The story about the cover-up is teased on the front page (“Hasidic House of Horrors” in white letters on a red banner) and gets three-quarters of page seven:
INSIDE THE “HASIDIC HOUSE OF HORRORS”: NYPD TURNED A BLIND EYE AS JEWISH “COPS” COVERED UP MURDER
By Rebekah Roberts and Larry Dunn
Who you gonna call? Not the NYPD.
A private security force made of members of the ultra-Orthodox Jewish community tried to keep the murder of both the infant daughter and the wife of the group’s primary benefactor under wraps-with the help of New York’s Finest.
The Tribune has learned that instead of calling 911, relatives of eight-month-old Shoshanna Mendelssohn turned to a group known as Shomrim, which means “guards” in Hebrew, to whisk the child’s body away to a Jewish funeral home and avoid an official police inquiry last year.
The child’s father, Aron Mendelssohn, 49, has donated tens of thousands of dollars to the Borough Park Shomrim. Mendelssohn’s wife, Rivka, was found dead in the family’s scrap yard along the Gowanus canal last week.
The NYPD allowed a group affiliated with Shomrim to take Rivka Mendelssohn’s body from the scene without examining it for evidence.
“It’s time for the secrets to stop,” says Malka Grossman of Mandel Memorial Funeral Home in Borough Park.
Grossman prepared both Shoshanna and Rivka Mendelssohn’s bodies for burial. In the Jewish tradition, bodies must be cleansed by a member of the same sex.
According to Grossman’s notes, obtained exclusively by the Tribune, both Shoshanna and Rivka Mendelssohn sustained blunt force trauma to the head.
Grossman says she handed her notes to Shomrim with the belief that they would be turned over to police.
But the NYPD says they never saw her notes.
“For years, top brass have let the Orthodox police themselves,” says a department official. “It’s all political. They vote in a bloc. They contribute to campaigns. They want to be left alone.”
The Borough Park Shomrim declined to speak with the Tribune.
Last year, the group received more than $25,000 in funding from the City Council.
Aron Mendelssohn has been charged with improper disposal of a body. Mendelssohn’s sister, Miriam Basya, 30, was shot by police on Tuesday after threatening an officer with a pair of scissors. Police tell the Tribune that they believe it was Basya who murdered both Shoshanna and Rivka Mendelssohn.
“There is violence in the Orthodox community, just like any community,” says Sara Wyman, founder of a Manhattan-based support group for the ex-Orthodox.
“Many would rather keep this unpleasant side from the outside world.”
Police Commissioner Donald Evans told the Tribune that, in light of the Mendelssohn case, the department planned to “clarify” the relationship between the NYPD and Shomrim.
“It’s a good story,” says Iris.
“Not exactly thorough,” I say. I’d like to write some follow-ups. Look into the “hospital” where Miriam was sent. Interview Baruch. Maybe profile Dev and Suri, and Sara Wyman. But not now.
I go to bed early, and the next morning when Iris goes to work, Tony comes over with coffee and bagels.
“How’s Darin?” I ask. “Have you seen him?”
Tony nods. “He’s okay. He’s on desk duty, but he says that’s normal after a shooting.”
“Had he ever shot anyone before?”
Tony shakes his head. I take his hand and squeeze it.
“I know you were looking out for me when you told him about Saul,” I say. “I’m sorry I got so angry.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad I did it, considering. But I’m sorry. I broke your trust.”
I smile. “Your big mouth probably saved my life.”
“Listen,” he says, “I wanted to explain about my mom.”
I almost object, but I’d like to get to know him better, and what’s going on with his mom is clearly a major part of his life.
“She isn’t always like that. She has Alzheimer’s.”
“Really? But she’s only like…”
“She’s fifty-five. It can hit you young. And she had it for two years before she told me or my sister. But she’s only been violent like that once before.” He sighs. “I’m sorry you had to see it. Once should have been enough.”
“What are you gonna do?” I ask.
“My sister’s coming down for the weekend. I don’t know. If we can do it, we might hire a part-time nurse or something. I know eventually she’ll have to go… somewhere.”
He’s looking at our hands as he talks, embarrassed.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. He looks up. “Please don’t worry about me. Let’s just call it even on mama drama, okay?”
This makes him smile. Oh Rebekah, she’s so funny.
“You have a sister?” I ask.
“I do,” he says, leaning back. “Her name Meredith. She lives in Delaware.”
My dad and Maria return to cook dinner for me and Iris. While we’re eating, my dad asks about Saul.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I haven’t,” I say.
“He called your phone,” says Iris.
“When?” I ask.
“The first couple hours. I think I sounded kind of hysterical. I meant to tell you-I’m sorry. I just forgot.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “So he’s not in jail?”
“He’s not,” says my dad. “He called me, too. He wanted to explain.”
“Why did no one tell me this?”
“I didn’t know how you’d feel,” says my dad. “I haven’t heard your side of the story.”
My side of the story. They mean, do I blame Saul for what happened. What could have happened.
“I don’t blame him,” I say. “I mean, I don’t think he thought he was putting me in danger. Maybe he should have, a little, but he was… desperate.” And he wanted to do the right thing.
After dinner, my dad asks how I would feel about him meeting up with Saul.
“Maybe just for a coffee,” he says. “I’d like him to meet Maria.”
I tell him I would feel just fine about that, and that evening, after they leave, I call Saul.
“How are you?” he asks. I can hear a bus backfire wherever he is.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m alive. I’m bald.”
“Bald?”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “Saul, I’m sorry about Binyamin. Sara told me. I wish I’d known.”
“Thank you, Rebekah,” he says. “Can I see you?”
“Yes,” I say, “my dad wanted to see you, too.”
“I’d like that.”
“But first I want you to do something for me,” I say.
“Tell me.”
“I want you to get me in to see Aron Mendelssohn.”
Silence.
“I think they’re still holding him. Disposing of a body.”
“Yes,” says Saul.
“Do you know anybody at the detention center?”
“I do,” he says.
SATURDAY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It takes almost an hour of ID checks and waving electronic wands to get into the visiting room at the detention center in Downtown Brooklyn. Aron Mendelssohn is wearing plastic slippers and jailhouse orange. He is allowed a yarmulke, but his sidecurls are straight and hang low, grazing his shoulders.
I sit across from him at a long plastic picnic table.
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say.
“You are welcome,” he says. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say, my hand going automatically to my head. I am still wearing the scarf.
“It will grow back,” he says.
“It will,” I say. “I hear you’re not talking to the police.”
He nods. “I read your article in the newspaper.”
“It doesn’t really tell the whole story,” I say.