembered that inept policing was what got her arrested for a crime she didn’t commit. She was surprised when Detective Ladin returned just before noon, looking pleased with himself. “Feel free to continue charging your cell,” she offered, pointing at the outlet. “Need to use the landline? Coffee?”
“No thanks. And no on the coffee, thanks. Two a day’s my limit, so I’m good. And I just briefed the sheriff in person across the street.”
Miranda was disappointed that he wasn’t going to give her another eavesdropping bonanza. She really wanted to know what was going on. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation this morning. Were you able to connect with the victim’s family?”
“Yeah, maybe. But it sure wasn’t easy. Mind if I sit down?”
As he spoke, his eyes were on her. All of her. Again Miranda felt uncomfortable under such intense unacknowledged scrutiny by a cop until she reminded herself yet again that she wasn’t thirteen anymore. She persisted. “With the crime scene being so close to my home and my business, I’d like to know what progress has been made.”
“I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation, Ms Breitner.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “But since this one hasn’t even started yet, I can tell you how I figure we just might connect with the victim’s family.”
“That’s something. No one wants to stay in a B & B across the street from where somebody was murdered and with the killer still out there.” Miranda sat in the other easy chair with Rusty at her feet.
“We’re aware of that ma’am. We’re working on it.” The detective turned to face her before he continued. “When I got to the plant in Grandview, the place was humming. Trucks full of grapes kept coming and a machine was stemming them.” He sighed. “Back in the day when I was growing up, me and my brothers and sisters, we picked grapes on the weekend right along with the Mexicans. Now it’s
all done by machine…”
Miranda settled back into her own chair. This was going to be a long story. “Anyway, I went in and tried to stay out of the way of all the boiling water splashing down. Inside there were mostly machines and big vats and lots of tubes, but I spotted this guy on a ladder, so I identified myself, flashed my badge, and yelled at him to come down. He was wearing all kinds of safety gear. Said his name was David Cohen, and he was the koshering inspector, but he looked young. I asked him to get the plant manager.
“Then I took them both into some kind of cubicle-type office the kid uses and made him sit down and told them both that the koshering inspector at the Sunnyvale plant was dead, murdered.” The detective paused and lowered his eyes for a few seconds.
Miranda put her hands in her jacket pocket and jammed her nails into her palms. It wasn’t the first time she’d used physical pain to relieve her emotional pain.
“Of course, at first the kid didn’t believe me. So he says, ‘That can’t be. He just got married.’” Detective Ladin shook his head. “Like killers don’t take out married people.” His eyes rested on Miranda’s face, perhaps to see her reaction.
Miranda understood how shock, sorrow, and denial could have crowded David Cohen’s Talmud-Torah-honed reasoning skills out of his brain, but all she said was, “I guess he isn’t going to be too helpful.”
“That’s what I thought, but here’s the thing. He was a big help. All of a sudden this kid is out of the chair and telling the plant manager to ask the koshering inspector at the processing plant right across the street to oversee operations at both Grandview plants so he can go right away to Sunnyvale. He wants to sub for Isaac and stand by his corpse or something like that. He said that’s Rabbi Certified Kosher, Inc., protocol.” Before Miranda could reply, the detective continued. “Would you believe this koshering outfit actually has a protocol for dealing with the murder of an inspector far from home on a major Jewish holiday?”
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 5