Rabbi Moishe Hunter had habits one could count on. Every morning after spending precisely one hour on his treadmill and another quarter hour unwinding in a steaming shower, he’d wrestle a pair of blue jeans over his fifty-four inch girth, don tzitzits (fringes worn beneath an outer shirt, a religious reminder) and a white shirt, adjust his yarmulke to cover his bald spot and wrestle on a pair of pointy-toed western-style boots. At precisely eight forty-five, his staff would deliver a tray to his office holding a French press filled with very hot espresso, a plain croissant and the morning Times. When the weather was clear and warm —as it was on the very last of his mornings — he’d carry the tray to his balcony where he expected to be undisturbed until nine-thirty, while catching up on current events.

Witnesses claimed to have seen him leaning over the railing with his binoculars. They speculated that he must have been coveting the lush vineyards and pregnant orchards that had not yet succumbed to subdivision sprawl. At some point, he must have turned toward the casino’s new garage as a single shot struck him dead on in the forehead. No one admitted seeing or hearing anything amiss. His coffee was cold by the time they discovered him.

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO KILLED THE RABBI, YOU’LL HAVE TO GO TO: http://www.jewishmag.com/126mag/story_pincus/story_pincus.htm