Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

the kitchen counter,” I said to no one in particular. “It’s his.” I looked at the man on the hallway floor.

      The Caucasian officer left his partner standing over me and went into the kitchen. He came out ten seconds later, and spoke to his partner: “Just like the report. Body on the floor. Gunshot to the head.”

      The African American officer addressed me. “I’m Officer Williams. This is Officer Johns.” He nodded to his partner.

      “The Captain specifically asked me to tell you that you’re a pain in the ass.”

      “He’s only being complimentary because I’m still alive.”

      They both smiled.

      “And where are the homeowners, sir?” the Caucasian partner, Johns, asked.

      “Rabbi and Mrs. Mandel. Next door, getting their children situated. They’ll be back in a few minutes.”

      “Captain D’Allesandro asked us to get your statement,” Williams said. “Said it would be good practice since you’ll be telling it again to the detectives.”

      I nodded and recounted the events objectively, professionally, without embellishments. By the time I finished, there were more lights flashing through the windows, and Josh and Shelley had returned, still looking very shaken.

      Within minutes the Mandel household was filled with activity: cops everywhere, both uniform and plainclothes, as well as EMT’s, and forensic men and women. Josh and Shelley had parked themselves out of the way on a nearby staircase. They were huddled close to each other, with the action swirling around them in their own house.

      A few minutes later, as the medical people were examining Mazhur’s body on the floor, a man about fifty walked in. He was wearing a tan blazer over a navy polo shirt. He was about my height with receding close cut salt and pepper hair. It was actually hard to tell where his hair stopped and his scalp started, for his hair was cut nearly to the skin. He was followed by a thirty-something, well dressed man in a black sport coat, white shirt, gray pants, and a lavender tie.

      The two men took in the room, walked into the kitchen, then came out a few seconds later. The older man came over to me.

      “You couldn’t have shot him in the shoulder or arm?”

      “I was aiming for his leg,” I said to him from my chair.

      “Jesus, Gidon…”

      I stood up and held out my hand. Nate D’Allesandro took it and we pulled each other into a quick one armed hug.

      “And on Shabbat, too,” he continued. “No one has respect for anything anymore.”

      The younger man, the well dressed thirty-something, stepped closer.

      Nate asked: “Remember Matthew…Detective Medrano?”

      The younger detective stepped in and we shook hands. I nodded to him. “We met in my dojo.”

      Medrano nodded, then asked simply, “What happened?”

      I told them, and since I now had plenty of practice, the flow of events sounded even more straightforward than before. When I finished, Nate said to his junior, “Matthew, why don’t you take Mrs. Mandel into the dining room and talk to her. We’ll take the rabbi.”

      Medrano went over to the staircase where the Mandels were sitting and led them this way. He asked Shelley to go with him, leaving Josh with us.

      I did the introductions. “Josh, this is Captain D’Allesandro. He’s a friend.”

      They shook hands.

      Nate asked, “Is there a place where we can talk?”

      “My study?” He led us to a room off to the right of the main hallway. The study was about the size of the girls’ bedroom upstairs. Two walls had floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with Hebrew texts and reference books. I recognized several of the oversized volumes as a collection from a Talmud series. There was a desktop populated with papers, a laptop, and several framed pictures. Along the right wall was a small couch, and an armchair. I sat next to Josh on the couch and Nate took the armchair.

      “So,” Nate began, “question number one, do you have any idea who these guys are?”

      Josh shook his head. “No, never saw them before.”

      “They just came to the door, rang the bell,” I said, “and…”

      “You’d have to ask Shelley what specifically happened at the front door. I was in the dining room with the girls, setting the table. After a few seconds, Shelley comes in and there are two men with guns in their hands behind her. They told us to go into the kitchen.”

      “And you have no idea who they are,” Nate said again.

      “Not a clue.”

      “What did they say?” Nate followed up.

      “Nothing. They just looked at us, moved us together into the kitchen, and then Gidon came to the door,” he looked at me. “Do you think it was a robbery?”

      Nate responded: “Don’t know. They didn’t have time to ask for anything,” he looked at me.

      “Josh,” I said, “everything okay at the synagogue? No pissed off members or anything?”

      “No.”

      “Congregation have any money trouble?” from Nate.

      “No. Not that I’ve been told.”

      “What about you?”

      “No.”

      “Witness any crimes or serve on a jury lately?”

      “No.”

      Before we could ask another question, Officer Williams, one of the two officers first on the scene, poked his head in the room. “Captain, the EMT’s are taking the unconscious man to Sinai.”

      I thought he probably could’ve used Shock Trauma, but it wasn’t my call.

      “Thanks, Officer.”

      He left and we turned back to Josh.

      “Gidon told me he saw these two men drive past the synagogue earlier today when the three of you were speaking outside. Ever notice them before, hanging around?”

      “No. Not that I noticed.”

      Nate stood up and Josh and I followed suit. “We’ll figure this out. Let’s see how your wife is doing.”

      With that, the three of us headed into the dining room. As we passed the hallway, we caught sight of a stretcher being rolled to the front door. Mazhar, the man who had wielded the Czech pistol, was on his back beneath a white sheet on the stretcher. He had been strapped in and an intravenous line was running to his right arm. The EMT’s lifted the stretcher and carried him through the door.

      We walked into the dining room to join Shelley and Detective Medrano at the table.

      “How are you doing?” I asked Shelley.

      “Better.” A moment passed. “What’s this all about?”

      “Don’t know yet,” Nate said. “But we will.”

      As I looked at Shelley and Josh, I’m sure they felt all this was surreal. The Shabbat table set beautifully in front of us, white tablecloth, gleaming plates and silverware, the flowers, two loaves of braided challah set on a tray beneath an embroidered cover, two police detectives, me, uniformed officers moving about. Forensics taking photos everywhere and making notations. There was also, perhaps, the body on the floor in the kitchen. Maybe it was still there; maybe not.

      Medrano asked, “Do you folks have a place to stay tonight?”

      “Here,” Shelley responded.

      “This place is a mess,” Nate said. “You