Had we known all of this, Mr. Melendez would surely have been on our list. I added him now.
—
After the policemen had left, Mrs. K and I sat for a while going over what they had said (well, what Corcoran had said, as Jenkins is mostly the silent type).
As we were about to leave, Mrs. Bissela approached us, smiling and clearly with something on her mind.
“Rose, Ida. I saw you were busy talking with those two policemen. The ones who are investigating Vera’s death. What did they say?”
It is not like Mrs. Bissela to come right out and ask for information; usually she is getting it more indirectly. She must have been extremely anxious to find out what the policemen told us.
“Now, Hannah,” Mrs. K said gently, “you know anything they told us would be confidential and not to be passed along to others.” She didn’t add, “At least anything you would find interesting,” but I’m sure that was understood.
“Yes, but certainly there is something you can tell me.”
“Well,” Mrs. K said, “Inspector Corcoran did say there were some people seen in the area of Vera’s room during the day she died, but they don’t know who they were. A woman resident, and a heavyset man. Do you have any idea who they might be, or who might have gone into Vera’s room that afternoon?”
Mrs. Bissela thought about it, then shook her head. “No, I was at the services most of the day, as you were.”
Mrs. K nodded. “Well, Ida and I are making a list of whoever might have had a reason to harm Vera. We have the most obvious people….”
“Like Rena?” Mrs. Bissela said. “And Angela?”
“Yes, they certainly are the obvious ones. To be honest, I even have you on the list, because it is well known you did not like Vera.”
“An understatement, I’m sure. By all means, include me on your list. It is quite appropriate. But of course I did not do it. Whatever it was that was done.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Hannah. And maybe you can help us with who else we should put down. You usually know more about these things than we do….”
Mrs. Bissela brightened. This was her specialty. “You have heard about the cousin, I assume? Erik Weiss?”
“The one in Singapore?” I asked.
Mrs. Bissela laughed at this. “No, no. Not Singapore. Sing Sing. It is a prison in New York.”
“Prison?” Mrs. K said. “For what is he in prison?”
“I think it is for embezzlement, or something like that. He was taking money from a business he worked for, somewhere in this state I think. Just a ganif, a thief. Not a nice person. I once saw a picture of him—it is a while ago, Vera showed me a photograph of the family for some reason—and he is indeed zaftig, quite a large man, like the person you mentioned. If not that he was in jail, I certainly would be adding him to your list, near the top.”
“Why is that?” I asked. “Did he also commit a murder or…what?”
“It is not why he is in jail, but how he got there. What I heard is that Vera, as they say in those old gangster movies, blew the whistle on him. Sold him down the river. You know, turned him in to the authorities. And testified against him.”
“What do you mean? Was Vera really such a shtunk as to turn against her own family?”
“Well, it apparently was not as bad as that, although the cousin might not agree.” Mrs. Bissela lowered her voice a bit. “What I heard is that Vera was working for the company that Erik was stealing from. He was their accountant or something. She had actually gotten him the job, had vouched for him. When she found out what he was doing—I don’t know how—she told him he should turn himself in, return the money, and take his punishment. At that time I guess he had not taken much money and probably would not have been treated harshly. But he refused, and in fact he continued to steal the money, probably assuming Vera would never turn him in, a close relative. If that is so, then Vera was in a real pickle, whether to look the other way and let Erik continue to embezzle from her company, or to tell them what he was doing.”
“And she did tell them?”
“Yes, and then testified against him in court. And I cannot myself say I blame her. As you know, I did not like Vera and was upset by many of the unfriendly things she did. But that is not one of them, as far as I am concerned. It was, as they say, a ‘no win’ situation.”
“Yes, I agree,” Mrs. K said. “But as you point out, her cousin Erik probably would not.”
In a way, Vera telling on her cousin was like her telling Pupik about Rena Shapiro’s cat; it was lashon hara. And although some might say that neither was right, I think if Vera’s only purpose in speaking of Erik’s crime was to prevent harm to her company, she should be excused. But is it a wonder that lashon hara is considered the most difficult sin not to commit, or that of the forty-three sins for which we ask God’s forgiveness on Yom Kippur, eleven are committed by speaking? Vera telling on Erik, someone telling Rena that she had done so, and then Rena telling us, all technically were lashon hara. And now I am committing it by telling you! Oy gevalt, it can get so complicated.
This story of the cousin was a total surprise to both of us. But unfortunately, as the man was in prison, we could not very well add him to our list.
It was too bad. He would have made a most welcome addition.
Chapter 12
It was about a week later that the police made an arrest for Vera’s murder.
I was chatting with Mrs. K in her apartment when she received a telephone call. She said “Hello” and then just listened for a minute or so, while her face got so pale I was afraid she would faint. She sat down on a nearby chair. Finally she said, “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll see what I can do.”
After she hung up, she just sat there as if trying to make sense of what she had heard on the telephone. I have seldom seen her looking so upset, or maybe confused. I, of course, was dying to know what—and who—it was that had caused such a reaction. So I asked.
“That was Daniel,” she said in a strained voice. “He’s been arrested for his mother’s murder.”
Yes, Daniel. Nu, I was as surprised as you are!
Now I too was staring into space. Gotteniu! How was this possible? Not only was Daniel not on our list of possible suspects, but he was probably the last person we would have thought to put there.
“Did he tell you why they had arrested him? They must have some meshugge theory or other, but I cannot imagine what it might be.”
“He didn’t really say, and I’m not certain that he knows yet. He sounds completely farmisht, bewildered. And I don’t blame him.”
“And why did he call you? Shouldn’t he be calling a lawyer or something?”
“Oh, I assume he has called one. But he said he wanted to talk to me, and could I meet with him today or tomorrow.”
“So you will do that?”
“Of course. And I hope you will come with me.”
“Yes, certainly.” I could hardly refuse. And I was just as curious to find out how this could have happened as was Mrs. K.
“But first,” Mrs. K said, now with a firm and determined tone of voice, having recovered a little from the shock, “I will have a talk with Inspector Corcoran. Surely he can give us some idea why Daniel, of all people, has been arrested.”
Typically, she did not waste any time getting in touch with Corcoran, and he agreed to see us at his office that afternoon.
Before that meeting, however, and in fact all during the rest of the morning and over lunch, Mrs. K and I tried to figure out how Daniel could be not only a suspect, but the person the police had decided was in fact the murderer of Vera Gold. Of his own mother. It simply did not make sense, at least to us.
“Let us try to be objective about this,” Mrs. K said as we finished our lunch. I could hardly eat and refused second helpings of everything. “Let us treat Daniel as we would any other suspect in a crime.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Surely that is the way the police are treating him.”
“Exactly. And when considering a suspect in a crime, we always must look for a motive and an opportunity,” Mrs. K said. “I suppose because he was helping his mother with taking her medications, he did have some opportunity to give her the wrong pills. But of course so did many other people, including several employees of the Home, Rena Shapiro, and even Fannie. People were apparently in and out of her room all day, as is normal. But even if Daniel did have an opportunity to give Vera what amounted to poison, why would he do it? What would have been his motive?”
“Well, to be honest,” I said, “he did tell us that he would be getting something in his mother’s will. A big something yet. That could have been his motive, couldn’t it?”
“Yes, of course money is always a possible motive, so I suppose Daniel had one. But we can hardly suspect that everyone who is going to inherit from a close relative will want to murder them for the money, especially when the relative is elderly and ill.”
“No,” I agreed. I took a sip of water, as all of this thinking was making me thirsty. But Mrs. K was in her element, and she continued right on.
“He also said there was a gift to the Home in Vera’s will. Shall we then suspect Pupik or one of the staff of killing her to get it? And do we suspect this Fred person as well? No, it is all too simple, and too unlikely. There must be more to it than that.”
There usually is.
—
Inspector Corcoran’s office was located downtown. Mrs. K and I again got on the shopping shuttle, which Mrs. K said would take us close enough to police headquarters that we could walk the rest of the way. As I had never been to police headquarters, Got tsu danken, I took her word for it.
When we boarded the bus, Andy, the shuttle driver, asked us where we were going, as usual. We of course did not say “to the police station,” but gave him the name of a store nearby. All we needed was for everyone within earshot to start noodging us about why we were going there. And once Mrs. Bissela heard about it…well, you know.
So Andy dropped us off at the usual place for shopping, and we walked a few blocks to a plain-looking building that was police headquarters. From the outside it just looked like an ordinary ugly office building; only a shiny brass plaque next to the big double front doors warned you that it was full of policemen.
Mrs. K had been to Corcoran’s office once or twice since we had met him during that business with the matzoh ball soup, which is why she knew where it was. I had never been there, and I did not like the idea of going into that building, as I watched policemen and police ladies in uniform and in plainclothes passing in and out of the doors. Even though I was of course not guilty of anything, and I honestly have only respect for policemen—after all, our good friend and table companion Isaac Taubman’s son Benjamin is on the police force and is a wonderful boy—it is from my childhood in the old country that I still get a shiver when I am around those people in uniforms. But that is just my problem and a story for another day.
Inside we faced a desk at which sat two uniformed policemen. One was busy on a computer or something, and the other was writing something on a pad. As soon as we got near the desk, the writing policeman looked up and, seeing us, gave us a nice smile, and asked if he could help us. Mrs. K said we were there to see Inspector Corcoran, and the man at the desk immediately nodded and picked up his telephone. A few seconds later he told us to go to the second floor and we would be met there.
When we arrived at the second floor, we were greeted by Corcoran’s secretary—she was just wearing a pretty green blouse and brown skirt, not a uniform—and shown into his office. As he also does not wear a policeman’s uniform, I am not at all uncomfortable around him, or even his shlumpy partner, Jenkins, for that matter.
The first thing I noticed when being shown into Corcoran’s office was his first name. On his door in gold letters it said “Inspector Robert Corcoran, Homicide.” In the many times I had met Corcoran, all at the Home, he was always “Corcoran” or “Inspector Corcoran,” or maybe “that handsome policeman”; this was the first time I knew his first name. I doubted I would have any occasion to use it, however.
Corcoran’s office was not what you would call decorated, but it did have several photographs on the walls. Some seemed to be of him with his family, which I thought was very nice. One of the pictures was of Corcoran with two smiling young boys maybe seven or eight years old, all of them wearing skis and standing in the snow. Another was just him with a beautiful young woman I assume is his wife and mother of the two boys. It is interesting how much a few photos can tell you about a person. Some of the pictures were of Corcoran shaking hands with people like the mayor and the police chief. You know, the kind that show what important people a person knows. There also was a large map of the city on one wall and two faded prints of people on horses on another. I guess it was about right for a policeman’s office.
Inspector Corcoran himself greeted us at the door. Although he had said he wanted our help, it had to be difficult for him to take time out from a murder investigation, and who knows what other important police business he had, to talk with us. Nevertheless, he certainly looked and sounded like he was glad to see us.
“Please come in, Mrs. Kaplan, Mrs. Berkowitz,” he said with a smile. After asking his secretary to ask Sergeant Jenkins to come to his office, he turned his attention to us. He indicated two chairs for us to sit in. “Can I get you something to drink? Some coffee? Water?”
We both said “no, thank you,” although to tell the truth, I could have used a nice cup of tea just then. But I knew Mrs. K wanted to get right to the point. And the point, of course, was Daniel Gold.
—
Inspector Corcoran took the big chair behind his desk. He was in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled up, his tie loosened. The desk top was not messy, but it was crowded with papers. I wondered whether any of them had a relation to Daniel’s case.
Jenkins knocked on the door and came in, pulling up a chair at the corner of the desk on the same side as Corcoran. The Inspector then said to us, “I would ask what I can do for you ladies, but I assume you’re here to talk about Daniel Gold. Am I correct?”
“You are,” said Mrs. K. “We cannot understand how, with all the people who one might suspect of wanting to harm Vera Gold, you have decided that her son, who we all know was so devoted to her, would do such a terrible thing.”
Corcoran appeared very serious, putting his fingertips together and looking down at his desk before looking up at us and saying, “Yes, I fully understand. And I also understand, from what we’ve learned, that you, Mrs. Kaplan, have a…a special relationship with Mr. Gold, almost like family. Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose you could say that,” Mrs. K said. “And I’m sure that is one reason I’m here. But even if he were a stranger, I would still feel he is maybe the most unlikely person to suspect. So I am hoping you are able to tell us something to make some sense of it. There must be a great deal that we do not know.”
“Yes, yes, there is. And ordinarily I would have to answer that I cannot discuss any of the details of our case with anyone except Mr. Gold himself and his attorney. But I not only trust you—and you as well, Mrs. Berkowitz—to keep anything I say confidential, but frankly I would be glad to have you thinking about the facts together with us. You know the people involved, you know the setting, and you have a…shall we say…a unique perspective and approach to these matters. So yes, I can give you some idea of why Mr. Gold has been arrested without breaching any confidences. But keep in mind that our discussion here, like when we spoke at your residence, is strictly confidential.”
We nodded.
Corcoran picked up a file folder from the right side of his desk, glanced at a few of the pages, put it down, folded his hands, and told us what was a most surprising and disturbing story.
Chapter 13
“First of all,” Inspector Corcoran began, “you should know in a little more detail what we’ve learned about the medications that app
arently were responsible for Mrs. Gold’s death. As I think I already mentioned, her death was caused, our medical people say, by two drugs that, when combined, can cause serious, even fatal heart problems.”
Here he took out some notes from the folder he had consulted earlier and glanced down at them as he continued: “You might recall that the first drug is called ziprasidone, but let’s call it drug number one, to make it easier to say.” He smiled and we did as well.
“Drug number one, as I’ve told you, is used to treat the symptoms of schizophrenia and also episodes of”—and here he read from his notes—“ ‘mania, which is a frenzied, abnormally excited or irritated mood in patients with bipolar disorder.’ ” He looked up. “Anyway, you get the idea. Drug one is in a class of medications called”—and again he read from his notes—“ ‘atypical antipsychotics.’ It works by changing the activity of certain natural substances in the brain.” He put down the notes and looked at us. “The bottom line is that this drug, which was prescribed for Mrs. Gold by Dr. Menschyk, can affect the heart’s rhythm. Therefore, taking it with some other drug that also affects the heart’s rhythm can cause an irregular heartbeat and be life-threatening.”
I was trying hard to absorb all of this medical megillah, and to be honest I was finding it difficult. I glanced at Mrs. K, however, and she seemed to be nodding right along with Corcoran, not seeming lost at all. That’s good, because she could explain it to me later.
“Now, taking drug number one,” Corcoran said, “which as I say was prescribed for Mrs. Gold, was not a problem. It was drug number two that likely caused her death. That was,” with a glance down at his notes, “sibutramine. I believe I told you earlier that sibutramine, which let’s call drug number two, is an appetite suppressant. It was pulled off the market a few years ago, but of course there is still some floating around in people’s medicine cabinets and such. It also affects the heart’s rhythm, and it is exactly the kind of drug that, when combined with drug number one, can easily be fatal. In fact, there were clear warnings on the label of drug number two against using it if you’re also taking drug number one or anything similar.”
A Pain in the Tuchis Page 10