Murder in Jerusalem

by Batya Gur

  “We found it!” Yaffa informed him triumphantly. “What was it we said? That ‘every time you touch something you leave a trace.’ So here you are.” She pointed with a finger wrapped in a silicone glove at the front of a light blue T-shirt spread over a computer printer standing under the window. “You see this stain?” she asked him. “Looks brownish, right? Well, that isn’t brown, it’s red. Someone tried cleaning it but didn’t manage. Whoever it was didn’t know you need cold water in order to clean blood at first.” She smiled, clearly pleased. “They worked on it with boiling hot water, maybe from the teakettle”—she pointed at an electric kettle in the corner of the room—“or maybe from somewhere else. In any case, they tried to get rid of the stain with hot water, but all they did was turn the stain brown.”

  “You’re sure that’s blood?” Michael asked, hesitant.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Yaffa answered. “That’ll only be after we run some tests. But I’m willing to bet. When someone gets slaughtered like that, there’s bound to be blood, and nothing can cover it all up.”

  “With you I don’t place bets,” Michael said as he bent down for a closer look at the shirt. “Every time I’ve made bets with you in the past, I’ve felt like—hey, what’s written on the label of this shirt? This shirt is—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Yaffa dared to interrupt. “This shirt is filled with signs. You could call it a miracle. First of all, if it’s blood and if this shirt is connected to the crime scene—note I said ‘if’ twice—then it’s sure not a woman.”

  “Why? Because the label says LARGE?”

  “No, not necessarily. Plenty of women like loose-fitting shirts, big roomy shirts. Maybe that’s another reason. But getting back to what I said about working on a bloodstain with boiling water—”

  “Not every woman knows how to clean stains,” Michael protested.

  “Aha!” Yaffa said, openly triumphant. “Not every woman knows how to clean stains, and not every type of stain, but if we’re talking about blood, well, that’s a different matter. Every woman knows that blood comes off first of all with cold water. If you’d ever gotten your period, you would have known that too.”

  Michael raised his hands as if giving in. “Hmmmm, menstrual blood. If we’re talking about the menstrual cycle, then I really can’t—who am I to stand up to the cyclical forces of nature?” he said without smiling. “But what about the size?”

  “As you yourself said, sir, it’s a men’s size LARGE,” Yaffa confirmed. “But here we’re in luck. If it’s connected to this case, then we’ve had a lucky break. If this turns out to be Zadik’s blood, then we’ve got a real lead, because this shirt is unique. I don’t think you can find it in Israel. Maybe one of the fancier shopping areas in Tel Aviv, Gan Ha’ir or Kikar Hamedina. Look,” she said, showing him the label. “See that? Brooks Brothers, made in the U.S.A., really expensive store. It’s only for men prepared to pay a lot for everyday clothes. I happen to know about it—I’m telling you, you never know what you remember and when you’ll make use of it one day: not long ago there was this woman at work who brought a pair of socks in for her boyfriend. But the guy’s married, and he asked her, ‘How am I supposed to bring a pair of Brooks Brothers socks home with me? What am I supposed to tell my wife? I mean, she knows I wasn’t in America, so who could possibly bring me something like this?’ Anyway, the fact that he was such a coward about the whole thing really made her mad, and she decided not to give him the socks—she’d brought him three pairs—so instead she gave them to Rami. You know Rami, don’t you? I heard this story by chance. I’ll bet you that the person this shirt belongs to has at least another one, along with a few pairs of Brooks Brothers socks. If you find somebody with Brooks Brothers T-shirts or socks, well, we’ll be on our way to wrapping up this case, you know what I mean? You can only get these things in America; a present for yourself or someone you love. You should know that, I mean, in life in general. And look what else I found,” she exclaimed, waving a tiny, sealed plastic bag in front of him that held a single gray hair. “It was on the shirt. Inside it. If this is blood, and if this shirt is connected to the scene of the crime, then this hair could be the key to the whole case.”

  “Who found this shirt?” Michael asked.

  “Yigael did, right here between the computer table and the wall, all bunched up. What do you say about that?”

  “Good job, Yigael,” Michael said, causing the sergeant to blush.

  “Who’s been in this room today?” Michael asked Yaffa. “Have you checked it out yet?”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Sergeant Yigael interjected from his spot near the door, “but everyone’s been in here. Turns out that the whole staff comes in and out of the foreign correspondents’ office, not just the foreign correspondents themselves: graphic artists, and people who need the computer, and just about anybody who has business in the newsroom. They all come in here.”

  “So you haven’t checked who exactly was in this room today?” Michael asked.

  “Sure we checked, sir, of course we did,” Yigael said, slightly offended. “But…,” he said, hesitating, then fell silent.

  “But?”

  “But look at the list,” he said as he removed a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, which he then proceeded to unfold. “There are like thirteen people on this list that said they were in the room or that someone else said they were here. Look. And we haven’t even finished yet, there were more people walking around, we only just got started because we only just found the shirt about half an hour ago…anyway, sir, Yaffa says that anybody could have come in, thrown the T-shirt behind the computer, and left immediately, and nobody would have known the difference.”

  Michael perused the list of names, which included the assistant producers Tzippi and Zivia, and Karen the anchorwoman, and Hefetz (“What business did Hefetz have there?” he asked the sergeant, who scratched his forehead. “I don’t exactly know, sir, he says he only popped in for a second”) and Rubin (“He came in looking for Hefetz”) and Eliahu Lutafi, the correspondent for environmental affairs, and Elmaliah the cameraman, and Schreiber. Natasha had been there, and Niva, and even Zadik had passed through at around eight in the morning—in several instances Yigael had noted the times as well—and there were three names Michael did not recognize. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to everyone yet,” Yigael said, “but, say, Danny Benizri was in here with somebody, a cameraman, and they worked on something on the computer. You can talk to him, sir, he’s in Editing Room 8, he’s been sitting there for the past hour and he didn’t want to—he says to me, ‘If you people are going to shut me in here, at least let me work.’ What was I supposed to do, put up a fight? He said, ‘Call me when your boss gets here.’ What could I say to that? Arye Rubin’s there, too, in the editing rooms. He also said if you need him—”

  Michael refolded the sheet of paper and, glancing at the sergeant, said, “Good job, Yigael. Now you’ve got your work cut out for you: I want you to fill in the missing information, find out exactly when—and for what reason—these people were in the foreign correspondents’ room, and whether they noticed anyone else entering.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered, his round brown eyes shining brightly with the compliment.

  “How long will it take for you to get the results?” Michael asked Yaffa.

  “About the shirt? The blood?” Yaffa answered distractedly. “Not long, maybe by tomorrow already, but the hair will take longer, that’s more complicated. You know how long it takes with DNA…I hope we’ll have the results by the day after tomorrow, but we’ll get the blood test back first.”

  “I’m going upstairs for a minute,” Michael said. “If Eli Bachar or Balilty are looking for me, that’s where I’ll be.”

  Sergeant Yigael nodded vigorously, and Michael raced up the stairs, in part, perhaps, to test his breathing, to see whether the pressure he had felt in his chest over the previous few months, mainly when dashing up stairs—the chief
reason his family doctor had insisted he quit, describing in lurid detail the effects of several lung diseases—had dulled or disappeared since he had quit smoking. Now it seemed as though the pressure had not decreased at all and that he could still hear a whistle in his breathing; he asked himself why he should suffer so, why he should give up smoking at all. Anyway, there was a NO SMOKING sign at the entrance to the editing rooms, so at least he was spared having to search for somewhere to smoke, or to break the rules, which he had done so often in the past.

  Danny Benizri was sitting in front of an editing table, his black button-down shirt open to reveal a white T-shirt underneath. At the sound of the door opening he raised his face from the monitor and stopped the film; frozen on the screen was a picture of Esty, pregnant behind the wheel of the truck, her hand on her stomach, writhing in pain and gesturing to something or someone beyond the camera, while Rachel Shimshi, on her knees next to Esty in the truck, was tapping her cheeks. She was clearly rattled.

  “This is the report about the wives of the laid-off workers for tonight’s broadcast,” Danny Benizri explained before being asked. “It’s…it’s really awful, what’s happening there. This one,” he said, pointing at Esty, “she lost her baby today. First pregnancy. Today’s a terrible day, with everything that’s happened. I just need another couple of minutes to finish.” Michael approached the monitor for a better look at the picture Benizri was describing. “With everything that’s happened through this whole affair,” the reporter said, “I just don’t understand how Rachel Shimshi could have let Esty come with her, pregnant like that. And it took her a while to get pregnant, too. Believe me, I’m well informed, I know this story from the inside. She had so much trouble, lots of fertility treatments, you name it. And for what? To lose the baby? That was the only reason Rachel Shimshi agreed to leave the truck. She took off the chains herself, put a stop to the whole operation. The other women didn’t even know a thing about it. We called an ambulance, there was so much blood. Don’t even ask what went on there. She’ll be fine, but not the baby. What a huge mess from all this.”

  The telephone rang, and Benizri sighed. “Yes?” he answered, impatient. “Sorry, I thought it was my wife…. Okay, I’ll be there right away.”

  “You’re going somewhere?” Michael asked. “Because I was planning to ask you—”

  “That was Hefetz,” Benizri explained. “He told me to get down there right away, I’ve got to—he says it’s urgent.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Michael said, “and we can leave together. When exactly were you in the foreign correspondents’ room?”

  Benizri, who was occupied with removing the cassette from the editing machine and turning it off, stopped what he was doing and gave Michael a confused look. “The foreign correspondents’ room?” he asked with feigned innocence. “I wasn’t there, no way. When? Who said that?” A moment later he remembered: “Oh yeah, I was there with the graphic artist, just for a little while around noon. I remember that now, because from there I dashed out for a bite to eat, I was famished. Why do you ask?”

  “How long were you there?” Michael asked.

  “Maybe twenty minutes. I was talking with the graphic artist and…not very long.” Benizri placed the cassette into his travel bag and moved toward the door.

  On their way to the elevator, Michael asked, “While you were there did a lot of other people enter the room?”

  “As usual,” Benizri said. The elevator door opened. “The foreign correspondents’ room is not exactly a private place. Sure, people came and went. I think maybe even the correspondent for foreign affairs stepped in”—he smiled awkwardly at his own joke—“and so did the foreign news editor, and…I don’t remember who else. We were standing over in the corner.”

  “Next to the computer?” Michael asked as they stepped into the elevator.

  “Yeah, how did you know?” Benizri asked, surprised. “Why is that important?”

  “And you didn’t see anything special or unusual? Nothing strange?”

  Benizri shrugged. “I didn’t see a thing, strange or otherwise. Do you have any idea how many things I’ve been dealing with today?” The elevator stopped, and Michael followed him to the canteen. From the end of the corridor he could see Hefetz standing in the doorway. In one hand the acting director of Israel Television was holding a cup of coffee and in the other a yellow envelope. Hefetz cast a stern look at Danny Benizri and said, “Listen, Danny, I’ve just received—” He cut himself off when he noticed Michael.

  “What? What did you just receive?” Benizri asked, glancing at the envelope.

  “I…” Hefetz started, embarrassed. He loosened the knot in his tie, unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt, and passed his hand over the gray chest hairs sticking up from his collar (he was not wearing an undershirt, and Michael made a mental note to verify his dress habits with someone in Wardrobe). “Not here, not like this, I didn’t intend…but because of the police there’s nowhere for a little privacy in this place.”

  Michael ignored the reproach in his voice. “It’s not that there’s no physical location for privacy, Hefetz, you’ve got to be more precise: it’s that there’s no more privacy at all, and that’s that. Very simply, the director of Israel Television was murdered here this morning. I need to know what’s in the envelope too, because it may be connected to this case.”

  Hefetz looked at him, disquieted. “I can promise you there is no connection,” he said faintly.

  “Okay already,” Benizri said impatiently. “Tell us what this is all about, and let’s get it over with. I mean, what could be so bad?”

  “Fine,” Hefetz said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He handed the envelope to Benizri.

  Danny Benizri opened the envelope and removed a stack of photographs. Unsuspecting, he looked at the first of them; a moment passed before he realized what he was looking at. He shoved the whole stack back into the envelope, looked around, and said, “God…”

  “Exactly,” Hefetz said. It seemed to Michael that he could detect a faint echo of pleasure in his voice, maybe a dash of schadenfreude. “That’s just what I said. This is the last thing we needed right now.”

  “May I?” Michael asked as he reached for the envelope.

  Danny Benizri moved his hand behind his back. “It’s irrelevant, believe me,” he demurred.

  “There’s no such thing as irrelevant,” Michael said. “I am truly very sorry, but I must see what’s in those photos.”

  “It’s nothing…pictures of…how could intimate photos of me with a woman have anything to do with Zadik? Something to do with blackmail, I guess.”

  Michael extended his hand again, and this time Benizri placed the envelope in it.

  Slowly, Michael removed the photos and looked at them. Danny Benizri scanned the corridor, terrorized, but for the moment no one was passing by.

  “These certainly are intimate photos of you with a woman,” Michael said. “But this isn’t just any woman, and it’s pretty clear who she is, don’t you think?”

  “Believe me,” Danny Benizri said, pleading, “this has nothing to do with any of this, and it will only ruin everything. She…the minister…Mrs. Ben-Zvi…she had no intention…oh, my God, how could I not even have suspected…” He fell silent, watching Michael with a plaintive look on his face.

  “If photos like these arrive here on the very day the director of Israel Television is murdered,” Michael said, “and if they are used to blackmail a senior correspondent at Israel Television and the minister of labor and social affairs, then there is no way not to make a connection between these matters.”

  “There was only the photographs in the envelope,” Hefetz said. “No note, no mention of blackmail.”

  “Who brought them?” Benizri asked.

  “A guy with a motorcycle helmet or something,” Hefetz explained. “Young guy. He gave the envelope directly to me, thank God.”

  “What do you mean, ‘thank God’?” Benizri interj
ected, his hands shaking and his face pale. He retrieved the photos from Michael and looked quickly through them. “Don’t you get it? If there are photos like these of us—of her and me—next to her house, in the lobby of the hotel, in—look at this! It’s like they shot us with a telescope, right there in the room! How could they have done this so quickly? It’s just…this’ll be the end of me, and not just of me—”

  Michael stuck his hand out again, and Danny Benizri handed over the photographs. “Black and white,” Benizri said bitterly. “In black and white, a few in color. You know, for variety. What are you going to do?” he asked Hefetz. “Broadcast this on the evening news?”

  “Are you asking that seriously?” Hefetz said, shocked.

  “Of course,” Benizri answered. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Are you nuts?” Hefetz protested. “What do you think I am? Do you think I’m running some lowlife rag of a newspaper, some—of course I’m not going to broadcast this! But I don’t know what the big papers will do with this. With your luck, this could make the front page of Yediot Ahronot or something.”

  “I’ve got to make a phone call,” Danny Benizri said in a whisper, beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. “Excuse me, please,” he said, turning away as he removed his cell phone from a pocket and dialed. “It’s me,” he said quietly before walking away.

  Hefetz peered into the canteen. “Look at that,” he muttered. “Quiet as a cemetery. You can’t even open your mouth around here anymore, everything you say…I’ve never, ever seen the place looking like this, not even during the Yom Kippur War. And believe me, I’ve been around. This canteen’s been here for as long as Israel Television. The wall over there was built while we sat here eating. In 1969, right after Israel Television got its start, there were two groups that kept apart from one another. There were class distinctions here, not like now: there were the Poles, who had only just come to the country after they’d been tossed out of Poland, disgruntled Communists with cigarettes constantly in their mouths. They walked around with their noses in the air, laughing and making fun of everything around them, snobs who had worked in the Polish film industry and thought they knew everything. But ultimately they were refugees. On the other side of the canteen were the Israelis. We were all young, we didn’t know a thing…in the seventies I would arrive from the army, from reserve duty—I was an officer—and I would show up at the canteen and I wouldn’t know where I belonged. I mean, who should I sit with? The young people or the editors? With the Poles or—none of them are left, the Poles. They died, they left. Who knows where they went. But there was always shouting, there was never quiet like there is today. You could never hear the monitor like you can right now, and nobody’s asking for it to be turned down. I see they’ve put on some rerun, I asked them to find something for the time being. But I didn’t think…”