Catch a Killer, Save the World

By Mel Goldberg

Although his uncle had died fighting Syrians in Israel’s 1948 War of Independence, Jewish detective Aaron Guerevich investigates the murders of two Syrian-American Muslims. His life is put in jeopardy when he discovers a secretive anti-Arab vigilante group.

He runs into ethnic opposition from Jews and Muslims alike. Jews claim he disgraces the memory of his uncle and Muslims call him a Zionist.

In a surprising revelation that eases the ethnic tensions, he uncovers a long-hidden connection between his uncle and the family of the slain Muslims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9780982734568

Book preview

humankind.

CHAPTER ONE

Scottsdale, Arizona

Friday, October 20, 2006

Norris Repley walked toward the Scottsdale Police impound yard in a gone-to-seed commercial area. Glancing ahead and behind in the dimly lit street, he wanted to be certain no one saw him this evening. Only a few cars passed him as he walked toward the gate. The heat of the day still hung like a curtain and the dryness irritated his nose and cracked his lips. Wearing black chinos, dirty sneakers, and a dark jacket over his gray tee shirt, he passed a weed-filled lot with old newspapers and styrofoam cups stuck to the chain-link fences. A recently hired Grade One with the Scottsdale forensics department, he had access to the vehicle impound yard only when he was on official business but tonight’s visit was unofficial. A college graduate at twenty-six, he was slightly older than most first-time hires and walked with a decided limp, his career as a professional moto-cross rider cut short by an unfortunate accident. He now had a two inch lift under the shoe on his right foot.

He approached the gate, his sunburned face illuminated by the bright circle of the security light. After banging his keys on the pipe supporting the gate, he waved to Roger Brinker, the officer in charge of the yard, who sat behind the thick glass window in the guard shed a few yards from the fence. Brinker waved back and walked out across the gravel and dirt to the gate. Hatless, he wiped his face with a handkerchief.

You going to let me in, Brink?

Repley looked at the line of vehicles in the yard. In the dim light he tried to spot his van that had been impounded a few weeks earlier. A motorcycle cop had given Repley a citation for running a red light and seized the van for lack of insurance.

Brinker unlocked the gate. What’re you doing here so late? This official?

Repley limped inside. Sort of. Still got my SpeeDee delivery van?

Brinker closed the gate. He looped the chain without closing the lock and stood next to his friend. What do you want with the van? I don’t want to get in any trouble.

Nothing to worry about. After all, it is my van. At least it was. I just want to use it for a couple hours. I’ll have it back long before you get off. I got to transport a couple strippers to Eddie Bremer’s surprise birthday party. They’re waiting inside a big box that looks like a cake.

Brinker stopped and looked at his friend. I don’t know, Norris. This is crazy. You still don’t have any insurance. What if something goes wrong?

Repley put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. That’ll be on my head. Besides, who’s going to know about it. I’m not going to tell anyone and you’re sure as hell not going to. You give any more thought to joining SAFE?

What?

That group I told you about. Save America First Everywhere.

Naw. I try to stay out of shit like that. You got keys? I don’t want to open the lock box.

Right here in my hand. The security camera still off?

Shit, that hasn’t worked for a month. I keep telling them to get it repaired but they tell me they don’t have the funds right now. The van’s parked over there in the third row. I gotta get back inside in case there’s a call.

No problem. Just open the gate for me.

Repley walked to the van, opened the creaking door, sat down and turned the key. Nothing. He opened the hood and checked the battery terminals. One was loose. He jiggled the cable until it became tight. Then he re-entered the van, started the engine, waited for his friend to open the gate, and drove out of the yard. In the rear-view mirror, he saw Brinker close and lock the gate.

Ten minutes later he delivered the van to where three cops, Tommy Devlin, Eddie Bremer, and Lee Howell, all dressed in black, were waiting where he had left them in his car. The three got out of Repley’s car and walked toward him as he exited the van.

Devlin held out a black-gloved hand. His lips barely moved. Took you long enough.

What the hell do you mean? It hasn’t even been half an hour.

C,mon, give me the keys. Any problems with Brinker?

Repley handed the keys to Devlin. He was a bit worried but I told him I’d have the van back in a couple hours.

You? Why didn’t you tell him we were bringing it back?

I didn’t think it mattered as long as it got returned. I think I know what you’re going to do. I want to be part of it. I don’t like Arabs any more than you guys.

Devlin walked toward the van. You don’t know nothing. Just go home. We’ll get the van back to impound before midnight.

Uh, thanks Repley, said Howell. We can handle it.

The three cops got into the van. Bremer placed his plastic bag on the passenger seat next to him. Howell carefully put his briefcase on the floor and climbed in through the sliding door. Devlin entered the driver’s side. Without the others seeing, he removed a large pistol from his left jacket pocket and put it on the floor near his feet.

Repley walked to his own car and leaned against it as he watched them drive away.

Devlin, Bremer, and Howell drove in silence to Scottsdale Road and then on to the Arab-owned SwiftStop gas station and convenience store at 82nd and Mariposa.

Bremer squirmed in the back seat. He rubbed the indented scar on his cheek where a small tumor had been removed, a gesture he performed whenever he was nervous. His strained emotional state aggravated his normally staccato speech causing him to slur words, like someone with Tourette’s Syndrome. What i’ somun sees us?

The dim street light illuminated Devlin’s sneer as he turned off the engine and reached for the driver’s door. "Don’t go getting paranoid. Won’t be long before we’ll be calling the fuckin’ area Little Arabia. We already got Little Vietnam. Once we get a few more of them ragheads to leave, the rest’ll take the hint. What the hell’re you afraid of?"

Fifteen minutes later they parked the SpeeDee delivery van in the dimly lit parking lot a few feet from the front door.

Wegonna get some free gas tonight. Bremer laughed.

Devlin glared at him. Shut your fuckin’ mouth, you idiot. You think this is some kind of joke?

The smile disappeared from Bremer’s face. Hey, whatafuck. Nobody’s here ‘cept the Arab.

Howell, who started almost every sentence with uh, whispered as he reached for the handle to open the passenger door, "Uh, this’s just like before, right? When he opened the passenger door, the heat slapped him in the face as he turned toward Devlin. The weak florescent glow from the Arab-owned convenience store illuminated the lightning logo on the side of the SpeeDee van.

Devlin, whose son had been beheaded by Muslim extremists in Iraq, muttered This’s for Billy as he stepped down from the van, slipping the pistol into his pocket. He nervously ran his hand over his mouth and the bushy, greying mustache he had grown to de-emphasize his ping-pong-ball nose.

The three men looked around, walked to the door, and stopped. They listened for traffic. There was none. Only the oily smell of asphalt assaulted their noses.

Howell, whose nickname was Indian, was often mistaken for a Navajo because of his high cheekbones, thick black hair and slightly flat face. "Uh, but I’m still worried about Guerevich."

Devlin grabbed his arm and spun him around. As he spoke, his mustache vibrated with anger. Dammit, Indian, I don’t want to hear any more about that fucking son-of-a-bitch. He’s homicide. No one here’s going to get killed.

Devlin pushed the door open. The ringing of the bell caused Faruq bin Selah to look up from his ledger. A slightly-built man barely five feet five inches tall, he saw the grey Ford van blocking the doorway through the dusty window. As the jangle of the bell from the closing door subsided, he watched the three men walk toward him, all dressed in black jeans and windbreakers, sweating under their black watch caps. They looked like delivery-men but deliveries never came at this late hour.

Apprehension crowded out his normally tranquil demeanor as he wondered why anyone would wear black clothing at night or wear jackets in the 98° heat. Trying to shrug off his concern, he hoped they just wanted cigarettes or beer.

Normally he would tell tell these men to move their van that had blocked the doorway, but he chose to say nothing. He closed at nine o’clock in less than five minutes. He knew people would use any excuse to lodge a complaint against him with the Better Business Bureau because he was Arab.

Instead he watched them and thought about going home to his rented apartment with his wife and son, so unlike the family home he had left in Aleppo, the eighteenth century Ottoman Empire courtyard estate. Although the confining walls of the two-bedroom apartment closed him and his family in like a prison cell, they could relax in safety over a late dinner of crunchy, tangy bulgur wheat and walnut salad followed by his favorite, barbecued meatballs with cherries, food that had been prepared earlier in the day for the late night meal.

Faruq watched the tallest man, Bremer, remove his black watch-cap, rub his hand over the back of his balding head, and scratched a small spot of rough skin. His dark buzz-cut hair followed the contour of his head. Replacing his cap, he rubbed the scar on his cheek which became redder because he was tense. His surgery reminded him that his wife’s twenty-year old brother had lost half his face when his Humvee rolled over a roadside bomb near Fallujah. And that after numerous plastic surgeries to rebuild his cheek and jaw bones and replace the skin, he still refused to leave his parents’ house.

Faruq’s breathing quickened and a shudder coursed through his body as he watched the three men walk around the wire racks of magazines, candy and potato chips.

Howell pointed to a stained door. Uh, that the bathroom?

When Faruq nodded, Howell walked toward the door and stopped in front of a small freezer. He raised the lid and looked at the ice cream and frozen quick-fix sandwiches. The oldest of the three, his wife had died of breast cancer three years earlier following a year of treatment by an Egypt-born Arab doctor. He sued but a medical board of inquiry found the doctor had treated her properly since she had developed stage four cancer before she sought treatment.

Watching the three men and glancing at the clock, Faruq became more anxious, hunching his shoulders, clenching and unclenching his fists. Can I help you? His words were crisp, clipped, with a typical Arabic intonation from high to low, making him sound impatient. He pointed to the clock on the wall. I am about to close for the night. I close at nine. His eyes jumped from one man to another, settling on Howell.

Howell squinted and stared back, one corner of his mouth upturned in disgust. Uh, You can’t be serious. How come you don’t stay open twenty-four hours like the Mexicans? Uh, You might miss out on a few extra dollars.

Faruq ignored the insult. He forced a smile and played along, hoping to turn the comment into a joke. I would like to but hard to get good help any more.

Bremer, swinging his plastic bag back and forth, grinned at Faruq and fired words at him. What about kids ‘nwives? They don’t work here? Isn’t that what you people do? Get your whole family working to save money? He turned to Devlin and winked. Don’t have to pay no salaries. Don’t have to pay taxes the way Americans do.

I have only one wife. I am American citizen, same as you.

Devlin folded his arms across his chest. I don’t think so. He stood at the chip rack, one hand on the top and glared at Faruq. You’ll never be just like us. We don’t wear head rags.

Glaring at Howell who stood at the counter, Faruq leaned across, the pitch of his voice rising. Do you want to buy something? I told you I am about to close.

Uh, don’t rush me. Uh, maybe I want to buy some beer or some chips. Maybe I need some gas. Uh, you don’t want to chase paying customers away, do you? That the way they do it in Arabia?

Pumps are shut down.

Howell turned to his accomplices and spoke in a mocking tone. Hey, Tommy. Uh, no gas tonight. Uh, he says he’s an American.

Faruq gritted his teeth and shook his head. He had become inured to insults over the past few years. Now fearful, Faruq spoke quietly, his voice low pitched and pleading. I am not Saudi. I am Syrian. Please. I want you to leave now.

The three men glared at him and did not move. Faruq slammed the ledger book shut and uttered each word slowly, in an insistent tone. I am closed!

Devlin put both his hands on the potato chip display rack and pushed it over, knocking the rack and the bags to the floor. Then he stomped on several bags.

What you doing? shouted Faruq. You got to pay for that.

Make me.

Faruq grabbed a two foot piece of steel pipe, rushed around the counter and took three steps toward Devlin, holding the bar in both his hands as if it were a baseball bat.

Pulling the pistol from his jacket pocket, Devlin locked his right hand around his left and aimed at the lunging Faruq. When he pulled the trigger, the shot sounded like an explosion and wrenched his shoulder back, his arm snapping into the air above his head. The slug hit Faruq just above the right eye, ripping away a chunk of his head and continuing on to imbed itself in the wood of the doorway behind him. He crumpled and fell toward Devlin, who pushed his body back. Blood sprayed on Devlin’s arms as Faruq’s body shattered the glass display case.

Now you’re closed. Permanently.

At the reverberation of the shot and the sound of splintering glass, the door to the storage room opened. Faruq’s wife Zafirah dropped her inventory clipboard and screamed, stunned by what she saw, motionless for a second. A large woman, her bulk blocked the sight of her slender twelve-year-old son Habib. Devlin turned the gun toward her. She instinctively turned her back, threw her arms around the boy and shouted, "Egry besora’a, Umar."

Three more eruptions from the pistol and she staggered into the storage room. As the sounds faded, she fell forward silently, the back of her black dress growing three crimson blossoms, her son pinned beneath her. Twenty-year-old Umar Ifthakar, who had been helping with inventory, heard her warning and scrambled behind some large boxes.

Bremer screamed. The scar on his cheek turned purple. Ohshitohshit. What the hell ‘id you do? Are you crazy? You said no one would get killed. What the hell’re wegoingtodo now?

You said he’d be alone. The son-of-a-bitch came at me with a steel pipe.

Howell bellowed. Uh, uh, uh, we were just going to rough him up like the others and get him out. You shot his wife, man. Uh, his wife!

What did you want me to do? Wait for her to call 9-1-1?

We’re fucked. No oneelse wassupposed tobehere. He alwayscloses by himself. Now we gotta find the fourcasings.

Umar heard the men shouting rapidly but fear kept him hidden. His English was good but they spoke rapidly making most of their words unintelligible. He saw Zafirah bleeding on the floor, with Habib pinned beneath her and he remained crouched in his hiding place.

Howell held his head in his hands, his voice trailing into a whine. Uh, uh, you killed his wife, man. His wife!

Devlin grabbed Howell by the shoulder. Forget the casings and pry that fuckin’ slug outta the wall.

Bremer opened his bag and snapped the lid from a can of spray paint. Too late now. We still gotta make it looklikevandalism.

Howell continued. Uh, what about the casings?

Devlin continued to shout at Howell. There aren’t any casings. This’s one of Bremer’s, an old Webley break-top. The cartridges stay put until you snap it open. He handed Howell the pistol.

Uh, like this? Howell broke open the revolver and four spent shells dropped to the tile floor, bouncing like tumblers. Shit.

That was fucking brilliant. Devlin threw his arms in the air and dropped to his knees picking up three shells from the floor in the dim light. I can’t see the fourth one.

Howell grabbed a screwdriver from beneath the counter, pried the slug from the wooden doorway and put it into his pocket. Uh, what about the slugs in her?

You want to find them?

Bremer shouted, shaking a can of black paint. I knewwe shoulda stayed outtaScottsdale.

Why? You still afraid of that hotshot Guerevich? Shut up and keep busy with that spray can.

Howell ran back out to the van and removed his briefcase. Carrying it in, he walked across the room shouting over his shoulder. Uh, don’t worry about Guerevich. He won’t do anything. He’s a Jew. Uh, like Friedman from our SAFE group. Why should he care what happens to a few fucking Arabs?

Bremer spray-painted wildly until his can sputtered air.

Kneeling down, Howell opened the case under the wall length refrigerator and attached the wires to a timer connected to a blasting cap. We got about three minutes. Let’s get the hell out of here.

The three men sprinted out and jumped into their van.

When Umar heard the bell indicating the men had left, he took a short folding ladder and placed it below the small casement window. Climbing up, he squeezed through, jumped to the ground and ran off into the night.

Devlin started the van and the three men sped away.

Howell looked back as they roared down the street. Uh, we need to get this heap back to impound.

At the sounds of the shots, a few porch lights snapped on. A house door opened as their van ripped the silence from the dark streets. Turning south on 82nd Street, they headed toward Camelback Road, where they turned west toward the Pima Freeway. When they heard the sound of the explosion, they shouted YEAH and high-fived each other.

CHAPTER TWO

Homicide detective Aaron Guerevich, a tall, ten year veteran of the Scottsdale Police Department, had spent the Friday hiking Secret Canyon in Sedona with his fiancée Ann Berendt. They made the two-hour drive back to his condo in Scottsdale just as the sun was setting. Ann had decided to spend the night at his condo rather than hers, although she had her own place a few miles from his. On the drive back, she used her cell phone to order his favorite pizza from Manny’s, vegetarian with extra cheese.

He showered as Ann set the table. After they had eaten, Ann showered and took a book to read in bed. Guerevich dozed, having fallen asleep watching one of the many police detective shows on TV, which he found both humorous and frustrating in their attempts to dramatize reality. When his cell phone played the first eleven notes of Hatikvah, the Israeli National Anthem, and buzzed against the top of the small wooden table next to his overstuffed chair, he opened his eyes and shook the sleep from his head. His LED wall clock glowed a red nine-thirty. Because it was Friday night, he thought about his father, Dovid, who would not pick up a phone on the sabbath. In that and many other religious concepts, he had strong disagreements with his father. No religious Jew would call Dovid on Friday night or Saturday until the evening. Dovid would not use a phone until three stars were visible in the Saturday night sky, indicating shabbat, the holiest day of the week, had passed. Shabbos Dovid would have called it, using the old Eastern European Askenazi pronunciation.

Guerevich did not observe the sabbath in the traditional way he had as a young yeshiva student living at home. He no longer wore a kepaw, except when he was in the synagogue. On rare occasions when he said morning prayers, he didn’t wear tefillin. It had been many years since he had wrapped his right arm and fingers with the black leather band and attached the box of the shel yad to his bicep, or placed the partitioned box of the shel rosh above his forehead.

He believed that his role as a police detective in a modern American society prevented him from the nearly isolated life that was necessary to live according to strict interpretation of Jewish law. Guerevich had long ago accepted the idea that for most Jews in America today, the sabbath, Saturday, had become just another day of the week. Like a chunk of stone rolling down a hill, its edges, once sharply defined, had become rounded.

Guerevich picked up his cell phone and flipped it open. Guerevich here. As he said his name, several thoughts flashed through his mind. It was too early in the evening for the really bad things. Bar room fights. Stabbings. Violent death. He listened to the tinny voice of the dispatcher and almost shouted his surprised response. What? A bombing? Oh my God. How many people? Where? He reached for his pad and pen, always on the table next to his chair, and he scribbled down the address. Right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.

He snapped his phone shut and walked into the bedroom. Ann had fallen asleep reading after the long day. He was glad she had not turned off the light on the night table.

She woke as he slid open the closet door and grabbed a pair of navy blue slacks and a white shirt from hangars.

What’s wrong?

He answered as he changed, dropping his jean shorts and tee shirt on the floor and slipping into slacks and short-sleeve collared shirt. There’s been a bombing and a fire at a convenience store. A couple of people killed, maybe more.

I better get ready as well.

No need to rush. I’ll call you once the place is secured. I’m afraid you and your forensics team will have plenty to do later.

He had no time for a tie as he pulled a jacket from a hanger and clipped his holster to his belt. After tossing his slippers into a corner of his closet, he pulled a pair of black socks from the top dresser drawer and sat on his side of his bed to put them on. He slipped on his black shoes which he pulled from under the bed. Then he reached to the night table, unlocked the drawer and removed his Colt SF-VI .38 caliber detective special. After checking to see that it was loaded, he holstered it.

Ann stood, slipped a loose robe over her pajamas and walked toward the closet. So much for a leisurely breakfast and a relaxing day tomorrow at the Phoenix Art Museum.

He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurried to the front door, stopping as he opened it. He rushed back to his dresser to retrieve the glasses which he had recently begun to wear. Ann stood next to the bed, her navy blue slacks and shirt with the word FORENSICS stenciled on the back spread across it.

She smiled at Guerevich as he took his glasses from the dresser and put them on. They make you look so much more intelligent. Did you make coffee?

No. There’s still some in the pot from this morning that you can nuke.

Call me so I can let my team know what’s going on.

He paused at the bedroom doorway and turned back to her. Right. Why the hell would someone want to blow up a convenience store?

Why do people do anything violent?

As he jogged to his car, the night air smelled of dry dust and heat. He unlocked the door, put his red bubble on the roof and backed his car from his parking space. Dropping the gear lever into drive, he sped off into the night, thinking about the Morrow Building in Oklahoma City, where he had lost a friend and tried to imagine the devastation he didn’t want to see.

CHAPTER THREE

The briefcase bomb explosion at the SwiftStop broke windows in the nearest houses