“Oh, I don’t want to put you to that bother.”
“Look, Rabbi, you’ll be doing me a favor. Gladys is having some friends over, and I don’t want to be caught in a hen party.”
“Well, if you put it that way—”
“I do. Say, I’ve got another idea: has Charlie Beam got around to talking to you yet?”
“Beam?”
“He’s the man who’s been investigating for the insurance company. How about if I bring him along?”
“Fine.”
“Beauty,” said Lanigan. He chuckled. “You know, I’m really going to enjoy this little get-together.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you’re hoping to prove that it’s a case of death by accident, and Beam naturally would like to prove that its suicide so his company won’t have to pay. And here I am, in the middle, and for once in the clear. I’ll just let you boys fight it out and I’ll sit back and enjoy it.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Out of respect for his guests, the rabbi had shed his bathrobe and was dressed in slacks and a sport shirt. After the introductions, Miriam, feeling this was not part of her husband’s official function and that she had a stake in the proceedings, remained in the room.
“Maybe I’d better run through the facts as we know them,” said Lanigan, “and then we can talk about it afterward.” He opened a Manila folder. “All right. Isaac Hirsh, 4 Bradford Lane, married, white, fifty-one years old. He was five foot three or four and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. Did you know him, Rabbi? Had you ever met him?”
The rabbi shook his head.
“He was built along the lines of Charlie here. Maybe a little shorter—”
“I’m five feet five,” said Beam.
“I would have said so. I make a point of this because it’s important, as you’ll see. All right, it’s Friday evening, September 18, the eve of your Yom Kippur. Hirsh gets home from the Goddard Lab where he works, his regular time—a little after six. In this case, that’s unusual because all other Jewish employees left a bit early. But although Hirsh was Jewish he did not attend services, so he worked a full day. He got home and left his car in front of the house instead of putting it in the garage—”
“He didn’t want to trouble himself getting out to open the garage door, is that it?” remarked Beam.
“No, the garage door was up. It’s common around here; we don’t have much pilfering. A man will leave the door up all day and close it only when he locks up for the night.”
“You know this in the Hirsh case?” asked Beam.
“Yeah. It also figures in the story, as you’ll see. Now there are a number of Jewish families in this section of Colonial Village; in fact, all his immediate neighbors are Jewish. I understand it’s sometimes called the Ghetto.” He smiled apologetically at the rabbi. “That’s a little joke among them.”
“I understand.”
“Patricia Hirsh, that’s Isaac Hirsh’s wife, was going to baby-sit for the Marcuses who live across the street. She agreed to be there early, so she served Hirsh his dinner and left at six-thirty. Hirsh finished and left around seven.”
“You’re sure of the time?” asked the rabbi.
“Pretty sure. We got that from the deliveryman I told you about. Anyway, after the deliveryman left, Hirsh headed for the laboratory. He was next sighted by the State Police at a siding on Route 128 about four hundred yards from the lab. You remember, they went back and found the wrapper from the bottle.”
“Did they indicate when they saw him?”
The chief shook his head. “They had no reason to note the time. They just remembered having seen the car during the evening; they didn’t even remember the exact place. They had to check each of the sidings along the section they patrol until they found the right one. All we know is that Hirsh was there sometime during the evening. And that was the last time he was seen alive.”
“But you yourself said they didn’t really see him. They just saw the car. Isn’t that right?” asked the rabbi.
“Well, they saw a figure in the car. We assume it was Hirsh. Is it important?”
“Probably not. Go on.”
“Mrs. Hirsh came home around eleven or a little after.”
“As late as that?” asked the rabbi. “Our services ended at a quarter past ten.”
“The Marcuses didn’t return directly. They stopped off to visit some friends,” explained Beam. “I got that from Mrs. Marcus.”
“And I suppose they talked with Mrs. Hirsh for a few minutes when they did get back,” said Lanigan. “Around midnight, she called the lab to find out when her husband was coming home.”
“How did she know he was there?” asked the rabbi.
“He frequently returns at night, and at supper he mentioned he was going. But the janitor-night watchman reported he never signed in that evening, which is when she called us.” He went on to explain how they put out an alert, and how when the cruising car stopped by to get more information, the patrolman noticed the garage door was down and remembered it had been up when he passed earlier.
“So he investigated and found the car inside, right close to the side of the garage, about a foot and a half. He squeezed by, opened the front door on the driver’s side, and found Hirsh dead on the passenger side. About half the bottle was gone. The ignition was on but the motor was not running—out of gas. He radioed in to the station and we sent down the doctor and a photographer—the usual.”
He opened the folder and took out a large glossy photograph. “This picture shows the situation best. It was taken from the driveway when the garage door was first raised. You’ll notice how close the car is to the side of the garage on the driver’s side, about a foot and a half. And on the other side, you’ll notice this trash barrel about a foot from the car. That’s important to Charlie’s case. The picture doesn’t show it, of course, but the bumper of the car was just touching the rear wall of the garage. Since the car had no gas, we took out the body and left the car where it was. The following morning, we poured some gas into the tank and drove it down to the station where we’ve had it ever since. Mrs. Hirsh doesn’t drive, at least she doesn’t have a license, so we haven’t got around to bringing it back yet. And that’s about all.”
“Oh, yes, we did an autopsy on the body that confirmed the presence of alcohol in quantity commensurate with the amount missing from the bottle. It also gave us the time of death, roughly eight-thirty, give or take twenty minutes. That would be pretty accurate since it was based on stomach content.”
All four were silent for a moment as if out of respect for the deceased. Then the rabbi said, “There was much that you didn’t mention, Chief, I suppose because you assumed we knew it. One was that the man was an alcoholic, and you yourself indicated that alcoholics don’t generally commit suicide.”
Beam smiled. “That’s one of those generalizations, Rabbi, that are used to bolster a pet theory. And since there are almost as many theories about alcoholism as there are doctors studying the subject, it’s easy to theorize. There’s one to the effect that all alcoholics are sexually deficient. If something runs counter to your theory, you just say it proves the man wasn’t a true alcoholic. It’s arguing in circles.”
“All right. How about this? From all I can gather, Hirsh was very fond of his wife. He took out a sizable insurance policy—that alone indicates he cared about her welfare and well-being. Would he take his own life without leaving a note of explanation?”
“They do it all the time. Sometimes the note turns up later, sometimes it’s found and suppressed by the interested parties, if you know what I mean. Sometimes, too, they purposely don’t leave one in hopes it won’t be thought suicide, and the beneficiary can collect.”
“But nothing in his general attitude would indicate that he might commit suicide.”
“How do we know? How do we know what sets a man off? Maybe the fact it was your Yom Kippur, the Day of J
udgment as I understand it, had something to do with it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked the rabbi.
“Merely that he may have been thinking about suicide for a long time, and the bottle of vodka coming on the Day of Judgment the way it did—well, it could be kind of an omen.”
“More likely it served as an excuse to satisfy the thirst that was always with him,” the rabbi retorted. “We know he discarded the wrapper on the siding, and if he started drinking then, he must have been pretty far gone by the time he got home.”
“And yet was able to drive a car for some distance, a good ten miles, and steer it into the garage so nice and true that he doesn’t hit the wall on the one side or the trash barrel on the other?”
“That’s your case, is it?” asked the rabbi. “That he was able to drive into the garage without bumping into anything?”
“That,” said Beam, “and the fact that he had sufficient command of his reasoning faculties to shut off the car lights but not shut off the motor, get out of the car and pull down the garage door, and then get back into the front seat. If he were drunk and didn’t know what he was doing, why would he have gone back to the car? Why wouldn’t he go directly into his own house? He knew he’d be alone and alone for some time. He may not have gone to the temple regularly, but I guess he’d know that on your Yom Kippur the services wouldn’t be over much before ten.”
“Alcoholics frequently have special feelings about where they can drink and where they can’t,” interposed Lanigan mildly. “I suppose his house was one place he considered off limits. For that matter, after he pulled down the garage door, why get into the front seat at all? If you say he was planning to commit suicide—and may have wanted to anesthetize himself with alcohol, since carbon monoxide takes a little time—why not get into the back seat, which is not only more comfortable but nearer the garage door?”
Beam shrugged. “Matter of habit, probably. The important thing is that he was sober enough to do all these things: to steer within the narrow space between the trash barrel and the garage wall—”
“Just a minute. What kind of trash barrel is that, Chief? It looks like one of those new plastic types.”
“That’s right, Rabbi. It’s a red plastic twenty-gallon barrel with a cover.”
“Full or empty?”
“Oh, it must have been empty, David,” said his wife. “It was Friday.” She explained to Beam that the trash on even-numbered houses is collected Friday morning. “The husbands usually put out the barrels Thursday night and the wives bring in the empties the next morning.”
“The lady is right,” said Lanigan. “The barrel was empty.”
“So what?”
“So there is a difference,” the rabbi began, his voice taking on the impersonal tone of a lecturer. “There is a difference between a full barrel and an empty one, and an even greater difference between a galvanized iron barrel and one made of plastic.”
“Are you going to pull one of those Talmudic tricks of yours, Rabbi? What do you call it, a pil—something?”
“You mean a pilpul? And why not, if it helps us to get at the truth.”
Lanigan grinned. “The Talmud,” he said to Beam, “is the Jewish book of Law. They have a special way of arguing that the rabbi has used on me on occasion. This pilpul, it’s a kind of hair-splitting that—”
“Rather it’s the tracing of a fine distinction,” said the rabbi reprovingly.
“Well, I don’t mind fine distinctions,” said Beam patronizingly. “But what difference does it make whether the barrel is full or empty, or made of galvanized iron or plastic or anything else for that matter?”
“Actually, there are four possibilities.” The rabbi rose from his chair and, thrusting his hands deep in his trouser pockets, began to pace the floor. “The barrel can be of iron and full or empty, and it can be of plastic and full or empty. The first point to consider is the difference between the full one and the empty one. The full barrel is normally heavy and relatively immovable. The empty barrel is light. That is, of course, why men usually take it out onto the sidewalk; while bringing it back empty is something a woman can do because it does not tax her strength. Now, if the barrel were full, then it could indeed be considered a fixed obstruction. A sober man would no more think of driving his car into it than of driving into the wall. But what if the barrel were empty? Then it is comparatively light, and if he struck it with his car no great damage would be done beyond a scratch or two. And the barrel? Even if it were toppled over nothing would spill out. But—” and he held up an admonishing forefinger, “the sober driver would have no problem in either case. He has more than a foot on either side—plenty of room, even for a driver of my caliber. How about the drunken driver, though? Let us admit that he would have trouble”—he paused—“if it were a full barrel. But he knows it is empty—”
“Just a minute,” Beam interrupted, “how does he know that the barrel is empty?”
“Because it was inside the garage, of course. If it were full, it would be outside on the sidewalk where he’d left it the night before. So here we have a man parking his car in a narrow garage. He knows he has to be careful on one side, but on the other there’s only an empty barrel. Even half sober he’d know that subconsciously, and know it really would not constitute an obstruction. Still, he would probably try to avoid it, and his capacity to steer between the two might be some indication of his relative sobriety. But”—and again he held up a forefinger—“this is not a galvanized iron barrel that could be dented if struck by the car fender and that in turn could damage the car. It is a plastic barrel, an empty plastic barrel. When struck, it yields or skitters away.”
Then, as his voice took on a Talmudic singsong, his forefinger made circles in the air in time to the rhythm of his discourse. “Now if a man would not mind hitting a galvanized barrel because he knew it was empty, then al achas cammo v’cammo”—he broke off and smiled. “I’m sorry, I got carried away. That Hebrew phrase, a common one in Talmudic argument means—er—‘how much more.’ How much more, then, would he be likely to disregard an empty plastic barrel.” Turning to Lanigan, he said, “Because you have expressed an interest, that line of reasoning is very common in the Talmud. It is called cal v’chomar, which means ‘light and heavy,’ and consists of showing that if one argument applies, then a stronger argument of the same sort is even more applicable and can be considered proof. Now from our point of view, the empty plastic barrel is no more obstruction than a beach ball. Hirsh could in fact have struck it, and it could very well have caromed off the fender and come to rest in its present position.”
The chief shook his head in admiration. “He’s got you fair and square, Charlie. The fact that it is an empty plastic barrel just about kills your case.”
“Well, I’m a city boy myself and I don’t know about plastic barrels. But that’s not all there is to my argument by a long shot. How about bringing the car right up against the rear wall of the garage? That’s a mighty neat trick for a guy too soused to know enough not to turn off the ignition.”
The chief looked at the rabbi for an answer but he seemed not to have heard. In fact, he seemed to have forgot they were there, for he was leaning back in his chair, his eyes focused on the ceiling.
“What do you say to that, Rabbi?” asked Beam.
The rabbi disregarded the question.
“There is another facet of Talmudic reasoning,” he said, and his voice was withdrawn as though he were talking to himself. “It is the im kain argument. The words mean ‘if so,’ and it is essentially a sort of reductio ad absurdum. In the present case, it would go like this: if the car was so near the side of the garage, how could he get out on the driver’s side? And if it were so near the barrel, how could he get out on the other side?”
Lanigan looked at the rabbi in surprise. “But you’ve already answered that. You proved that the barrel was no obstruction.”
“It was no obstruction to the car,
but it was an obstruction to Hirsh.”
Lanigan was exasperated. “Dammit, Rabbi, you can’t have it both ways. You pointed out that an empty plastic barrel was no obstruction, and now you say it is.”
The rabbi nodded. “Precisely. It was no obstruction to a man driving a car, but it was an obstruction to Hirsh going to lower the garage door.”
“Why? He had only to nudge it aside with his foot.”
“But he didn’t, because it was still there when you found him and took your picture.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at,” said Lanigan.
“Include me,” said Beam.
“Very well. Hirsh brings the car to a stop. He can’t get out on the driver’s side. No room. So he gets out on the passenger side. He nudges the barrel out of the way, walks to the front of the garage and pulls the door down. Very good! Now he comes back to the front seat of the car. He passes the barrel. What does he do? Pull it back in position again? Why would he do that?”
“Why—why he must have,” exclaimed Lanigan. “Or maybe when he pushed it away the first time, he pushed it so hard he sent it spinning and—no, that doesn’t make sense either.” He glared at the rabbi. “Dammit, we know he couldn’t get out on the driver’s side. We know that. It was physically impossible. And now it seems he didn’t get out on the other side. But those are the only two ways of getting out of the car, so—”
“Go on, say it. If he didn’t get out on either side, then he didn’t get out of the car. But the garage door was down, so it must have been pulled down by someone else. And that person, in all likelihood, was the driver. And Hirsh was sitting on the passenger side, because he was indeed the passenger. And that in turn could explain how a man could consume a pint of liquor and yet travel by automobile ten miles or more and park his car in his garage. There was no problem because he was not driving; he was being driven. And when they got to the garage, the driver, a much thinner person than Hirsh, got out of the car on the driver’s side, pulled down the garage door and walked away. And Hirsh did nothing about it because he was either too drunk to know what was happening, or more likely, had passed out completely.”
Saturday the Rabbi Went Hungry Page 14