= The Broken Lamp
  An Aaron Guerevich Mystery
  by Mel Goldberg

Donald Sackman set the prybar behind him on a small wooden porch rail and looked around before knocking on the door. It took a few minutes for a light to come on.

"Who is it?"

"Me, Gramps."

"Donny?" The door opened slightly. The old man looked up at his grandson's face. "What's wrong? It's three in the morning."

"I need to talk to you."

"Well, c'mon in. I'll make some coffee." Morton Sackman turned to shuffle back through the house. "I can't sleep anyway. What're you wearing gloves for. It's not that cold." Donald reached back and picked up the prybar. Then he stepped into the living room and closed the door.

Donald struck his eighty-year-old grandfather on the left side of the head, just above and behind his ear. He believed that such a blow would cause instant death. Blood splattered on the gloves and the large chair. The old man almost flew sideways into the massive oak table, then rebounded, knocking down and smashing the only lamp. The room became instantly dark as his body sprawled across the center of the room. Donald reached in his pocket and took out a small flashlight. In its narrow beam, he saw the blood surging from the crushed skull onto the carpet. He saw the prybar was covered in blood and small clots of hair. He knew without looking his shirt and jacket were dotted with blood as well.

Donald listened. There was only silence outside in the quiet street of the old Scottsdale neighborhood. Then he raised the prybar and smashed it into the back of the old man's head. Avoiding the pool of blood, he stepped over the small body and went to the floor safe in the corner, kicked aside the throw rug, and worked the combination. He removed the money and stood up.

"I wish it had been different, Gramps. Shit, I'm thirty-seven. How many more years did you expect me to wait?" Quietly, Donald opened the door and turned the handle lock to the lock position. Then he went outside and closed the door. Using the clean end of the prybar, he forced it into the jamb until it splintered and the door popped open. He listened again. In the distance, he heard a siren. Scanning the street, he saw no house lights. No doors opened. As he walked the two blocks to his car, his shadow from the corner street light caught up with him and passed him.

His rough cuticle caught in the lining as he removed the right glove carefully and opened his car door. He placed the glove and the prybar in a plastic-lined cardboard box on the seat next to him. Using corn tongs, he removed the left glove and put it in the box. Then he drove home. The next morning, he put his clothes in a plastic bag and took them along with a load of scrap wood to the crusher at the landfill.

Edelberto Gonzalez called Donald Sackman. "I'm a little worried, Donald. Your grandfather didn't show up at the financial meeting this morning. And he didn't answer the phone." Edelberto's dark, normally placid face was a shade darker than usual, and the lines at the corners of his mouth became furrows. He was anxious about the old man who had meant so much to him.

"Nothing to worry about, Ed," said Donald. "The other day, Gramps told me he was afraid he was coming down with a cold. He probably took some cold medicine to make him sleep. My guess is he doesn't want to be in a crowd for a few days. At his age, if a cold weakens his resistance, he could get something much worse."

"You probably right. I only wish he call me."

"You know how he is. He doesn't want people to worry about him."

"You abuelo, he has mucho energy -- enough for three people. But I have some paperwork from the business that he must sign. I can't take it over to him until manana or the day after."

"Why don't I just come by and pick it up. I'm going to see Gramps this afternoon. He's supposed to come over for an early dinner and watch Jeopardy with me."

That evening, Donald Sackman went to his grandfather's house. Standing outside, he called the police on his cell phone .

"My grandfather didn't show up for dinner, and when I phoned, there was no answer."

"Maybe he went out."

"No. I'm at his house now. It looks like the door's been forced open."

"What's the address? We'll have someone come by in a few minutes. Don't go in and don't touch anything."

When officers Ray Ziemansko and Phillip Jameson met Donald at 9 PM at his grandfather's home, they found the front door had been pried open. The curtains were drawn, and the living room was dark.

Officer Ziemansko pushed open the door, but he could see nothing in the darkened room. Donald reached in and flipped the switch just inside to turn on the light. He knew nothing would happen.

"The bulb in the lamp must be burned out. There's a light switch on the other side of the room in the dining area," said Donald. He walked across the room and turned on the light. There, sprawled across the middle of the living room floor, lay the body of Morton Sackman, the side of his head bashed in, and the back of his skull crushed. Next to his head was a puddle of nearly-dried blood. Donald gasped and immediately moved to go to the old man, but he was stopped by Officer Jameson, the younger policeman. Ziemansko moved to the body and put his two fingers to the old man's throat.

"No pulse, and the body's cold He's been dead for a while."

"Don't touch anything. I'll call homicide," said Jameson.

On the other side of the room both officers saw the throw rug pushed against the wall in the corner and the door to floor safe open.

In a few minutes, Scottsdale detective Aaron Guerevich was at the scene. His neat blue suit and crisply starched shirt seemed out of place in the heat and informality of Phoenix. He took out his note pad and began by asking Ziemansko what happened. At six feet tall, Ziemansko looked down at the much shorter Guerevich.

"It'll all be in the report. When we got here, we saw the door had apparently been jimmied open. The jamb was splintered."

"Right," Jameson said. "Mr. Sackman -- Donald -- walked to the dining area and switched on the light there. He tried to turn on the light by the door, but the lamp had been broken. That's when we saw the body of the older Mr. Sackman on the floor in the living room."

"No one moved the body?"

"No, sir. We didn't touch anything. Everything is just as you see it."

By the time Guerevich had finished questioning the two policemen, the police photographer and several other people from the forensics unit had arrived. The ubiquitous masking tape was put on the wood floor, and the body was removed.

Outside, Guerevich questioned Donald Sackman. "Did your grandfather make a habit of keeping a lot of money in his floor safe?

"He once told me he kept enough to in his safe to buy his house twice over. He could have had almost a quarter of a million."

"Didn't he trust banks?"

"No. As a matter of fact, he didn't. His parents moved here from Chicago about 1930, when he was nine. They'd lost their home and most of their savings in 1929."

"What about investments? How did he live?"

"As a young man, he worked picking cotton until he had enough money to buy property. That's how he made most of his money, buying and selling property. Then he started investing directly in small companies, insisting only that he initially have a role in running them. Once the company was solvent and making money, he sold his portion to the original owners for a decent profit. He referred to each of these investments as projects."

"Did he have any projects recently?"

"His latest project was Gonzalez, Incorporated, a company that imported hand-made furniture from the village of Bahuichivo in Chihuahua, Mexico. The furniture they sell is crafted at a school designed to teach young Mexican and Tarahuamara men. Edelberto Gonzalez,the president, says he's helping to keep alive a centuries-old Mexican tradition and to teach these men to read and write as well as giving them a trade."

"You know quite a bit about his business."

"I should. I worked for him for the last fifteen years."

"Accounting? Management?"

"A little of both. Mostly, I was his go-fer. When he needed something, anything, he called me to get it, from coffee to sales reports."

"Did you like your job?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, he was my grandfather, and he always said he wanted me to take over after he, well, you know."

"Died?"

"Yeah."

"What about your parents?"

"They died in a small plane crash when I was six. I hardly remember them."

"Well, thanks, Mr. Sackman. You've been very helpful. If you can remember anything else, please call me."

Guerevich walked across the grass toward his car, followed by Donald Sackman.

"We won't need an autopsy, will we?" asked Donald. "I mean, the cause of death is pretty obvious."

"Well, the coroner will need to examine the body. You seem to be taking this pretty well. Were you close with your grandfather?"

"Very close. But at eighty, I knew he couldn't last forever, so I was mentally prepared for it."

"But you said he was in excellent health. In today's society, a man with his drive might live ten, even fifteen years. I mean, this was totally unexpected."

Donald stared at the ground and bit his lower lip. He covered his eyes with his hand. "Totally."

"One last question. Did you have the combination to the safe?"

"No, I didn't. Gramps was very secretive about things concerning money. I was a bit wild when I was younger, so I guess he didn't fully trust me. He told me a copy of the combination was in his will. I guess the only other person who knew it was his lawyer. And possibly his business partner, Edelberto Gonzalez."

An examination of the safe had turned up no money. All the safe contained were the deed to the house, an insurance policy for $25,000 with Donald Sackman as beneficiary, and a will, naming Donald Sackman as the sole heir to all Morton Sackman's money and property.

When the will was read, no one was surprised to learn that Morton Sackman desired to be cremated. The surprise came when the scope of his property was disclosed.

"Well, Gramps was always close-mouthed about what he owned," said Donald. "I knew he owned this house. And I suspected he owned a bit of property, but I had no idea what or how much."

The will revealed that Morton Sackman owned houses in several states and in Mexico. In addition to a hundred twenty-five acres in Scottsdale, he owned a large house in the Belmont Shores area of Long Beach, California and a two-flat on the Gold Coast area of Chicago, not far from where he had been born. In Mexico, he had a large estate on Lake Chapala, a home in Guadalajara, and another in San Miguel de Allende. The total value of his holdings exceeded eight million dollars.

The day after the will was read, Aaron called his fiancee Ann Berendt at her office in the forensics department. They had met at the police academy seven years earlier. Two years after they'd graduated, they'd been assigned to the same case and had started dating.

"Hi, Ann. How about dinner tonight?"

"Aaron, what's up. It's only eleven in the morning. You usually don't call me for dinner until at least three. Where do you want to meet?"

"How about that new Boston Market. Then we can get some Krispy Kremes for desert."

"When did you start eating Krispy Kremes? I can see your father shaking his head in disbelief. He still doesn't understand why a yeshiva boy would want to become a cop."

"Well, Chicago is a long way from here. Besides, I checked, and they fry the donuts in vegetable oil."

"That makes it really healthy, right? It's hard to imagine a graduate of North Shore Hebrew Academy eating Boston Market chicken and Krispy Kremes."

"I changed my eating habits when I went to Chicago Circle. Besides, my father knows I can fulfill my mitzvot better as a cop than as a student."

"I suppose. What do you need?"

"I need you to do some research on Morton Sackman."

"Give me a couple of days. I do have other responsibilities in my job."

"I need it tomorrow. See what you can dig up."

The next morning, over breakfast, Aaron asked Ann if she had been able to find out anything about Morton Sackman.

"Well, what Donald said is pretty much right on. The old man was a bit of an oddball when it came to money. It was no secret that he hated banks and had lots of money in his house."

"I need to know what Donald didn't tell me."

"I did find out that Morton Sackman pumped almost $200,000 into Gonzalez, Incorporated this year. But the small company still lost money each month for the past eight months, and now faces potential bankruptcy. Slow sales, a weak economy, frequent border searches by the Federales, and rising costs have been crippling Gonzalez. Edelberto Gonzalez personally mortgaged everything he owned, and the assets of the business were only a fraction of what he owed."

"That adds another dimension to the murder. Maybe Gonzalez needed more money."

"But Sackman gave him everything he wanted. Sackman wanted the business to grow and make money, and he was willing to finance it. Gonzalez had no reason to kill Sackman. In fact, it was in his interest that Sackman remain among the living."

"That seems logical. Still, I suppose we ought to get a search warrant for Gonzalez's house. People do strange things over money."

A search of Gonzalez' home turned up almost $50,000 in cash in a leather brief case on a shelf in the garage. The brief case bore the initials M. S. Also found in a cardboard box were a pair of blood-spattered gloves and a pry bar with blood stains and bits of hair that belonged to Morton Sackman. Gonzalez was left handed, and Sackman had been struck from behind on the left side of his head. Gonzalez was immediately arrested on suspicion of murder.

He protested his innocence. "You got the wrong man. I loved that old man like he was my own father. I owe him everything. Why would I kill him?"

Because of the heinousness of the crime, bond was denied, and Gonzalez waited in jail for his trial. The evidence, though circumstantial, was strong, and the Public Defender advised Gonzalez to plead guilty to second degree. Overnight, Donald Sackman had become a wealthy man, and Edelberto Gonzalez was headed for life in jail or a lethal injection.

A week after the Gonzalez arrest, Aaron lay in bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Hey, what's wrong?" asked Ann, who was propped against a pillow with a book. "The Sackman case is wrapped up and tied with a bow, thanks to good police work. You'll probably get a commendation."

"That's the problem. It was too easy. Something doesn't seem to be right, but I just can't get a handle on it."

"Well, maybe this was one of the easy ones. They do happen, you know."

Two weeks later, Aaron Guerevich woke up alone at 6 AM. As he got out of bed to go to the bathroom, he stumbled over a pair of Ann's shoes. Returning to bed, he slapped his forehead and said, "Of course." Reaching for the phone, he called Ann Berendt.

"Hi, Ann, it's me."

"I can tell. I recognize the voice."

"Did you do a DNA test on the gloves from the Sackman murder?"

"Yeah. It was Sackman's blood. You expected someone else's?"

"No. I mean the inside of the gloves."

"The inside? Why? What are you up to?"

"I just had a thought. I don't think Gonzalez is our man. I think young Sackman killed his grandfather. A couple of days ago he put the Long Beach house on the market for 1.7 million dollars and yesterday, he contracted for a $250,000 motor home."

"Is that so strange? The guy spent the last sixteen years as his grandfather's flunky. Now he's got the money. Maybe he wants to live a little."

"That's the point. He spent years overshadowed by his grandfather. Maybe he just got tired of it when he saw years of the same."

"Okay, but where's the evidence?"

"There might be some DNA evidence if he wore the gloves that were used to kill the old man. Then he could have planted the evidence. We know he was at Gonzalez' house the same day the body was found."

"That's a big if."

"Yeah, but like I said, this case was too easy. I mean, finding the money, the gloves and the weapon in Gonzalez's garage. C'mon, the guy made no attempt to hide anything. He didn't seem to be that stupid. If you're gonna kill someone, you at least throw away the weapon and the gloves."

"You got a point. I'll get on it first thing this morning."

"Call me as soon as you get something."

Three hours later, Guerevich's office phone rang.

"Guerevich here."

"Hi, Aaron. It's Ann. I sent the gloves out to Independent. They said they'd get on it right away, but it'll take a couple of days to turn up something, if there's something to turn up. Can you tell me what you're expecting to find?"

"I heard from the PD's office that Gonzalez is under pressure to cop a plea. The guy lives with his sister and brother-in-law, but they were visiting family in LA the week of the murder."

"So?"

"So, I had a thought this morning. I'll share it with you when the evidence comes in."

Two days later, Ann met Aaron for dinner at Nathan's Deli. As soon as they met, she presented Aaron a large brown envelope marked INDEPENDENT SENSITIVE.

"You were right. The DNA from inside the gloves shows that Donald Sackman wore them at some time. How the hell did you know?"

"A couple of nights ago I finished reading the biography of Albert Einstein you gave me. He said that you can't force your ideas on the universe, but sometimes, if you're receptive, an idea comes to you and says, 'Here I am.' I was lying in bed the next morning looking at the ceiling, and when I got up, I tripped over a pair of your shoes. That's when the thought came to me. Remember when Ziemansko and Jameson said young Sackman went into the house to turn on the light in the dining area. It was night and the house was dark. He had to step over the body to get there. Only the killer would have known that a body was there. He should have stumbled over the body in the dark. But he didn't."

The next morning, Donald Sackman was arrested and confessed to the murder of his grandfather.

MEL GOLDBERG has had poetry, stories, and articles published in numerous magazines, including Anthology, Amelia, Midstream, and Acumen (England). His story "Hero" recently appeared on line at Mocha Memoirs, and his detective, Aaron Guerevich, will soon display his talents in "Cyanide Suicide" on Orchard Press Mysteries. Mel has taught literature and composition in the United States and England; while living in England, he studied at Cambridge and at the Shakespeare Academy in Stratford. He currently teaches writing and literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona. His book of poetry and photography, The Cyclic Path, appeared in 1990, and his first novel is being handled by an agent.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Mel Goldberg

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