is clean-shaven but wearing a black hat like the others. Around his waist is a belt with a badge and a cell phone clipped to it. Huh, I think, an Orthodox member of the NYPD? The man leans his bicycle against the back fence of the Mendelssohn house, and waits.
Five minutes later, my phone rings. It’s George, the photog. He’s on his way. I’m surprised Pete Calloway hasn’t gotten here yet. Ten more minutes and two more cars pull up. One is George; one is Fred Moskowitz, editor, publisher, reporter, and ad sales rep for The Brooklyn Beacon, a tiny free weekly. I practically run to George’s Volvo and jump in.
“Cold?” he asks.
I put my hands up to the heating vents and grunt a noise somewhere between brrrr and yeah .
“They want a photo,” says George. “But these are Hasids, right? We’re not gonna get anything.” George is probably in his fifties. He wears a bomber jacket with Army patches on the chest and back. We sit together, listening to 1010 WINS, the local news station, which gives us hockey scores and traffic and weather between loud ads for skin doctors and car buy-back programs. Forecast: cold. Windy and cold. It’s going to be fifteen overnight.
After about twenty minutes, the detectives come outside. George reaches into the backseat for his camera. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says.
We hurry over, with Fred trailing us. I call out a question: “Can we get an age, Detectives?”
The men keep walking.
Fred asks, “Is this about the woman in the scrap pile?”
“You have to get that from DCPI,” says the one I’d talked to before, barely breaking stride. “We have no information for you.”
“Assholes,” says Fred, after they’ve gotten into their car.
“The uniforms are still in there,” I say. “And the Jewish cops.”
“They’re called Shomrim, ” says Fred, loving my ignorance. “They’re a neighborhood watch. And we won’t get anything from them. I’m gonna get some coffee and come back later.” He crosses the street to his Ford Taurus in a huff.
“What’s the plan?” asks George, once we’re back in his car.
“I’m not sure,” I say. George has been on the job probably fifteen years, but it’s usually up to the reporter to make decisions about who goes where on a stakeout. Even when the reporter is just twenty-two years old. “I should probably call in.”
Just then the front door opens and the uniformed officers and the Jewish watchmen exit the house. The Jews walk together down the street and out of view. The officers linger on the sidewalk. One lights a cigarette. In the side-view mirror I see the man on the bicycle walk toward the officers. The officers nod in acknowledgment and they begin to discuss something. One gestures toward the house. Bicycle jots whatever information they’re giving him down on a notepad. When the smoking cop finishes his cigarette, the two uniformed officers nod good-bye, get in their cruiser, and drive away.
Bicycle watches after them, then closes his notepad and starts walking around toward the back of the house.
“I’m gonna see if this one will talk to me,” I say to George, who obligingly reaches back for his camera.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
We get out of the car and I walk quickly toward the man in the black hat.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Sir?”
He turns around.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m from the Trib; I’m wondering if you can give us any information about Rivka Mendelssohn. Even just an age? Was she married? Did she have children?”
I speak quickly, including multiple questions because I assume, based on the behavior of the rest of the cops, that he’ll barely stop walking. I am wrong. This cop stops.
I extend my hand. “My name is Rebekah. I was at the scrap yard earlier today. This is George. I wonder if you could give us any information about the victim.” The cop doesn’t answer. He looks flustered, like I’ve caught him picking his nose or something. I continue. “We know her
Five minutes later, my phone rings. It’s George, the photog. He’s on his way. I’m surprised Pete Calloway hasn’t gotten here yet. Ten more minutes and two more cars pull up. One is George; one is Fred Moskowitz, editor, publisher, reporter, and ad sales rep for The Brooklyn Beacon, a tiny free weekly. I practically run to George’s Volvo and jump in.
“Cold?” he asks.
I put my hands up to the heating vents and grunt a noise somewhere between brrrr and yeah .
“They want a photo,” says George. “But these are Hasids, right? We’re not gonna get anything.” George is probably in his fifties. He wears a bomber jacket with Army patches on the chest and back. We sit together, listening to 1010 WINS, the local news station, which gives us hockey scores and traffic and weather between loud ads for skin doctors and car buy-back programs. Forecast: cold. Windy and cold. It’s going to be fifteen overnight.
After about twenty minutes, the detectives come outside. George reaches into the backseat for his camera. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says.
We hurry over, with Fred trailing us. I call out a question: “Can we get an age, Detectives?”
The men keep walking.
Fred asks, “Is this about the woman in the scrap pile?”
“You have to get that from DCPI,” says the one I’d talked to before, barely breaking stride. “We have no information for you.”
“Assholes,” says Fred, after they’ve gotten into their car.
“The uniforms are still in there,” I say. “And the Jewish cops.”
“They’re called Shomrim, ” says Fred, loving my ignorance. “They’re a neighborhood watch. And we won’t get anything from them. I’m gonna get some coffee and come back later.” He crosses the street to his Ford Taurus in a huff.
“What’s the plan?” asks George, once we’re back in his car.
“I’m not sure,” I say. George has been on the job probably fifteen years, but it’s usually up to the reporter to make decisions about who goes where on a stakeout. Even when the reporter is just twenty-two years old. “I should probably call in.”
Just then the front door opens and the uniformed officers and the Jewish watchmen exit the house. The Jews walk together down the street and out of view. The officers linger on the sidewalk. One lights a cigarette. In the side-view mirror I see the man on the bicycle walk toward the officers. The officers nod in acknowledgment and they begin to discuss something. One gestures toward the house. Bicycle jots whatever information they’re giving him down on a notepad. When the smoking cop finishes his cigarette, the two uniformed officers nod good-bye, get in their cruiser, and drive away.
Bicycle watches after them, then closes his notepad and starts walking around toward the back of the house.
“I’m gonna see if this one will talk to me,” I say to George, who obligingly reaches back for his camera.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
We get out of the car and I walk quickly toward the man in the black hat.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Sir?”
He turns around.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m from the Trib; I’m wondering if you can give us any information about Rivka Mendelssohn. Even just an age? Was she married? Did she have children?”
I speak quickly, including multiple questions because I assume, based on the behavior of the rest of the cops, that he’ll barely stop walking. I am wrong. This cop stops.
I extend my hand. “My name is Rebekah. I was at the scrap yard earlier today. This is George. I wonder if you could give us any information about the victim.” The cop doesn’t answer. He looks flustered, like I’ve caught him picking his nose or something. I continue. “We know her
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