Consulting Detective Page 3

  “May I ask about your relationship with him?” Mihdí asked softly.

  “Well, we’d only known each other since he arrived in the spring, but we had become a couple. We had even been talking about marriage.”

  Mihdí paused a moment, then said, “I believe I heard that you had been engaged to someone else and had broken that off recently . . .”

  Tammy looked uncomfortable. “That’s basically true. A few months after Jacob moved here, I started to realize that the guy I was engaged to was not such a good match. I had felt a spark with Jacob, and I wanted to be free to pursue a relationship with him if he was interested. Jacob told me later that he had felt the same kind of spark but had kept a bit of distance out of respect for my commitment to Scott.”

  “Scott?” Mihdí questioned.

  “That’s right, Scott Craig. That’s my ex’s name.”

  “He’s also a member of the congregation, is that right?”

  “Yes, he is. He and I have known each other since we were quite young.”

  “When you broke up with him, how did Scott take the news?”

  Tammy looked down and answered quietly, “Well, he wasn’t happy about it. I think we had both assumed for years that we’d end up together. This was a bit of an upset to both our life plans.”

  “Did he appear to hold a grudge against Rabbi Klemme for stealing you away?”

  Tammy gave Mihdí a quick glance and shook her head nervously. “Oh, no, he would never do anything like that.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mr. Craig?” Mihdí asked.

  She looked down at her hands. “I see him at services sometimes. I wasn’t there last Saturday, but it might have been the week before.”

  “Have you talked to him since then?”

  Tammy shook her head but didn’t say anything.

  Mihdí gave her a little time, but she didn’t elaborate.

  “When was the last time you saw or spoke to Jacob?” he asked.

  “He had dinner here with me on Monday,” she said. “We may have spoken on the phone on Tuesday, but it was nothing significant—I don’t remember a call. That could only have been in the morning if we did talk, because I was in meetings at work from noon until quitting time.” She looked as if she might start crying again.

  Mihdí smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you very much for your time, Miss Ornstein. I want to say again how sorry I am for your loss.” He handed her his card and said, “If you think of anything else that you think I might want to know, here is my number. I can see myself out.”

  That evening after dinner, Mihdí and Enoch got in the car and drove over to Carl Sapp’s house. Enoch hung back a bit as Mihdí rang the doorbell.

  Mr. Sapp looked curious as to why an unknown black man stood on his porch, but he opened the door and asked what Mihdí wanted.

  “This is Enoch Montgomery, Mr. Sapp, and I’m his dad. May we come in?”

  Sapp nodded in recognition of the names and invited them both in. “Beer?” he offered to Mihdí.

  “No thanks, I don’t drink.”

  “How about a Coke or a Sprite, then?”

  “Sprite would be great.”

  Mr. Sapp turned to Enoch. “Coke or Sprite for you, son?”

  Enoch turned to his father, who nodded his approval. “Yes, please, sir, a Sprite,” Enoch said.

  Rick Sapp was a bit shorter than Mihdí, but he was very solid looking and probably outweighed Mihdí by ten or twenty pounds, just from the density of muscle. Mihdí thought that Sapp was probably a bit younger than himself—probably right around forty. He wore navy sweatpants and a gray t-shirt with a Chicago Bears logo on it. He looked like he had some kind of exercise regime, as he showed no sign of a gut and moved gracefully when he walked.

  When Mr. Sapp returned with the sodas, Mihdí took a drink, then opened the conversation.

  “Mr. Sapp . . .” he began.

  Sapp interrupted, “Please call me Rick.”

  Mihdí replied, “And I’m Mihdí.”

  Rick’s face showed confusion, and he turned one ear toward Mihdí. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “That’s understandable,” Mihdí replied. “It’s certainly not a common one around here. It’s Mihdí, spelled M-I-H-D-I, but you can pronounce it pretty much as if it were M-E-H-D-I. The ‘h’ doesn’t really sound like a ‘k,’ but it’s aspirated, a bit like the German ‘ch.’”

  “Mech-di,” Rick attempted, with a bit more German “ch” than was called for.

  “Close enough,” said Mihdí and they both laughed. “Rick, I understand our boys got into a little fight today. I don’t care what it was about; I think Enoch owes Carl an apology.”

  “And vice versa, I’d say. Let me call Carl.” He called upstairs, “Carl, can you come down for a minute?”

  Carl had apparently been eavesdropping at the top of the stairs because he appeared almost instantly when he was called.

  Enoch got up and walked over to Carl as he came down the stairs into the living room. “I’m sorry that I hit you, Carl. I hope you’re okay.”

  Carl said, “Yeah, I’m alright. I’m sorry I hit you, too.”

  They both stood there looking at each other for a minute, then Carl turned to his dad and said, “Dad, can he come up to my room?”

  “Of course,” his father replied.

  Carl turned back to Enoch. “I’ve got some candy left over from Halloween up in my room. Wanna come up?”

  Enoch nodded, and the two seven-year-olds flew up the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

  “I’m glad that worked out so easily,” Mihdí said. “I think it’s always a good idea to make up as soon as possible so little incidents don’t get blown out of proportion.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Rick replied. “I never even thought of it myself, but it sure looks like it worked out.”

  The two men sipped their sodas for a moment, then Rick said, “I couldn’t get into school today on account of working, but the principal called me when I got home to tell me what the whole thing was about. I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy.”

  “Dr. Chernievski didn’t think it would have come from you, from the conversations she’s had with you.”

  “Most likely came from his brother, Andy. He seems to have gotten hooked up with some kind of bad crowd—skinheads, practically.”

  “Really? Here in town?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Andy’s seventeen, and he won’t talk about it with me. I just saw some literature in his room, and I’ve overheard bits of a few phone conversations. I didn’t know he’d been sharing it with Carl.”

  Mihdí shook his head sympathetically. “If there’s anything I can do, please feel free to contact me. I know that must be somewhat scary.”

  Rick didn’t reply and just sat thoughtfully for a short while. “Are you a sports fan, Mr. Montgomery?”

  “Please, call me Mihdí. And I have to admit I’m not much of a fan. I see you’ve got some Bears stuff up on the wall. What do you think of their chances this year?”

  That was enough to get Sapp talking, so they discussed football for a few more minutes while they finished their sodas, then Mihdí arose. “I think I’d better get Enoch home. He’ll need to unwind a bit before he’ll be able to sleep tonight. But I think he has a new friend.”

  “I hope so,” said Mr. Sapp.

  Thursday, Day 2

  The next morning, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It felt at least ten degrees cooler, and there was rain in the forecast for the afternoon. Mihdí dropped Enoch off at school and Lua at her day care, then he went to his office, where he entered his notes from the previous day into the computer.

  He checked in with his boss, Captain Sterling, to fill him in on his talk with Rick Sapp. Sterling was sixty and, as a thirty-nine-year veteran of the force, was in his last year before a planned retirement. He was white, with thick silver hair and dark plastic-rimmed glasses. He wore a small hearing aid i
n his left ear as a result of being too close to a gunshot when he was relatively new to the police. His formerly athletic physique was no longer so impressive because he had put on a few pounds around his midsection, and the extra weight was showing in his clean-shaven face as well. Even though he was nearing retirement, Captain Sterling was still very focused and involved with the work of his detectives.

  Mihdí filled the captain in on what he had learned about Andy Sapp. Although Mihdí didn’t know which group Andy had gotten mixed up with, it seemed a reasonable possibility that there was some connection to the case. The captain agreed and suggested that Mihdí check with the department’s expert on gangs and juvenile crime when he got a chance. Sterling also agreed with Mihdí’s idea that the Captain of Patrol be asked to send additional patrol cars up and down the street where Andy Sapp lived. Both the detective and the captain thought it wouldn’t hurt to pay closer attention to his activities. They thought the increased police presence might even convince the boy to rethink his association with his racist friends.

  After returning to his office, Mihdí dialed another friend, Raymond Engel, a member of a Jewish congregation in a nearby suburb.

  “Ray, I’d like to pick your brain if I could,” Mihdí said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “No problem, Mihdí. What’s up?”

  “I imagine you know that I’m working on the Klemme murder case.”

  “Yes, I’d heard. I always say there’s telegraph and telephone, but neither one is as fast as tell-a-Jew.”

  Mihdí chuckled. “I’m just wondering if you have any ideas about the case: anybody who might want the rabbi dead, any infighting in the congregation or anything like that.”

  “So, it’s not as clear-cut as it appears? I thought it was just vandalism gone bad. That’s certainly what the paper implied.”

  “That’s the obvious conclusion, and I don’t have much to go on to tell me that it’s wrong, but I can’t just jump to a conclusion without investigating, I guess.”

  “Well, there’s always politics in a Jewish congregation, so there’s always factions and conflicts and such. But I don’t know of anything out of the ordinary at Beth Shalom. Pretty much the same folks have been arguing there for thirty years. I don’t think they’d come to blows, let alone to murder.

  “They did have one big issue there last year,” continued Engel. “After Rabbi Horwitz retired to Phoenix, some members of the congregation were interested in selling the building and moving the synagogue out closer to the country club rather than in the downtown area. They’re an old congregation. And I don’t mean old just in the sense that the congregation has been in the city forever. The members are old, too. The average age there must be well into the sixties, maybe even into the seventies. The old members keep coming, but the younger folks either don’t go to Temple, or they prefer to attend one closer to their homes. I think Sam Schliebaum’s the current president— he must be almost eighty-five by now, and he’s not doing all that well.”

  “He complained about his memory when I met with him yesterday,” Mihdí offered.

  “No doubt. And they still think he’s the best one to be elected to lead the congregation. That says something in itself, I’d say.”

  “Why didn’t they sell last year?”

  “There was the selling faction, but there was another group, led by Schliebaum, that wanted to try to revitalize the congregation. They thought that if they got a fresh, young rabbi, he might attract some of the younger Jews back to Beth Shalom. It was a pretty close vote, I understand, but Schliebaum won. They went out looking and hired Jacob Klemme as soon as they found him.”

  “How was it working out?”

  “From all I hear, it was working out just the way Schliebaum hoped it would,” Ray told him. “Rabbi Klemme was really good with the older folks in the congregation, but he was best when he was working with younger people. He wasn’t married, and the idea of marrying a rabbi still appeals to some of the young ladies. But he was great with couples, too. My temple has lost a few young families to Beth Shalom. They had roots there, but they had been attending Beth Elohim lately. I wonder if they’ll keep going now that Rabbi Klemme is dead.”

  “That’s very interesting information, Ray. Thanks for sharing it.”

  “My pleasure. Say, why don’t we get together for lunch sometime soon?”

  “That sounds nice,” Mihdí replied. “I’ll call you after Thanksgiving to set something up.”

  “Till then. Bye.”

  Since Mihdí was in the office, he took the opportunity to talk to Lieutenant Darla Brownlee, the department’s expert on gang and juvenile activity. He found her in her office. She was dressed in a dark blue suit with a white blouse and was wearing small diamond studs in her pierced ears. She had a scarf tied over her voluminous hair. Her skin was a medium brown, almost mocha, and her nails were immaculately painted with miniature cornucopias for November. She wore a dark lipstick that complemented her skin tone. Her eyes, heavily made up with mascara, liner, and shadow, were fixed on Mihdí as he talked, apparently trying to extract as much information as possible from each word.

  Mihdí greatly respected Darla Brownlee, who was comfortable with her lieutenant’s rank but didn’t let it stop her from being friendly with officers of all grades. He knew she spent some of her off hours working with disadvantaged kids in south Chicago.

  He conveyed briefly to her the information he had heard from Rick Sapp about the people Sapp’s son, Andy, was involved with. Brownlee listened carefully, asking questions as Mihdí laid everything out. Unfortunately, Mihdí did not know the answers to many of them.

  “They could be skinheads,” Brownlee said when he had finished, “but there’s not much here to go on. There’s at least one known skinhead sympathizer in town, a guy who’s gotten some police attention in the past. In fact, we checked him out maybe five or six months ago after the last incident of vandalism at the synagogue. He had a solid alibi, so it didn’t go anywhere.”

  Mihdí asked, “Is there evidence that there’s an active group in town or nearby?”

  “There’s some evidence,” the lieutenant told him, “but we don’t have anything solid. There have been some other incidents of vandalism, but nothing serious. Certainly nothing like a murder.”

  She showed him a file she had been collecting on the local guy and on the national group with whom she believed he was associating. It was a fairly thin file. Mihdí noticed a crudely done flyer with some racist ranting, but there was nothing specifically anti-Semitic in it. He also saw a photo of the guy, whose name was Brent Wiegand. His head was shaved, and he had tattoos on his neck, face, and arms as well as some piercings.

  “Hardly indistinguishable from any number of high school students around here,” remarked Mihdí.

  Brownlee nodded her agreement. “This is probably a red herring in your case,” she said. “There’s not enough evidence to even suggest their interest, let alone their involvement.”

  “I think I agree,” said Montgomery, “but I’ve asked for some extra patrol cars to drive past Andy Sapp’s house now and then, just to put them on notice. Perhaps they can swing by this Wiegand’s place now and then, too.”

  “I’d say that much is justified,” Brownlee agreed.

  Mihdí thought it was a good idea to talk to Sam Schliebaum again, so he dialed his home number. His wife answered and said that he was at the synagogue. Mihdí hopped into his Mini and drove there. The police tape had all been removed. Mihdí tried the door and found that it was unlocked, so he went on inside. He entered the sanctuary quietly and saw the congregation president in a pew near the front, apparently absorbed in prayer or reflection.

  “Wouldn’t hurt me to say a prayer or two as well,” thought Mihdí. He slipped into a pew at the back on the far side from the door and began silently repeating over and over a Bahá’í prayer revealed by the Báb: “Is there any Remover of difficulties save God? Say: Praised be God! He is God! All are His serva
nts, and all abide by His bidding!”

  Mihdí had found this practice very helpful in the past. He focused on the prayer, letting the words flow through him and fill his mind. As with any form of meditation, it sometimes washed away distractions that might be obstructing his thoughts, giving him an opportunity to start fresh. With his conscious thought occupied, his subconscious could sometimes reorder the facts of a case and reveal them in a slightly different light.

  Both of the men were still praying when another man entered the sanctuary. Mihdí could not come up with the man’s name, although he looked familiar. The man spotted Sam Schliebaum and called to him as he walked up to the front of the sanctuary, apparently unaware of Mihdí’s presence. “You can stop praying now, Sam. Our prayers have already been answered.”

  “What do you mean, Abe?” the congregation president asked as he got to his feet. “Exactly which prayer has been answered?”

  “Charlie Richardson still wants to buy the building,” the man replied. “He said his offer from last year still stands. That should be enough to allow us to build elsewhere.”

  Mihdí saw Schliebaum’s scowl and thought he ought to make his presence known before the two of them got into it. He got up noisily and the others turned to look at him.

  “Didn’t know you were here, Detective,” Schliebaum said.

  “You seemed to be praying when I came in, so I thought I’d just do a little of that myself. So, the congregation is planning to sell, eh?”

  “We should have done it last year,” the new man said. “Rabbi Klemme’s death looks to me like a clear sign that it’s time to move out of this area.”

  “Do you know Abe Cohen, the treasurer of our congregation?” Sam Schliebaum asked Mihdí.

  Mihdí shook hands with Cohen, who looked to be not young, but younger than Schliebaum, probably in his seventies. He wore a lightweight argyle sweater over a golf shirt with a yellow collar. While Schliebaum was short, Cohen was tall. Schliebaum had thinning white hair, while Cohen was almost completely bald. Schliebaum was somewhat frail with the skinny limbs and face of age, but Cohen still had a distinctly athletic tone to his body, with muscular arms under his sweater.