Chapter Thirteen

“At least it’s not anti-Semitic,” Rabbi Herbert Weiner proclaimed.

We were standing in front of the Temple Israel Recreational Center, a postmodern glass-and-concrete structure whose soaring white walls were now covered in graffiti. Giant red upper and lower case letters had been spray-painted on a sky-blue background. The letters, when read in sequence, spelled ROBBER XMAS.

“How on Earth was he able to access the wall in the first place?” Johnny Kennerly pondered.

“It appears that the back gate had been left unlocked,” the Rabbi said. “Not an unusual occurrence.”

“Because?” I inquired.

“Complacency, I suppose. We’ve never been vandalized before, so over time we stopped handing out keys and just closed the gate without locking it.”

“This doesn’t look like the first time this artist has left his calling card. It’s a very confident job,” Johnny stated.

“But it’s a first for Freedom,” I said. “We haven’t seen any graffiti in this town.”

The Rabbi frowned. “I hope it’s not the start of a scourge.”

Herb Weiner had been Chief Rabbi of Temple Israel since its inception in the late nineteen eighties. He was a scraggy man, prone to wearing rumpled black suits. He had a well-tended salt-and-pepper beard but his once-flourishing curly black hair had both thinned and grayed. He suffered from chronic back pain which slowed his movements and affected his posture. “What do you think Robber Xmas signifies?”

“Could be anything. Taggers love to sign their so-called artwork. Makes them feel important. We’ll check to see if there are any persons named Christmas listed in the county. Probably be a good idea to re-visit your decision not to lock the gate. Just in case it is an act of anti-Semitism.”

“Will do.”

I noticed that the Rabbi was rubbing his lower back.

His face was a portrait of discomfort. I attempted to distract him. “We’ll also check the hardware and paint stores for any large recent spray-paint purchases. I’m not hopeful because, unless the tagger was a rank amateur, it’s not likely his supplies were purchased in the same town whose buildings he was planning to deface.”

“Or her,” the Rabbi offered.

“Or her,” I agreed.

A smile served to relieve some of his suffering. “You’ll let me know what you uncover?”

“Absolutely. Be it him or her.”

Johnny went off on his quest to identify the tagger. No sooner had I revved up my cruiser and pulled away from the temple than my cell phone rang again.

“We may be witnessing the start of an epidemic,” Marsha Russo said when I picked up the call.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Binder and Klein Outlet.”

“What about it?”

“Big warehouse.”

“I know it.”

“Graffiti.”

“Painted on the warehouse?”

“Yup.”

“I’m on my way.”

The Binder and Klein Furniture Outlet was a brick-and-mortar box store on Highway 16, the route from Freedom to White Sands. It, along with several other giant stores, formed the equivalent of an outlet mall row along the heavily trafficked stretch of freeway between the two beach communities.

I was greeted by Harry Binder. He’d been standing in front of the store, puzzling over how he was going to get rid of the gigantic mess of graffiti that now desecrated the entire wall of the building that faced Highway 16.

“What a mess,” Harry said to me as I stood beside him taking stock of the damage. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Likely a tagger who calls himself Robber Xmas.” I pointed to the lower case letters that spelled that name.

Harry Binder stood shaking his head. “It’s a plague. Everywhere you go. Wherever you look these days you see graffiti. In doorways. On storefronts. On roadway fencing. And now Freedom. And who is it cleans this crap up? Who pays for it? It’s become so prevalent that the authorities appear to have simply given up on trying to control it. The loonies have taken over the bin.”

“Not exactly.”

Binder looked at me. “Which means?”

“They’re not going to win the Freedom battle.”

“Yeah, well good luck with that one, Buddy.”