Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  The old man’s eyes lit up.

  “This is Polish.” The Rosh Yeshiva shook his head. “I can’t understand her family’s complete disregard for their heritage.”

  “Some people are less sentimental than others,” the detective said, picking up the megillah. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  The rabbi took the scroll and studied it.

  “It’s of Polish origin also. This is worth a substantial amount of money: upward of three thousand dollars. The text is exceptionally clear and well preserved.”

  “How about if you display it in your collection? I’m not hard up for cash right now.”

  “You’re a good man, Detective.”

  Decker shrugged and gave him a half smile.

  The rabbi opened the next box and rummaged through newspaper.

  “Rina told me those were Jewish law books,” said Decker.

  “Yes, my good friend, that is exactly what they are,” the rabbi said, unwrapping a leather-bound text. “Jewish law books—a complete set. We can always use a set of shass. Thank you.”

  The old man turned away from the books and faced the detective.

  “It’s astounding what finds are tucked away in dusty old attics and basements. I will take good care of your valuables, Detective Decker.”

  “I know you will.”

  “Tell me something, Detective. When did the grandfather die?”

  “Right before we filed for divorce. Must have been about five years ago.”

  “Interesting. And where was he living at the time of his death?”

  Decker smelled more than just simple curiosity on the rabbi’s part.

  “Los Angeles. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like you to explain something to me, Detective. How is it that these books are wrapped in a New York Times that is dated just two years ago?”

  What a cagey old man, Decker thought. He said nothing.

  “I have extreme difficulty believing that your in-laws are complete and utter philistines. Would you care to amend your story regarding how these came into your possession? Or at least, make the fabrication consistent with the dates?”

  Decker gazed out of the window.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” the rabbi offered.

  The detective remained motionless.

  “Where did you acquire these?” the old man asked softly.

  “From my father,” the detective said, still staring outward. “Not my real father, my biological father.”

  He locked eyes with the old man.

  “I’m adopted.”

  “Your biological father was Jewish,” the rabbi said.

  “And so was my biological mother. And that makes me Jewish. But you see, I don’t consider myself Jewish. I consider myself the product of my real parents—the ones who raised me. And I was raised Baptist, although I’m not really anything now. As Rina said to me the other day, it takes a lot more than just an accident of birth to make someone a Torah Jew.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good for her. Then she knows about your origins?”

  “No. I thought about telling her but decided against it. It would be too big a distraction at this point. We both have work to do. I need her to concentrate on a rapist, not on me. Besides, I could never spit in my parents’ faces and suddenly declare myself a Jew, like my ‘real’ parents. It would upset them tremendously.”

  “So how did you come to have these books?”

  “I was curious about my background. There were no open records when I started searching twenty years ago, but since I was a cop in the state where I was adopted, I was able to pull a few strings. To make a long and boring story short, I found out my mother was a religious girl from New York who was shipped down to Miami after getting herself into a little fix when she was fifteen. She’s in her fifties now with five kids and a load of grandchildren. I’m not about to barge in on her and disrupt her life.

  “The records also contained my father’s name. He was a different story. Older. Never married, lived alone on the Lower East Side of New York in one of those projects. One day I got up enough nerve, flew to New York, and looked him up. We talked. He was a nice man, a retired diamond cutter, a big man like me, with big hands. I looked like him. It was a strange experience to resemble someone. Very strange. He kept trying to console me, as if I were mad at him for some reason, telling me over and over that he and my mother weren’t meant to be. He kept saying it wasn’t basheert, repeating that word. I gave him my address and told him to keep in touch. I wrote. He never did. Finally I gave up.

  “A couple of years ago, I received these books and a couple of other personal items of his—a prayer shawl, phylacteries, a kittel. No note. I called up the NYPD and asked them to check the obits. Sure enough, his name was there. It said he died of a stroke. What a bunch of baloney. The package was dated a week before he died. I know he killed himself. The M.E. was incompetent and didn’t pick up on it.”

  “Or maybe, Detective, he knew he was about to die.” Decker smiled.

  “That’s a little romantic, Rabbi.”

  “You need to think a lot more like a Jew. Hashem can do anything, Detective.”

  “Maybe.”

  Decker sat down on a leather chair and lit a cigarette.

  “I’ve never told a soul. I trust you’ll keep this confidential.”

  The old man sighed heavily.

  “Detective, your ex-wife didn’t know you were Jewish?”

  “I’m not really Jewish.”

  “I mean that you are Jewish biologically. I don’t want to quibble with semantics.”

  “No.”

  “Were you married in a Jewish ceremony?”

  “We had a combo wedding. A reform rabbi and a Unitarian minister. It was pretty unusual.”

  “Do you remember anything about the Jewish part of the ceremony?”

  “I’ve tried to repress the whole thing.” Decker smiled and thought. “I gave her a ring and said something about Moses. Oh, and I stepped on a glass. They gave my wife a wedding certificate that I signed. I don’t know what happened to it. Why are you asking me this?”

  “I’m trying to figure out if you’re still legally married to your ex-wife. If there was a kinyan, a valid transaction.”

  “We’ve been divorced for five years.”

  “Civilly. But maybe not according to Jewish law. By any chance, has your ex-wife remarried?”

  “Yes. About two years ago. She went all the way and married a real Jew this time.”

  The rabbi looked pained.

  “Vay is mere. And do they have children?”

  Decker looked at him.

  “As a matter of fact, she just lost a premature baby. She was six months pregnant when she went into labor, but the baby didn’t survive. She’s okay physically, but my daughter tells me she’s not doing too well emotionally.”

  “Now that was basheert,” the rabbi said to himself. “Detective Decker, to be on the safe side, I’m going to prepare you a get—a Jewish divorce. A civil divorce is insignificant for religious purposes. Otherwise, your ex-wife’s future children may be considered mamzerim—bastards—and be irrevocably stigmatized.”

  Decker’s eyes grew cold.

  “I’m stigmatized?”

  “You are not a mamzer. Your parents were not married at the time of your birth, but you are still a full-fledged Jew. A mamzer is the product of an adulterous union between a married Jewish woman and a Jewish man, or of incest. According to Jewish law, it’s possible that you’re not legally divorced from your wife.”

  “She doesn’t know I’m Jewish.”

  “But you knew you were Jewish at the time of your marriage?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Do you have any objection to her finding out?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then let me divorce you properly.”

  Decker smiled slightly.

  “Let me ask you this, Rabbi. Had my ex-
wife’s baby lived, would it have been considered a bastard?”

  “Debatable but possible. Every marriage is looked at individually because the consequences are so severe. Once decided, it is one of the few things in Jewish law that is completely irreversible. Why condemn your former wife’s children to such a fate when the whole thing can be easily resolved? Let’s divorce you according to halacha.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Sign a document that I will prepare. And deliver it personally to your ex-wife.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll need to know your ex-wife’s Hebrew name, that of her father, and your father’s. I’m assuming you don’t have a Hebrew name.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “All right. Your English name will be sufficient. I’ll also need the date of your marriage.”

  “I can give that to you right now. The rest I’m going to have to find out.”

  “Write it all down for me tomorrow. Then I will come with you to your ex-wife’s house and divorce you properly.”

  Decker smiled at him, still bemused.

  “Okay.”

  The rabbi placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “It was fate that led you here. It was basheert. Something pulled you to us.”

  A rape and a homicide, Decker thought. But he didn’t answer.

  “You were searching for something, Detective.”

  “So far as I know, Rabbi, I still am.”

  23

  Cory Schmidt sat slumped in the interview room, head down, smoking a cigarette. His stringy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and dark circles underlined his eyes. The prison denims he wore were wrinkled and too big for him. Taking a deep drag, he looked around, then turned his attention back to the tabletop in front of him. He had been stripped of his earrings, his wrist bracelets, and all of his bravado.

  He fidgeted, growing increasingly jumpy in this pisshole. Man, he felt alone. Someone had told his mother about the arrest a couple of days ago, but the lazy bitch hadn’t bothered to show her face. She was probably glued to the boob tube—her fuckin’ soaps. His old man didn’t care, either. Too busy gettin’ tanked somewhere. Shit! When you come right down to it, ain’t a soul who gave a flying fuck about you. Not your parents, not your buddies, not your chicks. Nobody. He looked at the suit sitting next to him—some righteous fuck-off of a public defender named Ronson. Who was he trying to kid with his dipshitty beard and fako English accent? A first-class jiveass turkey fag. Dude didn’t do a fucking thing except scribble notes, shuffle papers, and clear his throat, asking if there were any questions, talking to him like he was a retard. Man, there was nothing left to say. Cory finished the last hit of nicotine and wondered if he wasn’t better off with a bullet in his head.

  Decker stood outside the interview room waiting for Birdwell, the deputy D.A., to return from his phone call. The prosecutor was a young, good-looking, bespectacled black kid with a baby-smooth face and short kinky hair—a Berkeley grad, sharp, with a lot of spirit. He’d do well in the system. The detective wondered how he would have fared had he gone into public law. In retrospect, it had been a big mistake to join his father-in-law’s practice. Estate planning and wills. Big bucks but mind-numbing.

  Seeing Captain Morrison enter the squad room, Decker waved him over. David Morrison was in his early fifties, built wiry, with thin gray hair and flaccid cheeks. His tie was slightly askew, and he straightened it as he approached Decker.

  “Where’s Birdwell?” he asked.

  “Taking a phone call.”

  The two men waited in silence until Birdwell returned.

  “What do we have, George?” Morrison asked.

  “He wants to trade,” Birdwell said.

  “What’s the deal?” the captain asked.

  “He’ll cop a plea of assault to the Adler woman in exchange for the names of his cohorts on the Marley murder,” the prosecutor answered.

  Morrison turned to Decker.

  “I thought Adler was a rape.”

  “The doctor screwed up the exam,” said Decker. “While she noted semen in the vaginal and anal regions, she failed to note any penetration because it was so slight. So without the words forced entry in writing, technically, it’s not a rape.”

  “And he wants Cory to be tried as a juvenile,” Birdwell added.

  “Well, he can forget about that,” Morrison said. “So all we can get Cory on is assault?”

  “No,” Birdwell answered. “On the Marley case, he’s a full-blooded Murder One. Right now I have more than enough for the prelim. If we want his buddies, we’ll have to go down to an assault.”

  “No dice,” Morrison said.

  “Schmidt was set up,” Birdwell said.

  “Schmidt was at the scene of the murder,” Morrison said. “His shoe prints were lifted. So were tire tracks from his bike. I don’t know who did the slicing, but Schmidt was there. No way a piece of shit like that is going to get away with a simple assault.”

  “Then we’re letting his friends get away with murder,” Decker said.

  Morrison frowned.

  “What do we have on his friends?” he asked.

  “Right now, nothing,” Decker said. “They claim that they were biding their time with their girlfriends. The young ladies verify their story.”

  “We know what that’s worth,” said the captain.

  “Absolutely,” the prosecutor said, scratching his head. “But with no hard evidence, it’s their word against ours.”

  “And Cory’s alibi for the night?” the captain asked.

  “At first he claimed to be with them,” Decker said. “But they denied it. So now he’s without alibi and very amenable to making a deal. Schmidt’s the way to get to them.”

  “Do we know that Schmidt didn’t do the slicing?” asked Morrison.

  “In the opinion of the M.E., the killing slash was done by a left-handed person,” said Decker. “Schmidt is right-handed.”

  “That isn’t conclusive, Pete.”

  “No,” Decker admitted. “But the whole thing stinks, Captain. The evidence was dropped in our laps like manna from heaven. The knife was delivered to our doorstep, unwashed. Now, who the hell kills someone, with an identifiable weapon no less, and doesn’t bother cleaning off prints and blood?”

  “All right,” Morrison said. “Let’s concentrate on what we know. We know Schmidt was at the murder scene. We have a murder weapon that belongs to Schmidt. We also know that Schmidt wasn’t alone. But we don’t have anything on his buddies. Unless Schmidt turns state’s evidence, we won’t have anything on his buddies.”

  “That about sums it up,” Decker says.

  “Let’s do it this way,” said Morrison. “Let’s not promise anything until the kid talks. Then we’ll see about a deal.”

  “Ronson won’t let him talk without a trade,” said Birdwell.

  “Then his client will be charged with Murder One,” the captain said.

  “What about his friends?” Birdwell asked.

  “If the kid won’t talk, we can’t get his friends,” Morrison said. “We’ll go with what we have.”

  The three of them entered the interview room.

  “Do we have a deal?” Ronson asked, fingering his vest. Morrison looked at Decker and nodded for him to start.

  “What happened the night of the murder, Cory?” Decker asked.

  “Don’t answer that,” the P. D. responded. “Gentlemen, what’s going on?”

  “We’d like to hear Mr. Schmidt relate the events that led up to the murder,” Decker said.

  “Mr. Schmidt is not going to talk until we do some negotiating,” said Ronson.

  “Then we’re charging your client with premeditated murder. You take over from here,” Morrison said to Birdwell. “Meeting is adjourned.”

  He walked out of the room, followed by Ronson hot on his heels.

  “Captain, this is absurd. You know the boy wasn’t alone. You’re willing to let murder accompli
ces go free?”

  “I am if you are.”

  “You’re willing to mark one to take the fall for three others?”

  “There were three others, Counselor?”

  Ronson swore to himself.

  “Make me an offer, Captain. Give me something to work with.”

  “I won’t give you a damn thing until I hear the kid’s story. Suppose I hear it and decide I sold out for bullshit. I’d feel awfully bad.” Morrison stopped walking, faced Ronson, and smiled cryptically. “It’s up to you, Counselor. Why don’t you consult your client and let him decide?”

  “Come on, Captain. Let’s be reasonable about this.”

  Birdwell caught up with the two of them, smiling.

  “Cory wants to sing.”

  “Oh shit!” Ronson exclaimed.

  The P. D. rushed back into the interview room.

  “Don’t say anything,” he ordered Cory.

  “Fat fucking lot of good you did me, faggot,” Cory spat. “I want another lawyer.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut.”

  “Hey, I’m the one being fucked over, not you.” Cory looked at Decker. “Man, I didn’t off her. I swear I didn’t off her. You gotta help me out, Decker.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened, and then maybe we can do something.”

  “Don’t say a word—” shouted Ronson.

  The boy ignored him.

  “They’re fucking me over!”

  “Who’s fucking you over, Cory?” Decker asked, soothingly.

  “What are you gonna do for me if I tell you?” the boy asked.

  “First, let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

  Morrison and Birdwell returned shutting the door behind them.

  “Mr. Schmidt,” the P. D. said loudly, “as your legal counsel, I am advising you not to speak until I’ve had a chance to confer with these gentlemen alone. I’m requesting you to go back to your—”

  “And I’m requesting you to leave me the fuck alone!”

  “They’re bluffing, Cory,” Ronson tried again. “Let me handle this.”

  “We’re not bluffing,” Morrison said. “And we’re not promising you a goddam thing, Schmidt. But we’ve got ears, and we’re willing to listen.”