Lineup

by Liad Shoham

  As usual, the TV was on, some morning program showing on the screen. She liked to listen with half an ear to the banal chatter while she brushed her teeth, got dressed, forced herself to eat breakfast. The mundane subjects and simple pleasures they talked about lifted her spirits and helped her forget for a short moment. She could hear the TV from anywhere in her tiny apartment, half of a larger one that had been subdivided.

  A famous model who had taken a year off to have a baby was telling the two moderators how it felt to be back on the catwalk as a mother, how she’d ended a photo shoot early to nurse the baby, how easy it had been to get her figure back. Adi actually wanted to hear the last part, about the diet, but they ran out of time. The interview with the model who’d learned what really mattered in life after giving birth was cut short by the news.

  Eight o’clock! She hadn’t noticed the time. She had to leave now! She took a final sip of coffee and was taking her mug into the kitchen when she heard the newsreader reporting another brutal rape in north Tel Aviv. The mug fell from her hands, shattering in the sink.

  She couldn’t breathe. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the apartment. In a typical monotone, the man on the TV screen recited that the rape had taken place late the previous night on Stricker Street. The victim was a single woman in her twenties. The rapist had fled.

  Stricker Street was right around the corner. Adi’s knees buckled. She sat down on a kitchen chair. Even though the volume on the TV was turned down low, it seemed like the newsreader was yelling at her, screaming in her ear, as he related that a similar incident had occurred nearby two months ago. The perpetrator had been caught and had been allowed to plead to the lesser charge of aggravated assault due to a technicality. He’d been sentenced to two years’ probation. Sources in the police force, he went on, claimed that because of the similarity between the two incidents, there was a very good chance the same man had committed the second rape as well.

  With shaking hands, Adi picked up the remote and switched off the TV. The apartment fell silent. The words continued to echo in her ears—“another brutal rape in north Tel Aviv,” “due to a technicality.”

  She was overcome by a wave of nausea, the granola and yogurt she’d eaten for breakfast rising in her throat. She ran to the bathroom and hurled—again and again. She couldn’t make them stop, the nausea and uncontrollable weeping.

  Finally, she got up from the floor. On her way to the living room she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her face was blotched, her hair was disheveled. She’d taken hundreds of showers in the past two months, but suddenly she imagined she could smell his odor on her again, like another recurrence of an illness she thought she’d recovered from.

  Tearing off her clothes, she ran to the shower. Just like she had that night, she stood under the scalding water, scrubbing and crying.

  She recalled her last meeting with Inspector Nachum. Think how you’ll feel if he does it again, he’d said to her, but she’d been so furious she didn’t want to hear it. The prosecutor had also asked her to consider the possibility that he might do it again, but she’d ignored her too.

  What had she done, what had she done? Her tears mingled with the stream of water pouring down on her.

  She stepped out of the shower and lay down on her bed. Everyone had pleaded with her not to recant, but she wouldn’t listen. A spoiled, self-centered brat, that’s what she was. It was her fault he’d raped someone else. Just a few blocks away, another girl was lying on a bed somewhere, bleeding, sobbing, shaking. And all because of her.

  Adi got up, opened the drawer of her desk, and pulled out Nachum’s card. She’d ask him to forgive her, tell him she knew it was her fault, that she was ready to do anything, to help in any way she could, even testify in court if necessary. She’d do whatever they asked.

  She picked up her cell phone and saw that her parents had called several times while she was in the shower. They must’ve heard the news too. With a shaking hand, she punched in the numbers on the card.

  A woman answered.

  “Can I speak with Eli Nachum, please?”

  “Inspector Nachum is on leave,” the woman replied drily.

  “When will he be back?” Adi asked. She was surprised he wasn’t there. He didn’t seem the type to take a vacation.

  The policewoman cleared her throat. “That information is not available at this time,” she answered finally before hanging up.

  Chapter 28

  DETECTIVE Ohad Barel had been put in charge of the rape case, and he was nervous. He’d waited a long time for this opportunity, and now that it had finally arrived, he was plagued by self-doubt. Was he ready? Would he be able to prove himself worthy of the trust that had been placed in him?

  A year ago, Superintendent Navon had called him into his office for a private chat. After he’d given a brief review of the cases he was working on, Navon told him the brass was very pleased with his work. He’d smiled to himself in anticipation of the announcement of a promotion that he was positive was coming next. But to his dismay, Navon had said that despite their appreciation, they could not offer him a promotion at this time due to the recent budget cuts. He’d waited in silence for Navon to make some promise for the future, give him an approximate timeline, but the superintendent had also remained silent as he stood up to shake his hand, indicating that the meeting was over. It was only at the last minute, when he was about to step out into the hall, disappointed and confused, that Navon had patted him on the shoulder and said: “We’re expecting great things from you, Barel. My door is always open. If there’s anything out of the ordinary, anything you want to tell me, anything that you think I ought to know, I’m here.” Ohad got the message. Although Nachum’s name had never been uttered, he understood that his promotion would only come at his boss’s expense.

  He didn’t plan to do anything about it. He respected Nachum. Eli had taught him almost everything he knew about being a cop. He had no intention of returning the favor by kicking him in the butt. His time would come. He considered himself a person of integrity, not the type to stab a good man in the back.

  As time went by, however, it became clear to him from what other cops were saying, and what Nachum himself told him, that his boss’s fate had already been decided. The higher-ups were just waiting for a chance to get rid of him. A detective from another unit even labeled him a “dead horse.” Ohad did his best to convince himself that Nachum was not to blame for the fact that his own career was in limbo, but he found himself resenting him for standing in his way, for not making room for younger guys to move up the ranks. His opinion of Nachum began to change too. Suddenly he started to see what everyone else seemed to see: an old-timer who refused to change, a dinosaur who used outdated methods and wasn’t open to new ideas.

  When the Regev case landed on their desk, he knew that if Nachum botched it, he’d be out. Navon had thrown him a rope and Ohad had to grab it; he wouldn’t get a second chance. Then he saw Nachum filing a false report for the court and went straight to Navon.

  For days he’d been a nervous wreck, unable to look Nachum in the eye. The smile on Navon’s face when he told him made it clear that it was only a matter of time until he put the information to good use. He’d even hinted he might leak it to that reporter, Giladi, who was making Nachum’s life miserable. Eli would know immediately how Navon and the press got wind of it. Ohad was already preparing his defense for the imminent showdown with his boss. But he got lucky. Before Navon could decide what to do with what he’d learned, the prosecutor spilled the beans. Nachum was suspended without ever finding out that his second-in-command had betrayed him.

  DANA Aronov lay on the bed in Ichilov Hospital with her eyes closed. The wounds on her face were covered in bandages, an oxygen mask was strapped to her head, and an IV tube was attached to her arm. This time the rape had been even more brutal than before. Dana was foun
d lying unconscious in the yard of her apartment building by one of her neighbors. Just two days earlier, she’d returned from a trip to Eilat with a girlfriend.

  Navon called at four in the morning to hand him the case. “This is your chance, Barel,” he’d said. “Don’t screw up and don’t let me down.” There was no need for him to add “like Nachum did.” Ohad got the message loud and clear.

  In less than thirty minutes he’d arrived at the hospital and asked to see the victim. After a glance at her mauled, swollen face, he’d felt compelled to look away.

  “I can’t tell you when she’ll regain consciousness and you’ll be able to talk to her. She may never wake up,” the doctor had informed him at her bedside.

  “Any DNA?” he asked. The doctor shook his head. “The tests haven’t come back yet, but in my opinion we won’t find anything. It doesn’t look like he ejaculated. I guess the beating was enough for him.”

  Ohad looked at the doctor, his face registering his disappointment. He’d been praying for it to be an easy one. This was his first major case, and he wanted to show he could close it quickly. With the victim unable to ID her attacker and no DNA, it was going to be much harder than he’d hoped.

  He’d have to use his brain. He couldn’t screw up his first case. Nevo wasn’t going to slip through their fingers this time.

  His cell phone rang. As soon as Navon had hung up, he’d sent a squad car to Nevo’s address. He knew he had to work fast. Every second counted.

  There was no question in his mind that Nevo was their man. Navon was also operating on the assumption that they already knew the identity of the perp. All Ohad had to do was pick him up, lean on him until he got a confession, and then charge him with two counts of rape. There was no room for any doubt. The MO was the same in both incidents, the victims were similar, and the two rapes were committed in the same neighborhood. Nevo had already admitted to assaulting Adi Regev. He was only out because Nachum had fucked up. The fact that he’d gotten off so easy despite all the evidence they had against him must have given Nevo a sense of confidence. He probably felt untouchable, as if he could do whatever he wanted without paying the price.

  “Nevo’s place is empty,” he heard from the cop he’d sent to arrest him.

  “Did you try his ex?” He hadn’t really expected him to be in his own apartment. He’d already ordered them to check out the ex as well. Even if he wasn’t there, she might know where to find him. At least he hoped so. After all, they had a son together.

  “Not there either.”

  “Does she know where he is? For all I care, you can bring her in too if you have to!”

  “No can do. Nobody home.”

  Chapter 29

  AMIT strode quickly through the hospital corridors. It was only five in the afternoon, but there weren’t many people around. His footsteps echoed through the halls, adding to his sense of unease. The sharp odor of disinfectant reminded him of the last time he’d been here, when he’d come to visit his grandfather after a simple case of the flu had developed into pneumonia. The old man died three days later.

  If he could, he’d turn and run. He didn’t want to be here, but Dori had given him no choice in the matter. He’d managed to worm his way out of it last time, inventing an excuse not to interview Adi Regev in the hospital. Dori had let it go then but not this time.

  He found out where they were from Ohad Barel, the detective who’d replaced Eli Nachum. He recognized them instantly. The victim’s parents were huddled together in the waiting room outside the ICU.

  Dori said it was part of the job description. “When a soldier dies, there’s a picture of him in the papers the next day, right? Where do you think they get it? Who do you think knocks on the parents’ door?”

  Amit walked over to them. The father looked up for a second before returning his eyes to the floor, staring sightlessly at a random square of tile. He had to get it together and just do it.

  “Excuse me,” he said quietly.

  The parents raised their eyes to him almost simultaneously. He’d planned his approach on the way over. He’d pretend to be visiting a relative and start a conversation that would yield a printable quote. But, standing in front of them now, he knew he couldn’t lie to them.

  “My name is Amit Giladi. I’m a reporter,” he said.

  They continued to gaze at him in silence. Maybe they don’t speak Hebrew, he thought. Even without knowing their name was Aronov, he could see from their clothes that they weren’t native Israelis.

  He repeated the words, more slowly this time.

  “Please go away,” the father interrupted. He had a heavy Russian accent, but his Hebrew was fine.

  Amit stayed where he was. More than once in his short career he’d been told to go away, get lost, fuck off. He was no more than a nuisance to most people. But it was his job to stand his ground and get the story.

  “Do you know that the man who did this to your daughter was arrested, but they had to let him go because of a technicality?” He wanted to gain their trust. They might agree to talk to him if they felt they had a common enemy.

  “I asked you to leave, Mr. Giladi,” the father said, pointing to the exit. “We don’t have the patience for this now.”

  “How’s Dana doing?” he asked, trying a different approach.

  Both parents looked at him in disgust, making it clear they had no intention of speaking to him.

  “Has she said anything? Did she wake up? Did she tell you anything?” he asked, firing at them the questions Dori had dictated to him.

  Silence.

  “I’m not the enemy. On the contrary . . . ,” he said meaninglessly.

  The mother aimed a hostile expression at him. Other journalists would probably know what to say, what words to use to draw these people out. But Amit didn’t have that skill, or maybe he didn’t have enough experience to know how to get them to open up to him. He was going to leave here empty-handed.

  “Do you have any comment about the rape? Is there something you’d like me to put in the paper?” he said, making another attempt to elicit a response.

  The mother stood up and came toward him. The father said something to her in Russian. It sounded like a reprimand.

  “My husband told you to leave . . . Please respect our privacy,” she said reprovingly.

  “I’m going. Just tell me one thing . . .”

  “Don’t you understand? We don’t want to talk to you. Leave us alone. We have nothing to say.” She had raised her voice and he could see her lips trembling.

  “I need something . . . something to tell the readers . . . to tell people . . . they care . . . they want to know how you feel, they want to know about Dana, about what she’s going through . . .”

  He wasn’t prepared for it. It happened too fast. It was too unexpected. Without warning, the mother slapped him sharply across the face.

  “Now you can tell them how you feel,” she said, bursting into tears as he stood there staring at her, stunned. Her husband got up quickly and took her in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his arms wound tightly around his weeping wife. “You have to understand, we’re very upset. Dana’s in critical condition.”

  Amit continued to stand there, his cheek burning, his eyes filling with stinging tears.

  AS soon as he got to the paper, he saw Dori standing at the door to his office, going over the galleys. His figure towered over the partitions between the work stations. Amit was about to beat a quick retreat. He’d come back later. He didn’t have the energy for a confrontation with Dori right now, but the editor caught sight of him and waved him over.

  “Did you get it, kid?” he asked.

  “They didn’t want to talk to me,” he answered, not meeting Dori’s eyes.

  “What do mean, they didn’t want to talk to you?” From the tone of his voice, Amit knew h
is boss would start shrieking any minute.

  Silently, he cursed Dori for saddling him with this assignment and cursed himself for working for this cheap rag. A couple of nights ago he’d run into Amir Hasner at The Cave. They’d gotten their degree in communications together. Not only did Amir tell him he was at Haaretz and not some ass-wipe local throwaway, but he also hinted he was working on a huge story that was about to explode into the headlines. “It has to do with the chief of police,” he said with a wink. Naturally, Amit hadn’t said anything, but he could feel his temples throbbing. That was supposed to be his story!

  “Their daughter is in the ICU,” he tried to explain.

  “So what? I didn’t think she was touring Europe,” Dori snarled.

  “I did my best to get something out of them, but they wouldn’t talk. The mother slapped me in the face. She’s got quite an arm on her.”

  “Poor baby,” Dori said sarcastically. “The mother slapped you? I hope you went to the emergency room.”

  Amit didn’t answer. What could he say?

  “Come on, baby boy, why don’t you turn the other cheek? Maybe it’ll do you some good if I slap you on the other one.”

  Amit kept silent. That was the best way to handle Dori.

  “I’ve always had my doubts about you, Giladi.” Apparently, Dori wasn’t going to let up on him. “I always knew that at the moment of truth you’d turn out to be a crybaby. You just haven’t got what it takes. You’re not cut out to be a journalist.”

  “Badgering parents who don’t know if their daughter is going to live or die—that’s what it takes to be a journalist?” Amit couldn’t stop himself.