The Ritual Bath

16

Decker waited for the right opportunity to talk to the sobbing black man. He stood in the corner of the tiny living room, now packed with people, and tried to be invisible, but his oversized frame and complexion made him sorely conspicuous. Besides, he knew he reeked of cop. He’d received several sidelong glances since arriving, but no one dared to make eye contact with the stranger.

He scanned the crowd. The neighbors had brought baskets and platters of food, enough to make the card tables sag, but his stomach was in knots, and eight o’clock was too early for him to eat. Besides, he knew the spread was for friends only. The news had traveled fast, and people must have risen at dawn to cook and bake. Florence’s preacher must have called and told them.

A little boy plowed into him, smiled, and scooted off. Being dressed in their Sunday best didn’t stop the kids from romping around and chasing each other. Their mothers scolded them intermittently for their frisky behavior, but seconds later they were off and running. A few of the shyer ones stayed close to their parents while gorging themselves on sweets.

Decker saw an opening and walked over to Florence’s husband, Joe. He had made hundreds of condolence calls, but they still pained him. Joe was a big man, but he looked withered from exhaustion, overwhelmed by grief.

“Mr. Marley?” Decker said.

The man regarded him.

“You must be the detective.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, as if it was an exertion to speak.

“I’m Detective Peter Decker. I’ve been assigned to your wife’s case. I had an opportunity to meet her before this all happened. She was a fine woman. I’m so sorry.”

The man nodded graciously, then said:

“Florence didn’t have any enemies, if that’s what you were going to ask. Everyone loved her. Look at all the people here. They were all her friends. Nobody here would want to hurt her.”

“I know they wouldn’t.”

The man let out a hollow laugh, followed by a trail of tears down his cheek.

“She wanted to be a cop, Detective. That’s what she always wanted to be from the time I met her. I told her it was dangerous to be a cop. Besides, you saw Florence. The woman liked to eat. So she trained to be a security guard, and that suited me fine. Not too much danger in security work, right, Detective?”

“This was very unusual, Mr. Marley.”

“But it doesn’t make her any less dead, does it? It’s a freak situation, but she’s still dead.”

Marley grabbed Decker’s arm.

“Who did this?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Marley.”

“I heard you arrested somebody.”

“He was released.”

“Released?”

“He wasn’t the right man. Besides, there was insufficient evidence to charge him with the murder-”

“Insufficient evidence,” he hissed, then spat on the floor. “That’s what I think of your insufficient evidence!”

Decker waited for more. Marley was looking for a scapegoat on whom to vent his frustrations, and at the moment, the detective didn’t mind supplying the poor guy with one. But Marley stopped.

“Why did you come here?” he asked quietly.

“To tell you I was sorry. And to let you know I’m doing everything possible to find your wife’s killer.”

Joe lowered his head and nodded.

“Mr. Marley, when you get a chance, when your head clears a little, maybe you can remember something unusual that Florence might have said about the mikvah-”

“The whole culture was strange to her, but she liked the place. Liked the women. They liked her. They gave her a present on her birthday…”

The man heaved a big sob.

“Did she mention seeing anyone hanging around there?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Well, don’t concern yourself with it right now. But if something comes to you, give me a call.”

Decker gave him his card.

“Thank you for coming, Detective Decker,” Marley said, looking at the small stiff rectangle.

“Feel free to call me anytime.”

Decker left the bereaved man, stepped outside, and noticed the day had turned hot already. He had walked halfway to his car when he was stopped by the preacher, a slight, mocha-colored young man with cornrowed hair, dressed in a clerical collar, black shirt and matching pants.

“Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t help noticing you.”

Decker smiled to himself. “What can I do for you, Reverend?”

“You’re the policeman in charge of the case?”

Decker nodded.

“Are you making any progress?”

“Unfortunately, these things take time.”

“In other words, nothing.”

Decker remained impassive.

“Perhaps you’d like to do more. We’re setting up a memorial fund for Florence Marley. We’d like to build a new classroom in the church in her honor. Perhaps you’d like to contribute?”

Decker sighed, took out a wallet, and pressed a twenty and a ten in the man’s hand. It cleaned him out.

“That’s most generous, Detective.”

“Yeah, well, we all do what we can.”

Decker left the Marley house just in time to get caught in rush-hour traffic on the Harbor Freeway north. He was heading toward the downtown interchange and knew he was going to be stuck for a while. He considered playing cop and pulling out the light to side-step it all, but he wasn’t particularly eager to get to work. He eased the Plymouth into the left lane, cutting in front of a Datsun which gave him an angry honk. Decker ignored it, but the driver wasn’t satisfied with just a simple reprimand. When they were both at a standstill, he thrust his head out of the window, let go with a tirade of verbal abuse, and flipped him off.

At the first opportunity, Decker swung his car next to the Datsun. He took the red light off the dashboard and reached out to place it on the roof of the unmarked. The 280 ZX pulled onto the freeway shoulder.

Decker parked the Plymouth, got out, approached the Datsun, and looked through the rear window. Nothing suspicious. He regarded the man. Mr. Junior Executive. Fancy jacket, silk tie, prissy mustache. Probably lived in a condo and coked his head on the weekends. Now he looked as if he was going to piss in his pants.

“May I see your license, sir?” Decker asked.

“Officer, I’m sorry about the outburst-”

“Your license, sir?”

“Oh sure.” The man fumbled around, finally locating the ID, then handed it to him through the open window.

Decker looked it over.

Ronald Elward. Five eight, 160. Blue eyes, brown hair. Twenty-eight years old. A little prick.

“Mr. Elward, you need to learn about freeway manners.”

“I’m sorry-”

“I could arrest you as a public nuisance.”

The man blanched.

“This is a warning. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Yes, sir.”

Decker pulled the car out and edged back into the traffic. He was still crawling, but he felt a little better.

It had been a long night-the murder, four hours of interrogation, and a mound of paperwork.

Moshe Feldman had been an impossible suspect to grill because the usual techniques of interviewing didn’t work on a schizophrenic. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was a suspected murderer. The possibility of incarceration left him apathetic. The man was in outer space. He spoke freely and uninhibitedly, talking even when advised to remain silent, but most of what he said was gibberish-not all of it in English. Decker asked the rabbi to translate the Hebrew (actually Aramaic, the detective learned), and the old man said he was quoting from the Gemara Sukkot.

Feldman’s counsel was equally difficult. The rabbi had brought in some mouthpiece from Beverly Hills-a contentious bastard if ever Decker had seen one-but sharp. The attorney objected to every question he posed, so the detective had spent at least half his time trying to rephrase himself.

Hours of interviewing had led nowhere.

The search of Feldman’s living quarters had proved equally fruitless. The wandering scarecrow lived meagerly, out of choice, in a potting shed covered with sheets of tarpaper to keep the rain out. The shack was bereft of basics such as bed or bathroom, but loaded with mowers, hoes, shovels, claws, clippers, stakes, wire, fertilizer, potting soil, seeds, and plant food. Against the rotted wooden planks was a makeshift closet of stapled boxes full of old clothes of varying sizes. Most of the garments were soiled white shirts, stale-smelling black pants, old black hats, and fringed dickies, but in the corner hung a white robe embellished with gold thread, lace, and embroidery, and a prayer shawl trimmed with a collar of silver. These were set aside from the rest of his wardrobe, encased in a plastic cleaners’ bag. Rabbi Schulman told Decker that Moshe slept on the floor and ate only fresh fruits and raw vegetables that he grew in a small garden patch behind the lean-to. For the Sabbath, he indulged in challah, wine, and a pot of soup and boiled chicken that the Rosh Yeshiva’s wife cooked for him.

The oddest thing about the place was the room’s centerpiece-a bookcase fashioned of dark, oiled walnut and windowed with leaded beveled glass. It was an antique and, judging from the amount of marquetry and carving, obviously worth money. Inside were prayer books in Hebrew and phylacteries.

Some potentially incriminating evidence had been found at the scene of the murder. A shred of material from Feldman’s jacket was hanging on an adjacent oak branch, and nearby were fresh footprints that matched the shoes he was wearing. But it was nothing to make a charge of murder stick. The man was a compulsive hiker. The jacket could have been ripped a long time ago, and he could have left his tracks before the murder took place. Most important, there was no concrete evidence in the preliminary lab reports to link him directly to the murder-no bloody clothes, no weapon, no fingerprints, no micro-fibers of his clothes or hairs found on the deceased or vice versa.

Moshe was released, a free man-of sorts.

Decker pulled the car into the precinct lot, walked into the squad room, poured himself a cup of coffee, then summoned Hollander and Marge into an empty interview room for a powwow.

“Who wants to go first?” Decker asked.

“Feldman walked, huh?” said Hollander.

“We don’t have anything on him except that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not enough to sock him with a robust Murder One.”

“Do you think he did it?” Marge asked Decker.

“No. What do you think?”

“I don’t think he did it, either. Mike?”

“I’ll make it unanimous.”

“I don’t think he did it,” said Decker, “not because he’s not crazy enough, but because he’s not strong enough.”

He paused, gulped some coffee, and continued: “The woman outweighed him by seventy pounds and was taller by five inches. More important, Florence had confidence. She was a pro.”

“Unless he was on PCP,” said Marge.

“According to the serum and urine analyses, he was clean,” Decker said.

“So who are we dealing with?” Hollander asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Someone big and strong,” Marge said. “Like your size, Pete.”

Decker nodded. “I could have restrained her. I’ve got four inches on the woman and know what I’m doing, but let me tell you guys, it would have been a struggle. To subdue a big woman like that who’d be lashing out would require beef-real muscle.”

“Remember, about fifteen years back, a sweetheart named Edward Kemper from Santa Cruz? A real psycho,” Marge said, slumping in the folding chair. “Blasted his grandparents and mother. A necrophile. Cut up a slew of coeds, screwed ’em, and traveled around with their dismembered hands.”

“Reach out and touch someone, huh?” said Hollander.

Marge ignored him. “The darling was six nine, two-eighty.”

“Yeah, we could be dealing with someone like him,” Decker said. “Or someone even a little smaller but with a lot of bulk-like Fordebrand.”

“The anonymous linebacker,” Marge thought out loud.

“Yup. So how about we do this?” Decker said. “We’ll run a check on all the bad boys around town with large builds-six feet, two hundred pounds minimum.”

“Gonna come up with a healthy list,” Hollander grunted.

“Yeah, but we won’t know shit unless we try. Any other possibilities besides Feldman and football players?”

“Weight lifters?” Hollander said.

“They’ll show up on the list, Mike,” said Decker.

“How about someone who knows karate?” Marge suggested.

“Then why would he bother with a knife?” Hollander responded.

“Maybe he gets a thrill out of slicing?”

“It’s a possibility,” said Decker. “Low on the list, but a possibility. The Bruce Lee killer. Who else?”

“How about the Foothill prick?” Hollander asked, lighting up his pipe. The room became blanketed with a thick haze. “He knows how to manhandle women.”

“Florence wasn’t raped,” Marge reminded him.

“So maybe he crossed the border and decided to kill,” Hollander said.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the bastard eventually does kill,” said Decker. “He’s getting increasingly more violent, and we all know that rape and murder are on one big continuum. But rapists who start killing usually mix the violence with sex. Florence wasn’t sexually assaulted in any way.”

“Let’s back it up,” Marge said, finishing her coffee. “Maybe the killer wasn’t Mr. Muscles. Maybe Florence just freaked at the sight of an attacker and froze with fear.”

“Not that woman,” Decker shook his head. “She once stopped me on the way to the mikvah. She was tough and loud.”

“Did the preliminary autopsy show any head injuries?” Marge asked.

“No,” Hollander answered.

“So she wasn’t knocked out beforehand,” Marge said.

“Also, her facial expression was pure terror,” Decker said. “I think the poor woman was wide awake and knew what was going to happen to her.”

The three of them sat for a moment in silence and digested it all.

Hollander broke the silence.

“I’m gonna get another cup of coffee. Anyone besides me want some swill?”

They handed him their mugs.

“How’s tricks, Pete?” Marge asked after he left.

“Been better. I need some sleep.” Decker yawned as if to illustrate the point. “Hey, I got the invitation to the recital.”

Marge smiled.

“Ernst and I have some lovely duets picked out. Going to be quite a crowd. I’m a little nervous.”

“You’ll pull it off.”

“Hey, I’ll be among friends, right?”

“I’m a friend. I promise not to laugh too loud.”

“Mike’s bringing Mary. Bring someone.”

Hollander reentered, carrying a tray of coffee cups, a pint of milk, and a few packets of sugar.

“Great service, Michael,” Marge said. “I’ll leave you a big tip.”

“I’ll take anything you’ll give me, Marjorie.”

Decker took a sip, then said:

“I’ve got another scenario for the murder. The killer wasn’t alone.”

“I like that,” Marge agreed.

“They ambushed her,” Decker continued. “One held her down while the other slashed.”

“Sounds as reasonable as a Goliath,” Hollander said. “Any candidates for the dynamic duo?”

“Stein and Mendelsohn,” Marge said. “Mike and I did some poking around at the yeshiva last night. Rabbi Schulman told me Stein was studying, but it turns out it wasn’t in a group. Seems the only one who could attest to Stein’s whereabouts was his friend Mendelsohn. They were studying together in a deserted classroom, and no one remembers seeing them. They could have slipped away without being noticed.”

“Mendelsohn have a record?” Hollander asked.

“No, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Marge said. “All weirdos start out clean.”

“What would be the motive?” Hollander asked.

“Let me run this by you,” said Decker. “We know weirdos sometimes find each other and pool their pathology, right? Let’s suppose that both Stein and Mendelsohn are psychos. And they find each other at the yeshiva and become friends. They talk, and bizarre ideas pop into their heads-rape, murder.”

“Like Bianchi and Buono,” Hollander said.

“Exactly,” Decker said. “I’ll check them out. I’ll also poke around the yeshiva for anyone else who looks interesting. Mike, how about you picking up Cory Schmidt and friends? They’re also possibilities. He admitted vandalizing the yeshiva, so we know he’s been there before. Maybe he saw women coming out of the mikvah and came back one night to take advantage.”

“But we’re right back to where we started, Pete,” Marge said. “How could Cory have overtaken Florence?”

“Maybe he did the rape alone the first time and brought his friends back for a gang bang. What if he wasn’t alone the first time? Had his friends along keeping watch. When Rina called out, it scared them all away, and the others didn’t get their turn with Mrs. Adler.”

“But how would the boys know about the Marley woman?” Hollander asked. “She wasn’t there at the time of the Adler rape.”

“They might have come back another time and seen her patrolling,” Decker suggested. “Next time they came prepared. They got her out of the way and tried to break into the mikvah to get to what they were really after.”

“So they had to know that Rina was there,” Marge said.

Decker tensed. “Or at least know someone was in there. Maybe not Rina.”

“Or maybe they came back to seek revenge on Rina specifically, for the rousting we gave them last week,” said Hollander. “Cory may have felt it was all her fault.”

“The possibilities are numerous,” Marge said. “It could be the linebacker psychopath, but personally I like the boys for the bad guys. First, there’s a bunch of them. They could really get a grip on the woman. Second, boys of their ilk tend to ingest a lot of illicit chemicals. The murder smacks of drug-frenzied adolescence. The dismembered arm and leg, the slit throat. Spaced-out teenage boys who love gore and have low impulse control.”

“Okay,” Hollander said. “I’ll look into Schmidt and his buddies.”

“Then that leaves me to check out the list of giants,” Marge said, then looked at Decker. “Someone should talk to Rina. Find out if she can tell us a little bit more about the break-in at the mikvah.”

Decker nodded.

“You know, Pete,” Marge continued, “if she’s the target, maybe she should split for a few days.”

“Exactly my thought.” Decker felt a rush of anxiety and changed the subject quickly. “What do you two make of Feldman’s clothes and shoe prints at the scene?”

“Maybe he’s the original wandering Jew and was hanging around the area before the whole thing took place,” Hollander said through a cloud of blue smoke.

“Let me run this by you,” Decker said. “Guy is roaming in the woods, sees something unusual, and goes over to investigate. He spots Florence lying there dead and mutilated. It freaks him out, but he’s too psychologically incapacitated to tell us about it. Or…”

“He could have witnessed something,” Marge said.

“Exactly,” Decker said. “How are we going to penetrate that warped mind?”

“See the rabbi,” Hollander said.

“I already have,” said Decker. “I laid out the same scene for him. The rabbi admits that Feldman was exceptionally incoherent last night and agrees it might be because he saw the murder take place. The old man knows a shrink who may be able to pull something out of him.”

“I hope he’s better than the last doctor of theirs that we used,” Marge said. “She really fucked up.”

“True,” Decker agreed. “But this guy-Dr. Marder-sounds very well qualified. I checked him out with Behavioral Sciences, and he’s considered an expert in hypnosis. Most important, he was Feldman’s original shrink, treated the guy when he first started to decompensate.”

“Wasn’t too successful,” Hollander said.

“No, but he does have a rapport with him.”

The door to the interview room opened, and Fordebrand popped his head inside.

“Phone call, Pete.”

“Thanks, Ed.” Decker stood up. “Anything else?”

“I’m fine,” Hollander said.

“Ditto,” answered Marge.

“Okay. Meeting adjourned.” Decker walked over to his desk and punched the flashing white button.

“Decker.”

A familiar background noise. Jesus, everything all at once. It was her. Keep her on the line. The longer the better.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hi.”

He coughed.

“Excuse me, Miss.” He checked his watch, then let go with a series of hacking coughs. Don’t overdo it, he warned himself.

“Pardon my coughing. I’ve got this cold that just won’t quit. Tried everything, but…Anyway, what can I do for you, Miss?”

“I was wondering…That sounds like a nasty cough.”

Decker coughed again.

“It is. I’ve had the darn thing for a week. Can’t seem to shake it. Just when I think it’s abating-”

“Yeah, anyway, I was wondering about the Foothill rapist.”

“Well, I’m the man to talk to. Excuse me.” He coughed again, took a sip of water, and got back on the phone. “How can I help you?”

“That description of the man that the nurse gave the police. They showed it on TV, on the news. Do you have a copy of it?”

“The composite drawing?”

“Yeah.”

“I have a copy of it.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I’d be glad to send it to you if you’ll just give me your name and address.”

Just a whir on the other end.

“Hello, Miss?”

The line disconnected.

Shit! But at least the tap was hooked up. Hopefully, he’d stalled her long enough. He dialed the police operator immediately. She told him that someone would get back to him right away. Five minutes later the phone rang.

“Decker.”

“It’s Arnie, Pete. Got some specific boundaries for you.”

“Shoot.”

“The call is in the Sylmar vicinity, north of Glenoaks, south of San Fernando Road, eastern border is Astonia, western is Roxford, inclusive.”

“Well, that narrows it down.”

“A little more time and I could have gotten even more specific.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Decker said. “Pay phone?”

“Naturally. Hope this helps, Pete.”

“It should. Thanks.”

“Bye.”

Decker got up and went over to the squad room’s receptionist. Shirley was an overweight, big-busted brunette in her early forties. Her best feature was an infectious smile.

“Hello, Shirley.”

“What do you want, Decker?”

“The yellow pages for Sylmar.”

She opened up a drawer and handed him a canary-colored directory.

“If it’s the massage parlors you want, ask MacPherson.”

“I’ll look on my own. I don’t trust his taste.”

She winked and flashed him a grin that he had to return.

Decker took the phone book to his desk and looked up laundromats, laundries, and dry cleaners. An hour later he had narrowed the list down to two dry cleaners, two laundries, and three laundromats in the area. His watch told him it was half past ten. First he’d talk to Rina.