Escape

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  When Karp announced it was time for him to leave, Sobelman said, "I'll walk part of the way with you. I'm supposed to be resting after such a good meal, but I'm reluctant to part with such good company. Besides, God did not 'rest' on the seventh day of creation—that is a misinterpretation of the Torah. After all, why would an all-powerful God need to rest? The real translation is that on the seventh day, God 'ceased,' meaning He ceased His work and then stepped back to survey what He had done. Like any great artist who is pleased with a work and considers it finished, He stopped and enjoyed the accomplishment. So while I have ceased my work, a walk with a friend is something to be enjoyed."

  Moishe kissed his wife and promised to return soon so that they could celebrate the end of Sabbath together. She then handed Karp a paper bag from which the smell of warm coffee cake emanated. I can always diet tomorrow, he thought after thanking her.

  Sobelman locked the door of the bakery, and they set off down Third Avenue. They didn't say much for the first couple of blocks, just remarks about the meal and their respective wives. Then the baker glanced up at Karp and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if this constitutes work, but something has been troubling me."

  "What's that, Moishe?"

  "I have been following this case of the woman who murdered her children. I do not understand these people who say she was not responsible for her actions. I was watching the Off the Hook Show the other night when the defense attorney, I believe her name was Lewis, was interviewed, and that's what she says. Did you see the show?"

  "I saw some of it," Karp acknowledged.

  In fact, he'd watched because it might give him an indication of Lewis's strategy at trial. The trial judge, Timothy Dermondy, had imposed a gag order, meaning neither side was supposed to discuss details of the case with the media, but Lewis had simply ignored it. Nothing unusual about that, but Karp had not expected Lewis to point at Charlie Campbell, who was also a guest, and blame him for the deaths of the children and her client's mental deterioration.

  "If anybody should have been charged in this case, it is the man sitting right there," Lewis said as Campbell's mouth dropped open. He looked to someone off-screen in a silent but easily understood cry for help.

  "What do you mean?" Barry Queen, the host of the show, asked.

  Karp realized right away that it was a setup. He knew she was going to make the accusation before she did it. Better step out of the batter's box, Charlie, they're about to throw one high and tight.... A little chin music, he thought.

  "What I mean is that shortly after the birth of their second child, Jessica Campbell considered killing her child and herself."

  Queen looked shocked. "I don't understand."

  "As a result, the Campbells consulted a psychiatrist."

  "Any particular reason?"

  There's the setup pitch, Karp thought.

  "I really must protest," Charlie stammered. "This was a family matter, and I'd appreciate it if you'd respect our privacy."

  Steeee-rike One!

  "I'm sure you would, Mr. Campbell, but I don't represent you," Lewis spat. "We have the sworn deposition of Dr. Harry Winkler, one of the most respected experts in postpartum depression in the world, who at that time diagnosed my client with severe postpartum depression. I will leave the details for the trial, but the long and short of it is that Dr. Winkler strongly advised the Campbells against having more children, as the condition could be expected to worsen after each childbirth. Charlie Campbell, in particular, was warned that another pregnancy posed a great risk to Jessica and the children."

  "This really is a mischaracterization of the truth ..." Charlie squeaked, trying to recall some verbiage from his unused law degree.

  Steeee-rike Two!

  "Hardly," Lewis sneered. "But like I said, this will all come out at trial. I don't want to taint the jury pool by arguing the evidence on television." Like hell you don't, Karp scoffed.

  "However, we'll be able to prove that Charlie Campbell, despite this dire warning, insisted that Jessica bear a third child. He wanted a boy in order to further his political career."

  "Are you saying ...?" Queen ventured.

  "... that he used his penis as a weapon that destroyed the mental health of Jessica Campbell until she actually believed that God was ordering her to kill their three children to save their souls.... In the state she was in, impregnating her was no different from putting a gun in her hands and telling her to pull the trigger."

  Of course, the network had bleeped the word "penis," but the whole television world knew what she had said. The camera panned back so that it now included Charlie Campbell, who sat staring straight ahead, blinking like a windshield wiper set on intermittent.

  "So, Mr. Campbell, pretty heavy stuff. Do you have any comment?" Queen asked.

  Blink. Blink. Blink.

  At home in front of the television, Karp had to laugh. Oooooh, beaned him with a pitch! He's out cold. Would somebody please pinch-run for Mr. Campbell!

  "So that's what I meant," Lewis said, as if she'd merely been answering an innocent question, "when I said that if the district attorney of New York wants to prosecute somebody for the deaths of the Campbell children, it should be the one who couldn't keep his BLEEP in his pants."

  "Well, that's about all the time we have tonight. I'd like to thank my guests Linda Lewis and Charlie Campbell..." The lawyer dipped her head a smidge. Charlie's lower lip quivered; it appeared he might cry as soon as the camera went black.

  Karp shed no tears for Charlie Campbell. But he'd picked up a few useful hints about Lewis's approach to the insanity defense.

  Kenny Katz had also seen the show and called him at home. To counter the defense's psychiatric testimony, he wanted to bring in a psychiatrist he'd found who thought the whole "postpartum depression syndrome" was a bunch of bullshit.

  "We're not going to need him," Karp responded.

  "But they're going to be piling it on with this Winkler and that other shrink, Nickles," the younger man complained. "They'll spend hours telling the jury the same psychobabble."

  "Let 'em. We'll counter with the facts."

  "But we need someone who can speak the language and cut through the crap," Kenny contended.

  "We don't if we don't get into it," Karp replied and left it at that.

  It's driving Katz batty, Karp thought as he and Sobelman reached 14th Street, where the old man pulled up and said that he needed to get back to Goldie.

  "So do you think Mrs. Campbell should be prosecuted for a crime?" Sobelman looked troubled. "I'm not an expert on law. I suppose anyone who would murder another human being is crazy. But if I understand correctly, the legal issue is whether she knew what she was doing was wrong?

  And do we differentiate between murder committed in a fit of rage, or for money, or because a person was told to kill by someone in a position of authority?"

  "What if that someone was God or if they believed it to be God?" Karp asked.

  Sobelman scoffed and brushed away the idea with a wave of his hand. "That's right. Blame it on God.... God is on their side ... God told them to commit murder in His name.... God hates non-believers and Jews and innocent children and wants them all dead. Can't people hear the voice of Evil and understand it's not God's fault?"

  The little baker shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Karp, I've had quite enough of human beings blaming their own evil behavior on 'higher authorities,' whether it's God, or the Führer, or Osama bin Laden. We are each responsible for our actions. We can refuse to do evil in some other name, or we are just as guilty. Unless we are so incapable of reasoning that we are no more than a beast in the fields that does not know that killing the farmer's sheep is wrong, then we are responsible. And those of us who watch the slaughter are just as guilty if we do nothing to make them accountable."

  "We are each guilty of the good we did not do," Karp said, recalling a similar conversation with his daughter.

  "Voltaire," said Sobelman. He held out his hand to s
ay goodbye, exposing the old tattoo on his forearm. He noticed Karp's eyes drift to the mark. "Do you know where your family came from ... in the old country?" he asked Karp.

  Karp nodded. "Yes, Poland."

  "Indeed, and have you ever heard of a place called Sobibor?"

  "It sounds familiar," Karp replied, "but I couldn't tell you why."

  "Perhaps, then, someday I will tell you why you should know the name," Sobelman said. "But it is a long story, and I've already disturbed the Sabbath."

  "No, not at all," Karp replied. "You are kind and too generous. Please, give my thanks again to Goldie. We'll have to have you to our home when this trial is over."

  "We'd enjoy that," Sobelman said. "Now, my bride awaits and I must be off."

  Karp turned for his own home and, he hoped, his bride. He was disappointed that neither she nor the twins were home, the latter mostly because he wanted their help with the Internet.

  An admitted computer caveman, and somewhat proud of the distinction, he at last located a search engine and looked up Sobibor. After reading for an hour, he glanced at the clock. He wanted to call Moishe Sobelman but knew he would not pick up the phone on the Sabbath until after sundown.

  So he occupied his time feeding Gilgamesh and then took the dog out for another walk around the block. They got back as the sun was setting, so he placed his call.

  "Shalom," Moishe Sobelman answered.

  "Shalom," Karp replied. "This is Butch Karp. I just wanted to thank you again for today."

  "We both enjoyed it. And I hope it won't be so long before our next meeting."

  "Actually, that was another reason I called," Karp said. "I spent a little time when I got home researching Sobibor." There was silence on the other end as the baker waited for him to go on. "I think this is a story that my bar mitzvah class should hear and, if it's not too much trouble, I was going to ask if you'd be willing to discuss it with them."

  "It is not a pleasant story, Butch. I cannot tell it without expressing the horror of that time. Their parents will complain that I've given their children nightmares."

  "I'll make sure their parents are present," Karp replied. "And if they should have trouble sleeping, it's better than ignorance, especially after what happened in July."

  "Then let me know the time, and I will be there."

  Karp had barely hung up when the telephone rang. The Caller ID indicated it was from Marlene's cell phone. "Hi babe."

  "Well, hey good-looking," answered a male voice.

  "Oh, uh, hey Jack," Karp laughed. "What have you done with my wife?"

  "That's for me to know and you to never find out," Swanburg replied.

  "Uh-oh, now I'm sure she's been ruined for any other man," Karp said. "But the kids still need her so if you could send her home when you're through with her, we'd all appreciate it."

  "No problem. 'Old love 'em and leave 'em Swanburg' can't be tied down to any one woman, no matter how good looking. And besides, my wife would cut my heart out with a spoon if she found out."

  "Ouch. Now that we've settled that, was there a reason you stole my wife's phone and called me?"

  "Oh, yeah, that. We thought you might like to know that we found the Volvo station wagon. Marlene's down at the river while they haul it out. She asked me to give you a call."

  "That's great news!" Karp exclaimed. "How'd you do it?"

  "As the Great Detective would say, it was elementary."

  17

  Earlier that morning, Marlene had gazed appreciatively at the forests of elm, beech, spruce, and oak trees that lined both sides of the Taconic State Parkway. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

  "'Tis indeed," remarked Swanburg, who sat in the passenger seat next to her.

  Her other passenger, the forensic anthropologist Charlotte Gates, who was riding in the club cab of her truck, didn't answer.

  They'd taken Cross Bronx Expressway out of Manhattan and merged onto Interstate 95 heading north. Their destination was a small hamlet on the Hudson River called Staatsburg, based on what some people might have called an educated guess, and others pure deductive logic. It didn't matter so long as they located the Campbell family's station wagon and its tragic crew of three small bodies.

  Gates had fallen silent by the time they hit the Major Deegan Expressway and stayed quiet when they turned onto the parkway. Marlene thought she might have been sleeping, but when she looked in the mirror she saw that Gates was staring out the window. It has to be tough on her, Marlene thought. She's the one who has the most contact with the dead.

  In front of her, Fulton drove the DAO Lincoln with Kenny Katz and Detective Marj Cobing on board. Behind her was an NYPD van marked "NYPD Dive Team," towing a rubber-pontoon Zodiac. Inside the van were four members of the dive team and geologist James Reedy, who was explaining how they were going to go about locating a small car in a big, muddy river.

  After the meeting with the 221b Baker Street Irregulars, the next step had been for Detective Cobing to speak to Jessica Campbell's parents at their loft in SoHo. Although gracious enough on the telephone when the detective called to arrange an interview, Liza Gupperstein had been hostile when Cobing arrived.

  "Why should we talk to you?" she said after inviting Cobing into her living room. "Our daughter is sick and needs help. But that Nazi Karp wants to put her in prison. Can't he see that she's already suffered enough?"

  "I avoided saying what I was thinking—that those three children had suffered worse," Cobing told the search team that morning. "Instead, I told her, 'Look, I know you're hurting. And I understand where you're coming from. I have a child myself, and I'd do anything to protect her. But I don't make the decisions on whether to prosecute someone or not. I just try to gather all the facts I can, and then give them to the district attorney, who makes the decision on how to handle the case.'"

  "That still doesn't give us a reason to talk to you," Liza had told her. "Then she started crying," Cobing recalled. "So I said, 'Look, I don't need you to talk about Jessica. What I'm trying to do now is find your grandchildren. We know they're dead; it's time to bring their bodies home and put them to rest.'"

  "A stranger could have taken them," Liza had blurted out. "One of Charlie's political enemies ... or one of these right-wing nuts who doesn't like Jessica's politics. He could be holding them for ransom, or ..."

  "I didn't know how to respond," Cobing said. "She just wasn't dealing with reality. But her husband touched her arm, real gentle like, and told her, 'Please, Liza, enough. We have to face this.' Then his voice cracked and he said, 'The babies are gone. And the cold, hard truth is that our daughter, their mother, took their lives.'"

  Ben Gupperstein had turned back to the detective. "Ask your questions," he'd said. "We will say nothing that might help the DA send our daughter to prison, but we want our grandchildren—their bodies— returned to us. They deserve a decent burial in a place where the people who loved them can mourn properly."

  Cobing wiped at her eyes. "I tell you, that was as tough an interview as I've ever done, emotionally speaking. I kept looking at my notebook, but I was on the verge of tears myself. Finally, I asked him if there was any place in particular where the family had gone when Jessica was a child—someplace she would have been happy and would feel comfortable. Near a large body of water."

  Benjamin Gupperstein mentioned a beach house they'd once owned on Long Island when their kids were young. But Liza interrupted him. "She loved our little summer cottage on the Hudson River near Staatsburg, just north of Hyde Park," she had said.

  "That's right," Benjamin had agreed. "It's about a hundred miles north of here. We'd canoe and picnic in the summers. And sometimes we'd even head up in the winter to go sledding on a big hill in Mills Memorial State Park."

  "Jessica never wanted to come back to the city," Liza added. "She would have stayed there, and that's really why she attended Vassar College in Poughkeepsie for her bachelor's degree."

  After her interview, Cobing called Swanburg, and they'd a
greed that Staatsburg was their best shot. It was in range; the railroad ran right through town; and the killer was familiar with the territory and felt comfortable there.

  Marlene had followed Fulton when he turned off the Taconic State Parkway onto New York Highway 9-G and from there to North Cross Road into Staatsburg. The trip had taken a little more than two hours.

  The convoy met up with Sgt. Larry Washington of the Duchess County Sheriff's Office at Mills Mansion State Park. The search team and police officers congregated around Washington's car, where he had a large map laid out on the hood.

  As arranged, Washington, a large black man with salt-and-pepper hair and a belly that hung over his belt, brought detailed U.S. Geological Survey maps that showed the Hudson River and east shoreline. He pointed out the park where they were meeting and then to a road. "This is Highway 9, better known around here as the Albany Post Road, which was originally constructed a couple hundred years ago to connect New York City to Albany in order to deliver the mail, or 'post.' As you can see, it goes right through town and pretty much parallels the river." He pointed to another line on the map that ran along the bank. "That's the Hudson River Railroad, serves Amtrak and commuter trains."

  Washington turned to Reedy, who'd been introduced as the Irregular who would do the searching with the dive team. "If I understood the two detectives correctly, you're interested in places where your suspect could have run her car into the river in the middle of the day and then hopped the train back to the city." He cocked his head and waited for someone to tell him differently.

  When no one did, he shrugged. "I think that rules out the park itself. Although it's pretty damn big and there's access to the river, including boat ramps and such, it's a busy place, and chances of someone noticing a car go into the river would have been pretty high. But as you can see from the map, there are any number of small roads—some of them paved, others just a couple of ruts through the underbrush—leading to the river. The foliage is dense along the Hudson, and some of the boat ramps are secluded and hidden, unless you're actually out on the water looking toward shore. There are a few places somebody could roll a car into the river without being seen and still easily walk back to Staatsburg to catch the train."