I thanked him, and he handed me the file. I sat down in the absent sergeant's chair, flipped open the folder, and then realized Reuben was still standing there.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I was just wondering why you think you'll be able to solve this case when the detectives at the time couldn't."
"I didn't choose this, Reuben. I was hired to do it. I have no idea what will come out of it."
"So you don't have any leads?"
I hesitated. I hated lying to him, but all I had so far was what Dahlia had told me—and if I shared it with the police, she would simply deny it. "Nothing yet, no. But I have solved a cold case before, remember?"
"I remember," said Reuben. "I hope you'll solve this one, too. I had a look at the file. No woman should die this way. Well, I'll leave you to it. I've got plenty of files to go through myself before I call it a day."
He went out, closing the door behind him. I lit a cigarette and started reading.
9
The body of Anna Hartman had been discovered by Pinchas Sheftel, a fifty-eight-year-old resident of Tel Aviv who had gone to Trumpeldor Cemetery that day to visit his mother's grave. He did this twice a year—on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death. This occasion was the latter.
An early riser due to both age and inclination, Sheftel entered the cemetery by the main gate shortly after six in the morning. As he expected, the cemetery was empty of mourners. This suited him fine. He tended to cry openly whenever he stood over his mother's headstone—despite the fact that thirty-two years had elapsed since her passing—and, like most men, preferred his weeping to go unwitnessed.
He was engrossed in memories of the times he had spent with his mother. Because of this, he only noticed the body when he was almost upon it.
Sheftel did not need to check her pulse to tell that she was dead. The knife jutting out of her chest and her open, glassy, lifeless eyes were clear evidence of that.
He had the presence of mind to not disturb the scene. Or maybe it was simple fear that restrained him. As he explained to the detective a little later, the moment his mind fully grasped what his eyes were showing it, he was gripped by a powerful dread that the killer was still lurking among the headstones, and that at any second he would pounce on him.
Terrified, Sheftel bolted for the nearest exit as fast as his old legs could carry him, one hand clamped to his yarmulke to keep it from flying off his bald head. As he ran, he found himself unable to stop from repeatedly mumbling the kaddish, the traditional Jewish prayer that is said at funerals and memorials. He had planned on reciting it over his mother's grave, but at that moment he wasn't certain who he was saying it for—his mother or the dead woman.
After alerting the police that a murder had taken place, Sheftel waited for them by the main gate. He did not dare to venture inside by himself.
So the body remained unattended in the time it took the police to arrive. This had unfortunate consequences for poor Mr. Sheftel. Deeply distraught by the sight of the body, he did not wish to lay his eyes on it ever again, but he was made to do so by the police. They needed him to affirm that the body remained exactly as he had found it. Only when he did so was he allowed to stagger away, accompanied by the detective who took his full, somewhat rambling statement in a section of the cemetery from which one could not see the victim.
Sheftel contributed little to the investigation. He was a suspect of course—almost anyone who finds a body is—but only for a brief time. His story checked out. His clothes displayed not a speck of blood. And, most important, a neighbor walking his dog recalled seeing Sheftel leaving his building approximately twenty-five minutes before the time Sheftel claimed to have arrived at the cemetery.
It wasn't much of an alibi, as the murder was later determined to have transpired several hours earlier. But, combined with Sheftel's obvious distress, it was enough to convince the police that his only crime was his plan to say the kaddish for his mother without the required minyan—ten Jewish men present—which was unorthodox but not illegal.
The detective who got the case, Sergeant Hillel Meltzer, thanked Sheftel for calling the police and admonished him to not share the details of the crime scene with anyone. Sheftel left the cemetery as soon as he was allowed to, failing, for the first time in over three decades, to visit his mother's grave on the date of her passing.
Sergeant Meltzer's initial notes of the crime scene were included in the file. He had used a pencil and had clear, somewhat slanting handwriting. He had arrived at the scene at six fifty-five sharp, and his first action was to dispatch a patrolman to each of the cemetery's three gates. No one was to be allowed onto the premises until further notice.
He then ordered a search of the cemetery. He doubted the killer was still around, but, as every policeman soon learned, one must never underestimate the propensity of criminals to act stupidly. Besides, even if the killer had gone, he might have left evidence behind. So a group of six officers were charged with scouring the grounds for anything that might point to the killer's identity.
Once the search was underway, Sergeant Meltzer turned his attention to the body. It lay atop a wide flat tombstone. The name of the couple interred beneath it made me pause and sit back in my chair. It was the grave of Meir Dizengoff, the first mayor of Tel Aviv, and his wife, Zina, after whom Dizengoff Square was named.
Was there any significance to this? Had the killer deliberately chosen this grave as the spot in which to carry out his crime?
Numerous photographs were snapped of the victim. I spread them out on the table and pored over them. In conjunction with Meltzer's written report, they gave me a pretty comprehensive picture of the death scene.
The dead woman lay sprawled on her back, one foot dangling over the edge of the tombstone. Her arms were stretched to either side, as though she had attempted to break a fall. With the knife sticking out of her chest, she looked like a human sacrifice offered on the alter of some vengeful, primitive god.
She wore a dark-red dress and one black shoe. The other shoe lay on its side at the foot of the tombstone. The photographer had snapped a picture of the forlorn shoe. There was something eerily desolate about it.
The victim had honey-blond hair, a north-European complexion, blue eyes, and a lean, feminine figure. Her hair was spread unevenly beneath her head. The fingers of one hand were slightly bent.
Her mouth gaped open in a silent scream, her eyes in a blind stare. Blood stained her dress, a dark circle around the knife lodged in her body.
No bag was found near the body. Meltzer assumed it had been taken by the killer. The victim's dress had no pockets. Therefore, the police found no identification papers, nothing that could give Meltzer the victim's name.
Fortunately, the medical examiner who was called to the scene was a theater fanatic. He recognized the woman almost instantly. Her name was Anna Hartman. She'd been an actress at Shoresh Theater.
More pictures were taken, and then the body was carted off to the morgue. The search of the cemetery yielded plenty of cigarette butts, a couple of empty bottles of soda, and assorted other debris. Nothing that made Meltzer's job easier. Nothing that could be attributed to the murderer.
I gathered the crime scene photographs into a small pile and set it aside. Then I read the medical report.
The cause of death was a single stab wound to the chest. The knife had pierced the victim's heart, nearly severing it in two. That explained the relative scarcity of blood at the scene. With the heart stopped, there was nothing to pump blood out of the wound.