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Now neighbors are even spying on neighbors to crack the case that tore their town apart. On a crisp November night, a steady flow of cars filled the parking lot at the Newton Free Library at the corner of Homer and Walnut streets.

This is no ordinary library. On this night, the crowd arrived for a talk the library had put together on racism. These were polite gatherings at which sophisticated men and women would raise their hands, a moderator would field their questions, and thoughtful debate would follow.

But something else happened that night. It wasn't part of the event, and it happened so fast that anyone who noticed would simply have dismissed it as odd behavior. A cup was pulled out of the trash, a plastic cup someone had sipped from seconds earlier that still had their saliva on the rim and fingerprints on the sides. This cup was about to begin a long international journey. It was driven that night back to a well-disguised office off Beacon Street in Brookline that belonged to a private investigator.

And not just any private dick: Jay Groob, a slick-dressing, sharp-talking, year-old Little League coach and father of two, was named investigator of the year in by the Council of International Investigators. He's made his living as a super snoop, tailing suspects, faking his identity, spying through binoculars anything to put together his latest puzzle.

For this puzzle, Groob needed the cup because it contained the DNA of a man he was certain was a suspect he was prowling for. He knew that if he was right, it would set off pandemonium the likes of which Newton has never seen. Protests, resignations, lawsuits—they were all sure to follow. The threatening postcard one resident got?

What about the mayor's curious call tipping off a newspaper to a scandal most mayors would fight desperately to keep out of print? Or the messages sprayed onto a high school wall? So much nastiness for an idyllic suburb that only a few years ago was named the safest city of its size in the United States. The town will never be the same. That evening, inside the red-brick, white-steepled Newton City Hall, the mayor, a nattily dressed man named David Cohen, with a stiff walk and neatly parted black hair, told the Board of Aldermen that the city was facing a budget crisis and needed to pass a tax override.

Under state law, no town can increase its property tax rate by more than 2. He insisted it was necessary, that it would save police, fire, and teaching jobs from being cut, and that the few hundred dollars more in taxes residents would pay was a worthy sacrifice.

In a city like Newton, only one subject can turn lawn-mowing, minivan-driving, recipe-sharing neighbors into middle-aged delinquents who launch into shouting matches, shoot out car windows, rip up signs, and use each other's homes as target practice with paintball guns.

The reason the city spends all this money, Cohen says proudly, is that "Newton is the best school system in the area. It's not perfect—Newton's ratio of one computer for every seven students falls short of what the state recommends—but the Department of Education still tapped a Newton elementary school teacher as its teacher of the year.

Field trips aren't brown-bag lunches to the Museum of Science. They're hour flights to China for an exchange program. These are the reasons parents with pockets full of money flock to Newton—and the people who run the town know it.

What they also know is that any time they're facing a budget crunch, all they have to do is paint a bleak picture of the schools becoming —horrors! That's what Superintendent Jeffrey Young did in the days after Cohen's announcement. That's when Young piped in, ranting about "paperbacks bound with duct tape," outdated textbooks, and microscopes worthy of a museum collection.

It's not the Newton everybody knows. In fact, if Young's words did anything after Cohen's request, it was to pit the city's north generally working-class Irish and Italian and south rich and largely Jewish sides against each other like a pair of heavyweight boxers. The mission this time: Mead still refers to the mayor and school officials as "those sons of bitches. While Mead pounds his fist on the table complaining about salaries, Camenker and Mountain sit calmly, griping about what they say is a politically correct agenda those schools are obsessed with teaching.

Save our schools, whatever the cost. Leading their charge was Cohen, a former state representative whose words the Safe and Strong crowd would echo. The vote was set for April 30, A clean fight it was not. The signs were blunt—"No Tax Override"—with small American flags. The ones that weren't pounded into lawns were held up by volunteers, and drivers would either honk and wave or flash thumbs-down as they passed. Mead says five signs disappeared from his front lawn in succession.

Then the assault turned personal. Because Michael Mozill was treasurer of the Newton Taxpayers, his address —45 Greenough Street—appeared on all the group's signs like a big bull's-eye. At around 2 a.

A hole in his Cherokee from what he assumes was a BB gun. Also painted was this: It pitted friends against friends.

Mailboxes were stuffed, too. Layoffs, the mayor warned in one flier, were inevitable if the override failed. Hogwash, said another—the city has plenty of money to survive. Polls of residents showed split opinions as April 30 neared.

Then came the knockout punch, Saturday, April 27, , was a gloriously sunny day. Red Sox pitcher Derek Lowe threw a no-hitter, and the Bruins were fighting in the playoffs. The banner at the top said: You're also tired of shelling out your hard-earned money to pay for I six-figure salaries for public officials who never know how to say NO to the labor union hacks and who coddle so-called 'special needs' kids and disruptive blacks and other minority students who aren't even from Newton.

Susan Dansker and Carol Halberstadt called. Then it got even weirder. Instead of trying to keep the lid on a story about anti-Semitism on his streets, Mayor Cohen, who is Jewish, called the Boston Globe—and had a copy of the letter faxed over. Asked who faxed it for him, he says, "I don't remember. Mead, just back from the Bruins playoff game, told the reporter he'd never seen any letter, and that his group wasn't called the "Newton Taxpayers Minuteman Association.

Which seemed to be the exact purpose of the letter. It was worded so carefully, with phrases lifted straight from the Newton Taxpayers campaign fliers, that on a quick glance anyone might have simply linked it to that group, decided they wanted nothing to do with anti-Semitic rhetoric, and voted for the override.

And that's just what happened. This town will never be the same. After three days of press conferences and accusations, April 30 arrived, and in a huge turnout of more I than 27, voters, the override passed by a slim ballots.

The south 1 side of town, where the flier was distributed, voted strongly in favor; the north side was mostly opposed. The letter "was designed to sway the election, and it worked," Mead says. When asked now, a year later, why it's not important to find out who among his residents disseminated an anti Semitic message to try to influence a critical vote, Cohen says, "In one sense, I do want to know. But I'm not going to tell my police chief to investigate. David Cohen has no vested interest in finding out.

Groob, meanwhile, is developing a profile of who may have sent the letter, whittling a list to five suspects—none of whom he'll name. The DNA from the envelopes in which the letters were mailed has now been confirmed to be a male's, which is how Groob wound up at the library, waiting for his suspect to throw a cup in the trash. When that sample was tested against the DNA on the envelopes, it didn't match.

Or maybe they already have his DNA. Two days after the election, a postcard of Texas landed in Mead's mailbox. I'm recommending Texas—it's just your kind of place. Fed up with Newton, he settled in Westborough. But he kept that postcard. More tests are planned. Behind that stamp, after all, lies the sender's saliva.

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Voyeur (CD-I) -2- The Good ending



Private investigator game sex private magazine

Now neighbors are even spying on neighbors to crack the case that tore their town apart. On a crisp November night, a steady flow of cars filled the parking lot at the Newton Free Library at the corner of Homer and Walnut streets.

This is no ordinary library. On this night, the crowd arrived for a talk the library had put together on racism. These were polite gatherings at which sophisticated men and women would raise their hands, a moderator would field their questions, and thoughtful debate would follow. But something else happened that night. It wasn't part of the event, and it happened so fast that anyone who noticed would simply have dismissed it as odd behavior. A cup was pulled out of the trash, a plastic cup someone had sipped from seconds earlier that still had their saliva on the rim and fingerprints on the sides.

This cup was about to begin a long international journey. It was driven that night back to a well-disguised office off Beacon Street in Brookline that belonged to a private investigator.

And not just any private dick: Jay Groob, a slick-dressing, sharp-talking, year-old Little League coach and father of two, was named investigator of the year in by the Council of International Investigators.

He's made his living as a super snoop, tailing suspects, faking his identity, spying through binoculars anything to put together his latest puzzle. For this puzzle, Groob needed the cup because it contained the DNA of a man he was certain was a suspect he was prowling for.

He knew that if he was right, it would set off pandemonium the likes of which Newton has never seen. Protests, resignations, lawsuits—they were all sure to follow. The threatening postcard one resident got? What about the mayor's curious call tipping off a newspaper to a scandal most mayors would fight desperately to keep out of print? Or the messages sprayed onto a high school wall? So much nastiness for an idyllic suburb that only a few years ago was named the safest city of its size in the United States.

The town will never be the same. That evening, inside the red-brick, white-steepled Newton City Hall, the mayor, a nattily dressed man named David Cohen, with a stiff walk and neatly parted black hair, told the Board of Aldermen that the city was facing a budget crisis and needed to pass a tax override. Under state law, no town can increase its property tax rate by more than 2.

He insisted it was necessary, that it would save police, fire, and teaching jobs from being cut, and that the few hundred dollars more in taxes residents would pay was a worthy sacrifice. In a city like Newton, only one subject can turn lawn-mowing, minivan-driving, recipe-sharing neighbors into middle-aged delinquents who launch into shouting matches, shoot out car windows, rip up signs, and use each other's homes as target practice with paintball guns.

The reason the city spends all this money, Cohen says proudly, is that "Newton is the best school system in the area.

It's not perfect—Newton's ratio of one computer for every seven students falls short of what the state recommends—but the Department of Education still tapped a Newton elementary school teacher as its teacher of the year.

Field trips aren't brown-bag lunches to the Museum of Science. They're hour flights to China for an exchange program. These are the reasons parents with pockets full of money flock to Newton—and the people who run the town know it.

What they also know is that any time they're facing a budget crunch, all they have to do is paint a bleak picture of the schools becoming —horrors! That's what Superintendent Jeffrey Young did in the days after Cohen's announcement. That's when Young piped in, ranting about "paperbacks bound with duct tape," outdated textbooks, and microscopes worthy of a museum collection.

It's not the Newton everybody knows. In fact, if Young's words did anything after Cohen's request, it was to pit the city's north generally working-class Irish and Italian and south rich and largely Jewish sides against each other like a pair of heavyweight boxers.

The mission this time: Mead still refers to the mayor and school officials as "those sons of bitches. While Mead pounds his fist on the table complaining about salaries, Camenker and Mountain sit calmly, griping about what they say is a politically correct agenda those schools are obsessed with teaching.

Save our schools, whatever the cost. Leading their charge was Cohen, a former state representative whose words the Safe and Strong crowd would echo. The vote was set for April 30, A clean fight it was not.

The signs were blunt—"No Tax Override"—with small American flags. The ones that weren't pounded into lawns were held up by volunteers, and drivers would either honk and wave or flash thumbs-down as they passed. Mead says five signs disappeared from his front lawn in succession. Then the assault turned personal. Because Michael Mozill was treasurer of the Newton Taxpayers, his address —45 Greenough Street—appeared on all the group's signs like a big bull's-eye.

At around 2 a. A hole in his Cherokee from what he assumes was a BB gun. Also painted was this: It pitted friends against friends. Mailboxes were stuffed, too. Layoffs, the mayor warned in one flier, were inevitable if the override failed. Hogwash, said another—the city has plenty of money to survive. Polls of residents showed split opinions as April 30 neared. Then came the knockout punch, Saturday, April 27, , was a gloriously sunny day. Red Sox pitcher Derek Lowe threw a no-hitter, and the Bruins were fighting in the playoffs.

The banner at the top said: You're also tired of shelling out your hard-earned money to pay for I six-figure salaries for public officials who never know how to say NO to the labor union hacks and who coddle so-called 'special needs' kids and disruptive blacks and other minority students who aren't even from Newton.

Susan Dansker and Carol Halberstadt called. Then it got even weirder. Instead of trying to keep the lid on a story about anti-Semitism on his streets, Mayor Cohen, who is Jewish, called the Boston Globe—and had a copy of the letter faxed over. Asked who faxed it for him, he says, "I don't remember. Mead, just back from the Bruins playoff game, told the reporter he'd never seen any letter, and that his group wasn't called the "Newton Taxpayers Minuteman Association.

Which seemed to be the exact purpose of the letter. It was worded so carefully, with phrases lifted straight from the Newton Taxpayers campaign fliers, that on a quick glance anyone might have simply linked it to that group, decided they wanted nothing to do with anti-Semitic rhetoric, and voted for the override. And that's just what happened. This town will never be the same. After three days of press conferences and accusations, April 30 arrived, and in a huge turnout of more I than 27, voters, the override passed by a slim ballots.

The south 1 side of town, where the flier was distributed, voted strongly in favor; the north side was mostly opposed. The letter "was designed to sway the election, and it worked," Mead says. When asked now, a year later, why it's not important to find out who among his residents disseminated an anti Semitic message to try to influence a critical vote, Cohen says, "In one sense, I do want to know.

But I'm not going to tell my police chief to investigate. David Cohen has no vested interest in finding out. Groob, meanwhile, is developing a profile of who may have sent the letter, whittling a list to five suspects—none of whom he'll name. The DNA from the envelopes in which the letters were mailed has now been confirmed to be a male's, which is how Groob wound up at the library, waiting for his suspect to throw a cup in the trash.

When that sample was tested against the DNA on the envelopes, it didn't match. Or maybe they already have his DNA. Two days after the election, a postcard of Texas landed in Mead's mailbox. I'm recommending Texas—it's just your kind of place.

Fed up with Newton, he settled in Westborough. But he kept that postcard. More tests are planned. Behind that stamp, after all, lies the sender's saliva.

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