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“Address?”
“Twenty-two Road C.”
Marge interrupted their interview. Decker knew from the disheartened look on her face that it hadn’t gone well.
“I got nowhere, Pete. She refuses to go in for the exam, and says she doesn’t remember anything. She spent almost the entire time praying.” She turned to Rina. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with praying, but it won’t help us find the man who raped her.”
“Maybe she thinks it will,” Rina said defensively.
Marge grimaced and turned to Decker.
“She still hasn’t bathed, but the longer she waits—”
“The woman has been traumatized,” Rina snapped. “You can’t expect her to make split-second decisions.”
Marge said nothing. Rape cases, especially ones with recalcitrant witnesses, got to her, but she was too good a cop to lose her cool. She took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. Decker liked her control. And he knew that if Marge couldn’t bring out this woman, no one in the division could. They needed help from the inside.
“Mrs. Lazarus, you’ve been very helpful. And you seem like a very reasonable woman. You know we need Mrs. Adler’s cooperation if we want to catch this animal.” Decker paused to let his words sink in. “If you were in our shoes, how’d you go about gaining it?”
Rina looked to her left and into Chana’s scrutinizing eyes. She knew she’d spent too much time gabbing to the police.
“I can’t give you any advice,” she whispered. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t bother trying to enlist Mrs. Adler’s help directly. I’d talk to that man in the corner.”
“Is he the rabbi?” Decker asked.
Rina nodded. “He’s the head rabbi—the Rosh Yeshiva, the director of this place. There are a lot of rabbis here. The man he’s talking to is Mrs. Adler’s husband. Be patient and you might have some luck. I’ve got to go now.”
Decker flipped out a business card and handed it to her. “If you happen to think of anything else, or hear anything interesting, that’s my number.”
Rina slipped it in her skirt pocket.
“How are you going to get home?” Marge asked.
“The women will walk with me.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Marge asked. Part of the offer, Decker knew, was genuine concern for the women’s safety; the other was an attempt to get a little more insight into the yeshiva.
“Thank you very much, but we’ll be okay. Please be easy with Sarah. She’s a lovely person, and a wonderful wife and mother.”
“We’ll handle it as sensitively as we can,” Decker said.
Rina rejoined the women, and they left en masse.
A shame, he thought. He wouldn’t have minded looking at her face for a few more minutes.
3 (#ulink_f5f13ab8-de6f-5265-a0be-f243ef2c1919)
“Shall we pay a visit to the man of the cloth?” asked Marge.
Decker tapped his foot. “I think the best way to go about this is a division of labor. You wait with Mrs. Adler and make sure she doesn’t wash away evidence, and I’ll have a whirl with the rabbi.”
Marge hadn’t paid all those dues to be a baby-sitter, but she didn’t protest the arrangement. She knew Pete had a better chance of getting somewhere if the two men spoke alone and reminded herself that Decker wasn’t a sexist pig like some of the others.
“How are the uniforms doing in the bushes?” she asked.
“Might be a good idea if you found out.”
Scouring the brush sounded more appealing to Marge than staring at a fanatical rape survivor. She’d pay a quick visit to the lady, then try her luck outside.
After Marge left, Decker eyed the husband and the rabbi. They hadn’t moved since the detective entered the room half an hour ago. The younger man was still rocking, and the rabbi’s mouth was still up against his ear.
He walked over to them. If they were aware of his presence, they gave no physical indication. But Decker was a patient man. He’d bide his time instead of storm-trooping it. It would take longer but was more likely to produce results. Which is what the job was all about.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything to rush home to. He’d fed and groomed the horses and left Ginger some hamburger earlier in the evening. Next to his daughter, the animals and the ranch were the loves of his life. There was no place like home in the daylight: the glow of the sun-drenched living room, the air pungent with the tangy smell of citrus from the groves, exercising the horses, working up a sweat. After the time he spent dealing with human slime, it made him feel clean.
But the nights he found lonely. He knew some women, and that helped, but the relief was short-lived. More and more he found himself coming back to the station after the sun went down. Such had been the case tonight.
Decker parked himself in the overstuffed armchair, the one that the Lazarus woman had sat in while she graded papers. So she was a teacher. Made sense. She dressed like a schoolmarm—collar buttoned up to the chin, long-sleeved blouse and below-the-knee A-line skirt. Of course, so did all the other women in the place. Even primmer.
But there was something about her that was different—more secular. Maybe it was her long, loose hair. He tried to imagine her out of the yeshiva context and dressed in more contemporary fashion. Tight pants and a clingy sweater. Then he shifted gears and visualized her in a string bikini, that thick black hair hanging down a smooth, slender back, skin deeply bronzed, her ass slightly falling out of the panty bottoms as she waded in the water. He’d bet she had a nice ass under all that camouflage.
He reveled in his fantasies, then snapped himself out of it. She was religious and married. Shit. When he’d been married, it had seemed as if the whole world was single, and now that he was single, all the desirables had been snatched up.
Why was he always one step behind, in work as well as romance? Like with the Foothill rapist. Just when Decker thought he’d figured out his next move, the asshole would elude him with a change of technique. He wondered if this case was his handiwork. Unlikely, since the Foothill rapes had always taken place in Sylmar, far west of this area. But you never knew: The prick was clever with twists and turns.
He glanced back to the rabbi, who was still talking. What was he saying to the husband? Life goes on? You’ll survive, she did? Decker felt a great deal of empathy for the young man. He could sense the rage, the frustration and helplessness. (“I wasn’t there to prevent this.”) Buddy, if it’s any consolation, there are plenty of others who have felt the same way you do. Decker had spoken to hundreds of them.
Marge returned from talking with Mrs. Adler, gave him a thumbs up sign, and went outside. Good. The lady still hadn’t bathed.
Finally Decker caught the rabbi’s eye, and the old man gave him a cordial nod. The detective knew he was going to have his chance soon and was determined not to come away empty-handed.
Ten minutes later, the rabbi got up and so did Decker. The husband walked away without a word.
The rabbi was a tall man, not as tall as Decker, but at least six one. Decker put him in his early seventies. Much of his face was covered with a long salt-and-pepper beard, and what wasn’t hidden by hair was a road-map of creases. His eyes were dark brown, clear and alert, the brows white and furry. For a man his age he was straight-backed, slender, and a fastidious dresser. His black pants were razor-pressed, his white shirt starched stiff, and the black Prince Albert coat carefully tailored. Crowning his head was a black felt homburg. It all added up to a stately demeanor. Regal, like an archbishop.
“Thank you for bearing with me,” the rabbi said, offering him a firm, dry hand. “Terrible, terrible thing.”
The old man’s voice was crisp and slightly accented.
“How’s he holding up?”
“Zvi?”
“He’s the husband, isn’t he?”
The rabbi nodded. “He’s in shock, almost as bad as his wife. Numb.”
Decker said nothing, suddenly feeling tired. He was sick of crud.
“What can I do for you?” the old man asked.
“Please sit down, Rabbi.” Decker offered him the armchair.
“Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I sit all day.”
“That’s fine.”
“Would it bother you if I smoked?” the rabbi said.
“On the contrary, it sounds like a fine idea.” Decker took out a pack and offered one to him.
The rabbi shook his head. “Those aren’t cigarettes. The tobacco leaves have been sprayed, watered down, processed, and diluted by a filter.” He pulled out a silver case, opened it, and showed him a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes. “Try a real smoke.”
Decker lit the rabbi’s, then took one for himself and lit up.
Both of them inhaled in silence.
“Nu, so how does it taste?” the rabbi asked.
“It’s wonderful tobacco.”
“My own special blend. Turkish with just a hint of Latakia.” The rabbi blew out a haze of smoke. “Now, how can I be of service?”
Decker ran his fingers through his hair. “We’re having a bit of a compliance problem here, Rabbi. Mrs. Adler isn’t willing to have herself examined for criminal evidence.”
“Internally?”
“Internally and externally. She’s not willing to have her bodily injuries photographed either. Although it’s much easier with pictures, we could get by with detailed notes. But we really need the internal.”
The rabbi stared at him impassively.
“Since you’re the head of this place I was hoping you could persuade her to help us out.”
“I suppose you could demand legally that she come in for the exam,” the rabbi said.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. The poor woman has already gone through enough.”
“You’re a wise boy, Detective. You don’t mind me calling you boy, do you? I call all my bochrim—my pupils—boys. At my age everyone around me looks like a boy.”
Decker smiled.
“I didn’t catch your name, Detective.”
“Decker. Peter Decker.” He handed the rabbi a card.
“Decker,” the rabbi mouthed to himself. “I am Rav Aaron Schulman.”
“Honored, Rabbi Schulman.”
The old man let out a cough.
“Mrs. Adler is a free agent. Despite what the local residents think, this place isn’t a cult and I’m not a guru. People are free to come and go on their own. More important, people are free to think on their own.”
He began to pace. “I can’t go up to her and say, ‘Sarah Libba, cooperate with this man.’ That’s not my function. But if you want some advice, I can give you some.”
The Rosh Yeshiva’s voice had taken on a sing-song cadence.
“Please, Rabbi.”
“If you want to get her to cooperate, you’re going to have to understand a little about her before this ordeal. Psychologically and sociologically. The women here have their own doctor, in Sherman Oaks I believe. A female named Dr. Birnbaum. Phyllis Birnbaum. I don’t think Sarah Libba’s frightened about the exam per se, but she’s not going to allow herself to be touched by a man, especially after what happened.”
Schulman sucked hard on the cigarette, causing the tip to glow bright orange.
“So if I were you, instead of wasting my time trying to talk her into something, I’d call up my captain and see if the Department can’t work something out—an exception—allowing Dr. Birnbaum to act as a medical examiner this once. No doubt there will be bureaucratic problems. But if you want it to get done, it will get done, my boy. Correct?”
Decker smiled and nodded assent.
“After Dr. Birnbaum has been approved by the officials, I’d call her up and request her help. She’s a conscientious woman, and I’m sure she’ll cooperate. Then, I’d have your female partner approach Sarah Libba and say the exam will be with Dr. Birnbaum, the same one who delivered two of your four lovely children. And if you feel it’s necessary, you may say that Rav Schulman says it’s permissible halachically—according to the rules of Judaism—to be examined.”
The old man was a sharpie. Decker liked him. But not as much as the Lazarus girl.
Marge and the two uniforms walked in.
“Nada, Pete,” she said. “I came up dry.”
“Didn’t expect anything really.” Decker made introductions, then turned to the patrolmen—two linebackers. The one named Hunter seemed to be in his middle twenties. The senior partner, Ramirez, was shorter and looked ten years older.
“Find any tracks or hear anything?” Decker asked.
“There are plenty of tracks,” Hunter said. “Deer, rabbit, coyote, lots of cats. But nothing that looks human.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“We’ll file a report of what we found,” Ramirez said, then amended it. “Or rather, didn’t find. It’ll be ready by tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
After they left, Decker turned to Marge. “I’ve got to make a call to headquarters and try to arrange a deal. You’ve got to call a Dr. Phyllis Birnbaum in Sherman Oaks, explain what went on here, and ask her if she’d be willing to open up her office and do a forensic internal on Mrs. Adler now.”
Marge looked skeptical.
“I know it’s irregular, but it seems to be the only thing we’ve got.” Decker turned to Rav Schulman. “Do you think Mrs. Adler would object to a county doctor working side by side with Dr. Birnbaum?”
“If the doctor was a man she’d object. I’d try and keep it as natural as possible. Even then, Mrs. Adler still might not agree.”
Decker reached for a cigarette, but the rabbi was too quick for him, offering him one of the homemades. He took it eagerly.
“Marge, see if you can get Mrs. Adler to agree to see Dr. Birnbaum. I’ll call Morrison.” He faced the rabbi. “That’s the station’s captain. He’s a good guy, eminently reasonable.”
