Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 02

by Sacred;Profane

  “You don’t come into contact with it daily?” the old man asked.

  “I come into contact with a lot of bad people,” Decker answered. “And most of them know darn well what they’re doing is wrong. They just don’t care. Ask them why they robbed or raped or killed and you’d be surprised at how creative their excuses are. It’s a rare criminal who’ll accept responsibility for his own actions. An evil spirit seems to me to be another way to pass the buck. The devil made me do it, et cetera.”

  “Judaism sees it as just the opposite of what you’re saying,” Schulman explained. “Evil is in all of us. So is good. Man has free will to choose either. There is a very interesting midrash about that. Before Mount Sinai the angels asked Hashem to give them the Torah instead of mankind. After all who is better equipped to do mitzvot—good deeds—than an angel? Hashem refused. Mankind was the only acceptable recipient of the Torah because only mankind could elect to honor Hashem. The angels were programmed only for good. It’s no challenge to be good if good is the sole component of one’s makeup.”

  Decker took a sip of schnapps and said nothing.

  Schulman asked, “Did you have a bad day, Peter?”

  “A little on the rough side.”

  “Let me ask you something? What do policemen do when they have a bad day?”

  Decker smiled. “They get drunk and gripe to one another.”

  “This is what you do?”

  “Me personally? No, not really, I’ve gotten drunk on individual occasions, but I’m not a big boozer.”

  “I can see that,” Schulman said, picking up Decker’s half-full glass. “So what do you do to cope?”

  “A lot of us don’t cope too well. The divorce rate among cops is very high.”

  “Isn’t there someone who you can talk to?”

  “A shrink?” Decker said. “Yes, we have a resident shrink, but hardly anyone uses him—or her, we’ve got a woman now—unless they’re after disability.”

  “Es past nisht, nu?” Schulman said. “It just isn’t done if you’re truly a man.”

  “You’ve got it,” Decker said.

  “So what do you do to keep your sanity?” the old man asked again.

  “I ride my horses,” Decker said. “And now I learn, also.”

  “Does learning help?”

  “Yes, it does. It takes up a lot of my free time so I don’t think about work as much. It preoccupies me.”

  “Do you ever pray?”

  “In addition to davening?”

  “Yes,” Schulman said. “Do you ever feel the need to say tehillim?”

  “I can’t say that I have. I’d like to think that God has a reason for everything, but I don’t really believe that. Some bad people have good luck, some good people are constantly behind the eight ball. What’s the point?”

  “A hard question and I have no satisfying answer. We aren’t permitted to know the point. It would be no test of faith if we knew the point. We’d know for certain that Hashem exists. Even Moshe Rabbenu, who was permitted to understand everything else, was not allowed to know Hakadosh Boruch Hu’s system of reward and punishment.”

  “Well, maybe it takes a Moses to live with such ambiguity,” said Decker. “What I see are lots of things that are unfair. Our legal system is a farce, Rabbi, confessed murderers getting off scot-free because of some technicality. If only there was divine retribution—a meteorite crashing on their heads or bolts of lightning striking them dead—then maybe I could see a purpose to all of it.”

  “I have a midrash for you.” Schulman thought for a while, then said, “A quartet of great rabbis—Rabbis Akiva, Ben Zoma, Ben Azzai, and Elisha ben Abouya—went into an orchard to study the hidden recesses of the Torah. All four were very pious men, all were brilliant—tremendous Torah scholars—an absolute prerequisite for the study of Jewish mysticism.”

  “Okay,” Decker said.

  “Now the word the Gemara uses for orchard is pardes—a very beautiful garden. Some have taken it to mean gan eden—the Garden of Eden, Paradise.”

  “The rabbis actually went to Paradise?”

  “There is debate on that. What they did was utter the ineffable name of Hashem—the tetragrammaton. Rashi is of the opinion that says their utterances actually brought them into contact with the Shechinah—the Holy Presence. Other commentators say they really weren’t in heaven but the utterance of the Name made it appear to them that they were. Clear?”

  Decker said yes.

  “Four of our greatest rabbis in the presence of Hashem,” Schulman said. “So what happened to them?”

  His voice had taken on a singsong.

  “Ben Azzai died. He leaped toward the Shechinah and his soul departed from his body. Ben Zoma also approached the Shechinah, but instead of dying, his mind was torn apart. He went crazy. What’s the logical question, Peter?”

  “Why did one go crazy and the other die?”

  “Good. Ben Azzai had seen the Shechinah and couldn’t return to the corporeal. What happened was he had reached such a high level of spiritual understanding that his soul no longer had need of a body. Ben Zoma, on the other hand, never reached that level. His mind became saturated with knowledge that he couldn’t assimilate. When the mind can’t accommodate its input, it breaks down.

  “The third rabbi, Elisha ben Abouya, the Gemara tells us, ‘cut down the shoots of the orchard.’ What do you think that means?”

  “The orchard is symbolic of heaven?” Decker asked.

  “A heavenly state.”

  Decker thought. “He destroyed heaven.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He destroyed Hashem.”

  “Meaning?”

  Decker thought for a moment.

  “You can’t destroy Hashem,” he said. “But you can reject Him.”

  “Exactly,” said the old man. “When you reject something, it is destroyed in your eyes. Ben Abouya became an apikorus—a nonbeliever, an apostate. Why? Some commentaries say he’d become infatuated with Hellenistic philosophy and left the pardes with a dual gnostic concept—the idea that there are two gods in the universe. The core of Judaism revolves around the fact that there is only one Hashem.”

  Decker nodded.

  “Others say ben Abouya fell apart when he failed to learn the secrets of the Divine’s plan of reward and punishment. He couldn’t understand why some evil men appear to prosper when righteous men are thrown into abject misery. Ben Abouya couldn’t accommodate himself to this lacuna in his understanding of Torah. It led him to complete rejection of Judaism, to a life of immorality. From the moment of his fall from grace, Elisha ben Abouya is referred to in the Gemara as Acher—the other—a euphemism for an apostate.”

  “If a great rabbi loses faith because he can’t understand God’s justice system, how am I supposed to maintain mine?” Decker asked.

  “Patience. We still have Rabbi Akiva left. The Gemara tells us he entered in peace, he left in peace,” Schulman answered.

  “Why was he spared?”

  “The right question. Now the point of all of this. Rabbi Akiva was spared because he knew when to quit. He knew what not to ask. There are certain aspects of Hakadosh Boruch Hu that we as mortals cannot question. Yes, as frustrating as it is for rational beings, there are some things we must accept on blind faith. To not accept that is to not believe. And to not believe leads one to say that creation was a molecular accident. I look around me and I say this is impossible.

  “Murder is horrible. I’m not debating that. The reason for it? It’s a question I’m not going to ask. Our lives on this planet are infinitely short when measured against the hereafter. Some lives are shorter than others. To our shallow perception this may seem an injustice. But in reality it is all the will of Hashem and we simply cannot hope to understand His wisdom. If we try, we are destined to fail and destroy ourselves.”

  Decker started to say something, but shook his head instead.

  “You are not satisfied,” Schulman said.


  “That would be little comfort to the parents of a murdered child, Rabbi,” Decker said.

  “Ach, a child!” Schulman said with pain in his voice.

  “A teenager. A girl my daughter’s age.”

  “And you talked with the girl’s parents today?”

  “Her mother.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I didn’t say much. I mostly listened.”

  “Sometimes least is best.”

  “What would you tell the parents of a murdered child, Rabbi?”

  The Rosh Yeshiva became lost in thought, his posture stooped as if the discussion had added weight onto his shoulders. Several moments passed before he spoke. Then he whispered to himself, “Hashem natan, Hashem lakach. Yehi shem Hashem mevorach.” To Decker, he said calmly, “We borrow our children from Hashem. If God in His infinite wisdom took the life of my young child, I’d bless the fact that he was now in the hands of the perfect father.”

  Decker walked into the cool night air and tried to relax. His discussion with the Rosh Yeshiva, combined with the day’s events, had flipped the on-switch, and he was overflowing with nervous energy. He jogged past the dorm building and through the postage-stamp lots of single-family dwellings, heading toward the parking lot, but stopped when he reached Rina’s house. It was a quarter to eleven but the lights were still on. Deliberating a moment, he made a sharp left, walked up to her door, and knocked softly.

  “Who is it?” he heard her say.

  “It’s Peter, Rina.”

  She unhooked the chain and opened the door.

  “Hello there,” she said, letting him in. “You’re just the person I wanted to see.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Someone has been having nightmares.”

  Decker’s eyes fixed on Jacob in his Spiderman pajamas. It always amazed him how much more vulnerable kids looked in their sleepwear.

  “Hey, Jakey,” he said, sitting next to him. The boy’s blue eyes were open and alert. “What’s on your mind, big fellah?”

  Jacob shrugged.

  “He wanted to know whether you’ve captured the bad man who dumped the bones in the woods,” Rina said.

  Shit, Decker thought. To love a kid is to live with guilt.

  “No, not yet,” he said. “Jacob, that man isn’t going to hurt you. He lives far, far away and isn’t going to come here.”

  “How do you know?” the child asked.

  “Because I know. He’s not interested in hurting you or your eema or anybody here at the yeshiva. Jakey, you’re safe.”

  The kid looked skeptical.

  “No one is going to come in here,” Decker tried again. “The windows and doors are all locked. They can’t come in here.”

  “Suppose a burglar breaks a window?”

  “What did I tell you I’d do?” Rina said.

  The boy gave a hint of a smile.

  “You’d spray his eyes with poison,” he answered.

  “And then what?”

  “While he was rubbing his eyes and going YOW, you’d hit him over the head with a frying pan.”

  “And then what?” Rina prompted.

  “You’d break a lamp over his head,” he giggled.

  “And?”

  “After he was all knocked out, you’d tie him up with your leather belts and call the police.”

  “And who always makes sure you’re safe?”

  “Hashem!”

  “And who always looks after you wherever you are?”

  “Hashem!”

  “And who takes care of you twenty-four hours a day, every single day of the year?”

  “HASHEM!” Jacob shouted.

  “It sounds like you’re in good hands, Jake,” said Decker.

  The little boy turned to him.

  “Are you gonna catch that bad man?” he asked, still worried.

  “Of course, Jake.”

  “C’mon, sweetie,” Rina said. “Try and get some sleep.”

  “Can you walk me to my room, Peter?”

  “Sure.”

  Jacob kissed his mother good night and led Decker into the bedroom.

  “All’s well,” Decker said, reentering a moment later. “Have you had any problems with Sammy?”

  “Fine. Sleeps like a log, eats great, plays and studies.”

  “And I thought it was the little one who didn’t take things to heart.”

  “Go figure.” She looked up at him. “Do you want something to eat, Peter?”

  “A cup of coffee.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I’m restless. I’m not planning on sleeping too much tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think I’ll take advantage of my wide-awake mood and do some—research.”

  “I’m not going to ask.”

  “Good idea.”

  He sat down at the kitchen table and watched her put the tea-kettle on the burner. She wore no makeup, her hair was braided back, and she was barefoot. She could pass for seventeen.

  “How’d the lesson with Rav Schulman go?”

  “Fine,” he said. “How long has Jake been having nightmares?”

  “This is the first time.” She took his hand. “Don’t worry about it, Peter. It wasn’t your fault. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She cupped his chin in her hands and looked into his eyes.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, okay, whatever you say.” He smiled. “You’re a potentially violent woman, Rina Lazarus. I’m not messing with you.”

  “Just don’t break into my house.” She smiled, then turned serious. “I just wanted him to know that I could take care of him. And I can. I want to show you something.”

  She left the room, and when she came back, she was carrying a box.

  “Take a look inside.”

  The shape. The weight. He knew what it was without even opening it. Damn, he thought. She really did it. He pulled out the gun, hefted it, then flipped open the barrel.

  “Where are the bullets?”

  She reached inside her skirt pocket and handed him a smaller box.

  “The guy who sold it to me said to keep the gun and bullets separate since I have small kids in the house.”

  “He’s right.”

  “But that doesn’t really make any sense. If someone breaks into your house, do you want to have to think about where the bullets are and how to load them?”

  “It’s the lesser of two evils. Better than Jakey thinking it’s a toy and shooting off his brother’s head.”

  “Peter, please!”

  “I just want you to know what you’ve purchased.”

  “Well, you keep your gun loaded, don’t you?”

  “Rina, I’m a police officer.”

  “What did you do when Cindy was growing up?”

  “When I wasn’t wearing my gun, I kept it locked up. I never, never left a loaded gun lying in an unlocked drawer or on my nightstand. I have a great deal of respect for what it can do.”

  “Do you lock your gun up now?” she asked.

  “No, because I live alone,” he said. “But when Cindy visits me for the weekend, it’s locked. When you and the kids come visit, it’s locked.”

  She handed him his coffee and noticed the slight bulge under his jacket. He’d worn his gun while he learned Torah. For some reason, that disturbed her, but she didn’t say anything. It would have seemed ludicrous to mention it in view of her recent purchase. She sat down beside him, held her gun in her hand, stared at it, then put it down.

  “If you’ve got ambivalence about it,” Decker said softly, “don’t even start. There’s nothing wrong with chucking the whole idea, Rina.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I want to know how to use it. Hopefully, I’ll never have to.”

  He picked up the Colt and sighted down the barrel.

  “Let me take this home,” he said. “I’ll clean it and oil it. Maybe even break it in for you.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.
Why don’t you show me how to clean, oil, and break in the gun?”

  He frowned.

  “We do such romantic things together, Rina. We talk religious philosophy and clean guns. What ever happened to midnight walks on the beach while gazing at the moonlight?”

  “The beach isn’t safe at night and the water is polluted.”

  “You’re incurably sentimental.”

  Her lips turned upward and broke into a mysterious smile.

  “You’re going to be sorry for that sarcastic tone of voice.” She opened a drawer and brought out a flat, rectangular package. “Something to wear for Shabbos tomorrow.”

  She’d bought him a tie, he thought.

  “I take it all back,” he said.

  She stood over him as he opened the box. Inside was a flatter, black satin box. He looked at her, puzzled. “What did you do?”

  “Open it,” she instructed.

  He lifted the lid and took out the contents.

  “A watch?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Rina—this is solid gold.”

  “Do you like it?”

  He stood up and hugged her.

  “Honey, it’s gorgeous. But I can’t accept—”

  “Sure you can. You’d better. It’s engraved on the back, and that makes it nonreturnable.”

  He flipped it over and smiled at the inscription.

  “It’s because I love you, Peter,” she said softly. “I can’t show it physically, but the feeling is still there.”

  “I love you, too, Rina.” He gave her a suitably chaste kiss on the lips. Now he knew he’d never get to sleep tonight. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I see you learning in the beis hamidresh, Peter. You don’t even know I’m there, but I see you, poring over the alef beis, reading, studying. You say it all that way…I knew this boy, once. He was a ba’al t’shuvah—a nonreligious Jew who decided to live the Torah life. It lasted maybe six months. He said it was too emasculating for him. He knew too little and couldn’t stand it. It takes an extremely big person to do what you’re doing—learning as you do from scratch. I don’t think I could. I envy your strength of character.”

  She gave him a bear hug.

  “I’m a little choked up,” Decker said.