Blood on the Sun (CSI: NY) Read Online Free
Author: Stuart M. Kaminsky
possible,” said the rabbi.
“We’ll try to get the autopsy done today,” said Stella.
The rabbi was shaking his head “no.”
“He must not be cut open, his organs removed,” the rabbi said. “He must go naked and whole as he came.”
“I’m afraid an autopsy is necessary,” Stella said gently as two paramedics entered the synagogue, wheeling an aluminum cart that rattled and echoed loudly through the room.
“We will fight this,” said the rabbi as he looked soulfully at the two paramedics.
“Many Orthodox Jews have had autopsies,” said Flack. “Our medical examiner will be as unobtrusive as possible.”
“But still he invades,” said the rabbi. “We have lawyers. We will try to stop you.”
“You’ll fail,” said Stella.
“I know,” said the rabbi, “but since when is the certainty of failure a reason not to try?”
“We’ll need the names of the other men at this morning’s minyan,” said Flack.
The rabbi shook his head.
“I cannot without their permission,” he said.
“Then I’ll get them another way,” said Flack.
It was time to remove the nails in the hands and feet of Asher Glick. Stella returned to the small library, and with the help of the paramedics, she did just that, talking into a miniature tape recorder, indicating the depth of each wound through the body and into the floor. Then the paramedics exited the library, pushing the cart on which the body of Asher Glick now lay covered by a white sheet.
The rabbi watched as the cart was wheeled down the center aisle.
“If I get the names of those in the minyan another way, it’ll take time, time I could be spending looking for Mr. Glick’s killer,” said Flack.
“I cannot,” said the rabbi.
Flack gave up, put his hands on his hips and looked at Stella, who shrugged. They’d get nothing more here, not now.
“They should have sent a Jewish detective,” the rabbi said softly, more to himself than Flack, Stella and Aiden.
No one said anything, but all three agreed.
“I should—must—go out to the congregation, bring them in,” said the rabbi, leaning forward.
“It’s a crime scene,” said Flack. “You can’t bring them in for a few hours.”
The rabbi nodded and said, “Talk to Yosele. She is outside.”
There was nothing more to say. The three investigators headed for the door, opened it and found themselves facing a crowd of bearded men of all ages, all wearing black suits and wide-brimmed black hats. The women had their heads covered by scarfs, and many of them herded children together. Behind this first crowd was another, smaller crowd of curious, young, mostly male black people.
Crown Heights had been the site of more than four days of rioting in August of 1991 after an ultra-Orthodox Lubavitcher Jew drove his car into two black children. The African-American blacks and the growing number of Caribbean blacks joined in the riots and the attacks, focusing their rage not on whites, not on all Jews, but solely on the ultra-visible sect in black hats, suits and beards. Many in the black community had believed for years that these Jews got special treatment from the city. The belief erupted on that hot August night. Flack, a rookie cop, had been sent with hundreds of others to the 71st Precinct with full riot gear.
Tensions had grown somewhat less strained over the years, but they had not disappeared.
Had they heard that Asher Glick had been crucified? Flack was considering calling in the potential situation when a woman shouted, “Joshua” from the middle of the crowd of one hundred or more people.
The crowd picked up the chant, and the name “Joshua” echoed through the narrow street.
One of the men in the crowd, who was not dressed in black, and who did not pick up the chant, stood with one hand at his side and one in his pocket and watched the door. The hand in his pocket touched a photograph of Stella Bonasera.
2
“N O SIGN OF THE BOY ,” Danny said. “No sign of the knife. We
“We’ll try to get the autopsy done today,” said Stella.
The rabbi was shaking his head “no.”
“He must not be cut open, his organs removed,” the rabbi said. “He must go naked and whole as he came.”
“I’m afraid an autopsy is necessary,” Stella said gently as two paramedics entered the synagogue, wheeling an aluminum cart that rattled and echoed loudly through the room.
“We will fight this,” said the rabbi as he looked soulfully at the two paramedics.
“Many Orthodox Jews have had autopsies,” said Flack. “Our medical examiner will be as unobtrusive as possible.”
“But still he invades,” said the rabbi. “We have lawyers. We will try to stop you.”
“You’ll fail,” said Stella.
“I know,” said the rabbi, “but since when is the certainty of failure a reason not to try?”
“We’ll need the names of the other men at this morning’s minyan,” said Flack.
The rabbi shook his head.
“I cannot without their permission,” he said.
“Then I’ll get them another way,” said Flack.
It was time to remove the nails in the hands and feet of Asher Glick. Stella returned to the small library, and with the help of the paramedics, she did just that, talking into a miniature tape recorder, indicating the depth of each wound through the body and into the floor. Then the paramedics exited the library, pushing the cart on which the body of Asher Glick now lay covered by a white sheet.
The rabbi watched as the cart was wheeled down the center aisle.
“If I get the names of those in the minyan another way, it’ll take time, time I could be spending looking for Mr. Glick’s killer,” said Flack.
“I cannot,” said the rabbi.
Flack gave up, put his hands on his hips and looked at Stella, who shrugged. They’d get nothing more here, not now.
“They should have sent a Jewish detective,” the rabbi said softly, more to himself than Flack, Stella and Aiden.
No one said anything, but all three agreed.
“I should—must—go out to the congregation, bring them in,” said the rabbi, leaning forward.
“It’s a crime scene,” said Flack. “You can’t bring them in for a few hours.”
The rabbi nodded and said, “Talk to Yosele. She is outside.”
There was nothing more to say. The three investigators headed for the door, opened it and found themselves facing a crowd of bearded men of all ages, all wearing black suits and wide-brimmed black hats. The women had their heads covered by scarfs, and many of them herded children together. Behind this first crowd was another, smaller crowd of curious, young, mostly male black people.
Crown Heights had been the site of more than four days of rioting in August of 1991 after an ultra-Orthodox Lubavitcher Jew drove his car into two black children. The African-American blacks and the growing number of Caribbean blacks joined in the riots and the attacks, focusing their rage not on whites, not on all Jews, but solely on the ultra-visible sect in black hats, suits and beards. Many in the black community had believed for years that these Jews got special treatment from the city. The belief erupted on that hot August night. Flack, a rookie cop, had been sent with hundreds of others to the 71st Precinct with full riot gear.
Tensions had grown somewhat less strained over the years, but they had not disappeared.
Had they heard that Asher Glick had been crucified? Flack was considering calling in the potential situation when a woman shouted, “Joshua” from the middle of the crowd of one hundred or more people.
The crowd picked up the chant, and the name “Joshua” echoed through the narrow street.
One of the men in the crowd, who was not dressed in black, and who did not pick up the chant, stood with one hand at his side and one in his pocket and watched the door. The hand in his pocket touched a photograph of Stella Bonasera.
2
“N O SIGN OF THE BOY ,” Danny said. “No sign of the knife. We
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