Lineup (3 page)

Chapter 5

INSPECTOR
Eli Nachum hated reporters. Especially crime reporters. And most especially assholes like Amit Giladi. If it were up to him, he’d have nothing to do with him. But it had been a month since the rape in the old north, and the investigation was going nowhere. After making headlines for a couple of days, it had soon disappeared from the pages of the national press. But the local paper kept at it. Week after week they printed a story decrying the lack of an arrest, the ineptitude of the police force, his own incompetence as the lead detective. In his opinion, the whole crusade was nothing but yellow journalism, a sleazy way to sell papers. But it was stressing out the higher-ups, and when they were stressed out, they leaned on him.

So he’d had no choice but to give in to the district spokesman’s demand that he meet with Giladi. He was forced to sit opposite him for an hour, put up with his insolent questions, and do his best to convince him that although it might seem otherwise to the public, they were making progress and working the case every minute of every day. What’d the asshole know, anyway? He was just a kid, barely over twenty—a kid pretending to be a man. He sat there looking serious, waving his pen around like a sword, patronizing him. He wouldn’t last more than five minutes as a cop, that idiot.

Nachum watched Giladi walk away down the corridor, and he went back to his desk, drained. They’d moved here only three years ago as part of a general face-lift for the police force. They were now in the heart of the Tel Aviv high-tech area. He preferred the old station house, the shabby, dilapidated building that was there even before the state was declared. Every one of its rooms reeked of history. He missed the small diners, where the food was so spicy it sharpened his mind. Here everything was modernized, computerized, sanitized, with plasma screens everywhere, and instead of real food, they ate sushi. The police force was trying to be something it wasn’t.

He didn’t think the reporter had bought his story. People thought that if they didn’t make an arrest within twenty-four hours, they’d bungled the case. They didn’t know what they were up against, how complicated their job was. They expect it to be like the movies where it’s all tied up with a bow in just ninety minutes.

He’d been honest with Giladi about one thing, at least. Ever since he’d caught the case, it had occupied all his time and was never out of his mind. It had been that way from the very beginning.

He’d shown up at the hospital within minutes after getting the call. The right side of Adi’s face was covered in bruises from being dragged on the ground, she had a cut on her chin that needed stitches, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She sat there hunched up, withdrawn, chewing on her hair like a little girl. It was hard to get the facts from her. Mostly, she just responded to his questions by nodding her head or shrugging her shoulders. She didn’t want to be there. That was one of the few things she actually said. But when her parents turned up on Saturday night, worried that she hadn’t answered her phone all weekend, and found out what had happened, they’d talked her into going to the hospital and reporting the rape. It had taken them half the night to convince her. Her father stood next to her bed throughout the interview, urging her to answer his questions. Her mother just held her, not saying anything.

NACHUM
had a lot of years on the job. Before that he’d been a guard in a military prison. When he left the army, it seemed natural to join the police force. He started out in logistics, but all he ever wanted was to be a detective. He’d put in one application after another, undeterred by repeated rejections. He never gave up, even though everyone else gave up on him. Finally, after making sergeant, they let him take the detective test and he got his gold shield.

He’d seen almost everything in his long career: homicide, rape, domestic violence, child molesters. He’d worked nearly every crime on the books. Over the years, his daily encounter with human malevolence and atrocious acts of violence had blunted his sensitivity. But there were still cases that broke through the wall he’d been forced to build around himself in order to do his job, cases that gripped his heart and wouldn’t let go. The sight of Adi Regev, barely more than a child, whose joy in life had been stolen away from her in an instant, touched him at the very core of his being. His daughter was just a year and half younger than Adi. At the moment Adi looked like the complete opposite of his strong, independent, ambitious daughter, but he couldn’t help imagining his own child in the same situation, as the victim of such appalling brutality.

Adi had arrived at the hospital almost seventy-two hours after the rape. He was well aware that after so much time had elapsed, there was little chance of finding any of the attacker’s DNA on her, especially when she’d scrubbed herself all over.

He thought they’d have more luck with the crime scene. It wasn’t fresh, but it was so isolated that it hadn’t been contaminated. However, it didn’t give them much to go on. In her short struggle with the rapist, Adi hadn’t drawn blood, and there were no signs of semen on the ground. Nor did they find the knife or any usable fingerprints. The only evidence the scene yielded were partial shoe prints—Nike runners, size 10.

His team had been working the case hard in the past month. They started by looking for witnesses, going from door to door, talking to all the neighbors. No one had seen or heard anything. They’d all been closed up in their apartments, sleeping or watching TV.

Even though Adi said she didn’t recognize her attacker, they still questioned all her ex-boyfriends and anyone she’d dated even once. And she dated a lot, that girl. But every lead was a dead end. They had her look over mug shots of known rapists and other sex offenders, hoping she could identify him from a photo. Nothing came of that either.

Nachum rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. He had glorious achievements on his record, but some resounding failures too. In the end, he thought, it’s the failures that stay with you. Even after all these years, he could still list every one of them. And he didn’t need anyone to remind him. Most definitely not some slimy reporter like Amit Giladi. He knew what people were saying behind his back. They said he was getting old, that he was losing his touch, that he spent too much time on each case, that it took him too long to put his cases to bed, if he was lucky enough to solve them.

Detectives used to be applauded for solving complicated cases. Today it was all about tables, statistics, arrest rates. Fucking CompStat had taken over their lives. Detectives were assessed solely by their output, as if they worked on a production line. He knew all the gimmicks his colleagues used to sweeten their figures. They looked out for easy cases, closed cases by the truckload supposedly for lack of evidence, and persuaded people to withdraw their complaints. He could easily do the same and get a pat on the back. It might even earn him a promotion. But he was too old for that sort of thing, and maybe, like his wife said, he was too proud to play those games. In any case, at his age he wasn’t going to change. And he wasn’t ready to start taking shortcuts.

He closed his eyes. He had a headache. If he thought his detractors were right, he’d leave the force. But they were wrong. He still had a lot to give. And he had to solve this case. He’d do whatever it took to put the rapist behind bars.

It wouldn’t be easy. Most of the time, when the victim didn’t know her attacker, the sonofabitch was never caught. And a lot of incidents went unreported or were reported too late, after precious time had been lost. Throw in the fact that most rapes by strangers were carefully planned and the perps were typically clever and calculating, and it made it even harder to catch the bastards.

He looked over the files of all the recent rapes in and around Tel Aviv. None of the attackers fit the description Adi had given. It was almost impossible to draw up the profile of a rapist on the basis of one incident. He could be a loner or a man who sought out human contact, he could have a record or be a first-time offender. But since sex crimes were an addiction, there was every chance he’d do it again. If that happened, they’d have more to go on. And if they were really lucky, he might make a mistake the next time. In Nachum’s experience, that’s how most rapists were caught. They let someone get a look at them. It’s their arrogance, their extreme narcissism, that often leads to their undoing.

So he could sit back and wait until he raped another girl, until he made a mistake. That would probably be the best tactic. There were plenty of other unsolved crimes for him to work on, and the list just kept getting longer. Some of them were no less horrendous. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t give himself time or permission to wait for the next rape before he nailed the pervert. Just the thought of another girl suffering like that drove him on and kept him from putting it aside. His job was to prevent another rape. He was here to serve and protect, like the Americans said. Not to twiddle his thumbs and invent excuses. That wasn’t why he’d fought so hard for the gold shield.

To an outside observer it might look like he wasn’t doing anything, just sitting and staring into space. But that’s how he worked—he turned it all over in his mind, reviewing the facts of the case in his head again and again. “You’re old-school,” his commander, Superintendent Moshe Navon, had said recently. He didn’t know if that was meant to be a compliment or not.

His phone rang.

“Eli . . . it’s Yaron Regev, Adi’s father,” a trembling voice said, followed by bitter sobbing. A cold sweat broke out on Nachum’s forehead at the sound of the man breaking down. Please, not that. The trauma of rape led some victims to commit acts of desperation. Adi was definitely the fragile type who was capable of such a thing. Her parents had coddled her all her life, given her whatever she wanted. She’d never been forced to cope with anything on her own. And then the rapist had shown up and extinguished her spark.

“Yaron, what happened?” he asked, worried.

The sobbing continued.

“Is Adi okay?” He felt the bile rise up and form a ball in his throat.

“I found him,” Yaron moaned. “I found the rapist.”

Chapter 6

THE
knock on the door startled her. She was sitting in front of the computer, bursting the bright-colored bubbles that floated onto the screen. Ever since the rape she hadn’t slept, just sat at the computer for hours playing mindless games. Trying to empty her head. To forget. She hadn’t been outside for ages. She’d tried last Saturday. She got her bike and rode along the Yarkon River down to the sea. She loved the sea. But the sight of so many half-naked, sweaty men running along the promenade made her sick, and she quickly returned home.

“Adi, Adinka, it’s Dad,” she heard through the door. Just like that Saturday night after the rape, when she hadn’t left her house or answered the phone for two days. It was only because of his persistence that she’d gone to the hospital and reported the crime. He’d kept at her all night and the whole of the next day, not letting up until late in the evening, when she finally gave in and agreed to go with him.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, walking straight in as soon as she opened the door. Her parents’ love and concern were stifling. They wouldn’t leave her alone, especially her dad. They called to check up on her every hour: How are you feeling? Are you okay? Did you sleep? Did you eat? Their questions gnawed at her. She wasn’t okay, she barely ate, she lay awake all night. But she answered yes to everything, hoping to allay their concern and convince them to back off a little.

“I was just about to take a nap,” she lied. Maybe he would take the hint and go. It was better when she was alone. She’d see him later anyway when she went to her parents‘ house for Friday-night dinner. Ever since it happened, it had become a sacred ritual for the whole family to be in attendance. They’d all sit there watching her, following her every move, falling silent whenever she opened her mouth.

“Come with me a minute. I have something to show you,” her father said, leading her into the living room. He was flushed, excited, almost cheerful.

She sat down opposite him in silence, listening distractedly as the words spilled out of his mouth in a torrent, his hands gesturing wildly, his voice thundering. He started by repeating once again how much he and her mother loved her, how much she meant to them. She’d heard it umpteen times since then. It was starting to wear. She waited for him to finish so she could go back to her game. She’d tried before to set boundaries, once even angrily lashing out at her mother, but nothing deterred them. They wouldn’t leave her in peace.

She realized that he’d stopped talking. She smiled at him, waiting for him to get up and leave. But he stayed where he was and then suddenly handed her a camera.

Puzzled, she looked at the camera in her hand. The LCD screen showed a man crossing the street.

“That’s him,” her father said, looking into her eyes.

Her head ached. Who was he talking about?

“That’s the man I saw hanging around here last night. He’s the one . . . ,” he began, and then fell silent.

“What do you mean ‘last night’?” she asked. The picture she was looking at had been taken in broad daylight.

“I just told you. I went back there this morning. I waited until he left his house and then I took pictures of him. Just look at it, Adinka, look at it and tell me it’s him and I’ll take it to the police right now.”

Now she understood. It wasn’t just any picture. The man in the photograph was the rapist. They’d found him.

She threw the camera on the table and backed away from it. She didn’t want to look at him, she didn’t want to remember. All she wanted was to be able to forget.

Yaron leaned over, picked up the camera, and held it out to her again.

“I know it’s hard, it’s scary. One quick look, that’s all I need, and then I can take it to the police . . . I’m sure it’s him. I just need you to say so.”

She shook her head. She never wanted to see that monster again.

Yaron came to sit next to her.

“One look and it’s over, Adinka. I swear to you, it’ll all be over,” he said, gently placing his hand over hers.

She looked down at his thick fingers shielding her own shaking hand. She wanted desperately for it to be over, to be able to sleep again, to go back to being who she used to be, before. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. One quick look. That’s all. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Her father switched to the next picture. It was a clear shot of his face. Was he the man who raped her? It had been dark and he’d been wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. In the picture it was daylight and she could see his face, his eyes.

“He was hanging around the building last night,” she heard her father say. “He was going to rape another girl, I know it.”

She brought her eyes into focus. Everything was too bright in the picture. Not like that night.

“I’ll take it to the police and make sure they lock him up for life. The bastard will never see the light of day again.”

She kept silent, staring at the next photograph her father showed her. The man in the picture had the same shape face and the same build as the rapist, the same as the Identi-Kit sketch they’d drawn from her description of him.

“He was here?” The meaning of what he’d just said suddenly dawned on her.

“Right here, outside your building. Who knows what he was planning, what might’ve happened . . .”

She returned the camera to the living room table. The idea that the rapist was hanging around her building terrified her. What if he’d seen her again?

“He’s a monster, a beast with no fear. If I hadn’t happened to be here, if I hadn’t interfered with his plans . . . I don’t even want to think about what he might’ve done,” Yaron said feverishly, determined to persuade her.

The terrible thoughts kept spinning around in her head: Was he waiting for her? Like he was that night? She’d done what he asked. She couldn’t stop thinking about how things might’ve turned out differently if she’d only run away when she still had the chance, if she’d fought harder, if she’d refused to beg. She’d let him have his way, let him play with her as if she were a puppet on a string. Maybe he wanted more. That’s what he’d whispered in her ear that night—more!

“You can do it, sweetheart. Just say the words and you put the nightmare behind you. You’ll feel better.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. She was so confused, so tired. Mainly tired. It might be him. But it might not.

“I’m not sure . . . I’m not sure,” she mumbled.

“It’s him. Just like you described him to the police. Take a good look. Try another picture. I’ve got plenty here for you to look at.” He kept at her, showing her one photo after another. Her eyes were drawn to the rapist’s hands, the hands that had strangled her, that had held a knife to her throat.

“Just say the words, Adinka, just say the words.”

She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to say what her father was asking of her, but she wasn’t sure.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. I’m here for you.”

She raised her eyes to him. “You’re right, it’s him. He’s the man who raped me.”