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Jake maneuvered the Nova into an open spot near Einstein Eye Care on Central in downtown Evanston.
He checked the meter to verify there was no charge to park there on Sunday.
The overcast morning sky made it hard to read the faded lettering on the wooden sign swinging above the door.
The tiny storefront was wedged between a Starbucks and an art gallery.
Jake pulled the door open, and heard a bell jingle.
A tall, muscular, middle-aged, bearded man emerged from the rear. He was wearing a large, black, velvet yarmulke, and his payos—his long curly sidelocks, were tightly wound, and tucked behind each ear. The name badge pinned to his freshly starched lab coat informed Jake this was the man he was seeking—Dr. Fred Eisenstein, Optometrist.
Jake introduced himself, and explained the reason for his visit.
The doctor invited Jake to sit on one of the two worn leather, swivel stools on one side of a small counter while he settled into an old, oak office chair on the other side. The doctor slid the mirror between them to one side. “HIPPA laws prevent me from disclosing patient information,” he said, “but I can certainly look at the case and the glasses.”
Jake heard his stool squeal as he twisted to slip the eyeglass pouch from his pants pocket. He handed it to the doctor who examined the front and back of the vintage pouch, then gently ran his thumb up and down the pocket clip.
“This is definitely one of mine, but I haven’t used these in years. We use clamshell cases now.”
As the doctor extracted the glasses from the pouch his furrowed brows and flaring nostrils signaled the end of his friendly demeanor.
“These are my glasses,” he exclaimed. “I usually wear contacts, but I wear these when my eyes get tired. Where exactly did you say you found these?”
“I didn’t,” Jake replied. “Where did you lose them?”
“ Look,” Dr. Eisenstein growled as he placed his palms on the counter, and leaned in toward Jake. “I don’t know who sent you, or what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but I’m not telling you anything.”
Jake wasn’t expecting a confrontation. He felt the urge to explode at the man who suddenly rose to his number one person of interest in Muttle’s death. But he could hear Mort whispering in his ear, keep your cool and play this right. His deceased mentor was still guiding him from beyond the grave.
“That’s okay Freddy,” Jake calmly replied, purposefully disrespecting the man. “These were found by Muttle Katz’s workbench shortly after his death. I’m sure you knew Muttle the Sofer—a fellow Sopoynik Chassid of yours, no?”
“Who do you think you—” The doctor paused then blurted, “Wait a minute—Jake Cooper. Ya, I thought that name sounded familiar. You’re that guy the Rebbe requested to investigate that photograph.”
“Yes,” Jake admitted. “I’m the guy. But I’m not here about that. How do you know about that?”
The doctor hesitated a second too long, then poked his finger at his chest. “I’m the Rebbe’s gabbai. I’m his right-hand man and most trusted advisor.”
Jake swiveled his chair thinking about the doctor’s odd behavior, then said, “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that. I think it’s more personal for you somehow. Why were you at Muttle’s place?”
“It’s certainly not what you’re implying,” the doctor insisted. “I had nothing to do with Muttle’s death.”
“So what were you doing there?” Jake asked.
“I went there about that photograph,” the doctor replied. “Someone dropped an envelope on the Rebbe’s doorstep anonymously. Inside, there was that photo and a note demanding money that said one of yours, and threatened to post it on the Internet if he didn’t pay.”
“What does that have to do with Muttle?” Jake asked.
“The Rebbe doesn’t have children,” the doctor explained, “so he took it to mean it was a nude photograph of the daughter of one of his chassidim.”
“So he asked you to find out who was in the photo?” Jake asked.
“No,” the doctor replied. “He didn’t show the photograph to me. He just explained what it was.”
“I still don’t get why you were at Muttle’s,” Jake said.
“Patience! I’m getting to that,” the doctor said. “Later that day he showed it to his Rebbetzin. She recognized the girl as my daughter—Tzippy.”
“Oh,” Jake said. “That’s awful that you had to see that.”
“Yes, that was hard to look at. At first they wouldn't show it to me. But I kept pushing to see it thinking I might be able to figure out who took it. Eventually they relented, and I was right. I figured out where, how, and who took it.”
“Oh? How?” Jake asked.
“The towel,” he replied.
Jake cocked his head to one side. “I don’t follow,” he said.
“There was a towel on the floor in the photograph that had a tag on it,” the doctor explained.”
“How’d you figure all that out from a towel tag?” Jake asked.
“You really have zero patience,” the doctor said. “I used a magnifying glass to get a closer look at the tag. I see that same tag every day when I take the Rebbe to the mikvah. Their towels have a custom label so people don’t take them home. It’s a black tag with big white letters that says MIKVAH PROPERTY.”
Suddenly Jake recalled seeing a bin full of dirty towels with that label on them when he met Rose at the mikvah the day she found Muttle.
“Okay,” Jake admitted. “So that means it was probably taken inside the mikvah. But how does that tell you who took it? Anyone at the mikvah can take a picture with their phone.”
“The angle,” the doctor replied. “Have you seen the photograph?”
“Ya, I saw it.” Jake said.
“Then you know it was taken from above. If someone used their phone it would have been a very different angle. So it must have been a hidden camera in the ceiling, and you know who has access to the attic—it’s a shared attic above the residence and the mikvah.”
“So you assumed Muttle set up a camera in the attic, and used the images to make money?” Jake asked. “I didn’t really know him, but he didn’t strike me as someone who’d do that.”
Dr. Eisenstein said, “You really can’t know what anyone is capable of given the opportunity and thinking nobody would find out.”
“Okay. So how did your glasses end up at Muttle’s place?” Jake asked.
The doctor raised one brow, and cocked his eye toward the ceiling. “I must have left them after I went to pick up the mezuzahs I ordered for the doors on the addition to Rebbe’s house.”
A sudden jingle at the front door distracted Jake.
He swiveled to see a heavyset woman in her thirties with a long, blonde wig starkly contrasting her black eyebrows wearing a white long sleeved top, a pleated long black skirt, and white sneakers. She held the door open to let in a tornado of twin young redheaded boys dressed alike in black pants, white socks, and black tie shoes. Their half untucked white dress shirts exposed the racing stripes of their tzitzis, and let the white strings dangle from the four corners. Each wore identical gold wireframe glasses. The red freckles on their little faces matched their red hair. Their large, black yarmulkes miraculously stayed on their heads as they raced to grab the unoccupied swivel stool. Their freshly curled, red payos hung like springs from both ears, and swung wildly as the two monsters took turns sitting on the stool while the other violently spun it around.
The doctor stood to greet his customer holding his hands behind his back. “Good to see you Mrs. Wolfson! Are the twins a year older already? It goes by so fast. I’ll be ready for their exams in a moment. I was just finishing up with this gentleman,” he said, nodding toward Jake.
The doctor shook Jake’s hand. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said while vigorously ushering him out the door.
That’s when Jake noticed the cuts and bruises on the doctor’s knuckles.