“Impossible!”
But Decker was dubious. He’d seen much weirder things in his life.
Cindy said, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Working on the new house. Why?”
“Thought maybe you and I could go back to the firing range.”
“It’s not my jurisdiction, honey.” When Cindy did not respond, Decker gave in. “Okay,” he said. “A quick trip.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
They rode in silence for the next ten minutes. Then Decker said, “I love you. Just wanted to say that.”
Cindy didn’t speak, longing to cry to release the heavy knot of tension in her throat. Instead, she forced out, “Love you, too. So we’re on for tomorrow?”
“It’s a deal.”
Again Decker jerked the car to the side of the road. “Where are we?”
Fighting off fatigue, Cindy stammered out the location. Decker nodded, then guided the Porsche onto the 110 Freeway North. She glanced at her father’s stoic face, then kept her eyes fixed on the roadway, taking in everything, looking at the world from an entirely different perspective: a cop’s perspective.
Parked in Bootles’ gravel lot, Decker hung up his cell phone and looked at his daughter. “Your friend Angelica is off the hook. The bullet came from Holstetter’s gun.”
“But he didn’t do it,” Cindy insisted. With that pronouncement, she climbed out of the Porsche and slammed the door.
Decker slowly got out of the driver’s seat. “Obviously he did, Cynthia.”
“Well, I don’t believe it.”
“That’s another issue entirely.” He tightened his jacket collar against the freezing wind. The sky looked as uninviting as the barrel of a gun. He caught up to his daughter. “What is it you expect to find here?” he asked.
“I’ll know when I find it.” Cindy stopped. “Where is Holstetter now?”
“With the local police. They’re talking to him—”
“No one’s that stupid! Not even Holstetter.”
“Cindy, why are you snapping at me?” Decker rubbed his hands together. “I’m cold, and I’m getting very grumpy. Let’s get out of here, get some coffee or something.”
“Has he admitted to anything?”
“I don’t know.”
She pointed ahead. “How about a hike?”
Decker stared at her. “And what do you possibly hope to find?”
She stared back. “Dad, I’ve been reliving that moment over and over. It’s plaguing me. My eyes weren’t more than inches away from the window when Rigor fell. I didn’t see anyone.”
“You weren’t looking. You were focused on Rigor.”
“I didn’t hear a shot. You thought that was very odd, remember? Can we take a short walk? I just want to see if it’s possible to shoot from up there in the mountains into the commissary window.”
Decker looked at the hillside. “More than a short walk. I’d say about a half, maybe three-quarters, of a mile.”
“It’ll warm us up.”
“Cindy, it’s hard to hit something half a mile away.”
“Typical bullet range for a nine-millimeter is close to a mile.”
“I know the statistics. I’m talking reality.”
“Please?”
God, Decker thought, she’s worse than I am. “C’mon,” he said.
They groaned as they trudged up the rocky hillside. The cold was seeping through Decker’s shoes, into his feet. But Cindy wasn’t complaining, and he’d be damned if he’d be out-stoicized by his own daughter.
Panting hard, they reached the top, the frigid wind cutting them to the bone. A few minutes later, they were standing above the firing range.
“You can see the commissary window from here,” Decker said, pointing. “But you can’t see in it.” He paused for a moment. “Holstetter was angry with Rigor, wasn’t he?”
“Very much so, but—”
“Where was he when the shooting went down?”
“He said he was just walking around.”
“Around the range?”
“Yeah. He was waiting for a lane to open up.”
“Someone should have seen him, then. At least right after Lynne was shot. But he wasn’t seen for at least ten minutes afterward. So what does that say, Cin?”
“That Holstetter was far away. Like, off the grounds.”
“Like, possibly up here. And he didn’t want to tell anybody that he’d left the grounds without permission, giving Rigor a legitimate reason to kick him out of the academy.”
“But Dad, even if he was up here, it doesn’t mean he shot her—through a window—half a mile away.”
Decker frowned. “Guys usually don’t cool off by walking around and ruminating,” he said. “They do things. They act. If I were really ticked off at Rigor, I’d have gone straight into target practice and pumped out a few rounds.”
“The range was crowded yesterday,” Cindy pointed out. “We had to wait for booths . . .” Her eyes widened. “Target practice,” she echoed, and turned to her father. “If he couldn’t work off his frustration that way, because the booths were full, why not come up here and shoot at trees?”
She was excited now. “A stray bullet, Dad—you said that yesterday.”
“Cindy—”
“The wind could have deflected the bullet, carried it through the window!”
“Not if he was shooting in the opposite direction, toward the mountains. Even this wind isn’t strong enough to do that.”
“Or maybe the bullet was deflected by a tree and then carried by the wind,” Cindy said. “And Holstetter didn’t say anything about it because he didn’t want anyone to find out he was shooting. First thing we were taught is never, ever discharge your weapon without a reason! Doing so is grounds for expulsion. Rigor was real big on that rule. Make sense?”
Grudgingly, Decker admitted it made some sense.
“If he was doing target practice, he had to be aiming at something,” Cindy reasoned. “Maybe the building; hence the bullet. Although that would be pretty stupid.”
“More than likely, if he was up here, he was aiming at trees,” Decker said.
“So let’s start looking for bullet holes in tree trunks.”
Decker stared at her.
“Dad, even if Holstetter tells the truth now, they aren’t going to believe him, because he didn’t come clean yesterday. He’s going to be accused of murder. We’re here already. What’s another hour or so?”
“An hour or so of freezing weather is called torture,” Decker said, but he started looking. Because the kid was right.
Sipping coffee in a drab, windowless room, the buzz of cops surrounding her, Cindy prayed that someday she would be a part of all this. She was waiting for her father to finish making his statement to the officers in charge. He was taking a lot longer than she had, she thought—but then his observations carried a lot more weight than hers.
A half hour later, her father emerged. She stood, her eyes questioning. He put an arm around her shoulders and said, “Let’s go.”
“What are they—”
“When we’re in the car.”
They walked quickly to the Porsche. As soon as she was buckled in, Decker gunned it out of the parking lot. He put the heater on.
“Did Holstetter admit to discharging his weapon?” Cindy asked.
“With a murder charge thrown in his face, it was the first thing he did admit,” Decker said. “But at that point, he had a credibility problem. No one was listening to his story.”
He paused and appraised his daughter. “He owes you big, Cindy. You saved him jail time. On the basis of our statements and the physical evidence we recovered, the DA’s going to plea-bargain down to involuntary manslaughter. Holstetter will probably just get probation and community service. But his career as a cop is dead.”
Cindy nodded without speaking.
Decker said, “You carry a gun, you take the responsibility that goes with it. Holstetter didn’t,
and it cost a life. If there’s a moral here, it’s ‘Don’t play with firearms.’”
“Still, I feel sorry for him,” Cindy said. “He didn’t mean to do it.”
“I know,” Decker said, “but Rigor’s still dead.” He turned down the heater. “A stupid, stupid tragedy. Not a moment has gone by that I haven’t been thanking God. You were two feet away from Rigor when she was hit.”
“Yes, I—” Cindy abruptly changed the subject. “Did you tell them our theory of the bullet trajectory? About the scrape marks on the two tree trunks and the deflection angle that led right toward the window?”
“Yes.”
“What did they say?”
“‘Highly unlikely’ was their response . . . something like that. Still, they must have given it more weight than they let on, because they are planning on reducing the charge.” He smiled. “It didn’t hurt that we found six other bullets in the tree trunks that also matched with Holstetter’s gun. It gave him some mileage in the truth department.”
They rode in silence for a while. Finally, Cindy said, “Our group . . . do you think the academy will take us back?”
“I don’t think the academy subscribes to collective punishment. Why wouldn’t they take you back—all of you except Holstetter? But they’ll be watching you like hawks.”
“Fair enough.”
“More than fair.” Decker waited a beat. “Cindy, listen to me carefully. You only have one obligation on this earth.”
“What’s that?”
“To take care of yourself. Promise me.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Not good enough.”
“It’s all I can give you right now, Dad.”
Decker didn’t say anything. Instead, he abruptly pulled onto the freeway shoulder.
Cindy grinned. “Piece of cake. Westbound 118, about to hook onto 405 South. Any other questions?”
“None,” her father said. “That’s it. Class dismissed.”
A WOMAN
of MYSTERY
“A Woman of Mystery” explores the
past coming back to haunt the present,
a favorite theme of mine. Although we
are not controlled by our own histories,
we are the sum total of our experiences.
How we handle our personal histories
says a lot about who we are. This story
also offers a tiny glimpse into Rina
Lazarus’s past.
AS A STUDENT, EVE MILLER WAS DIFFERENT—not odd but distinct. And because Rina Decker was an experienced teacher, she knew this intuitively, although she could have pointed out several objective reasons why she thought Eve unique.
First off, the young woman’s working knowledge of the Bible was far better than most of Rina’s first-year Introduction to Judaism pupils. Although there were gaps in Eve’s knowledge, she knew the stories of Genesis and Exodus by heart and could even quote passages from memory. More impressive, she was familiar with the later sacred texts, specifically the Prophets.
Second, Eve didn’t embrace the religion with the typical zeal found in born-again Jews—the ba’alei tshuva—whom Rina generally taught. On the contrary, Eve appeared hesitant to commit to the Orthodox ways. She asked probing questions and analyzed Rina’s explanations. Eve seemed unsure about her spirituality, so it didn’t surprise Rina to find Eve lingering about after class one evening, waiting for the others to leave.
Maybe Eve had been working up her courage. After all, she was young—early twenties, whereas most of the other pupils were closer to thirty. She was fresh-scrubbed and pretty, with short blond hair that had been layered to expose gold-studded earlobes. Her complexion was soft, her cheeks had a natural blush. Her lips were full, and her eyes were iridescent green. She dressed neatly and conservatively: black slacks, white shirt under a crewneck sweater, flats on her feet. She was on the tall side, five-six or -seven. Her notebook was always tidy, her handwriting legible and neat.
The class was officially over at nine P.M., but there was always a barrage of last-minute comments that stoked protracted discussion. It heartened Rina that her students were so enthusiastic that they rarely noticed the time. But eventually, she did have to put a stop to the after-hours dialogues. Rina did have a life. Still, she always felt a pang of guilt when she announced that it was time to go home.
And even after she dismissed class officially, there were students who had just one more question or one last comment. How could she cut them off at such a crucial time in their religious development? In reality, there wasn’t any pressing need for her to rush home. Her sons were almost young men and certainly didn’t require physical care. Hannah was only six, but she was sleeping soundly by nine. And Peter could always find a way to occupy himself. Still, Rina valued her private time with her husband. As a police lieutenant, Peter worked long, hard hours and she never took her husband for granted.
Yet here was Eve, lingering, ill at ease, judging from the tapping of her left foot. Her arms were folded across her notebook, which she was pressing to her chest. Her expression was tense. Rina knew the young woman needed to talk. It took twenty minutes for the other students to file out. Finally, it was just the two of them.
Rina stacked the loose papers spread across her desk. She smiled. “Hi, Eve. Is there something I can help you with?”
“You look busy.”
“Not at all.” Rina pointed to an empty chair. “Please. Have a seat. What’s up?”
Eve sat and placed her notebook on her lap. She licked her lips. “I don’t know where to start.” Her voice was a whisper.
“How about if you begin at the beginning?”
“That’s just it, Mrs. Decker, I don’t . . .”
A pause. Rina said, “Don’t what, Eve?”
“I don’t know the beginning.” Another hesitation. “I don’t know the beginning or the end.” She locked eyes with Rina. “I don’t know anything, because I don’t know who I am.” She held back tears. “I mean that literally. I have no memory of the past.”
Slipping under the covers, Rina enjoyed the warmth of the blanket, the softness of the pillow beneath her head. She looked over at Peter, then took his hand. “I’m not a neurologist,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s anything like a brain tumor. Eve’s mental acuity is fine. At the risk of sounding psychobabbly, I’d say maybe it’s some kind of dissociative state.”
“Very psychobabbly.” Decker marked off the page of his book, placed it on his nightstand, and turned off his reading lamp. He ran his fingers over his ginger mustache. “She needs to be checked out medically, Rina. And as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely,” Rina agreed. “I told her that.”
“And what did she say?”
“She insists her problem isn’t physical. She’s sure that her memory loss means she’s escaping something psychologically painful.”
“So why doesn’t she see a shrink?”
“She’s too scared.”
“Pretty swift insights, Rina,” Decker said. “To me, it sounds like a bad movie. Are you sure she’s not snowing you?”
“Maybe.” Rina gave her husband’s words some thought. “But why would she want to do that?”
“For attention.”
“I don’t know, Peter. She seems so genuinely upset.” Rina paused. “For the moment, can we assume that her amnesia is legitimate?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
“How would you go about searching for her true identity?”
“How would I do it?” Decker smiled. “I’d send her to a psychiatrist, let him or her do all the work.”
“I meant as a detective.”
Decker lifted his eyebrows. “I can see you’re determined to suck me into this. Okay. First tell me what you think.”
“For starters, she sounds educated.”
“Why?”
“Her use of language. Her syntax and vocabulary.”
“Some college?”
�
�I think so.”
“Does she remember going to college?”
Rina shook her head. “Her personal slate is blank, Peter. Except for her name. She thinks her actual name was something similar to Eve Miller. Also, she told me she liked the name Eve because Eve was the first woman.”
“Also the first person to commit sin.”
“She’s aware of that fact.”
“Yet she doesn’t know how she picked up her knowledge of the Bible?”
“No. Just that she knows it in the same way she knows how to work a calculator or read a book. She says that was why she came to my class in the first place—to hear me speak on Jewish laws and customs. She felt it might trigger something.”
“And?”
“Nothing. The Jewish rituals are foreign to her.” Rina turned over on her side to face him. “My guess? She had some kind of religious upbringing, like a churchgoing family.”
“A college-educated person with a religious upbringing,” Decker said. “But you don’t think she’s Jewish, because although she knows Bible, Jewish customs are alien to her.”
“Exactly.”
“So if she isn’t Jewish, what religion is she?”
“My first thought was Catholic. But I think that most Catholics are taught more catechism than Bible.” She looked at Decker for some kind of confirmation.
He said, “Beats me.”
She sighed. “I’d say that she could have been raised as a fundamentalist Christian, maybe Baptist or Evangelical.”
“Amish?”
Rina thought for a moment, then said, “She seems too worldly.”
Decker nodded. “And she came to you for help . . . to find out who she is?”
“Someone must have told her that my husband is a police detective. Maybe she figured I was in a position to help.”
“So why didn’t she go directly to the police?”
“I told you, Pete—she’s scared.”
Decker rubbed his jaw. “On the professional side, it’s a snap to plug the name ‘Eve Miller’ into the Missing Persons Network.”
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 9
