The Good Rabbi-A Murder Mystery
Part One
The rabbi wrote neatly. It was something he'd been chided for in high
school, the boys suspicious that his handwriting was too perfect to be a
boy's, the girls, wary of him, thinking he might be some kind of spy. He
ignored their ridicule and worked diligently at his desk, the act of
writing sometimes overshadowing his subject. Lee's strategy at Vicksburg or
Holden Caulfield's neurosis were secondary to the thrill of shaping the
letters, controlling their symmetry, aligning the apex of their curves to
imaginary ceilings, sending each small "p" and "g" diving below the surface
at exactly the same depth. And his sentences lined up on the page with the
precision of a well-drilled marching band.
The rabbi was writing to a member of his congregation that afternoon. He
was known for these letters and took great pride in them. His thoughts and
advice. No--his counsel. The rabbi sat in his office in his distinctive bow
tie and v-neck sweater and assiduously composed letters in response to the
troubles and concerns his congregants brought to him. He listened, asked
questions, and then bid them take their leave, disconcerting those who,
like at the deli counter, required that their needs be instantly met. But
they were used to it now, waiting patiently for him to compose his thoughts
and the few extra days it took for them to arrive in the mail. He'd been
told that even before reading his letters, the mere act of gazing on his
handwriting, of taking in the exquisitely shaped letters, instantly began
to calm whatever trouble was in their soul. The rabbi took this as a
compliment.
His inspiration for the letters came from the Book of Job. After God dumped
his slop bucket of pain and torment on him, Job sat silently for seven days
with his friends. And they sat with him on the ground for seven days and
seven nights, and no one spoke a word.... What did he do in those seven
days but organize his thoughts. And in the ensuing argument, Job is the
more rational. It's God who seems improvising like a second-rate comic--who
speaks from anger, who sounds wounded. The rabbi sought to emulate Job's
patience. If Job could wait in pain to answer, his body a moonscape of
sores and boils, then the rabbi, sitting behind his grand oak desk in his
plush leather chair, could certainly do the same.
Sometimes he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining his letters
collected in a large volume. He saw people reading it just before bed,
placing it on their night stand, turning out the light, their last thoughts
before sleep being--how wise.
He already had a book proposal of letters he'd written to his daughter,
addressing the many challenges and anxieties she would face growing up.
They were filled with wisdom and humor, though one editor suggested that it
might help if his humor were actually humorous. His daughter was only six
now. In a few more years he would let her read the letters, unless they
were accepted by a publisher sooner than that.
He was finishing up a letter now to Mrs. Zipkin, who spoke to him yesterday
at length about her fears that her daughter might be a lesbian. He
remembered the girl from Confirmation class. She didn't seem lesbianesque
then, but the rabbi had to admit that if she wasn't in the act of
passionately kissing another woman, he wasn't sure exactly what a lesbian
looked like.
Lesbian is as lesbian does, the rabbi wrote to Mrs. Zipkin. You mustn't
allow this to influence the love you have for your daughter. The barest
seedling of an idea, but his weight as rabbi would, like Jack's magic
beans, make it grow into a giant stalk of insight in Mrs. Zipkin's mind. I
confess, Mrs. Zipkin, I would have just as hard a time imagining my
daughter having sex with a man as I would with a woman. He wondered if he
was revealing too much, but he was approaching the end of this letter and,
as he had three more to work on before leaving the office for the day, he
blanched at the thought of starting over. Her happiness is your primary
concern, Mrs. Zipkin. Put aside your expectations and embrace hers. But
invite her back to temple with you. These days, I believe a strong
spiritual foundation takes precedent over one's sexual preference. It was
not one of his most inspired efforts, like his poetic thoughts to grieving
widows or the sage counseling he passed on to troubled couples. Fastballs
of grief and angst he hit over the fence. It was the existential curves,
like those thrown by Mrs. Zipkin, that he grounded weakly back to the
pitcher. He might leave this one out of the collected works.
His phone rang. The intercom. His secretary spoke.
"Fred Siegel is here," she said.
"Yes."
"He doesn't have an appointment, but he says he's very distressed. He
says... wait...."
And then the rabbi heard what must have been Fred's voice both in the
background on the phone and, at the same time, through the door, which gave
the rabbi the eerie feeling that Fred was in two places at once.
"It's a matter of life and death," Fred said.
The rabbi had never actually heard anyone utter that phrase. It sent a tiny
shudder through him, and at the same time he felt excited.
"Show him in," the rabbi said.
Though he didn't remember speaking to Fred before, he recognized him at
once. He owned a fancy wine and liquor store in town which did quite well.
Fred himself was an unassuming man, handsome in a gruff kind of way,
well-dressed, his blazer cut smartly and his pants of a thick, textured
wool. His hands were clean, his nails polished. Fred didn't seem overly
distressed. His firm handshake did not belie any nervousness.
"Sit down, please," the rabbi said.
Fred sat, not sinking back into the chair, but not sitting on the edge of
it either. He was a tough one to read.
"You enjoyed that Chablis, rabbi?" Fred asked in a calm voice, referring to
a kosher wine from a small French vineyard he had suggested the rabbi try.
"It was quite nice," the rabbi replied. He had later ordered a case.
"That's good."
Fred folded his hands in his lap and sat silently. He seemed in no
particular rush. What happened to the matter of life and death, the rabbi
thought.
"Working on one of your letters?" Fred asked, casually eyeing the paper on
the rabbi's desk.
"Yes, in fact." He casually turned the letter over; not that Fred could see
from where he was, but he had to protect it. He nervously adjusted his bow
tie.
"You said it was urgent, your needing to see me."
"Life and death, rabbi," Fred said.
"Tell me what's on your mind." After a steady dose of marriages in free
fall, of bar mitzvah consultations, of meetings with prospective brides and
grooms who were more likely to inquire about a good florist than what
psalms to read at the ceremony, the rabbi was keenly curious about what
Fred had to say. Here was something that piqued his curiosity, that exuded
a bit of danger. After all, the rabbi was only human.
"Everything's confidential here," Fred said, gesturing to the letter.
"Isn't that right, rabbi?"
"Yes," the rabbi said, leaning forward, sensing it was about to start.
"So anything I say to you will not leave this room."
"Absolutely."
"Good."
"Life and death, you said."
"Yes, rabbi, I did," Fred said. "And I'll get right to the point. I very
much want to kill someone."
"Oh."
The rabbi froze. He wants to kill, he thought. He'd never dealt with
anything like this before.
"You mean," the rabbi said, "that you're very angry with someone and
you...I mean...you want to kill them rhetorically. In a manner of
speaking."
"No, I want to kill them in a manner of strangling, rabbi. In a manner so
their eyeballs pop out of their pissant head. I want to kill them so they
are aware, in the entire last minute of their life, that they are about to
die and that they can do nothing about it. I want them to feel helpless.
Above all, that's what I want."
"You're serious," the rabbi said.
"Definitely."
"Dead serious."
Fred flashed with anger.
"Is that supposed to be a joke?"
And suddenly the rabbi saw how broad Fred's chest was, and that the wine
merchant's shoulders were quite wide, and that his hands, on which he'd
earlier noticed only the manicured nails, now seemed terribly thick and
strong, used to lifting large cases of liquor. The rabbi swallowed hard.
Someone in his congregation had murder in his heart, he thought, and he had
come to him, in a way, to confess, to ask for help. And the rabbi thought
that he had to say something because he sensed from Fred that this murder
was imminent. He had to say something now.
* *
*
"You didn't eat, honey," his wife said after dinner. "If it wasn't kugel, I
might not have noticed. But you always eat your kugel."
All through dinner he'd been preoccupied with his pitiful performance that
afternoon--his hands fluttering around his desk, stuttering, his words and
thoughts half-formed, convoluted, sounding like George Bush, sounding like
a teenager, while Fred sat calmly in his seat. Then Fred asked him
directly, Rabbi, what should I do? and all he could come up with was a few
generic answers--Fred should see a therapist; try talking to the person he
was so angry with; pray. Or you could write them a letter. It sounded like
another joke.
He needed time to consult his texts, time to reason things through. But
Fred couldn't wait. It's all I think about, rabbi. It's like a cancer. The
rabbi wasn't used to this. He liked the mushy world of sorrow, where his
advice brought solace and eased pain. Fred was a time bomb ticking away.
Fred was May Day, May Day--We're Going Down!
He asked Fred what the man had done to him.
Who says it's a man?
All right, what did the person do to you?
I can't tell you.
Why?
Because you'll know who it is.
And then the rabbi would do what? Warn them? Drop a subtle hint? Call them
up and say lock your door. Why, rabbi? Never mind why! Do it! Get a
bodyguard. A gun.
Look! Look where this had led to. Now he was talking about guns. Besides,
he couldn't warn anyone. He was bound to silence. To Fred's silence. He was
practically an accomplice. They were handcuffed together. When Fred's hands
were around the man's throat the rabbi's would be there too. Moving in
unison, like old dancing partners.
Because you'll know who it is. In three more days the rabbi would stand in
front of his congregation leading Shabbat services and look out and
wonder--who is it that Fred has marked for death? Fred could be sitting
right next to them, looking on in their prayerbook, toasting them at the
kiddush, touching glasses--l'chaim--how ironic. And if they turned up dead
in their bed the next day, their eyes popping out of their head like Fred
said, how would he feel then?
He wanted to tell someone. He should tell someone. The police. But what
would he say?
A man came to me and said he wanted to kill someone.
Kill who, rabbi?
He didn't say.
Why?
He didn't say.
How?
Strangling. His hands around his throat.
Then it's a man he wants to kill.
Who said it's a man?
"Are you okay, daddy?"
It was his daughter, Abby, staring up at him with great consternation. He
was annoyed with himself for bringing such creases of worry to her young
brow.
"Yes, sweetie," he said. "I'm okay." But he was not okay. He was upset.
Fred had upset him.
"Then can I pull your tie?"
She started to move toward him, but his arm shot out and held her back.
"No," he said.
She started to whimper. All she had wanted was to pull the knot from his
bow tie, their special after-dinner ritual. It was supposed to be fun. His
wife came in from the kitchen.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Fred Siegel of Siegel's Wines and Liquors wants to strangle someone until
their eyes pop out of their head! That's what's wrong! This was what he
wanted to say. But he didn't. Instead he got up from the table.
"I have to make a phone call," he said. He gently stroked his daughter's
head. "I'm sorry, Abby."
He went into his study and closed the door. He called Fred Siegel at work,
but they said he'd gone home. He called there, but got an answering
machine. The rabbi left a message.
"Fred, I want you to come and see me again tomorrow," he said. "And
together we'll go to the police and talk to them. As your rabbi, this is
what I am strongly urgingyou to do." Then he added, "I have maintained
your confidentiality."
He hung up and instantly felt better. They were just words, after all. Fred
hadn't done anything yet. And while Spinoza might argue our thoughts and
our deeds are all extensions of God, there was still an empirical
difference. The desire is not the act. So he'd done the right thing. For
now.
He made up with Abby and read her a story. Later, when his wife tried to
find out what happened, he told her it was not as serious as he'd made out.
She seemed to believe him, though he was sure she had her doubts.
He went to sleep that night with a sense of accomplishment quite different
than usual. Though his initial response to Fred had been less than
stalwart, he was pleased with its resolution. He felt something new opening
up for him.
The next morning his wife greeted him at the breakfast table with an envelope.
"I found this at the front door," she said, "when Abby was going to the
school bus. It's addressed to you. I guess they left it last night."
The rabbi opened it up. Inside was a plain white piece of paper. In the
center were two handwritten words that had been cut out and pasted on. He
recognized the handwriting immediately. After all, it had been the same for
the last thirty years. Neat. Perfect. His own words, but in someone else's
voice--a dark, menacing voice.
The beautifully shaped letters read: IT'S YOU.
To be continued...
Bob Sloan
is the author of the detective novel Bliss, Dad's Own Cookbook,
A Stiff Drink and a Close Shave--The Lost Arts of Manliness,
and most recently, Dad Cooks Up a Party and HI-FIs and Hi-Balls--The Golden Age of the American Bachelor.
The Good Rabbi: Part II
What's going to happen next? Is the Good Rabbi's life in danger?
Why is Fred the wine merchant pouring out his wrath? And what will
the Good Rabbi do? Write a letter? Consult his texts? Strike back?
Tell us what you think in 200 words or less and
view the brainchilds of others.
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