The murder weapon was a generic kitchen knife, with an eight-inch blade and a wooden handle. Judging by the fact that the knife had breached the victim's ribcage and had sunk nearly to its hilt, the medical examiner believed that the killer had struck with considerable force.
The victim's hands were free of scratches and other marks consistent with a struggle. There were some minor abrasions on her calves and ankles and elbows. The medical examiner theorized that these might have been caused when the victim fell across the tombstone after being struck.
One startling discovery was made when the victim's dress was removed at the morgue. Anna Hartman was naked beneath. Her underwear was missing. An examination of her vagina and genitals revealed no trace of semen or bleeding. The hymen, the medical examiner noted, was no longer intact, but this had happened some time prior to the night of the murder. If Anna Hartman was raped, her assailant had not been overly brutal or forceful, and he had likely used a prophylactic.
Other than her dress, the victim had been wearing a thin necklace and a stud in each ear. All three were made of silver. The killer, for some reason, had opted not to take them. Her wristwatch—a simple, inexpensive model—had also not been stolen.
I studied the pictures taken at the morgue. The harsh, unforgiving light, coupled with the oddly impersonal nature of these very intimate photos, added a further insult to that of Anna Hartman's death. They stripped her of her dignity just as thoroughly as the killer had stripped her of her life. The dead should not be probed, scrutinized, touched. But this is what happens to murder victims. Before they are allowed to rest, their bodies undergo a further, involuntary intrusion.
Sadness welled up inside me as I stared at the lifeless figure of this young woman, at her waxen face, at her broken chest. I had no notion of who she'd been. I knew nothing of her character. I did not know if she had been kind or cruel, loving or hateful. I only knew that she had been robbed of her life, that she had known fear in her last moments. And I felt a burning desire to see to it that her killer faced justice.
"I'm coming for you," I muttered, the sadness inside me morphing to anger. "You don't know it yet, but I'm coming."
I went on reading. Judging by the report, Sergeant Meltzer had proceeded in a methodical, meticulous manner. Officers were sent to canvass the streets surrounding the cemetery for anyone who might have seen or heard something strange during the night of the murder. Dozens of residents were interviewed by the end of that first day. No one had seen anything amiss. No one had heard cries of pain or fear, or the sounds of a struggle. All had been dismayed that such a murder could take place so close to their homes.
That same day, and over part of the next two, Meltzer interviewed Anna Hartman's neighbors and colleagues. The goal was to get the lay of the land, to gather some basic facts about the victim, to determine whether anyone had reason to want her dead, and to establish who among her acquaintances had an alibi.
Summaries of the interviews were included in the file. I read them all, taking notes. The picture painted by her colleagues was of a hardworking woman, driven and determined, dedicated to her career, sociable and yet distant. It appeared that none of the other actors in the theater had been her friend, and that none of them had truly known her.
Meltzer was the sort of detective who did not put his intuitions and impressions and thoughts in writing. He stuck to the dry facts. The only place in which he had deviated from this was in the summary of his conversation with Dahlia. At the end, Meltzer had scribbled: "Mrs. Rotner says husband was home all night. Seems truthful."
I shook my head, partly in disgust at Meltzer's gullibility and partly in grudging admiration for Dahlia. She had not overstated the persuasiveness of her performance that night. Sergeant Meltzer had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the false alibi she had provided her husband. From that moment on, it seemed, Meltzer had not considered Isser Rotner a suspect.
Nor did he seem to have known that Rotner and Anna Hartman had been lovers. There was no mention of it in the file, not even as a rumor or possibility. Which was all it was, I reminded myself. At the moment, I had no proof that they'd been lovers, only Dahlia's assertion that this was the case—though after seeing her husband's behavior the other night, I tended to believe it was true. Especially after a batch of photographs of Anna Hartman, taken when she was alive, fell out from between two reports I'd been holding, a few of the photos landing near the edge of the table, a couple ending up in my lap.
She had been a dazzling woman, a true beauty. Even in death, her image recorded in cold police photographs, it was clear she'd been attractive. But in life, with her face animated by thoughts, emotions, and desires, she was much more than merely pretty.
Her beauty was a union of contradictions. The contours of her face, the angles of her jaw and cheeks, the lines of her nose—all these combined to give her a classical allure, aloof and distant and conservative. As though she were a strictly raised lady, accustomed to sitting in well-appointed European parlors, her life regulated by rules and rituals and expectations.
But the spunky spark in her eyes, and the message that her full-lipped mouth appeared to impart—a mischievous delight in her smile, an invitation to share in some secret bliss in her pout or parted lips—suggested that Anna Hartman had lived life according to her will and was not constrained by custom. This dichotomy was so appealing in the pictures, I could only imagine how powerful it had been in real life.
A man like Isser Rotner would have found her irresistible. Indeed, he might have made it his mission in life to pursue and conquer her.
But if he had, if they had indeed been involved, none of the people Meltzer had interviewed was aware of it. Or if they were, they'd chosen to not share this fact with the police.
I leaned back in my chair and rotated my head around slowly, working the kinks out of my neck. I'd been reading for almost two hours. My eyes were tired and the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and upper back were sore and stiff. I rose from my chair, stretched my arms high above my head, and sighed with relief as the stiffness subsided. I lit a cigarette, smoking it slowly as I paced back and forth across the tiny office.
I wanted to get out of there. I wanted a cup of strong coffee and a bite to eat. But I'd told Reuben I'd give the file back to him when I left, and I knew he'd prefer it if I did not come back for it tomorrow. I had to finish reading it today.
While Meltzer had eliminated Rotner as a suspect, he had given no such exemption to the other people he interviewed. A minority of murders are committed by strangers. The culprit and the victim are usually acquainted. So anyone who knew Anna Hartman was a potential suspect.
Not that this helped Meltzer any. Because none of the victim's acquaintances stood out as suspicious. And the late-night hour of the murder—determined by the medical examiner to have been between midnight and four in the morning—made it difficult to refute or confirm alibis. The only reason Rotner's alibi was considered ironclad was because his wife had convinced Meltzer that she had woken up several times during the night, due to her injuries, and that at each of those times, her husband was by her side.
As the third day of the investigation was drawing to a close, Meltzer found himself in the unenviable position of having many potential suspects, but no solid evidence and no leads. No workable fingerprints had been found at the scene or on the murder weapon. No one had seen or heard anything that might lead to the culprit. It was a situation that was liable to drive a police detective mad.
Even the unexpected appearance of a new witness three days after the body was discovered, a witness who might have seen the murderer leaving the scene of the crime, did not aid Meltzer in his investigation.