His face hidden by the ball cap, the gardener raised his hand behind the old man’s back and gave him the finger. “I understand.”
“I hope you do. You can ruin it if it’s not pruned correctly,” the old man added. He reached out to caress one of the small green buds atop the dormant branch and then walked away.
It was hard to imagine anyone would last long working for a guy like that. The gardener removed his hat and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He looked dark, maybe Hispanic. Hal kept walking, watching from the corner of his eye as the old man walked feebly back up the front steps and into the house, closing the door with a bang.
Hal returned to Richard Gambini’s home on Saturday afternoon and again on Sunday in hopes of catching the retired police detective between his fun retirement activities. The UPS sticker remained on the front door, and Hal hadn’t been able to reach the detective on his mobile.
Wherever Gambini was, he wasn’t in any rush to get home.
Sunday evening, eating pasta and meat sauce that he’d picked up on the way home, Hal poured over the old case file he’d picked up from the Berkeley PD. Sure enough, Naomi had been spot-on. The victims of the reported attack at the professor’s home in 2004 were Aleena Safar and Tabitha Jones. The women had said that the assault occurred on April 27 at the home of Professor George Ramseyer.
Unfortunately, the women hadn’t reported the crimes until almost three months later, on July 19. Delays in reporting were all too common in situations of sexual assault, where women felt shame and embarrassment. While the police could confirm that there had been a party at the house that night in April, any physical evidence was long lost. And the alleged rapist had moved with no forwarding address, making the case a losing battle from the start.
The professor’s home had been rented to a single man, the one Tabitha and Aleena had accused of holding them hostage in the basement for some seven hours while they were tortured. Bengal, he was called. Like the tiger, the notes confirmed. So not a real name, clearly. And yet, that was all they had.
When the police spoke to others who had attended the party, each one reported the same thing—that the party had been thrown by Bengal. They knew him only as a man in his midtwenties who rented the professor’s house. No one knew his last name or what he did for work, only that he was charming and an occasional poet who performed at a bimonthly slam-poetry night at a dive bar near the university. A bar, Hal noted, that had been replaced a decade ago by a bakery-and-salad shop that specialized in gluten-free treats.
Other than the poetry nights and occasional appearances around campus, what Bengal did that year was largely unknown. Several people at the party recalled that he had called himself an entrepreneur, but he was never specific about what sort. Nor did any of them recall where he had come from or anything about his family, although a few mentioned a vague accent that one partygoer said sounded “mostly British.” Whatever “mostly British” meant.
According to the police report, Bengal had paid the professor $18,000 up-front with a stack of money orders for the nine-month lease. The professor had no forwarding contact information for his renter.
As far as the police were concerned, Bengal had dropped off the face of the planet. Tabitha Wilson had thought there might have been a second man, but she wasn’t certain. She had never seen him, never heard his voice, and Aleena Laughlin wasn’t sure that a second attacker even existed.
Hal believed their story. It was far-fetched, but the details he read in the case file all seemed authentic: their accounts of the timing, the similar sensory details in both versions, even the description of the car that had passed them, slowing, as they walked home. They had been certain Bengal was coming for them. That, along with the documentation of the scars, had been enough to convince him.
Photographs of the backs of Tabitha Wilson’s legs showed evidence of red crisscrossing scrapes. After three months, the lines were still clearly visible on her fair skin. She also had a series of half-moon-shaped burn marks on her thighs and stomach. Hal studied the images and thought again of the strange weapon they’d found in the theater.
The wavy tips of the two side blades could have created a similar shape. He sent the images to Roger for comparison to the weapon.
The file also contained images of Aleena Safar. The first was a close-up of the thin cut on the side of her face, which Schwartzman had suspected might have been caused by the same weapon. Images of her chest, abdomen, and extremities showed dozens of small red welts, like bites. In the police report, she said there had been a strange, sticky substance on her skin. The police officer had made a note that Aleena had theorized that the substance was something their attacker had used to attract the bugs and make them bite. She didn’t know what kind of bugs they were, just that they felt like horsefly bites.
In response to the girls’ accusations, the police had gone to the professor’s home. Ramseyer had allowed them access to the basement, which they photographed and documented in the file. A narrow workbench stretched along the entirety of one wall on the north side of the basement. Except for a stack of rags in one corner, the bench itself was empty. Above it, shelves were lined with the sort of supplies a homeowner amassed—a dozen paint cans, some small gardening utensils, a rack that held a hammer, several sets of pliers, and some screwdrivers.
It was not the workshop of someone who was into building but rather of someone who maintained a house. The basement also had a half bathroom, which was bare, the basin and toilet stained yellow from disuse. On the south side of the basement was a crawl space with a couple of dozen boxes and a faux Christmas tree broken into sections.
Nothing in Ramseyer’s matched the women’s descriptions of a “dungeon.” The girls had been certain that it had been that house, and the police had been able to confirm that there had been a party there. The girls had awoken in the cold air, huddled beside a small greenhouse in the yard, with no memory of how they’d escaped.
Another aspect of the case that struck Hal was that neither Aleena nor Tabitha recalled Bengal touching them, although he must have because both girls had been restrained. Rather, they reported—in addition to the burns and cuts and bites—that they’d been penetrated by foreign objects. Tabitha Wilson thought it was something wooden or plant-like while Aleena Safar had been certain it was metal. There was no way to ascertain if the material had been the same for both girls.
The pelvic exams done when the girls came forward to file their police report confirmed evidence of scarring on both girls. Tabitha Wilson had suffered burns in her genitalia. Even two months later, blisters remained on the area where she’d been burned. It was all so bizarre, so strange.
Hal wanted to talk it over with Schwartzman, but his phone reminded him it was after eleven on a Sunday night. Would she be asleep? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to risk waking her.
Instead, he opened a beer and sat back at the kitchen table, staring out the small window at the darkened building across the alley. Whoever this Bengal was, he was one screwed-up individual.
But why come back? Had Tabitha Wilson or Aleena Safar discovered his identity? And so what? The statute of limitations had passed long ago. Whatever assault had been committed, it was no longer punishable.
What kind of revenge did Tabitha Wilson want?
35
The Friday night Pilates class had left Schwartzman sore but relaxed, the way only exercise did these days. She had missed a call from Hal, but when she called him back, he didn’t answer. They exchanged only a few text messages over the weekend. Saturday morning, he had texted to say he was heading across the bay to follow up on a lead.
She might have offered to join him and share the results from Yasmin’s autopsy in person, but it felt strange to invite herself. If he wanted company, he would ask. But she hadn’t heard from him.
And so she spent the rainy Saturday tucked on the couch with Buster at her feet, eating soup she’d bought from Whole Foods. Together, they’d wa
tched three of her favorite movies—It Happened One Night, Roman Holiday, and The Philadelphia Story. She owned these—and a dozen others—on DVD, and when she’d finally switched to the ease of an Apple TV, she’d bought them on iTunes as well.
After a day spent indulging, she woke Sunday with the sense that she ought to do something productive. Armed with a cup of coffee, she went back through her findings on Aleena Laughlin, Malik Washington, and Parveen Yasmin.
Hal referred to the case as “scarlet” for the surprising color of Aleena Laughlin’s lipstick. Cases often ended up with nicknames of one sort or another—either assigned by the press or by the inspectors. The nickname fit the case for other reasons as well. Scarlet reminded her of The Scarlet Letter, the way in which Hawthorne’s character had been branded for adultery. A strange parallel existed in her mind between the Puritans’ attitude toward Hester Prynne and the way many perceived the dress of Muslim women—that their hijabs, their burqas, their niqabs branded them as unknowable. And the unknown was inherently frightening.
Authorities had identified the terrorists from 9/11 as Islamic. People so longed to categorize everyone with a single glance, to make things straightforward and orderly in an increasingly complex world. If they look the same, they must be the same. If terrorists were Islamic, were all Islamic people terrorists? And if not, how did we identify which Islamic people were terrorists and which were not?
Again, thoughts of Aleena Laughlin and Parveen Yasmin led to memories of Najah Mian, the oncologist she had met in chemotherapy.
Schwartzman and Najah had—whether by strange coincidence or some sort of serendipity—ended up sharing a few treatment times. And somehow they always gravitated to the same corner. On Najah’s final visit, her children were absent. She confessed that she was too exhausted to bring them. Judging from how clearly she adored them, Najah must have felt awful.
That day, she had told Schwartzman the diagnosis was good. That she would survive. They both would, she’d said, based on statistics, how soon they’d caught the lesions, and the aggressive nature of their surgeries and treatments. The confidence with which she spoke left Schwartzman insecure and worried. Studies proved there was real power in believing. Could she ruin it for herself—allow the cancer to come back, to flourish—if she didn’t believe as strongly as Najah?
She was a scientist. She should believe in the statistics. Surely, that was what Najah was speaking to—the odds, based on the disease. Najah had cared for hundreds of patients, maybe studied thousands of cases.
Either way, Schwartzman envied the strength of Najah’s conviction. On Najah’s final treatment, they had exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, promising to keep in touch, which, as expected, they had never done.
But on Sunday, Schwartzman kept coming back to Najah, to her relaxed way of answering questions, to her open and kind manner. And, finally, Sunday evening, Schwartzman gathered her courage to write Najah an email, writing and rewriting the short message until she was satisfied with it.
Najah,
Long time! I hope this finds you in good health and enjoying life. I can only imagine how much the children have grown.
This is such an odd request that I am hesitant to ask, but desire for clarification has urged me to reach out. Here goes:
I am working a case involving a woman who practiced Islam. I have no indication that religion was involved in her death, but I would like to understand a few things about the Muslim faith for a better understanding of her as I work this case.
Would you be willing to answer a few questions from a religiously undereducated Jewish pathologist? I promise to be quick.
All the best,
Anna Schwartzman
She worked the bits of humor over and over—she was not a funny person, but in the end, she was satisfied that the note expressed what she needed and sent it off.
When she woke Monday morning, a text message popped up on her screen. Najah Mian read the sender’s name.
I love to educate Jewish women about Islam. Meet this morning? Or later in the week?
Schwartzman sat up in bed to respond. This morning is perfect. Where?
The response came almost immediately. Tartine? I’m addicted to their buns. They open at 6. I’ll be there then.
Tartine, an amazing bakery on Guerrero, was more or less on her way to the department.
Perfect, she wrote back.
Oddly nervous and also excited, she rose from bed and padded across the worn wood floor in bare feet. How easy that had been. What had she expected?
She started her coffee, poured food in Buster’s bowl, and got him fresh water. She was naturally an early riser, but she was rarely this energized before six a.m.
Guilty about leaving Buster so early, she brought out one of his favorite treats—a peanut-butter-filled cow hoof—and kissed him on the head. He trotted to his spot under the window seat, perfectly content, and began to lick at the peanut butter.
When Schwartzman arrived at Tartine, Najah Mian was seated at a corner table with a coffee and a morning bun. “I was standing at the door when they opened,” she said with a laugh. “But they’re used to me.”
Schwartzman put in an order before joining her at the table. “You look wonderful, Najah,” she told her as the small woman gave her a quick embrace.
“You do, too. It’s amazing how good normal feels after chemotherapy.”
Schwartzman had paid little attention to her appearance during the treatments. She had managed to keep her hair, which had been her primary goal, but she had lost weight, of course. The stress of the disease, plus the added concerns about Spencer, had made it difficult to take care of herself. Not to mention that the treatments made food taste metallic. Things she normally loved had become inedible during chemo. Even now, she no longer liked the feel of soft cheese on her tongue, and the pungent scent that she’d once loved had become rancid and unappealing.
But only in seeing Najah Mian did she realize how sickly they’d been. Najah had put on weight, and she looked happy. Her cheeks were rounder, her sternum no longer bony, her clavicle softened by the pounds.
“I read about the woman in the park,” Najah said after they had exchanged a few minutes of idle chat. “I assume that is your case.”
Schwartzman had worried that Najah would put the questions together with the case.
Najah raised her hand and cut Schwartzman off before she could speak. “Forget I asked. What did you want to know?”
“Thank you,” Schwartzman said, taking a moment to compile her thoughts. “I should know more about the Muslim culture—”
“If you don’t believe we’re all terrorists, then you’re ahead of most.”
Schwartzman watched Najah’s face, her generous smile. She was making light of the stereotypes, but those assumptions had to hurt. Surely, her children had experienced bigotry that would have been devastating for her. That was for another day.
“You don’t think we’re all terrorists . . .” Najah said.
“God, no! Sorry, I was lost in thought. I have so many questions.”
“Ask away.”
Schwartzman paused, struggling with the best way to word her questions.
“You really can’t offend me,” Najah added, pulling off another piece of her morning bun.
“What determines whether a woman wears a hijab, a burqa, or a niqab?”
“Niqab,” Najah said, correcting her pronunciation.
Knee-kaab. Schwartzman repeated the word to herself.
“It’s really about how you interpret the words of the Koran. The Koran states that women must lower their gaze from looking at forbidden things, protect their private parts, and not show off their adornment, except only that which is apparent.” Najah paused for a sip of coffee. “But how people define adornment varies. Some believe the words that which is apparent limits what is shown to the eyes—as they are necessary for seeing—and the hands only. Others believe that the limitation applies only to exposing yo
ur breasts. My sister doesn’t wear a head covering at all. And she’s a good Muslim.”
“Is it common for a woman to change over the course of her lifetime? Wear a niqab at one time and later a hijab?”
“Actually, it is.”
Schwartzman was surprised.
“It didn’t used to be,” Najah said, seeing her expression. “Historically, a woman wore what her mother wore, and she would usually marry a husband whose beliefs were in line with the beliefs of her parents. But that’s changing. It’s hard for people to recognize that parts of the Islamic faith, too, are becoming more liberal, but they are. And Muslim women have been expressing themselves beneath the religious clothing—earrings, makeup, fancy clothes—for many years. Even if they can’t be seen.”
Like Aleena Laughlin’s red lipstick.
“Did you grow up wearing the hijab?” Schwartzman asked.
“I did.”
“When did your sister stop wearing hers?”
“She took a job at Goldman Sachs in New York, and the hijab made it harder to assimilate to the team. Another friend stopped wearing a hijab because she married a non-Muslim man.”
Aleena Laughlin would have fit into that category, and yet she still wore the hijab. Surely, Jared Laughlin would have been happy to have his wife go without any head covering at all. “How common is it for a woman to go back to wearing a niqab or a burqa from the hijab?”
Najah gave the question some thought before answering. “You mean, switch back again?”
Schwartzman nodded.
“I’m sure it happens,” she said.
“But not as commonly?”
“I can’t think of anyone who has switched back to a niqab or burqa from a hijab,” Najah said, then added, “Well, my sister will wear her hijab when she visits our family.”
The conversation shifted to Najah’s children and then briefly to work talk before they said good-bye. At just past six thirty, she dialed Hal. The call went straight to voicemail, which was unusual. Hearing his professional voice, cool and distant, gave her a bad feeling.
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