A Kiss for Rabbi Gabrielle

by Roger Herst

“Never met a rabbi who wasn’t a schnorrer.”

  “Hopefully, for a good cause, Noah.”

  ***

  When Gabby entered Dov Shellenberg’s study, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t rise from his desk and she didn’t sit down in the chair opposite him. His eyebrows rose in expectation.

  “It’s come to my attention, Dov, that you have made criticisms of the District police department’s handling of Bart Skulkin’s murder to members of Congress.”

  He knew how to stonewall and stared at her in silence.

  “I’d like to know how you formed an opinion about police proficiency. Have you had conversations with the department about Bart?”

  “I don’t trust those people because, frankly, they’re untrustworthy,” he said, not at all embarrassed by the tautology. “I wouldn’t believe a word of their double-talk. It’s all propaganda. I get a better idea about what’s happening from the newspapers. At least information there is filtered by journalists.”

  “And exactly what do the papers say?”

  “It’s what they don’t say that’s important. There’s no movement in Bart’s case. As far as we know, it’s dead in the water.”

  “As far as we know,” she repeated for emphasis. “And what if there were confidential things we didn’t know? Would that make a difference?”

  He sensed Gabby was leading him into a trap and remained noncommittal. “Perhaps.”

  “Listen, Dov. I know you enjoy brushing shoulders with high mucky-mucks on the Hill. But your paycheck comes from this synagogue and that requires a modicum of political sensitivity. Criticizing our police force to congressional representatives is a touchy proposition. Law enforcement officers in this town have to walk a tightrope between demands from the city and demands from the federal government. That’s never an easy task.”

  “Do you deny that the police department is a bastion of corruption? It’s common knowledge that officers are on the take from Southeast to Northwest. That’s why the drug and gun trades flourish here.”

  “I won’t argue that with you because I just don’t have facts. But if officers on the force believe Jews are undermining their authority, who’s going to protect the congregation when the skinheads and Fascists set this place ablaze? Or our homes? Tell me, please. Where are we going to turn for protection?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” He dismissed her inquiry with a flick of his wrist. “If worse comes to worse, you can always enlist your friends from the NRA. They have caches of firearms and grenades to protect us.”

  “Now who’s being ludicrous? I just want you to know that by going to Green and Millensky, you’ve ruffled feathers in the police department. We need their cooperation to see justice done in Bart’s case. Without it there isn’t a chance in hell of finding the killer.”

  Dov adjusted himself in his desk chair, shaking his head. “You just don’t get it, Gabby. We haven’t had a chance in hell from the beginning. They’re not going to find the killer because they’re hardly looking. The killer would have to walk into the precinct station with the murder weapon and book himself. Otherwise, those bozos from central casting are going to spend their time harassing motorists and writing parking tickets—from which the city government gleans substantial revenue.”

  She stepped back toward the door, her lips pursed. “I’ve said my piece, Dov. I had hoped you’d be a little contrite. I suggest you ask yourself how I came to know about this.”

  “I have no idea. Nor do I care.”

  “I think you will, friend. Noah Zentner just called to lodge a complaint. The commissioner mentioned it to him. If you intend to remain close to the Zentner family, you might consider an apology. I recommend a call to Noah and the Skulkins. But that’s your judgment, not mine.”

  ***

  Police Chief Stephen Noyas was an athletic looking African-American whose penetrating eyes peered through studious glasses. He knew police work from the ground up, having begun his career as a cop on the beat. He’d risen step by step to become a no-nonsense, popular manager and the latest appointment in a string of chiefs hired to bring the crime rate down.

  One by one, his predecessors had been sacked for lack of quantifiable results. Noyas exuded the confidence of a man who was not threatened by mixed and contradictory directives from the city council, federal government, and his multi-racial constituents. He was sitting at a conference table in the office of Commissioner Colin Jameson when the Skulkins and Gabby arrived for their 4:30 p.m. appointment.

  As they arranged themselves around the table, Colin made introductions and then cordially offered coffee, which, due to the late afternoon hour, nobody wanted. Noyas acknowledged the guests briefly and then returned his attention to a thick file before him. A moment later, Inspector Garrett Rose arrived, also with files in hand. Without looking at the commissioner, he sat beside the chief.

  Noyas’ smile at Gabby was official not gracious. “Rabbi Lewyn, I understand that Rabbi Shellenberg works in your temple. I must tell you that this well-connected young man has set the hounds from Congress on my tail. I get countless requests for special attention from congressional staff, but Congress can be stingy with funding when it comes to local police. Don’t get me wrong, the great powers-that-be in the White Domed Cathedral up on the Hill are always willing to fund any number of cockamamie schemes, but they’re downright frugal when it comes to paying for law enforcement on the streets. Our representatives just don’t understand that police services are like good wines—you get what you pay for.”

  Harvey Skulkin agreed, his eyes focused on the police chief. “I’m just beginning to appreciate that fact. You never take much notice until one of your own is killed. My rabbi tells me that you’ve invited us here because there have been developments in our son’s case. Is that true?”

  Garrett Rose looked to his boss for permission to speak and, when he received it, said, “Yes. It doesn’t mean we know who killed your son, but it’s a stepping-stone on the route, so to speak. You might recall from the papers that, on the day before Christmas, two black men tried robbing a Starbucks coffeehouse on Wisconsin Avenue. For obvious reasons robberies escalate just prior to Christmas. In this case. it was a mindless crime since the thieves couldn’t have expected more than several hundred dollars from the cash register. Still, street criminals aren’t known for their brains. They bungled the Starbucks robbery and fled without a cent, but not before firing a shot which hit a beaker of hot coffee, scalding one customer and causing minor lacerations to another.”

  Gabby shifted in her chair and unlocked the screen on her iPhone to take notes.

  “Mind if I smoke?” asked Colin Jameson, making a quick sweep of the guests for any dissenters. Gabby would have loved to tell him that smoke irritated her eyes, but shied off. She hoped that Florence would speak out as she usually did, but she also remained quiet. Colin was polite enough to light up away from the table and to hold the smoldering cigarette behind his chair, away from the others.

  Harvey said, “I’m a bit confused as to how a robbery at Starbucks bears on my son’s death.”

  “Well,” Inspector Rose continued, “our team dug the slug that shattered the coffee beaker out of the wall. We routinely do lab tests on retrieved bullets and enter the results into a national FBI database. Our forensic pathologist followed a similar procedure with the two slugs from your son’s body. In a murder, more extensive ballistic mapping is required. The final results are usually not available for six to seven weeks. When we first entered the data about the bullets that killed Bart into the FBI computer, nothing showed up. But later, somebody at the FBI lab must have entered data on the Starbucks slug. Bull’s Eye! The bullet from Starbucks matches those that killed your son!”

  “What does that mean?” Florence asked. “That they are the same type, or were they fired from the same gun?”

  “Does it mean the guys who tried to rob Starbucks killed Bart?” Harvey’s question overrode his wife’s.

  The Inspector
exhaled with a gusty breath. “I wish it were that simple. It probably isn’t, because we’ve arrested one of the two suspects. On Christmas day, a day before your son’s murder, we detained a kid named Daryl Bender. Obviously, it could have been the second suspect, but we have reason to believe the second criminal fled to Texas immediately after the Starbucks job. We’ve issued a bulletin for his arrest, but he’s in hiding. The bottom line is that we don’t think Daryl Bender or his accomplice had anything to do with Bart’s murder.”

  “What brings you to that conclusion?” Gabby was now in her element. This reminded her of games she would play with Seth Greer, only this wasn’t a game.

  Inspector Rose said, “Because of what Daryl told us. We went back to review the transcripts of his interrogation. Then I went to talk with him in detention. He was an on-again, off-again student at Anacostia High. The weapon, an old .9 millimeter Smith and Wesson, he acquired through a neighborhood dealer. Daryl expected to pay for the gun with proceeds from the Starbucks heist but, of course, that didn’t happen. With no money, he was scared that the dealer would come after him. Dealers usually know exactly where customers and their families live. They cultivate a reputation for vengeance; otherwise their patrons, not a particularly ethical bunch to begin with, will stiff them. Daryl had reason to be frightened. A few days after the fiasco at Starbucks, he went for help to the only person he trusted…”

  “Oh, my God!” Gabby exclaimed in anticipation. Her hand went to her forehead but dropped immediately to the table. She’d always suspected that Bart was protecting one of his kids. “Bart?”

  “Yes,” Garrett Rose replied. “Apparently, kids at Anacostia adored him. He was a father figure to many, perhaps the only paternal role model some of them had. From what Daryl told us, Bart agreed to return the Smith and Wesson and negotiate some compensation for its use with the dealer. Daryl said he was afraid to confront the dealer himself. The fact that he was on parole for a previous assault and battery complicated the matter. He told us that, in exchange for returning the pistol, Bart made him pledge never to steal again. What Bart probably didn’t understand was that once a gun has been fired in a criminal act, a dealer regards it as a liability. Somebody might mark it. Bullets leave behind ballistic traces, just as this one did at Starbucks. Generally, a dealer usually forces the buyer to commit another robbery to pay off the debt.”

  Florence was ashen, her mouth slightly open, her eyes vacant. Harvey was shaking his head, though he was not surprised to learn that his son was trying to help a student when he was murdered.

  Gabby addressed Inspector Rose. “In your investigation, is there any evidence that Bart was trying to stop any particular dealers from operating in his school?”

  “Nobody in particular. But it was no secret that he led the movement against guns. He often met with students before and after school. I’m told that, sometimes, he stood on inspection duty by the entry doors when the kids arrived in the morning.”

  “Any activities outside school?”

  “A few. He spoke at churches in Southeast and Anacostia.”

  “By himself? Or with others?”

  “Mostly by himself.”

  “Can you tell us about Daryl Bender? What’s happened to him?”

  “Troubled kid from a single parent home. No father, as usual. Has a record for numerous petty crimes. One charge of assault and battery for which he was on parole. But no armed robbery until Starbucks. He’s now serving time at Norbeck Detention Center in Northern Virginia. He’s the kind of kid likely to be back on the streets in two years. He had a miserable record at Anacostia. His only redeeming feature is that he's a good athlete.”

  “Do you think he might have played on Bart’s tennis team?”

  The detective shrugged his shoulders, searching his folder for records. “Don’t know that. Here’s his mug shot,” he said, passing it across the table in Gabby’s direction. The face made no impression on her. “May I have a photocopy?” she asked.

  “Sure. We have plenty of copies.”

  Inspector Rose temporarily deferred to Chief Noyas. “So now you see that our homicide unit hasn't been asleep, as Rabbi Shellenberg has alleged. We have enough clues to move the case forward. And there’s one last item that might make it clearer to you. Fifteen months ago another white teacher, not at Anacostia High, but at Fairmont Heights High, just over the Maryland state line, was also campaigning against guns. He was killed with multiple shots from an assault rifle outside a 7-11 convenience store. Maryland police are still working on the case, but have few leads. They think, as we do, that dealers were involved.”

  Gabby recorded what she had learned. Inspector Rose had just confirmed what she had long believed, though she refrained from mentioning it. Instead, her brain was fashioning the new information into a picture of what had occurred on that December night. Bart, always willing to help someone in a jam, had blundered into something far bigger than he thought. Perhaps he was trying to learn the identity of the dealer as he returned the handgun. She was convinced the relationship between Daryl Bender and Bart was critical. She knew where to go for information to help her understand that.

  When the meeting ended, Florence and Harvey seemed content that the investigation was ongoing and would not be dismissed. Chief Noyas pledged that sooner or later they would bring the killer to justice. His departing words were, “The murderer is likely to make a slip. Street killers always do. They’re not rocket scientists, you know.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND

  Mid-April, Pre-season Practice

  The majority of Gabby’s congregants expected a professional woman of her age to be married and raising a family, but what they got instead was a tennis freak whose name suddenly appeared more often in the sports pages than in the religion section of the newspaper. This buzz of disapproval did not surprise Gabby; any rabbi who broke with the mythic ideal of the teacher/saint attracted criticism. Disparaging the clergy was safe, since it exposed the critic to little danger of retaliation. In other professions, particularly in business, voicing disapproval could cost customers and clients. To whom could a clergyperson complain? From ecumenical meetings with clergy of other faiths, she heard, on the QT of course, that they sometimes wanted to punch out their adversaries, or at least to give them a good tongue-lashing in public. Or in the worst cases, litigate for libel, defamation of character, or tortuous intervention. But few actually sought such satisfaction. In the end they did not fight back, but turned the other cheek for further abuse.

  She admitted to herself that an athletic woman rabbi made a compelling human interest story, hard for sports writers to avoid. What seemed unfair to her was that her critics would have generously granted her time off for family needs—such as a sick child, or a school consultation, or an emergency trip to further a husband’s profession. Yet when it came to offering compensatory time for tennis, they were resentful.

  Lydia stepped up Gabby’s training in anticipation of spring competition, exhibiting considerable genius at knowing how to repair Gabby’s strokes. She insisted Gabby enter every competition her busy schedule would permit, including a tournament at the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland, where, sensitive to her rabbinical obligations, the tournament organizers granted her a bye in their Saturday morning opening round. Even with that gift, though, she still had to dash away from the oneg after Shabbat services and drive at a perilous speed to reach Annapolis in time for her second round match.

  ***

  On Saturday afternoon, the Naval Academy campus was filled with spectators— not only at the four tournament courts outside Dahlgren Hall, but on the soccer and lacrosse fields, in the Halsey Field House, on the baseball diamond, and on the bank of the Severn River—where a multi-class sailing regatta was underway. Lydia sat in the stands watching Gabby struggle with a tall, string-bean thin Latino midshipwoman who used her height for booming serves and overheads. In true Navy spirit, two dozen of her classmates had come to ch
eer her on to victory. She moved well and hit powerful half-court volleys that punished Gabby. As coaching etiquette demanded, Lydia remained silent during play. But with facial grimaces she signaled Gabby to keep her adversary in the backcourt where she was far less adroit.

  After nearly forty minutes of long and exhausting backcourt rallies, Gabby lost the first set by 4-6. Lydia’s frown telegraphed her expectation that, no matter how far behind she was, Gabby would fight to the last point. No easing off and, above all, no capitulation. So intense was this message that Gabby was sure Lydia would drop her as a doubles partner, and perhaps even as a student, if she gave into the midshipwoman.

  A single voice, chanting Gabby’s name, countered the persistent cheers for her adversary. Gabby could not afford to take her eyes from the court to identify the source of this support until she changed sides, having won the opening game of the second set. From the bench, sipping Gatorade, she scanned the stands to find Joel Fox’s pudgy, smiling face peeking from under an Orioles baseball cap. He appeared unperturbed to be Gabby's only rooter and, as play resumed, he pumped his arm defiantly into the air. After each point lost he shouted fresh cries of encouragement.

  Yes, she had mentioned the tournament to him, but she had never suggested he come to watch. A second glance found his hand still in the air, this time in a hard fist, and when he saw that she was looking, he opened it to display a small, copper object. It was too far to see clearly, but she knew it was his good-luck charm, the copper bullet cartridge, that sparkled in spring sunlight. Failing Lydia on the court was one thing; failing Joel was something quite different.

  She abandoned her backcourt game and did what she knew her coach would prefer. She charged the net. For the first time in the match, Lydia nodded with approval. But this new offense also produced a higher percentage of unforced errors. Gabby’s returns overshot the baseline and missed the corners. An unacceptable number of volleys slammed into the tape – the result of poor blocking and ineffective preparation. As a result, the set seesawed in favor of one, then the other, until it ended in a draw. In the tiebreaker that followed, Gabby saw the midshipwoman’s backhand collapse. She dispatched her shots, first long, then short, to the backhand court and easily won the tiebreaker 7-2.