Survival Of The Fittest

7

“How far'd you get?” Milo asked the next morning. It was 9:00 A.M. and we were drinking orange juice in my office.

“All of it.” I lifted the offender printout. “New system?”

“Funded by Sacramento in response to the victims' rights movement. Great idea but so far reporting procedures are sloppy and lots of cities- L.A. included- don't have a system in place. Also, most cops are scared of computers so the best way to get info is still the horn and teletypes. What'd you think of the FBI letter?”

“Nothing I disagree with but Agent Gorman's careful not to commit herself.”

“So what else is new.”

I told him my conception of the murderer. The possibility that photos had been taken.

“Polaroids or a darkroom?” he said. “A professional photographer?”

“Or a serious amateur. Someone with artistic pretensions- there's something pretentious about the crime, Milo. Fussy. Arranging the body, sweeping up. A psychopath who wants to believe he's something else. But all that's predicated upon it being a sex crime.”

“You don't think it was?”

“Gorman may be right about its having something to do with Irit's background rather than being just a random thing. When Gorobich and Ramos did something, they were thorough. It's what they didn't do that's off. All those interviews with park neighbors but none in Beverlywood. The father talked to twice, the mother not at all.”

He wiped his face. “A family thing?”

“Most kids are killed by relatives.”

“Something about these parents comes across creepy?”

“Just how little attention they've received. And how little information they've offered.”

“A parent hiding in that forest- it would have to be the father 'cause the mother wouldn't be strong enough to carry Irit that far. And I know for sure it wasn't the father because when the call came in about Irit's being missing, he was at the consulate in a meeting.”

“Okay,” I said. “Any other relatives besides the younger brother?”

“Don't know.” He put his big hands on the side of the box and rocked it. “It's too weird, anyway, Alex. When relatives kill kids you know it's almost always at home. Or some family outing. I've never heard of them stalking like this. I know Gorobich and Ramos didn't turn over every rock but they claim there was nothing off about the Carmelis. Just parents destroyed by the worst possible scenario. Add VIP to the picture and you could see why they wouldn't want to pry too hard.”

“Makes sense,” I said. “Get a callback from Mr. Carmeli yet?”

“Nope. And I can't wait to tackle that one. Little old moi crashing the halls of diplomacy.”

The image made me smile.

“What?” he said. “The tie?”

The tie was a limp, narrow strip of blue-green pseudosilk, too short to stretch the hump of his belly and flipped-up at the tip. Perfect with the beige-and-black-striped shirt and the faded olive sportcoat.

I used to think he didn't know better but a month ago, Robin and I had gone with him to the art museum and he had looked at the pictures the way someone who understands pictures does, talking about how much he liked the Ashcan painters, why Fauvism stank because of the vulgar colors. After all these years I was beginning to suspect the way he dressed was intentional. A distraction, so people would think him inept.

“The tie,” I said, “could cause an international incident. Why, are you planning a drop-in?”

“You know me. Mr. Spontaneous.”

“When?”

“Soon as possible. Want to come along? No doubt you've got a diplomatically correct foulard- in fact, do you have one to lend me? More orange juice, too, long as you're up.”

I lent him a conservative paisley and we took the unmarked.

The Israeli Consulate was on Wilshire near Crescent Heights, on the top floor of a faceless seventeen-story tower. The first three floors were parking lot and Milo drove in, ignored the WAIT FOR VALET sign, and pulled into a space near the elevator. Pocketing the keys, he shoved a bill at the flustered attendant, flashed his badge, and called out, “Have a nice day.”

We rode up. The interior halls were narrow, white, free of decoration, topped by a low, gray, water-spotted acoustical ceiling. The carpeting was mint green with a faint dot pattern. Both needed cleaning and wallpaper seams had come loose in spots. Lots of doors, mostly white and blank.

At the end of the corridor was a TV camera aimed at the last door. A brown plastic sign announced the presence of the consulate and the Israeli tourist office and spelled out hours for visa applications. Just to the right was another plaque- the blue-and-white Israeli flag- and below that a plate-glass window with a steel document tray, a call button, and a speaker.

A young black-haired man in a blue blazer, white shirt, and tie sat behind the glass. His features were sharp and his hair was thick and cropped to the skull. He was reading a magazine and didn't look up until Milo pushed the button.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Carmeli.”

“Do you have an appointment?” Middle Eastern accent.

Milo produced the badge again.

“Drop it in, please.”

The badge hit the tray and slid into the reception booth. A steel shutter dropped over the slot. The guard inspected the badge, looked at Milo, held up a finger, got up, and disappeared. The magazine was Sports Illustrated.

Behind the booth was a nest of white cubicles and I could see two women and one man working at computers. A few travel posters hung on the walls. Everything looked just a bit off- cloudy. Refracted through the inch-thick glass.

The young man came back a moment later. “He's in a meeting-”

“This is about-”

The young man smiled and held up a finger again. “But,” he said, “he'll be out soon.”

He sat down and returned to the world of soccer.

“Doing us a big favor,” mumbled Milo.

A low-pitched whine sounded above. The camera rotated, aiming at us.

Milo pushed the button again and the young man looked up.

“My badge?”

“Mr. Carmeli has it.”

We stood in the hall as the guard read. A heavy black woman in blue blazer and gray slacks came from around the corner and walked down the hall, glancing at doors. She saw us and turned around.

Three minutes passed, four, five. The guard picked up a phone, listened, put it back down.

Five more minutes until one of the white doors opened and a tall, pale man came out into the corridor. Stooped, with round shoulders, he wore a gray nailhead double-breasted suit, baby blue shirt, and maroon tie. The shirt's collar was too big and the suit bagged. His cheeks were sunken and the bones of his hawk face were oversized and painfully obvious. Wavy brown hair was neatly trimmed and thinning at the crown. He wore heavy, black-framed eyeglasses.

“Zev Carmeli.”

Handshakes were cursory. His fingers were long and very cold. The glasses were bifocals. Thirty-eight but he looked ten years older.

Milo started to speak but Carmeli interrupted him by returning the badge and turning to point down the hall. Leading us to another of the white doors, he unlocked it and motioned us into a windowless room set up with a brown sofa, Danish teak coffee table with brass ashtray, a pair of chrome and brown-tweed armchairs.

Blue carpeting, still nothing on the walls. Behind the couch was another white door, double-bolted.

Milo and I took the chairs as Carmeli relocked the outer door. Reaching in his coat, he placed a hardpack of Dunhills and a matchbook that said LEARN AT HOME TO BE A COURT REPORTER on the table.

He sat down on the couch and lit up, inhaling for a long time while studying the grain of the tabletop. His movements were slow and steady, as if everything required careful planning. He kept smoking, finally looked at us. His eyes were as black as the eyeglass frames, still and flat as a stain. The room fogged with nicotine, then I heard an air conditioner kick in and smoke began rising toward a duct in the ceiling.

Carmeli hiked his trousers up over black socks. His fingertips were stained amber.

“So,” he said to Milo, “you are the new detective.” Lighter accent than the guard's- Middle East tempered by upper-crust London.

“Milo Sturgis, sir. Pleased to meet you.”

Carmeli glanced at me.

“This is Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “Our psychological consultant.”

I expected some reaction but Carmeli gave none. Finally he raised the flat, black eyes til they met mine. Another lungful of smoke.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

Everything on delay. Everything an effort. I'd met too many families of dead children to be surprised.

“You will be analyzing the murderer, Doctor?”

I nodded.

“And anything else that bears analyzing,” said Milo.

Carmeli didn't react.

“We're sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet, sir, I just got the files. I thought I'd start by touching base and-”

“Touching base,” said Carmeli, softly. “We are playing baseball… Your predecessors touched base with me, as well. Unfortunately, they struck out.”

Milo didn't answer.

The cigarette was only half-smoked but Carmeli crushed it out. Both of his feet were flat on the ground. He drew them closer to the couch and his knees pointed sharply through his trousers. The shirt collar at least one full size too big, his Adam's apple unusually sharp-edged, like a blade threatening to rip through his neck. A thin man who'd lost lots of weight.

New cigarette. I noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, his fingers squeezing the paper cylinder so tightly it was almost an L. The other hand rested on the couch, curled into a fist.

“A no-hitter,” he said. “So… we are touching base. What would you like to know, Mr. Sturgis?”

“First of all, is there anything you want to tell me?”

Carmeli stared at him.

“Anything,” said Milo, “that's occurred to you since Detectives Gorobich and Ramos spoke to you.”

Continuing to stare, Carmeli straightened the bent cigarette, then lit up and shook his head. A very soft “No,” emerged from clenched lips. “Nothing.”

“Then I'll ask a few questions, sir. Please understand that some of them may be repet-”

Carmeli cut him off with a wave of the cigarette. Smoke ribboned. “Ask, ask, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Your work, sir. The Middle East situation. I'm sure you receive threats-”

Carmeli laughed without changing the shape of his mouth. “I'm not James Bond, Detective. My title is deputy consul for community liaison. Did your predecessors tell you what that means?”

“They said something about organizing events. The Israel Independence Day parade.”

“Parades, Israel-bond luncheons, meetings at synagogues, talking to Hadassah ladies- do you know what Hadassah is?”

Milo nodded.

“Dear ladies,” said Carmeli. “Lovely people who plant trees in Israel. When wealthy donors want to have lunch with the consul general, I arrange it. When the prime minister comes to town to meet with the wealthiest of donors, I organize his itinerary. Double-O-Eight. License to cater.”

The free hand shot through his thinning hair.

“So you're saying you never encounter-”

“I'm saying there's nothing controversial or dangerous about my work, Mr. Sturgis. I'm saying what happened to my daughter had nothing to do with my work or my wife's work or our family and I don't understand why the police simply can't accept that.”

His voice had risen but remained soft. He leaned his head to the right as if loosening a neck kink. The black eyes were unflinching. He smoked some more, hungrily.

“Then again,” he said, “I've dealt with your department in the course of my duties.”

“Oh?”

Instead of elaborating, Carmeli smoked aggressively.

“Sometimes,” said Milo, “we have to be annoying to do our job properly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I'm afraid. Asking the same questions over and over.”

“Ask whatever you please but if you persist in emphasizing my work the answer will be the same: I'm a bureaucrat. No exploding pens.”

“Still, sir. Being Israeli, you have enemies-”

“Two hundred million of them. Though we're now on the road to peace, right?” Now, Carmeli smiled.

“Then how can you be sure this wasn't political? Despite your duties, you're a representative of the Israeli government.”

Carmeli didn't answer for several moments. Looking at his shoes, he rubbed the toe of the left one. “Political crimes are based upon hatred and the Arabs hate us. And there are thousands of Arabs in this city, some of them with strong political views. But the goal of even the most violent terrorist is to send a message in a way that will attract attention. Not one dead child, Mr. Sturgis. A busload of children. Copious amounts of blood, disarticulated limbs, TV cameras recording every agonized cry. Bombs that make noise, Mr. Sturgis. Literally and figuratively. Several years ago when the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank discovered that throwing rocks at our soldiers made them international heroes they began phoning the wire services to give journalists advance notice of impending riots. Once the film crews showed up…” He clapped his hands and ash scattered, landing on the table, his trousers, the floor.

“Your predecessors, Detective, informed me that the… crime was unusual in its lack of violence. Do you agree with that?”

Milo nodded.

Carmeli said, “That alone convinces me there was nothing political about it.”

“That alone?” said Milo. “Is there something else that convinces you?”

“Interpreting my phrasing, Mr. Sturgis? I thought he was the psychologist- speaking of which, have you developed any theories, yet, Doctor?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are we dealing with a madman?”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded.

“Outwardly,” I said, “the killer probably looks quite sane.”

“And internally?”

“He's a mess. But clinically he's not mad, Mr. Carmeli. More likely he's what we call a psychopath- someone with a serious character disorder. Self-centered, lacking normal emotional responses, no empathy, an incomplete conscience.”

“Incomplete? He has a conscience?”

“He knows right from wrong but chooses to ignore the rules when it suits him.”

He rubbed his shoe again and sat up. The black eyes narrowed. “You're describing evil- and you're telling me he could be any man on the street?”

I nodded.

“Why does he kill, Doctor? What's in it for him?”

“Relief of tension,” I said.

He flinched. Smoked. “Everyone experiences tension.”

“His tension may be especially strong and his wiring's off. But these are just guesses, Mr. Carmeli. No one really understands what leads-”

“What causes this supposed tension?”

A sexual warp, but I didn't say that. “Possibly a gap between who he thinks he is and the way he lives. He may pride himself on being brilliant, believe he's entitled to fame and fortune. But he's probably an underachiever.”

“You're saying he kills to feel competent?”

“It's possible, Mr. Carmeli. But-”

“Killing a child makes him feel competent?”

“Killing makes him feel powerful. As does eluding capture.”

“But why a child?”

“At root, he's a coward, so he preys upon the weak.”

His head snapped back, as if struck. The cigarette shook and he jammed it into his mouth. Smoking, he played with a cuff button, stared at me again. “As you said, these are guesses.”

“Yes.”

“But if there's any truth to them, the killing won't stop, will it? Because his tension won't simply disappear.”

“It's possible.”

“Also,” said Carmeli, “he may have murdered before.” He turned to Milo. “If that's so, why haven't the police discovered similar crimes?”

His voice had risen and the words tumbled out. Snubbing out the second cigarette, he used his index finger to shape the ashes on the table into a thin gray line.

Milo said, “This may be a beginning, sir. A first crime.”

“The killer began with my Irit?”

“It's possible.”

“Why?” said Carmeli, suddenly plaintive. “Why Irit?”

“We don't know yet, sir. That's one of the reasons I'm here to-”

“How extensively have you looked for other murders, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Very extensively, but we're still in the process-”

“The process, the process- your predecessors said there's no central crime computer in California. I was incredulous so I checked. And verified it.” Carmeli shook his head. “Absurd. Your department claims to be… Israel has a population of five million and our crime situation is much less severe than yours and we centralize our files. Excepting political incidents, we experience fewer than a hundred murders per year. That's comparable to a busy weekend in Los Angeles, right?”

Milo smiled. “Not quite.”

“A bad month, then. According to the mayor's office, Los Angeles had one thousand and four murders last year. Other American cities are even worse. Thousands and thousands of murders in this vast country. Without centralized files how can you hope to access information?”

“It's tough, sir. We do have some central-”

“I know, I know, the FBI,” said Carmeli. “NCIC, various state logs, I know. But reporting procedures are slipshod and inconsistent and there's tremendous variation from city to city.”

Milo didn't answer.

“It's chaos, isn't it, Detective? You really don't know if similar crimes have occurred and you're unlikely to ever know.”

“One thing that might help in that regard, sir, would be publicizing the crime. I understand your reluctance but-”

“Again,” said Carmeli, clenching his jaws. “Back to me. Us. What could you possibly expect to gain by publicizing the crime other than subjecting my family to more pain and possibly endangering the children of my colleagues?”

“Endangering them how, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Either by inspiring the murderer to kill another Israeli child or giving someone else ideas- go after the Zionists. At that point, we would be feeding terrorist fantasies.” He shook his head again. “No, there's no point, Mr. Sturgis. Besides, if this killer has struck before, it's been somewhere other than Los Angeles, right?”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Because surely, even with your slipshod procedures, you would have heard about it, no? Surely child murders aren't that routine, even in Los Angeles.”

“No murders are routine to me, sir.”

“So you'd know if there were others, wouldn't you?”

“Assuming the crime was reported.”

Carmeli squinted in confusion. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Many crimes aren't. Murders that look like accidents often aren't.”

“But the death of a child!” said Carmeli. “Are you telling me there are places in this city where parents wouldn't report the death of a child?”

“There are, sir,” said Milo, softly. “Because many child homicides are committed by parents.”

Carmeli went white.

Milo began to rub his face but stopped himself. “What I'm saying, sir, is that we can't assume anything at this point, and going public could jog someone's memory. A crime that was similar in some crucial way could emerge. Maybe years ago, maybe in another city. Because if we get good media coverage, the exposure would reach other cities. But I can also see your point about the danger. And to be honest, I can't promise it would do any good.”

Carmeli breathed rapidly several times and placed his hands on the couch. “Your honesty is… laudable. Now I will be frank with you: not a chance. The risk-outcome ratio isn't good, I won't have another child's death on my conscience. So what other avenues will you pursue?”

“I'll ask lots of questions. Could I ask you a few more?”

“Yes,” said Carmeli, weakly. He reached for a third cigarette, picked up the matchbook but didn't light up immediately. “But if they're about our family life, I'll simply tell you what I told the others: We were happy. A happy family. We never appreciated how happy we were.”

The black eyes closed, then opened. Flat no longer. Something burned within.

“Back to the political issue for a second, sir,” said Milo. “No doubt the consulate gets threats. Do you save them?”

“I'm sure we do but that's not my area.”

“Do you have any objection to turning over copies?”

“I can ask.”

“If you tell me whose area it is, I'll be happy to ask, myself.”

“No, I'll do it.” Carmeli's hand began to shake. “Your comment. About parents killing their own children. If you were implying-”

“I wasn't. Of course not, please forgive me if I offended you. I was just explaining why some crimes don't get reported.”

The black eyes were now moist. Carmeli removed his glasses and wiped them with the back of one hand. “My daughter was- a very special girl. Raising her was challenging and I believe we loved her more because of it. We never hurt her. Never lifted a finger against her. If anything we spoiled her. Thank God we spoiled her!”

He put the glasses back on, slapped his hands back down on the couch. “What other questions do you have?” Hardened voice.

“I'd like to know more about Irit, Mr. Carmeli.”

“In what way?”

“The kind of child she was, her personality. The things she liked and disliked.”

“She liked everything. A very agreeable child. Kind, happy, always laughing, always wanting to help. I assume you've got Gorobich's files?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't need to go over the details of her… medical condition. As a baby she had a fever that did damage.”

Slipping his hand under his jacket he drew out a large calfskin billfold. Inside were slots for credit cards. A photo sat in the first one and he slipped it out and showed it to us without relinquishing it.

Wallet-sized headshot of a beautiful, smiling child in a white dress with puff sleeves. Jewish star necklace. The same fair, curly hair and flawless skin, the same face… a mature face, no outward sign of retardation. In the death picture she'd looked younger. In this one, sparked by the joy of life, she could have been anywhere from twelve to seventeen.

“This was Irit, Detective. Not the images in your files.”

“How long ago was this taken?” said Milo.

“This year. At school.”

“Could I have a copy?”

“If I can find one.” Carmeli pulled the snapshot back, protectively, and returned it to the billfold.

“Did she have friends, sir?”

“Of course. At school. Children her own age were too… quick for her.”

“What about friends in the neighborhood?”

“Not really.”

“Any older kids who'd bothered or bullied her?”

“Why? Because she was different?”

“It happens.”

“No,” said Carmeli. “Irit was sweet. She got along with everybody. And we sheltered her.”

He blinked hard, lit up.

Milo said, “How hard of hearing was she?”

“She had no hearing in the right ear, about thirty-percent function in the left.”

“With or without the hearing aid?”

“With. Without the aid she could barely hear at all, but she seldom used it.”

“Why not?”

“She didn't like it, complained it was too loud, gave her headaches. We had it adjusted several times but she never liked it. Actually I-”

He buried his face in his hands.

Milo sat back. Now, he rubbed his face.

A moment later, Carmeli sat up. Inhaling the third cigarette, he talked through the smoke.

“She tried to deceive us about it. Wearing it when she left the house, then pulling it out the moment she got on the school bus. Or if not then, in class. Or losing it- we went through several replacements. We had her teachers make sure she wore it. So she began leaving it in her ear but switching it off. Sometimes she remembered to switch it back on when she came home but usually she didn't, so we knew- she was a sweet child, Mr. Sturgis. Innocent, not good at sneaking. But she did have a will. We tried reasoning with her, bribing her. Nothing worked. Finally, we came to the conclusion that she preferred not hearing. Being able to shut the world out, create her own world. Does that make sense to you, Doctor?”

“Yes, I've seen that,” I said.

“My wife has, too. She's a teacher. In London she worked at a school for special children, said many kids with problems enter their own private worlds. Still, we wanted Irit to know what was going on around her. We never stopped reminding her to use it.”

“So that day,” said Milo, “even though she was wearing it, you don't know if it was switched on.”

“My guess would be that it was off.”

Milo thought, rubbed his face again. “Thirty percent in one ear at best. So even with the aid, it's likely she couldn't hear much of what was going on around her.”

“No, not much.” Carmeli smoked and sat straighter.

“Was Irit very trusting?” I said.

He took a deep breath. “You need to understand, Doctor, that she grew up in Israel and in Europe, where things are much safer and children are much freer.”

“Israel's safer?” said Milo.

“Much safer, Mr. Sturgis. Your media play up the occasional incident, but outside of political terrorism, violence is very low. And in Copenhagen and London, where we lived later, she was also relatively free.”

“Despite being the child of a diplomat?” I said.

“Yes. We lived in good neighborhoods. Here in Los Angeles, a good neighborhood means nothing. Nothing prepared us for this city- certainly, Irit was trusting. She liked people. We taught her about strangers, the need to be cautious. She said she understood. But she was- in her own way she was very smart. But also young for her age- her brother is only seven but in some ways he was the older child. More… sophisticated. He's a very gifted boy… Would Irit have gone with a stranger? I'd like to think no. Am I sure?” He shook his head.

“I'd like to speak to your wife,” said Milo. “We'll be talking to your neighbors, as well. To find out if anyone noticed anything unusual on your street.”

“No one did,” said Carmeli. “I asked them. But go ahead, ask them yourself. In terms of my wife, however, I insist on drawing some ground rules: You may not imply in any way that she could be responsible, the way you implied with me.”

“Mr. Carmeli-”

“Do I make myself clear, Detective?”

His voice was loud, again, and his narrow torso had tensed, the shoulders up, as if he was prepared to strike out.

“Sir,” said Milo, “I have no intention of adding to your wife's stress and I'm sorry if I offended you-”

“Not a hint,” said Carmeli. “I won't permit you to speak to her, otherwise. She has experienced enough pain in her life. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be present when you speak to her. And you may not talk to my son. He's too young, has no business with the police.”

Milo didn't answer.

“You don't like this,” said Carmeli. “You think I'm being… obstructionistic. But it's my family, not yours.”

He sprang up, stood at attention, eyes fixed on the door. A dignitary at a boring but important function.

We rose, too.

“When can we meet Mrs. Carmeli?” said Milo.

“I'll call you.” Carmeli strode to the door and held it open. “Be brutally honest, Mr. Sturgis. Do you have any hope of finding this monster?”

“I'll do my best, Mr. Carmeli, but I deal in details, not hope.”

“I see… I'm not a religious man, never attend synagogue except for official business. But if there is a life after death I'm fairly certain I'm going to heaven. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I've already been to hell.”