Weird Detectives (4 page)

“A hot shower does wonders,” she said. “I had a heck of a time combing burrs out of Rugby’s fur, though.”

“Yeah, I’m still picking that stuff off my coat.” I watched her face as I squared the recorder on the table.

Her eyes flicked to the recorder and back. “You don’t use a court reporter?”

“No, that’s for depositions, legal stuff. This is just a statement. I’ll type it up later, and then you can sign it, okay? You want more coffee?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. It’s pretty bad, actually.”

“It’s cop coffee.” I told her how we’d proceed then turned on the recorder. I recited my name, the date, our location, her name, and the purpose of the interview. Then I led her through her story again. She recited the same information, her voice a soft monotone. When she was done, I said, “I want to back up. You said you got ahead of the dog?”

“Yes. You know dogs.”

“Okay. Then you turned back.”

“Right. And that’s when I heard her barking, to the left, and then I saw her down the hill.”

“So you were on the path?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem,” I said, doing my best Columbo. I looked at Rollins. “You see the problem?”

Rollins shrugged. “There’s a problem?”

“Yeah, don’t you remember that hill? I couldn’t see a thing from the path. Hill’s too steep.”

“Really,” said Rollins, and I could tell he saw where I was going. He played it just right. “You couldn’t?”

“No,” I said, and looked back at Gold, whose face was stony. “I couldn’t, and I’m pretty tall. So how could you see the dog?”

A blotch of crimson stained Gold’s throat. “Maybe I left the path. I don’t remember.”

“That would explain it,” said Rollins.

“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” I said. “Because there’s no way to see down that hill. But then . . . ”

“Yes, Detective?” Gold’s tone was neutral.

“Your clothes. You didn’t have any burrs. I had burrs on my coat. The dog had burrs.”

“I had burrs,” said Rollins.

“You didn’t have any burrs,” I said to Gold. “But you should have. Your shoes weren’t even wet.”

Gold looked from me to Rollins and back again. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective? If you are, I should have a lawyer.”

“I’m just trying to clear up a discrepancy, Miss Gold.”

“No, you’re not.” She leaned forward, getting into my space, not intimidated in the slightest. “Listen to me. I did not kill that child. Now, I’m sorry if you and Detective Rollins can’t find anyone to blame . . . ”

“Hey,” said Rollins.

Her gaze didn’t waver, and I felt her take control. “But just because I may have made a mistake on where I was standing, or didn’t have garbage on my clothes, doesn’t mean I did anything wrong. Someone killed that little boy, and it wasn’t me.”

I tried to recoup. “You know who kills little babies, Miss Gold? It’s not only their daddy, or their mommy’s coked-up boyfriend, or some sick sex predator-creep. I’ll tell who kills little babies: mothers. Sometimes that mother is depressed and suicidal and wants to take her child to a better place. Sometimes that mother wants attention. So she makes her child sick, and then there are all those doctors, and she feels important. And then there are mothers who are simply evil.”

“Evil,” said Gold. For the first time, I saw not defiance but astonishment cross Gold’s features. “Is that what you think? You think that’s
my
baby?”

Actually, until that moment, that’s exactly what I’d thought. All I’d seen her in were baggy clothes, for one. And pieces of her story didn’t fit. But Gold’s reaction was genuine. You can’t do a hundred million hours of interrogations and not know when someone’s honestly amazed.

Gold gave a mirthless laugh. “I can’t believe this. There are tests, right? To prove maternity?”

“Yes,” I said, knowing already what we’d find. “DNA that we—”

“Fine.” Gold held out her arms. “Which one?”

She wasn’t the mother.

My condo’s off Lee Highway, in Arlington. I grew up in DC and now I work it. I can’t live there. On the way home, I bought Thai takeout and then picked up a six-pack of icy-cold Bangkok beer. I ate my pad Thai out of the carton, had a beer. Then I popped a second beer, put on Mingus, and settled into my favorite—my only—recliner. I sleep there a lot. I don’t know any single guy sleeps in his bed. We sleep on couches, chairs. Never the bed. And in our clothes, usually.

Rabbi Dietterich had given me a book on Kabbalah. Then, as we had shaken hands, he said, “I have often thought about Detective Lennox. His death, such a tragedy. You and I both know there are demons and monsters everywhere. Nazis, murderers. But what are not so easy are the monsters that are hidden.” Dietterich bunched his fists and brought them to his chest. “The ones in here, in the dark chambers of the heart. Detective Lennox was a Jew, but he had no faith, and he found his monsters. Or they found him. Hashem can help, but a man must have faith, and he must work. We Jews are not like you Christians. We don’t believe that Hashem makes everything better. Hashem can be harsh. Life is sometimes unfair. But we believe that Hashem gives us a fighting chance.”

He clapped a hand to my right shoulder. “You’re a good man, Detective Saunders. An honest man. Please take care not to let your monsters destroy you.”

Now, thumbing to the index, I found a section on demons and paged there. The Kabbalists were big believers in an unseen spirit world, with some rabbis claiming that demons are consigned to a dark netherworld, and others stating that demons are born from sex between humans and demonic spirits. The rabbis agreed on six demonic attributes. In common with angels, demons have wings, can fly from one end of the earth to another, and tell the future. Like humans, however, they need food and water. They have sex. And, unlike the angels, they’re mortal.

I flipped to a section on regional beliefs. I found North Africa, the Near East. But this leapt off the page:

One of the most comprehensive works is the
Zefunei Ziyyoni.
Written in the late fourteenth century by Menachem Zion of Cologne, this book has the most extensive list of important demons and how they functioned. This German-born Kabbalist was influential in disseminating Arabic thought amongst the practical Kabbalists concentrated in Eastern Europe and Germany.

There it was: the
practical
Kabbalists. Translation: the witches. And Germany.

Something sparked in my brain. Quickly, I went to my coat and pulled out the packet of autopsy photos Kay had given me, flipping until I found the one of the tattoo.

To this day, I don’t know how I got there. There was no logic. The sensation truly was a flash: like a bare bulb flaring to life in a dark basement. And then I knew.

I checked the index. But what I was looking for wasn’t under
R.
It was under
G
: for “
gilgul.
”

I spent the rest of the night reading, thinking. I went online and did a search. It took time, but I found what I was looking for. Compared the information to what I had. As soon as the museums opened, I made a couple calls. The employment stuff was easy, even the call to Sydney, though it was evening there and the director a little grumpy until I went over what I wanted and why.

Then I called the Holocaust Museum. The information clerk funneled me to an archivist. When I explained, there was a moment’s silence. Then the archivist said, “Not many people know about that. Unfortunately, those early records are lost. I’m sorry.”

Then I made one last call. She picked up on the third ring. “Hello, Detective. No magic: caller ID. What do you want?”

I told her where to meet me. “Should I bring my lawyer?” she asked.

“No. I just want to talk.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.

My office away from the office: the bar’s across the street from the Shakespeare Theatre on 7th and diagonal to Jaleo’s, a Spanish tapas place where the beautiful people eat before going to the theatre. So I never go there.

I saw her come in, look around, start toward me. Her coat was open, and she wore a beige skirt that came to her knees, a cream linen blouse, and linen pumps. She had the pendant. When she’d slid onto the cushioned bench opposite mine and shrugged out of her coat, we did the waitress thing—bourbon for me, white wine for her.

Then she asked, “What did you want to see me about, Detective?”

“I want to tell you a story.”

“Story?”

“Yeah, bear with me. See, there was once a terrible war. The people who suffered the most were the Jews.”

The corners of her mouth quirked. “That could be all of Jewish history.”

“But in this war, there was a demon. I believe devout Jews think of Hitler as Amalek, right?”

“That’s right. Amalek was the great-great-grandson of Abraham, and there are specific injunctions to beware of Amalekites. Amalek has come to symbolize all evil.”

“Okay. So Evil attacks the Jews. The Jews are expelled from their homes. Whole villages are destroyed; the Jews are killed, or sent to concentration camps. Some survive and they remember. But they’re worried others will forget. And some can’t let that past go. They wonder why they were spared. And they’re lonely.”

“This is,” she began, then stopped when the waitress came with our drinks. The waitress tacked a napkin to the table with Gold’s wine, slid one under my bourbon. When she’d gone, Gold said, “Do you have a point?”

I angled my glass toward a candle burning in a squat glass holder, liking the way the light shone gold through the liquor. “I’m getting to the best part. Isn’t it true that the reason Chassids dress the way they do is to preserve a piece of their past?”

“That’s one interpretation.”

“So what keeps someone from preserving other customs, rituals?”

“Such as?”

“Magic.”

She gave a very small half smile. She raised her glass, tipped wine into her mouth. “Jews don’t believe in magic.”

“Yes, they do.” I flicked a finger at her pendant. “That thing, that’s magic, right?”

“It’s just a necklace.”

“No. It’s very specific. I know, because I looked it up.” Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my notepad and flipped. “Yeah, here it is. That
shin
is a really interesting letter. It means the Eternal Flame, and it reflects the fact that God is changeless, forever. There are some other things about
shin
I don’t get.”

“The mystical meanings.”

“Right. And I have to admit I couldn’t figure the key until I read about this very important angel named Râzîêl. Râzîêl sits at God’s throne and takes notes, and he’s written a book in which he recorded all celestial and earthly secrets. I’ve seen a picture from the book. To the Kabbalists, the book is a key. In fact, Râzîêl’s book is supposed to hold the fifteen hundred keys to the secrets of the universe.” I closed my notebook. “And Râzîêl’s color is gold.”

Her eyes were hooded. “And?”

“And Râzîêl, Rachel . . . the names are very close, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” She sipped wine. “Quite a coincidence.”

“Know something else?”

“What?”

“You told the truth. You didn’t kill that baby.” I paused. “But you let evil destroy itself.”

“And why would I do that?”

I slid out the photograph of the baby’s chest. “The tattoo. We got it wrong, because of the numbers. And the location threw us: over the left breast, not the left forearm. The Germans didn’t start putting tattoos on forearms until after 1942. So, that
L
—well, it’s not an
L.
It’s a triangle. And that letter we thought was a cursive
M.
It’s two ones. And the
Z
is a seven. See, we don’t put a horizontal line through our sevens and we don’t have that long tail on our ones, but Europeans do. Germans do, except the German lady—and it was the ladies who did them—the one who did this tattoo was sloppy. Not all Germans cared, because these were Jews, after all. But this is a number, Miss Gold: a triangle, then 1-1-7-2-9. Auschwitz Prisoner 1-1-7-2-9.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me about
gilguls,
Miss Gold.”

Her face was unreadable. “What would you like to know?”

“Whatever you can tell me about reincarnation.”

“Why don’t
you
tell
me,
Detective? You’re the one with the story.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. Here’s how I think it goes: the Kabbalists believed in reincarnation because they thought all souls came from one great big soul. An Oversoul, I guess you’d call it. Reincarnation isn’t supposed to happen until a person dies. But the Kabbalists said there was
ibur,
meaning pregnant. That is, a person who already had a soul could house another: two for the price of one. But that was very rare and only happened when the person was very, very good.”

“A
tzaddik.
A righteous person.”

“But I also found a very obscure reference to an old ritual where a Kabbalist could conjure a soul to share, or take over another body. Here’s the kicker: it’s got to be a kid. Boys are best. The infant is to be left alone, outside, near water and within a week after birth, or if it’s a boy, before his circumcision.” I looked into her eyes. “I’ll bet some of those Holocaust survivors would do just about anything to bring their families back. Even witchcraft.”

“Yes, they would,” she said, her voice calm. “But it’s not their place. Only God can decide.”

I nodded. “So, tell me, Rachel . . . your name
is
Rachel?”

Her lips curled slightly. “It’ll do.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me who Prisoner 11792 was, would you? The records from 1941 aren’t too good.”

“I can’t do that. That’s for God now.”

“I figured. But when they conjured the
gilgul
of their lost relative, it was
your
job to stop them. That’s why you summoned Lilith to take the child.”

She inclined her head. The key glittered in candlelight. “The child was an abomination.”

“From where I’m sitting, it’s murder even if you didn’t do it. You could have saved that child. You could have taken it to a hospital.” And yet, I had an involuntary thought: how many times had God killed in the name of justice? The great paradox of the Bible: a book that preaches against killing venerates one of the greatest mass murderers in history.