False Witness

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  “And in the meantime? Where is this ... eminent ... healer?”

  “He is pursuing his daily rounds: whatever that entails.”

  I explained that provisions had been made to keep him from Sanderalee.

  “Now, I want to ask you some questions that might help us in evaluating Sanderalee’s accusation.” Immediately, the tense, hostile, adversary expression; a raising of his chin, a squinting of his eyelids so that the black-light shone at me like twin beams. “When, what day, at about what time, did she first speak to you about Dr. Cohen? Under what circumstances?”

  He spoke carefully in a measured manner. He had spent a night with her when she was in the ICU. Even before we had any idea that she was lucid for more than a minute or two at a time, she was confiding in Regg Morris.

  “At first, she talked in disconnected sentences. She moved in and out of time. The very first words to me were ‘He’s here. The man who did this to me. He’s been in and out of this room.’ That was what terrified her; that was why she kept asking you to get me to her side.”

  “All right. We are aware of the time lapses and the confusion. We’ll be dealing with that for weeks, to some degree or other. Now, at what point did she identify Dr. Cohen? What, exactly, as accurately as you can recall, did she say about him?”

  “ ‘He did this to me. That man. The tall one with the thinning hair.’ That’s what she said. On the day she was moved from the ICU to her present room. She asked me who he was.”

  “Who was he?” Bobby Jones repeated. “What did you tell her?” Regg Morris slid down low in his chair. His chin resting on his chest, he glanced slowly to his right and focused on Bobby Jones. “I told her I would find out and I did.”

  “What did you find out? How did you check on him?”

  A brief, unfriendly smile. “I have methods of gathering information, Ms. Jacobi. I am not without resources. I promised her she would be safe with Ms. Capella on guard. I checked out this ... doctor. And came back to Sanderalee and identified him to her.”

  “What information did you give her?”

  “His name. Where he lived. What his job was. What he had done for her ... once she was in the hospital.”

  “And she said? When you told her the man is Dr. David Cohen, of such-and-such an address, et cetera?”

  He didn’t bother to look toward Bobby Jones anymore. He directed his words to me.

  “She said, ‘I’m pretty sure he’s the man who did this to me.’ ”

  We both pounced on this. “She said, ‘I’m pretty sure’?”

  “That’s what the lady said. At that point. ‘I’m pretty sure.’ ”

  Bobby caught my signal and leaned back. “And your reaction was?”

  Regg Morris came up straight in his chair and glared at me. “And my reaction was? My reaction was, girl, I wanted to get that muthuhfucker and rip off his goddamn balls, that’s what my reaction was!” I let the silence build for a moment in the shattered air, then leaned forward and went for my deadly voice. It sounded like I meant business.

  “Listen carefully. You call me girl. Then I’m gonna have to call you boy. And then there we’ll be: a sexist and a racist, sitting here wasting time. I don’t have time to waste, do you?”

  His grin was swift and dazzling: a showing of perfectly shaped, neat white teeth. He shook his head at himself, sucked in his breath and raised his hands, palms turned out. A gesture.

  “Mea culpa. Forgive me. I became carried away and slipped into the scene. I am very close to Sanderalee and I feel, to a very great extent, not only my anger but her pain. Answer to your question: my reaction was a feeling of tremendous anger. And some bewilderment. Not terribly different from your initial feeling. Your continuing feeling, possibly.”

  “And what did Sanderalee tell you about her initial encounter with ... the man who attacked her?”

  “That she was running and twisted her ankle. That he had apparently been running behind her and witnessed this. That he approached her at Columbus Circle; told her he was a doctor; offered to help with the ankle. Told her he knew how to manipulate it so that the injury wouldn’t cause swelling. Told her that sort of thing.”

  “He told her he was a doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did Sanderalee say that to you? Before or after you identified Dr. David Cohen?”

  Regg Morris shook his head from side to side and said, “Games again? All right. I’m not too clear of the sequence myself. She said; I said; she asked; I answered. This is particularly difficult for you, isn’t it, Ms. Jacobi?”

  “What is particularly difficult for me, Dr. Morris?”

  “He is the standard mother-in-law’s dream catch, isn’t he?” He hesitated and then decided to impress us a little. “Except I’m not too sure what his late wife’s mother might have to say about him, are you?”

  “No, but I’m going to find out. And I warn you to back off and not interfere in our investigation.” He did a “hands off” gesture with his shoulders, shrugging, his hands open and empty. “Now, get back to what you said before. About it being particularly difficult for me. What does that mean?”

  As if I didn’t know. I knew. Oh yeah. I knew where this was leading.

  “The stereotype prize catch for the Jewish-American-Princess: the Jewish-American-Doctor. Not that you fit the former description, Ms. Jacobi. You’re not the princess type.”

  “What does that mean?” Bobby Jones asked, getting lost somewhere along the line.

  “You find Dr. David Cohen’s religion significant in some way? To my handling of this investigation?”

  “Yes, I consider Dr. David Cohen’s religion significant. In every way. Given Sanderalee Dawson’s recent involvement with the destitute peoples of the Palestinian refugee camps. Yes, I find it significant that the man who destroyed her, physically and possibly emotionally, is a Jew.”

  “Did you mention to Sanderalee, when you provided her with background information, that Dr. Cohen was Jewish?”

  Regg Morris smiled without pleasure. “It would hardly be necessary, would it? With a name like David Cohen? Would you find it necessary to mention the fact that I was black in introducing me to someone?”

  “If he were blind and it was relevant, yes.” I shot it at him. It stopped him cold. He awarded me his broad, wonderfully warm smile and a nod of approval. I was quick, he gave me that much.

  “And when you identified Dr. David Cohen for Sanderalee Dawson, did you make any suggestions to her? As to why this man might have taken it upon himself to assault her? Did you suggest any political motives? Did you suggest that he knew who she was and that the crime against her was not random, but calculated against her, specifically, for reasons other than what appear on the surface?”

  “You are accusing me of telling Sanderalee Dawson that what happened to her happened for political reasons? And that I then offered proof to her along the way? That I provided her with a Jew-doctor, all made-to-order? Is this what you are now saying?” He drew himself up in rage. Quite frankly, he was more than just a little frightening.

  A soft answer turneth away wrath. I learned that in high school. It was printed neatly on a card tacked over the blackboard in the English-comp. room along with other quotations of worldly wisdom.

  I answered softly: “We are trying to establish what the facts are in this matter, Dr. Morris. You’re the one who has introduced an entirely new slant on this case.”

  He stood up so violently that he knocked over the chair in front of my desk. Bobby Jones started to move toward him. He thought Dr. Regg Morris was going to have at me. He wasn’t; it just seemed that way. Morris whirled around, uprighted the chair with a thud and faced me, standing very straight and very stiff and with a very righteous expression on his handsome face.

  “I think, Ms. Jacobi, that Sanderalee Dawson will be well within her rights to demand that another prosecutor handle this case. One perhaps with a less vested interest.”

  “Uh-huh. And my vested i
nterest is?”

  He leaned forward and his eyes tried to pin me to my chair. “We have got us the culprit, lady. And he is a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Jew-doctor and we’re gonna check him out good and see where he fits into the Zionist scheme of things, you got that? And we’re going to find out who you get your orders from. What part of the international Jew-conspiracy gives you your instructions.”

  I leaned way back in my chair.

  “Shalom, Dr. Morris. In Zionist-talk, it means go fuck yourself.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I STOPPED AT THE hospital for a quick conference with Lucy Capella. Sanderalee was asleep. There was sensation in her fingertips and motion to the second joint; her hand was pink and warm. Her jaws, though they would be wired for many weeks, no longer ached and the swelling had subsided considerably. Of course, there was the horror of her ripped mouth. Sans lower lip and with broken teeth, she did not look very pleasant. However, she took enough interest in herself to ask to see a plastic surgeon and she had taken to draping her lower face with filmy chiffon scarves whenever she had visitors.

  “Some dental surgeons are scheduled to take a look either today or tomorrow,” Lucy told me. “Sanderalee is very confident of what they can accomplish. She’s in good spirits and a lot more relaxed since we made that tape.”

  I discussed the meeting with Regg Morris. “I’m not sure how we can keep him out, Lucy. But I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to. At this point, I am getting very worried.”

  “About what? About what Sanderalee told us?”

  “About what Regg Morris may have told Sanderalee. Look, just for the sake of argument, let’s say the assailant picked her up in the park or at Columbus Circle or wherever. They proceeded to her apartment. The man goes bonkers and attacks her. She wakes up and thinks one of the faces looking down at her is the guy who did it. Let’s say she honestly doesn’t remember very much of the conversation that took place with her assailant that night. Regg Morris checks out the guy she thinks she recognizes and tells her he’s a doctor. Let’s say he then ‘helps her’ to remember talking with her assailant that night. And in order to tighten her resolve, he leads her a little. Like ‘Didn’t that guy tell you he was a doctor?’ That sort of thing. So that she’d feel a little stronger, a little tougher when she tells us about him. After all, you don’t accuse an eminent microsurgeon of this kind of brutality every day. You need some sort of a lead-in.”

  “If only she had mentioned that her assailant told her he was a doctor. At some time prior to when Regg Morris spoke to her.” Lucy was on my line of thinking exactly.

  “I’m assigning reinterviews with every person who had any contact with her, from the first people on the scene—Doyle and the two patrolmen, the ambulance medics, the people at the emergency room. And the key question will be: did she mention the word ‘doctor’ at any time. Maybe she groaned the word and they just assumed it was a logical thing. That she was injured and asking for a doctor. Maybe it was so logical that no one really noticed that she said it. And maybe zeroing in on even one single groan that sounded like ‘doctor’ would ...” I threw my hands up. “Would I don’t know what.”

  Lucy said it for me. “Would reassure you a little that the word ‘doctor’ as assailant wasn’t put into Sanderalee’s head by her good friend, Regg Morris.” Lucy stretched her neck and massaged it lightly. “A little peculiar, though, the whole sequence. She twisted her ankle while running on a cold and lonely night. No one around but a doctor, who just happens to be running in back of her, sees what happened, offers help.” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Lynne? Come on.”

  “You don’t believe in terrifically good luck coupled with terrifically bad luck? She’s running; twists her foot; only person in vicinity is very competent doctor; they are right near her apartment; he helps her home; he massages her aching ankle. Then, instead of accepting a nice drink, he proceeds to rape, sodomize and dismember her. What is this ‘Lynne, come on’? You find this all hard to believe?”

  Lucy’s dark eyes were steady on mine and she spoke slowly. “I find anything at all in the whole world believable. Maybe not likely, but believable. I’m thinking in terms of a jury. But let’s put that aside, Lynne. Was Sanderalee in the habit of picking up men and taking them home with her?”

  I shrugged. “It would not strain the limits of credulity.”

  “That means yes?”

  “That means yes.”

  “Then why the big story—of the running and the twisted ankle and the doctor just happening along? Why not just the truth—if it is the truth—a casual pickup that went wrong?”

  “I think when we figure that out, we’ll know a great deal more than we do now. I do sense the fine manipulative hand of Regg Morris in some of this. Let’s say that yes, our good Dr. Cohen is indeed a lunatic-monster and did in fact do what Sanderalee says he did. Maybe Regg felt she should offer a few upfront statements as to how come Sanderalee brought a total stranger home with her. Listen, Lucy, I’m not in the answering position yet.” I dug my notebook out and jotted a reminder to myself, reading as I wrote it down. “Ask Tim Doyle if he noticed Sanderalee limping when she came back with unidentified male. Also, ask hospital personnel if anyone examined her ankle and noted any swelling.” Lucy seemed about to say something, changed her mind, thought it over and started again.

  “Lucy? What?”

  She hesitated. “I think ... it would be a good idea to consider ... at this point ... having her declared a material witness and hold her in protective custody. That way, no Regg Morris. No outside influence.”

  We did indeed think alike. “But not just yet. It might backfire. I have to see how Regg is going to conduct himself. We’ll have to start shortening his visits. ‘She’s in therapy.’ ‘She’s resting.’ That kind of thing. Get that Dr. Fernow to go along with you. He’s a real police buff; tell him it’s an important part of the case and he’ll see to it that Sanderalee has ten sponge baths a day. Let’s just keep putting Regg Morris off for now. And when he does visit with her, you stay in the room. No secret whispered conferences.”

  “Lynne, what do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s a farout possibility. Crazy. But possible. In the last three years there have been nine dismemberment murders in New York City. At least two of them fit a similar pattern: rape, sodomy, beating, partial dismemberment. The others we can cancel: male torsos, obvious gang rubouts, drug-related scare-murders. But there are two cases in Manhattan where the women were seen entering their apartments with a ‘white male,’ no further description. He doesn’t leave prints. He doesn’t leave anything of himself behind. Except for the corpses.”

  “Maybe this time he left a not-quite dead victim. Surely he must have thought she was dead or dying.”

  “Which would account—if by some chance it was the good Dr. Cohen—for his telling her he was a doctor. What difference would it make what he told her? If he was planning to kill her?”

  “If he did it.”

  “Right, Lucy. If he did it.”

  If he did it. Could he have done it?

  Dr. David Cohen?

  CHAPTER 24

  “I KNOW DR. DAVID Cohen as a teaching colleague since for many years we were both on the staff at Columbia. And of course his wife was my patient, but that had very little to do with him.”

  Dr. Irving Calendar was a pompous jerk. He had shaved the remaining hair on his head to make it appear that his state of baldness was his option rather than nature’s. As he spoke, reacting to a pre-set inner time clock, he periodically reached his right hand behind his head and slowly, lovingly brushed his fingers along the shaved edge of his neck.

  “I used to be a Freudian,” he told us. “But I realized a few years ago that the therapy of the future was preventive medication. Instead of seeing maybe six, seven patients a day for the famous fifty-minute hour, I can now deal with four, maybe five patients an hour. That’s twenty-four, thirty patients a day. At fifty to sixty bucks a throw.”


  “That is remarkable, Dr. Calendar. How many patients does that multiply up to per week?”

  He shrugged at me and pulled his wide lips into a smile, then gave his neck the old feel.

  “Depends. There are days when I just don’t schedule myself. Days when I devote myself to myself.” He pressed his hard flat stomach and flexed his hard wide shoulders. “Tennis. That’s my game.”

  It sounded like his raison d’etre. It was said with tight but passionate emphasis.

  “Another thing about this type of therapy is that it doesn’t leave me drained. They make no emotional demands on me. My patients. They come; I check their reaction to dosage: good, bad, effective, not effective; high, low, stable. I have each one keep a journal. I give them a coded notebook I have printed up especially for this kind of notekeeping.”

  “So your patient just shows you a notebook and that’s it?”

  “I evaluate what’s been going on, medication-wise. And make whatever adjustment, if any, is necessary. And decide when the next visit should be. Maybe two weeks, maybe four. The patient is reassured by the visit. We don’t get involved with their emotional hangups or past lives. After all, it is the current day-by-day life we have to deal with, not mama and the toidy potty and papa and the primal scene.”

  “Are many of you former Freudians crossing over?” Bobby Jones asked.

  Another gentle shrug; another brush of the stubble; another smile. “The smart ones are.”

  Dr. Calendar had treated Mrs. Melissa Wise Cohen for depression. It had been a lifelong syndrome with her. She had tried conventional therapies and found none that helped. Regardless of what was going on in her life, when her biological time clock messed up her blood chemistry, she hit bottom. The fact that there was no precipitating cause for the depression, the cyclical nature of it, and the degree of total despair she suffered during it were right up Dr. Calendar’s alley.