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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

HAMMURABI’S DAGGER

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Published by Sea King Press, Corona del Mar, California seakingpress@gmail.com

Cover Design: Baypointe Graphics

First Print Edition 2012

First eBook Edition 2014

eISBN 978-0-9887118-0-8

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I began writing this book in the early 1990s, veered off to write a few short stories, and continually avoided finishing the book. Throughout this time, my dear friend Ruth Silver encouraged me to go back and do it. I am grateful for her persistent encouragement. I also want to thank my friends Barry Michaelson and Dennis Klarin for trying to tempt me to complete it by promising investments. With Barry it was 37 cents up front; with Dennis, a percentage after 100,000 are sold. Such optimism! I extend thanks to Judy Artunian who completed the first edit, providing all the punctuation I carelessly left out, and to Nancy Rayl for her constructive comments. My sincere gratitude goes to my wife, Judy, a writer herself, for her attempt at a final edit and for, after giving up, finding me the talented editor Anne Marie Welsh who did an excellent job when, by this time, my tired old eyes no longer permitted me to work the text. And finally, my thanks to my daughter Beth, son Bryan, family and friends who have waited patiently all these years for it to be published.

THREE WEEKS IN SEPTEMBER

In the early twentieth century, a German former patent clerk named Albert Einstein, using a concept called quantum physics, developed the universal theory of relativity. It forever changed human concepts of space and time. Until then, the popular premise was that present time was only NOW: The past existed in history, the future only in imagination. Einstein changed that.

Some scholars, many of them physicists, now liken time to a circular dimension in which past and future continue to flow like energy waves, but on different circular tracks and in a dimension separate from the present. They insist these energy waves bend and, at times, warp. They hint at a phenomenon called parallel universes, where similar but separate dimensions exist side by side.

A small minority of these scholars ardently believes that the fabric surrounding those separate dimensions can be penetrated and that time travel in either direction is possible. For some inexplicable reason there are a few people who can, for an infinitesimal breath of time, perceive the past as momentary reality or actually glimpse the future. These people, and we know not how or why, are somehow able to pierce the veil, and if only briefly, make the trip.

In Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in early fall of 1955, a series of strange events occurred which have never been satisfactorily explained. These events involved a number of people. Most of the individuals concerned deny to this day that anything out of the ordinary ever happened. They laugh at the popular myth that the old county jailhouse had spawned the phenomenon. The jailhouse was a forbidding, Victorian stone fortress, since torn down. This citadel of justice blocked the western exit to the downtown area and for decades inhibited commercial development.

A few old-time Pittsburghers claim that some of the black sandstone bricks in the northern wall of the jailhouse were imported from the Holy Land and were actually a part of the ancient wall of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. They point as proof to the huge brass plate on the northern wall on which is inscribed the complete text of the Ten Commandments. Some of the more senior guards still talk of restless souls that roamed the old county prison: spirits of those, they say, who died in terrible agony and suffering during the great siege of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. Most realists chuckle at this kind of ridiculous talk.

But notwithstanding the skeptics and the irreligious scoffers, the fact remains that for three weeks in September 1955, time seemed to stand still and a mystery unfolded, many aspects of which, over half a century later, remain unsolved.

It began during the stifling heat of late August. The last gasp of what had been a particularly muggy summer held the city in a suffocating grip. On a Monday morning, Pittsburghers awoke to a Post Gazette headline that chilled even the most cold-blooded and heartless among them.

A dual murder had occurred at the Carnegie Museum. Two guards had died in what reporters were calling a ruthless sacrificial murder.

CHAPTER 1

THE FIRST WEEK, EARLY SEPTEMBER 1955
THE CARNEGIE MELLON MUSEUM, PITTSBURGH

On a pleasant Saturday afternoon in early September, a group of faithful parishioners from a nearby Catholic church attended an outing at the local Carnegie Museum. They were led by a priest whose forte was liturgical history. An assistant curator who was introduced as an archeologist, an expert on early Middle Eastern history, accompanied him. The group focused their attention on early Christian artifacts. Most of the items were on loan from the British Museum and had come from Mesopotamia, an area known in ancient history as the Fertile Crescent. This was where Western recorded history is deemed to have originated.

Among the visitors was Sal Dematteo, a young Italian-American lawyer. He wandered, completely bored, with the church group among the rows of glass cases. His mind jumped from football to his latest forays in the legal arena, to the marvelous sexual experience of the night before with his wife. He dutifully followed her, as she listened raptly to the priest and the curator who explained in copious detail the symbolic meanings of the many carved vessels and finely wrought jewelry they were viewing. At times, he watched her body. He thoroughly enjoyed the way it moved. Two-thousand-year-old pieces of junk failed to distract him. But Catherine’s presence was enough to stimulate more immediate senses. The lawyer was totally unaware that he was being observed closely by a large, rather stout man wearing almost impenetrable glasses and a heavy plaid sweater—excess clothes for such a warm day.

The curator had paused at one of the glass exhibit cases. He began recounting the story of one of the artifacts. The case housed a gold dagger with a sapphire on the handle. “This is a ceremonial dagger, steeped in legend and mysticism, a priceless object,” he said. “It is reputed to have originally belonged to the famous Babylonian lawgiver, Hammurabi, a gift of tribute from the King of Lydia.” He leaned closer to the case. “It left a bloody trail across ancient history that ended with the fall of Jerusalem in the year 70 of the Common Era. For several centuries it had resided in the Holy of Holies sanctuary in the Hebrew temple in Jerusalem.”

He went on to say that Cyrus, the great Persian emperor, gave it to the Jewish high priest when the Jewish tribes were permitted to return from exile in Babylonia.

“During the great Jewish war of the first century C.E.,” he continued, glancing at his audience to determine interest, “after the Romans destroyed and sacked Herod’s temple, it disappeared. It mysteriously turned up in 1850 in a shop in Damascus where it was purchased by a Lord Carrington for the British Museum. If anyone is interested in the tale of this bloody dagger, it is a part of my Ph.D. thesis,” the curator closed with a smile. “Don’t fail to read it, folks. It should be published within a few months.”

As the lawyer absentmindedly gazed at the dagger it seemed to take on an inordinate bright gleam. For a few seconds he thought it actually flickered as if illuminated by some inner fire. He blinked his eyes. The brilliant light was gone. And just as quickly, the incident was completely lost to his conscious mind. To a person whose prime interests were criminal law, sports, his family and sex with his wife, ancient history had little if any connection with his life.

The stout man also stopped by the same case and stared at the dagger for several minutes, perhaps infatuated by its glow. His eyes followed the lawyer when he went outside on the balcony and lit a cigarette. The stout man continued to scrutinize the lawyer for some time through a large plate glass door. Then he wheeled around and left the area.

As the lawyer puffed on the cigarette his eyes fastened on a large statue of a marching soldier in the center of the spacious plaza below, a hero from a long-past war. For the wink of an eye he saw a long line of marching soldiers, clad in armor with gleaming spears and swords. This massive force covered the entire plaza. At the far end he saw a great victory arch. Behind it loomed the magnificent pillared Temple of Jupiter. Soldiers in the lines were shouting in unison, words that sounded like “Hail Titus.” With a shrug of his head he idly dismissed this brief visual interlude.

Too damned much religion for one day, he thought. He was interrupted by a familiar voice. It was his wife. She advised him that the tour was over and it was time to leave. In less than an hour he would pop his first beer of the day.

CHAPTER 2

A FEW DAYS BEFORE, ON THE LAST MONDAY IN AUGUST
PITTSBURGH

The Pittsburgh Metropolitan combined law enforcement committee met on the last Monday in August. An executive member of each agency, a rank and file force member who had a current and important case, and a couple of lawyers from the county District Attorney’s office attended.

The committee was the brainchild of Captain Andy Seiler who believed that if the various area law enforcement entities communicated and exchanged information on a regular basis, it might improve the quality and effectiveness of law enforcement in Allegheny County. It was a radical idea that Andy had implemented while a lieutenant in the military police in Germany in 1945. His idea had been strongly resisted by the old guard in the police force, but the new mayor—an anomaly in the political community who was not, to the surprise of the stultified hierarchy, immune to new ideas—had backed Andy’s idea.

This morning they were meeting in the FBI office in the Federal Building. The windows in the small conference room were wide open. The air conditioning was broken and the August humidity was at its normal sweltering end of the summer high. Coats were hung on the back of chairs, guns were hung on hooks on the wall, ties were open at the collar and some of the more portly attendees were already beginning to sweat.

Bert Williams, FBI Special Agent in charge of the Pittsburgh office, had just made a presentation on the ten most wanted criminals and finished a short briefing on the local Communist party activities. Some of the group was nodding off and others smothered yawns.

Andy Seiler, chairing the meeting, gulped a glass of ice water and called on Ed Flaharty, a senior detective from the Oakland district. Ed looked like a cop. His blonde, closely cropped hair, slim spare body and face like the map of Ireland marked him as a minion of the law. Ed was about to wake up the authorities. He rose and strode listlessly up to the blackboard and pulled down a rolled up relief map of the county.

“We’ve had two murders in the last two weeks. Three days apart.” His laconic pronouncement did little to stir any interest. Murder was not a stranger to this group. He pointed at a spot on the map. “Both homicides occurred here. Both were Carnegie Museum guards. Both bodies were found in the parking lot behind the museum.”

“What was it, Ed?” Larry Carter, an assistant D.A. in the county was interested. “Robbery? Museum guards, they never have any valuables on them. These guys earn nothing.”

“Not robbery. Their wallets were intact.”

“Then what?” chimed in Marvin Marx, another county D.A. “Random murders, some nut have it in for museum guards?”

“I might agree with that premise except for one key point,” said Flaharty.

“Okay, Ed, don’t keep us in suspense.” Jerome Becker, a sergeant from Andy Seiler’s elite Metro force and the only black member of the group, had a quizzical look on his face. “What’s peculiar about these killings? You got something odd going on here?”

Jerome was well known for his remarkable intuition. It had propelled him from a beat cop to a Metro sergeant in five short years.

“Both men were killed by a very sharp, thin knife, like an ice pick.”

“Okay,” nodded Marx. “So it’s the same guy.”

“Worse, both corpses had one wound in the back of the neck, in the exact same spot and both corpses were in the same position, flat on their backs, with their arms folded across their chest,” said Flaharty.

“Jesus,” muttered Jerome, “ritual murders.”

“Ritual murders,” echoed Marvin Marx.

After the meeting, Larry Carter and Marvin Marx walked out together. They stopped to chat with Mike Cormier, the Assistant Federal D.A.

“What’s your take?” queried Cormier. “Murder cult?”

“Possibly,” agreed Marx.

“Sounds like a fairy tale to me.” Carter chuckled. “You guys are reading too many mystery stories. Some crazy with an ice pick. Not our problem till they find the guy.”

The other two men shrugged.

Jerome Becker, his six-foot-three frame towering over Ed Flaharty, was most concerned about the incidents. He accompanied Flaharty down the stairs where they stopped at the small snack bar in the lobby and got coffee.

Jerome put two dashes of cream in his coffee. “I like it white,” he quipped.

“I like mine black,” Flaharty smiled. “Jerome, what the hell do you think?”

“Don’t have to be a brain surgeon. It has to do with the museum.”

“That’s what I think.”

“Let’s put an undercover man out there.” Becker blew on his coffee. “Harry Abrams is perfect. He could pose as anyone, from a plumber to a senior curator.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Flaharty. “Best cover would be to make him a guard.”

“Good idea. He’ll be in place tomorrow.”

The two men shook hands. Becker looked around for the parking elevator. He spotted it. An afterthought occurred to him. “Checked out the roster of former guards yet?”

“We’re working it,” Flaharty said. “Nothing yet.”

Ed Flaharty headed for the front lobby door. Outside he ran into Marvin Marx. His face was tilted upward in a curious posture, gazing at the front façade of the Federal Building.

“Look at that statue of the eagle. Looks like it’s ready to fly away.” He glanced at Flaharty. “What are you guys doing about the museum thing?”

“We’re putting an undercover guy out there.” Flaharty tried to catch his words. If you told people you had someone undercover at a site, then chances are the guy’s cover would be blown. “This is confidential, you understand.”

“Sure, sure,” agreed Marx. “Mum’s the word.”

As Flaharty walked slowly up Seventh Avenue toward the police parking lot, he was acutely aware of the humidity. He also felt uneasy. He had just violated cardinal police procedure. He told an outsider about an undercover operation. True, the guy was a D.A., but lawyers talked too much. Well, probably no harm done. As he rounded the corner Marx was still staring upward at the winged sculpture. What the hell, Flaharty thought, is so damn interesting about that bird?

CHAPTER 3

THE FIRST WEEK, EARLY SEPTEMBER 1955
PITTSBURGH OFFICE OF ANTONIO SALVATORE DEMATTEO

The Grant Building stood like a giant sentinel overlooking the Allegheny River. It defiantly faced Mount Washington and proclaimed proudly that it was the tallest building in the city of Pittsburgh. In 1955, with the Westinghouse KDKA antenna astride its pinnacle, it had no peer in the Golden Triangle.

Antonio Dematteo stared silently out the grimy window of his fifteenth-floor office. Rain splashed against the window, a steady staccato that hypnotized him as he watched the late afternoon commuters crawl along Grant Street toward the Boulevard of the Allies and the Liberty Bridge. Their headlights, moving at a barely perceptible pace in the gathering dusk, were like predatory monsters seeking helpless victims. The day was warm; the penetrating chill that perennially pervaded the city as winter approached was still absent. The inhabitants of the Steel City could look forward to at least a month of Indian Summer before gloom, dirt-covered slush and clumsy galoshes intruded on their lives.

Sal, as he was called by his friends, or Antonio Salvatore, as his diminutive, sainted mother had named him, should have been concentrating on the Feeney case, but he was clearly preoccupied. Tom Feeney, a guy from the neighborhood, had been charged with second-degree murder. A brawl in a bar, and somehow somebody died from a blow to the head; he’d been struck by a beer bottle that shattered his skull. Tom’s brother, Jack, a good friend, had called him to take the case. He never liked Tom, too volatile and stupid, a prize asshole. But, there were some cases you had to take.

Father O’Malley had called, too. “You’re not supposed to like your clients,” he pontificated. “Just defend them to the best of your ability. He’s from the neighborhood.”

What the hell was so sacred about the neighborhood? A few square miles of substandard housing, where a motley assortment of human beings of diverse origin lived, worked, made love, bore babies, got sick, prayed, argued, laughed, cried, urinated and died. It was the six-foot-two frame of Father O’Malley towering over the neighborhood that made the difference. He was a giant guardian of the faith who converted the area into a special parish.

There were things he had to do. Get Abe Fulton to investigate. Get statements from the witnesses before the D.A. got to them. Call Cavanaugh at the clerk’s office to see if he could get the right judge for the bail hearing. The cigarette in his left hand had a half-inch of ash on the end. He needed to turn on a light, but he couldn’t rouse himself. It had just happened again. It was happening more and more frequently. At first, there were very brief flashes that crossed his conscious mind, only at night. He thought they were dreams, random without rhyme or reason. Then recently they were interrupting his thoughts, invading his conscious mind. Events that had no relationship to his life or to anything he had ever experienced. Troubling, violent scenes, shouting, screaming in strange languages that, to his shock, he understood.

What the hell was happening? Was he cracking up?

There was no insanity in his family. He had served in Korea but his unit, a signal corps company, had seen little action. He returned a first lieutenant. He suffered no ostensible trauma. He sat for the Pennsylvania bar exam and passed the first time. He married Catherine Kowalczyk, a nice Northside Polish-Catholic girl, and in two years had bred a daughter. He joined in a law partnership with two guys from school and built a fairly thriving law practice. He played softball, drank and smoked moderately, was in a Friday night poker club and went to church on Sundays. He loved his Polish wife. His sex life was good and his daughter was flourishing.

Sal’s father, Frank Dematteo, a plumbing contractor, raised his two boys and a daughter as strict Catholics. Frank had city connections and got contracts. He was participating in the American dream. His mother, Angela Dematteo, was a decent woman who loved her religion and her children. She was a great cook. Initially she had doubts about Catherine, but she resolved them by assuring herself that Catherine, while not a nice Italian girl, was a nice Catholic girl. All totaled, Antonio S. Dematteo had a functional childhood and a normal, balanced family life.

The dreams, or delusions or whatever the hell they were, had begun a couple of weeks ago. At first, not very often. Last week, while on the courthouse steps, something strange, almost chilling, had occurred. He had argued a discovery motion before Judge Caplan. It had gone pretty well. He was leaving the courthouse and found himself in what appeared to be an open plaza of some sort. There were statues and stone columns at the front of the courthouse. There were people in strange clothing that draped over them like curtains. They were speaking a foreign language, which he recognized but couldn’t place. He remembered there were horses and buggies—no they were chariots—driving along on Grant Street. But it wasn’t Grant Street. The vision was fleeting and passed. He was sure he had imagined it. Maybe a flashback from a movie. He tried to shrug it off.

Then, twice more, something similar happened. The second incident was the most vivid and disturbing. It had happened this afternoon. Sal was sitting in his office reviewing some statements on an embezzlement matter. A well-known bank manager had systematically looted his bank. It was a tough case, but there was fancy Fox Chapel-area money for a retainer. Sal was alone. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. He had begun staring at the clock on his bookcase. It disappeared and the office was on fire. He was in a huge burning building. There were people screaming in agony. Other people were wielding swords and spears and killing indiscriminately. He was crouched over a dying man. An old man was dressed in an ornate gold costume soaked red with his own blood. He had piercing eyes. Like hot coals. Sal was in the iron grip of this dying man. The old man spoke to him in an unfamiliar language. But the voice was loud and commanding and he understood. He was being given an order, a direct command, to kill someone. It sounded as if the man had said, “You must kill your brother!” The vision faded.

Less than four minutes had passed. The clock read 3:04. Sal, dizzy, and damp with sweat, shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. He went outside the office. The waiting room was empty. Janet and Margie, their two secretaries, were both typing. Janet looked up. “Hi, Mr. Dematteo, you okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I must be getting the flu. I’m sweating. I don’t know why.”

“Take an aspirin, you will feel better.” She smiled.

“Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head again.

Sal went to the water cooler and took a long drink. He resolved to talk to somebody. But who? Father O’Malley? It’s not likely he would understand. A psychiatrist, maybe, but he’ll think I’m nuts. Maybe I am. But I know this is happening. My brother? Fat chance that goof could suggest anything positive. Anyway, his brother was off somewhere flying jets for the Air Force. He settled on David Gold, his partner. But the time had to be right. Maybe it would go away or stop or something. Maybe he needed an exorcist! What made him think of an exorcist? He went back into his office and stood at the window.

Sal and David had been friends and neighbors for many years. They had gone to Pitt law school together and cemented their close friendship in their first year. With Ed Finneran, another classmate, they formed a study group that had survived three grueling years of law school. David was a good kid with a sense of humor and a sharp business mind. They nursed each other through school. All three passed the bar the first time. Sal’s mother liked David. He was a nice Jewish boy and he loved her meatballs. “Mrs. Demattao,” he would say, “your meatballs are from heaven, so you must be an angel.” “Oh!” she would say, “if he was only Italian, he’d be a real catch for my daughter Josephine.”

The insistent buzzing in his ear demanded his attention. It awoke him from his reverie. He flipped on the intercom. “Yes, what is it, Janet?”

“It’s your wife.”

“Thanks, uh, is Mr. Gold in the office?”

“Yes, he’s here.”

“Good, you about ready to leave?” He noticed it was five o’clock. The electric clock provided a beacon of light in what he now realized was a dark room. He had lost almost two hours in a deep and concentrated stream of consciousness. A whole afternoon and no recollection of any logical thoughts. Just a mass of confused disorder.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I’m out of here. By the way, I buzzed you a couple of times and you didn’t answer. I have a couple of messages for you. I figured you were busy. Nothing urgent. Need anything else?”

“No, thanks, Janet. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Oh right, uh, see you Monday. Have a nice weekend.”

“Thanks.”

He flipped to Catherine. “Hi honey, how are you?” He listened and nodded. “Makes sense. Poker game has been called off. I’ll see you in about an hour. Love ya, kid. Kiss the baby.”

Sal hung up and looked at her picture. A smiling, well-endowed girl with blue eyes and short blonde hair. Three hard-ass beer drinking brothers, but she was their antithesis. A good mother and a loyal wife. What the hell was his problem? Why was this stuff happening? What if it manifested itself in court or in bed during sex? Was he possessed? Did he really need a priest? My God, where are these people from? Who are they?

He went through the deserted waiting room and knocked lightly on David’s door. “Hey, David, you there?”

“I don’t know,” came the answer. “It’s Friday night and I’m in the Oliver Grill drinking a martini. Come on in.”

Sal pensively opened the door and stepped into David Gold’s half-darkened office.

CHAPTER 4

THE FIRST WEEK
OFFICE OF DAVID GOLD, PITTSBURGH

In 1955, Pittsburgh was a typical Midwest industrial town. The city was perched at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers, where the Ohio River began its long, weary journey, via the Mississippi River, to New Orleans and the sea. The river was lined with legions of smokestacks that daily belched choking fire and smoke, the product of giant sites that boasted names like Carnegie/Illinois and Jones & Laughlin.

During World War II, untold tons of steel had poured out of these factories to feed a war machine that needed tanks, airplanes, guns, ships, jeeps and weapons in quantities so vast that in 1940 the first American draftees, who drilled with broomsticks and dropped practice flour bombs on simulated tanks, could not in their most exaggerated dreams have imagined. Pittsburgh was a melting pot of eastern and western European culture. There were Eastern Orthodox Greeks, Slavs and Russians; Germans, Pollacks, Italians, Czechs and Irish Catholics, every manner and facet of the Protestant church, and Jewish synagogues and temples dotting the city. There were the white Baptists in Mt. Lebanon and the black Baptists in the Hill district.

The city was blessed with the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball team and the Pitt Panthers football team everybody loved. Then there was the new postwar professional team called the Steelers; everyone wanted to love them, too, but had their doubts.

The city had electric streetcars that charged up and down the main avenues. Noisy monsters that shook and clanked and carried tired workers to and from the downtown area. A couple of miles east of the University of Pittsburgh, Andrew Carnegie had generously endowed a small prestigious school called the Carnegie Institute of Technology. It adjoined the Carnegie Museum, which was housed in a sprawling, two-story, stone building, and had achieved world-class status. It boasted a well-stocked public library and a spectacular range of exhibits that carried visitors through a time tunnel that began with the Mesozoic dinosaur age and ended with the technological wonders of the twentieth century.

Into this historic city inhabited by a vibrant and varied mass of humanity, on June 23rd 1926, three years before the Great Depression wrecked the economy, a son, David Martin Gold, was born to Myra and Samuel Gold. He was named David after his paternal grandfather and Martin after his mother’s dominant and imposing father.

While growing up David was an enigma to his family. A kid with an irrepressible urge to joke around, he was constantly being disciplined in school. In short, he was the class clown and neither Myra nor Samuel appreciated this role for their son. Both were serious people. David grew up in what was characterized as a Jewish neighborhood. Those “other people,” as they were called by his grandmother, were regarded with suspicion and dread. It was a sad legacy from Eastern Europe. However, his viewpoint changed drastically in junior high school when he sat next to a kid named Coletta. They became close buddies. In 1942, an Italian family named Dematteo moved down the street. A boy, one year older than David, and two sisters—both of whom liked the little husky Jewish kid with his wacky humor—became his friend. David’s friendship with Salvatore Dematteo was a close one. For several years he was invited to spend Christmas Eve with the Dematteo family. He ate ham and ravioli and drank “dago red” wine. Josephine, Sal’s youngest sister, would embarrass him with kisses under the mistletoe. At fifteen, David had a definite longing for Josephine, which often manifested itself at home in bed. This also deeply embarrassed him. He liked Italians. They were like a second family to him and the girls were uninhibited, or so it seemed.

Becoming a lawyer had been an afterthought. In 1950, through luck, he had avoided a short and miserable career as a rifleman in Korea by joining an Air National Guard unit, the 112th, which was not called to Federal service. In 1951 he entered the University of Pittsburgh law school. A year later his friend Sal returned from Korea and also registered in the same class. Sal and David stumbled through two more years of agonizing study, both expecting to be washed out each semester. It never happened. They kept averting disaster by two or three percentage points. David and Sal graduated and sat for the Pennsylvania bar examination. While working as a clerk typist for his Air Guard unit, David was advised in a random telephone call from a friend that his name was in the local legal journal under a heading titled “Passed the 1954 Bar.” Sal’s name was also, mercifully, on the same list. A few months later, Sal and David formed a law firm with Ed Finneran. The three men addressed different areas of the law and proved to be a trio who complemented each other in a number of ways, including temperaments, contacts and clients.

Sal entered the office of David Gold. Short, at 5-foot-8-inches, with a stocky body and feet outstretched on the desk, he was smoking a rather large cigar. David was reading a newspaper, his face swathed in a swirl of smoke. He continued to stare at the paper.

“Did you know,” he said, “that Skinny Reagan might get indicted? The crazy bastard has been kiting checks at his law firm. What is wrong with these guys? Are they losing it?”

“I hadn’t heard,” Sal retorted tersely.

“How’s the Feeney case?” Nose still buried in the paper. “Walter’s little brother was always a loser. You know some guys are just headed for—”

“David, I need to talk to you.” Sal sounded a bit urgent. “Not about the Feeney case.”

David quickly glanced up. “What’s up, Sal?”

Sal was lighting a cigarette. “I need to counter that cigar. It’s a foul piece of shit. It smells bad and it pollutes the air.” Sal nervously fumbled with his matches.

David smiled. “It’s the result of oral deprivation. My mother put me on the bottle too soon. Ask Dr. Freud, he agrees with me.”

Then he noticed Sal’s apprehensive demeanor. “Something on your mind, counselor? What is going on?”

“Look,” Sal blurted out, “do you believe in past lives? Do you think that we may have lived before? Do you think it’s possible to get flashbacks or visions or…” Sal was almost frantic in his speech.

David stopped him. “Sure, Sal, I also believe Dorothy went over the rainbow, Ike Eisenhower will convert to the Democratic party and Irish leprechauns are really green.”

“David, I’m serious. Please just shut up and listen,” Sal shot back.

David Gold put his feet on the floor, dropped the newspaper on his desk, placed his cigar carefully on a large ashtray and concentrated on the agitated face of his friend. “Okay, Sal,” he said evenly. “Just calm down. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I don’t know. I have been experiencing some kind of visions or hallucinations. They just happen and I don’t understand why or what is going on.”

“Dreams?”

“No, they happen during the day sometimes. I had one this afternoon. They last for a few minutes. It’s like I get transported to another place.”

“Jesus,” muttered David, “are you serious? Any trouble at home?”

“No! Catherine’s an angel.”

“I agree, you got the best looking and best wife in the office.”

“You’re not married, David, neither is Finneran.”

“I know, Sal, but if we were, you would still have the best looking wife in the office.”

David kept looking at Sal intently, trying to snap him back to reality.

Sal slumped into a chair. “David, for several weeks I have been having glimpses into God knows where. It’s beginning to happen more often. I had an incident this afternoon at three o’clock. It lasted four minutes. Then I stared out the window for two hours. I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Have you discussed this with anyone else?”

“No, no one. I’ve thought about a psychiatrist or Father O’Malley.”

“Can you describe one of these incidents to me?”

“Well, this afternoon … for Christ’s sake don’t laugh or I’ll punch your lights out!”

David was not smiling. “I assure you I will give you my undivided attention.”

David was concerned. He knew his friend well enough to recognize some grave symptoms. Sal Dematteo was not yanking his chain. Something was disturbing him. Maybe more than disturbing, frightening was a more accurate description. My God, he thought, Sal is really scared.

“Well, I believed I was in a burning building. A huge structure with great stone pillars. There was a lot of killing going on, a terrible massacre.”

“What kind of weapons?” David asked. The cross-examiner was taking over.

“Spears, swords, daggers, some of the soldiers carried shields. I was crouched over a dying old man dressed in a flowing ornate costume. But it was soaked in his blood.”

“How do you know he was dying?”

“I could see it in his eyes. They were angry, blazing with fury. Like a light bulb about to burn out.” Sal was getting caught up. “He was shouting a command at me. He had my arm in a vise grip. I couldn’t break loose. I tried.”

“You mean you could actually feel him?”

“Yes.”

“How about the fire?”

Sal’s voice cracked. “I could feel the fire. It was like a torch on my skin.”

“Tell me what he said.” David felt his flesh tingle. Sal was back in the burning building. He had better get him out.

Sal was staring into space. “He spoke in a foreign language but I understood him. He said my brother was a traitor. He ordered me to avenge his terrible act. God wills it. I have to kill him with a dagger. He gave me a dagger, recited a prayer in the same strange language and then he died.”

“Can you describe the dagger?”

Sal didn’t hesitate even to contemplate the question. “Yes, it was unusual—gold, with an intricate design and a blue jewel on the handle where you grip it.”

“Do you remember the prayer?”

“Not completely, but the first two words were… Let’s see. They were something like ‘Muh isrol’.”

David Gold suddenly felt very cold. “Sal, are you sure?”

“Yes, God dammit, I am sure. You know something, David, don’t you?” Sal was gazing directly at David’s face. “What is it? Tell me!”

David sighed. “Were the words shamah yisroel adonoy elohenu adonoy echod?”

“Yeah!” shouted Sal. “That’s it, David. My God, how did you know? What language is that? What does it mean?”

David rose and slowly went to the window. Far below the late afternoon gloom had become early evening darkness. The rain had become a soft patter. He gazed at the street, fifteen floors below, where hundreds of late shoppers and office workers congregated at the streetcar stops. There was a sea of umbrellas. In the lights of the city these moving forms were creeping shadows. They were ordinary people who led mundane lives. They would go home and eat Friday night dinner, grateful that tomorrow was not a workday. The young girls would get dressed and wait for their dates or their girlfriends. They would look forward to an evening at the movies or smoking cigarettes and drinking highballs at a nearby bar. The young guys would do what young guys do: drink beer, play poker or try to get screwed. Their parents would relax by the radio or their new toy, a television set. Their concerns were simple: jobs, romance, having fun, paying bills, sickness, health or crying babies. That was the sum total of life, wasn’t it? Not visions or hallucinations. He felt certain theirs was the real world. A few feet away, behind him, Sal waited.

David Gold rubbed his chin. For the first time in his life he had heard something that truly startled him, no, more than startled him. He felt the compelling draw of an ancient force that echoed through the ages. How could this man have heard this prayer? How could he describe this knife in such profuse detail? The product of an Italian Catholic family, a hardheaded kid who grew up brawling on the streets. The son of a building contractor with suspected mob connections. He couldn’t grasp the scenario. It was just too bizarre, plain impossible.

“Sal, do you know or have you ever studied Hebrew?”

“No,” Sal answered emphatically, “never. I never heard a Hebrew word spoken let alone studied it. I was never in a Jewish synagogue. I don’t know a word of Hebrew.”

“Sal, what you just repeated was the holiest of the holy prayers of the ancient Hebrews. Translated it means ‘Hear O Israel, The Lord Is God, The Lord Is One’.”

“I knew that,” rasped Sal. “I knew it before you said it.”

CHAPTER 5

THE FIRST WEEK, SATURDAY
PITT STADIUM

Pitt Stadium was a huge concrete bowl, perched on a hill, overlooking the city of Pittsburgh. It was at the end of a steep street, almost vertical, called Chesterfield Road. In the fall, during football season, thousands of fans who wouldn’t pay the parking fee of three dollars or didn’t want to get trapped in the after-the-game traffic jam trooped up the hill to watch their beloved Panthers engage in a slam bang, gladiatorial contest with a team from another Big Ten university. Today, the game of games was being unveiled. The University of Pittsburgh’s famed Panthers vs. the vaunted Pennsylvania State Nittany Lions, an ancient rivalry of two football giants.

Catherine Dematteo was an avid football fan. It was one of the traits that Sal loved about his wife. This usually gentle girl would get so involved that certain ordinarily prohibited, graphically descriptive words would unabashedly flow forth from her. Her eyes would get slightly wild and, when the home team scored a touchdown, she would rise to her feet and excitedly beat on Sal’s head. Her conduct was probably the result of being raised with three brothers, two of whom played football in both high school and college. Her older brother, Stan, had guarded left tackle for the University of Pittsburgh for three bruising years.

On this clear, brisk fall afternoon, Catherine was in a particularly hyper state. The Pitt marching band, with military precision, made its usual stirring entrance. French horns, trumpets, tubas and drums blasted the air. The “Star Spangled Banner” was broadcasting its moving patriotic message. The kickoff was about to take place. Catherine was so intent on the game that she failed to notice Sal’s extremely restrained state. He had been distant and aloof the night before, but she attributed it to the fatigue of a busy week, a caseload that included the difficult Feeney murder case in which Father O’Malley had taken a personal interest.

Penn State won the toss and elected to kick off. The whistle blew, the ball sailed into the air and eleven human Penn State tanks rolled down the field toward the Pitt team, hoping to catch the receiver of the ball and nail him permanently to the earth, with as much violence as the referees would allow.

* * * *

Sal stared intently at the field, but he wasn’t seeing a football game.

The twenty-two men on the field were assaulting each other with an assortment of weapons that included spears, nets, pitchforks and swords. One huge dark man drove a spear completely through the upper torso of another large, bearded man. The man screamed in pain and fell to the ground, a lifeless bloody body. Another heavy-set man in a leopard skin hovered over a fat older man with a large broadsword over his head, poised to strike the other, who cowered in fear and shielded his face with his hands. The executioner paused and looked to the audience for guidance. The exultant onlookers in the vast stone coliseum, wild with the smell of blood, cried “Death,” almost in unison, thumbs on both hands clearly pointing downward. It was a gesture of vengeance for this warrior’s cowardly performance.

A hand touched him. He glanced to his right. A beautiful young woman with long flowing black hair implored him with her dark eyes to stop the slaughter. She knew he couldn’t. She whispered his name. He grasped her hand tightly and felt great empathy for her gentle, tortured soul.

* * * *

“P, I, OVER HERE! T, T, OVER HERE.” Five girls, dressed in short blue skirts, waving golden pompoms enthusiastically organized a cheer. “P I T T!” the crowd responded in unison with equal fervor.

The first quarter had ended and the teams were changing goals. The score was tied: Pitt, six; Penn State, six. Both teams had scored and aborted the extra point conversion.

Sal was aware that he had somehow missed an entire quarter. Over thirty or more minutes of his life had been somehow lost. The dark-haired girl with the straight classic features and haunting expressive eyes had turned into Catherine. Her azure blue eyes were looking at Sal with genuine concern. He was gripping her hand.

“What is it, Sal? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I feel a little funny.” He rose. “I’m going to get a drink. I’ll be right back.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just need to go to the latrine.”

“Maybe Stush should go with you.” She nudged her brother who was busy arguing with his Buddy Charley Krantz over the merits of calling a center plunge rather than an off-tackle play. Catherine nudged him again. On the third and significantly harder nudge, he turned.

“Yeah, can’t you see Charley and I are having an important discussion here?”

“It’s Sal, he doesn’t feel well and he’s going to the bathroom alone. Maybe you better go along.”

Stan looked disgusted. “Fine, I’ll hold his hand. Cathy, give him an enema and a beer when you get home and he’ll be fine.”

When she turned, Sal had already left and was hurrying up the steps toward the exit ramp. About twenty rows up, immediately above the exit ramp, smoking his characteristic cigar, he saw a comforting sight. It was David. He was laughing heartily at something Irv Greene had just said. Irv was also grinning widely. Sal climbed a couple more rows, circled the ramp and paused next to David.

“Hey, Sal,” said David, acknowledging his partner, “great game so far.”

“David,” Sal said softly in David’s ear, “it happened again.”

“Oh Christ, when?”

“A few minutes ago. I missed the entire first quarter.” Sal’s face was grim, his eyes dark, disturbed.

David Gold gripped his friend’s arm. “Hey, Sal, take it easy. I’m playing racquetball tomorrow with Max Vogel. He will help us get to the bottom of what’s going on here. But Sal, you got to promise to cooperate. Meantime, calm down, buddy. Have a beer and relax.”

The crowd was cheering wildly. Sal and David turned to watch the game. Penn State’s quarterback, Lon Chernowski, threw a long pass. Jack Felzer, Pitt’s defensive left halfback, jumped high in the air and intercepted it on the Pittsburgh ten-yard line. Feltzer made it to the twenty-five before three Nittany Lions dumped him to the turf. The ref’s whistle was blowing a shrill message that piling on had occurred and a penalty was in order. The Penn State fans had risen to their feet and were booing loudly. But their feeble protests were drowned out by the cacophony of Pitt fans who also were also on their feet, supporting both the interception and the call.

“I’ll cooperate,” promised Sal. “Whatever Max thinks I need to do.”

“Don’t worry,” called David, “help is on the way.” David watched his friend wend his way downward toward his seat.

As Sal returned to his seat, he calmed himself. Seeing and talking to David had restored him to the reality of a raucous football game.

“What’s with Sal?” asked Irv. “He looks a little shook up.”

“I wish I knew, Irving my boy. I wish I knew.” He looked forward to his racquetball game and breakfast with Dr. Vogel the following day. I hope, he reflected, Max has some good ideas. If he doesn’t, I’m damn well out of court.

Sal sat down next to Cathy and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled. His color was better. But still, something was definitely wrong. For the past week he just had not been himself. She had given it a lot of thought. There was only one person who she could talk to about this matter. Was it another woman? She had heard about things like this happening. But not so soon in the marriage. His indifference, his strange silences, his restlessness at night in bed. Perhaps she was failing as a wife. Tomorrow she would make an appointment with Father O’Malley. She knew he could help. She loved Sal so much. She was trying so hard to please him. She felt empty and frightened, as if she were peering at her husband over a deep, ominous chasm and she could not reach him.

CHAPTER 6

THE SECOND WEEK, SUNDAY

Every Sunday morning, rain, shine, snow, ice, blood or mud, Dr. Max Vogel and David Gold played racquetball at the local Y Athletic Club (provided they were both in town). After they sweated off a few calories they brunched across the street at the Webster Hall Hotel and added far more calories than they had shed. It was David’s concession to luxury dining after years of twenty-five cent White Castle hamburgers and canned soups. That excluded, of course, the meals his mother fed him which, he conceded, were also fatty, tasty and filling. The Y was located in the Oakland area, almost directly across the street from the University of Pittsburgh with its thirty-four story Cathedral of Learning, a massive Gothic edifice, that loomed like a phallic symbol in the cultural center of the city.

H.J. Heinz, the ketchup and pickles magnate, had erected a non-sectarian chapel next to the cathedral. Across the road loomed Carnegie Library and Museum, another notch in old Andrew Carnegie’s record give-away program, almost an apology for the dirt and smoke his steel mills had visited on the city.

Max Vogel finished drying himself and slipped into his colorful underwear. “So what is so urgent? I was planning on leaving early to have an early dinner with my mother.”

“Max, you can have dinner with your mother. She loves to cook for you. A Sunday brisket, what could be more tasty?” David was smiling broadly. “Furthermore, Dr. Vogel, I’m buying brunch. How can you pass that up?”

“I can’t,” said Vogel. “But why, Mr. Lawyer, are you spending some of your ill-gotten gains on me? I won two games today and you didn’t moan. I’m a little concerned.”

“I’ll explain,” David said soothingly. “After our first cup of coffee.”

Max shrugged. He was a patient man with a copious mind, a five-foot-six frame and a barrel chest. Four years of medical school, a year interning at the Presbyterian Hospital as the token Jew, a year as a resident trainee at the Western State Psychiatric Institute, and a widowed mother who still had the first nickel his father Morris Vogel had deposited in the bank in 1938 after he opened Morry’s Department Store. All of this had conditioned him to the eccentricities of the human temperament.

That morning Max was slightly more than hungry. His short stack of pancakes became a large stack, his usual one fried egg became two, and he ordered a side of bacon which was very unusual since he rarely ate pork.

David ordered grapefruit juice, two poached eggs, dry rye toast and a pot of coffee. He silently sipped the coffee and considered whether he should actually broach the subject to Max Vogel. “Max,” he said, making a decision that, if not Max, then who? And if not now, when?

“David, spit it out already. You are like a boiling pot about to explode. You have been like this all morning. Your racquetball game is indifferent, you’re not concentrating, you are clearly distracted, and you bought breakfast. Did you impregnate a young lady? I don’t perform abortions,” he explained. “They are illegal.”

“No, no, hell no. Max, it’s about my law partner.”

“Sal or Finneran? Who is stealing from whom? Lawyers, eh!”

“Max, this has to be in the strictest confidence.”

“Okay, Mr. Lawyer, but I don’t enjoy the same immunities as you. You’re not the patient. What is so important?”