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The closing time for Thursdays posted in Dr. Eisenstein’s window said Five O’clock.
Jake flipped up his collar, and paced up and down Central waiting until just before that to enter. He didn’t want a repeat of the doctor ushering him out prematurely to serve a customer.
When a church bell rang five times he approached the door. Dr. Eisenstein was already fumbling with the keys ready to lock up.
Jake hustled, and swung the door open before the doctor could insert the key.
“Where’s the fire?” the doctor mocked.
“Oh, sorry,” Jake said. “I wanted to catch you before you left.”
The doctor motioned Jake to take one of the swiveling stools, and sat opposite him.
“What’s so urgent?” the doctor asked.
Jake recounted what Robert’s told him about the bruising around Muttle’s eye. Leaving out the other possibilities Jake said, “He definitely was punched in the eye with a fist.”
Jake caught a glimpse of the doctor squirming in his chair.
“The way I figure,” Jake continued, “if someone wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t just punch him in the eye. A punch in the eye more likely came from someone who wanted to hurt him—not kill him. Maybe from someone who was angry—very angry.”
More squirming.
“Maybe they took it a step further,” Jake said while watching the doctor’s every twitch. “Maybe they grabbed something nearby—like a frying pan, smacked him in the forehead, and knocked him out. They mighta thought he was dead, and dragged him into the mikvah to cover it up.”
More squirming joined by forehead rubbing.
Jake continued, “There’s only one person I can think of that had access to the mikvah when no one else was around—Muttle's wife, Rose. But what could’ve made her that angry. Did you tell her about the pictures Muttle took.”
“Enough!” the doctor cried while holding up one palm. “It wasn’t his wife. I punched him.”
Jackpot!
Jake sat silently to let the doctor keep spilling.
Dr. Eisenstein slowly continued, “I went there to get the mezuzahs like I said, but I also wanted to confront Muttle. He insisted he knew nothing about the photograph, but who else could it be? I got so frustrated when he wouldn’t admit anything. Guess my anger welled up, and I let go. Not my finest hour. That’s probably when my eyeglass case slipped out of my pocket. I mostly wear contacts. I didn’t notice they were missing until later that day. I had no idea they were at Muttle’s until you showed up the other day.
“Rose wasn’t even home when I was there, and I certainly did not tell her about the photograph. The Rebbe made me promise not to tell anyone—not the police, and especially not Rose. The women would panic, and stop going to the mikvah. The Rebbe said to let you handle it. But you didn’t seem to be doing anything, so I did.
“This is my daughter,” he said, poking his chest. “You don’t understand what it’s like—you don’t have kids.”
Jake held his tongue.
“I didn’t wanna tell you. I knew it would look like I killed Muttle—but I didn’t,” the doctor insisted.
“So why tell me now?” Jake asked.
“Because I don’t want you suspecting Rose,” the doctor explained. “I don’t think she even knows about the photograph. I was the angry person who hit Muttle, not her. But I absolutely did not kill him. I admit I punched him in the eye,” the doctor said while rubbing his bruised knuckles. But I did not hit him in the head or anything else. Muttle was very much alive when I left.”
“Speaking of that,” Jake said, “when did you go there?”
The doctor immediately replied, “I know exactly when because I went right after closing my place at five. Traffic was heavy. I got there around a quarter to six the day before Muttle died. Right after I hit him I heard a car pull up. I shut the lights, and told Muttle to keep his mouth shut or I’d hit him again.”
Finally!
Now Jake understood why the place was dark, and nobody answered when went to get the Torah.
“Now, I’m really sorry I hit him, or even yelled at him,” the doctor confessed.
“Oh? Why?” Jake asked.
“Because I’m pretty sure Muttle was telling the truth. He didn’t know anything about it,” the doctor explained.
“Why do you think that now?” Jake asked.
“Well,” the doctor sighed, “after Muttle died, we all assumed there wouldn’t be any more photographs. We couldn’t exactly go looking for a hidden camera without tipping off Rose, and the Rebbe explicitly told me not to do that. He was even upset that I told you that photograph was taken at the mikvah. All was quiet after Muttle died, so even though there was probably still a hidden camera somewhere we left it alone.”
“I still don’t get it,” Jake insisted. “What made you think it wasn’t Muttle?”
“Before I get to that,” the doctor continued, “you gotta promise not to tell anyone—and I mean nobody this next part.”
“Nobody? Not even Rabbi Miklin? I’m investigating this at his request,” Jake said.
“Correct, not even him,” the doctor demanded. “I’m dead serious. Promise?”
“Promise,” Jake agreed. “Let’s have it. What changed?”
“This morning, I went to take the Rebbe to the mikvah. and found another envelope on his porch. He opened it, and turned white as a ghost.”
“What was in it?” Jake asked.
“You absolutely promise, right?” the doctor asked again.
“Yes, absolutely,” Jake reassured him.
“There was a photograph in it like the one of my daughter, but not just any woman. It was the Rebbe’s wife, the Rebbetzin. And this time they asked for an even bigger sum to keep it off the Internet, and demanded it be paid by this coming Monday.
“So, unless Muttle’s ghost is doing this, Muttle was not the one who sent that picture, and probably had nothing to do with the first one either,” the doctor concluded.