Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 01

by The Ritual Bath

  “We found him wandering around, Detective—”

  Decker cut the officer short. “Read him his rights?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take him down to the station.”

  “Peter, please—” Rina tried.

  “Take him in,” Decker said, louder.

  “Detective Decker, you don’t understand about Moshe—”

  “I do understand, Rabbi. There’s nothing more to say. Marge, get Rina the hell out of here. They’re coming this way.”

  Decker stomped away, but Rabbi Schulman caught up with him and grabbed his arm. The old man had a vise grip and kept up with Decker’s brisk pace without a wheeze.

  “Detective, Moshe has lived here seven years and spent the last two wandering around in the hills. Every man, woman, and child knows he’s out there, and no one has ever been worried or perturbed by his peculiar habits. There have never been any rapes or murders before all of this. Orthodox people don’t rape and murder. That includes Moshe. He’s harmless. He baby-sits children in the shul—”

  “People can snap, Rabbi.”

  “Moshe snapped a long time ago, but he never was and never will be violent. He couldn’t do something like this.”

  “You had your chance, Rabbi. He was released into Mr. Adler’s custody—damn, here they come.”

  A bright-eyed Asian woman spoke up first, wielding her microphone like a weapon: “Detective Decker, who’s the man being led out of the woods? Is he a suspect in the murder?”

  “Detective, does this killing have any connection with the Foothill rapes that have been plaguing this area?”

  “Detective, how was the victim murdered?”

  “Was it someone from the yeshiva?” (Mispronounced yesh-eye-va.)

  “There’ve been reports the victim was a woman. Was she raped?”

  “Do you suspect the Foothill rapist?”

  “Rabbi, do you have any information about the suspect now in custody?”

  “Rabbi, is the victim one of your students?”

  Decker turned around and faced them.

  “I have no comment at this time, and we are withholding identification of the murder victim pending notification of kin. Thank you.”

  He squeezed into an unmarked, pulled the old man in with him, and took off.

  “I thank you kindly, Detective.”

  “I wouldn’t throw my worst enemy to those wolves. Where’s a safe place to drop you off?”

  The rabbi ignored the question and continued debating. The man was relentless.

  “If it’s Moshe, Detective, where is your evidence? Was there a weapon? The last time you were here someone shot at you. Moshe wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun. He’d blow his toes off. You saw Moshe. Does he look like a man who could tackle a two-hundred-pound security guard? Does he look like a man who had just finished murdering—winded and exhausted or full of scratches and blood from a struggle?”

  “His clothes were torn.”

  “He wears torn clothing. Check his room. All of his clothes are worn, all of his clothes are old.”

  Schulman’s eyes were bright and active. It was pointless to continue, thought Decker.

  “Where can I drop you off, Rabbi Schulman?” he repeated.

  “I’m coming down to the station with you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Rabbi.”

  “If you would give me time, I could convince you that Moshe is harmless—”

  “Someone very convincing swayed me the first time. Now a woman is dead, and I want some answers. I pray to God it’s not Feldman, because if it is, I’m responsible for her death.”

  “I insist Moshe had harmed no one. Arrest me instead.”

  “Rabbi, this is the twentieth century. If the cup was found on Benjamin, Benjamin is going to be tried for theft. And try as he may, Judah can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  The old man looked perturbed.

  “Rina has been teaching you Torah?”

  “I learned that in Bible school. That’s the Christian equivalent to your place.”

  “Lehavdil.” The rabbi cranked open the window.

  “Now where can I take you?” Decker tried again.

  “To Moshe! I am a lawyer! I will act as his counsel!”

  “Are you licensed to practice in the State of California?” Decker asked.

  The rabbi paused and readjusted his hat.

  “No,” he admitted softly.

  “Then you cannot act as his counsel—”

  “The man is incompetent. Incompetents are entitled to have their parents present during questioning.”

  “You’re obviously not Feldman’s father. Are you his legal conservator?” Decker asked.

  “Not technically. But I am his spiritual leader and can promise you this, my good friend: Anything you will obtain from him in my absence will be inadmissible in court.”

  Decker suspected the old man might be right. He made an abrupt U-turn and headed toward the station.

  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 wai
ted 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 conf
idence. 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.”