He means the mountains of steel.
“What are these?” I ask, pointing to deep skids on Rivka’s bald head.
“It appears as if her hair was freshly shorn,” says Malka.
Saul nods. “I’d say those are from a straight razor or a knife with a very sharp blade.”
I start to conjure pictures of what happened to Rivka Mendelssohn in my mind. Someone ties her up. Then shaves her head. Then kills her. Then takes off her clothes and drives her to the scrap metal yard and throws her in. That is some sick shit.
We all stand silently for a few moments. If I focus on the injuries-the torn flesh, the bruised skull-I can trick myself into thinking that the body lying before me is some kind of science project: just a cadaver ready to be cut open and explored by medical students or researchers. But when I look at her feet, the second toe longer than the first and the remnants of polish on her toenails, her breasts fallen flat and crooked against her chest, I see a mother who bore four children and breast-fed them. I see a woman bent over in a bathroom, painting her toenails. Did she have to keep that secret? Are ultra-Orthodox women allowed such adornments? I have the urge to touch her, just to make sure this is all real. Three hours ago I was eating a breakfast sandwich and watching Goldie Hawn yell at Kurt Russell.
Finally, Malka speaks.
“And she was pregnant. I’d say about twelve weeks.”
“Fuck,” I say.
Saul and Malka both look at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just… so the police really aren’t going to see her?”
Neither Saul nor Malka answers my question.
“If that’s all…,” says Malka, “The service is at six.”
“Thank you, Malka,” says Saul. “You’ll keep this visit between us?”
Malka nods.
“Thank you,” I say.
Saul and I strip off our hats and booties in silence. In the entryway, I check my phone and see two more missed calls from the desk.
“Do you need to return that call?” he asks.
I nod. “It’s work.”
“Better take it outside.”
The steel sky has turned into a low fog, and my anxiety is so high, I feel like I might float away. Inside my chest my heart is bloated. It is clattering like thunder and I realize I’m sweating and shivering. I look around for a bench or a rock or something to sit on. My stomach is making noises, and of course I’ve left my pills at home.
I dial the Trib.
“City desk.”
“It’s Rebekah,” I say.
“Rebekah,” says the receptionist. “Lars has been looking for you. Hold on.”
Lars has Mike’s job on Saturdays.
“Rebekah-you were on the scrap yard body, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a car?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“Lars,” I say, “you know I’m not on today, right?”
“I thought you had a car. The list says you have a car.”
“I did…”
“Can you work today? We’re short and I need somebody to go to Sunset Park. Police are questioning the gardener in the crane lady murder. When he gets home, we want to talk to him.”
“The gardener?”
“Apparently he’s illegal. If you’ve already worked your thirty-eight, you can put in for time-and-a-half.”
“Okay…”
Lars gives me the address. “Miguel Arambula. Do you speak Spanish?”
“No.”
“Shit. Hold on.” Pause. “I’ll call you back.”
He hangs up and I wait. That would have to be one seriously fucked-up gardener to do all that to a client. Maybe she was horrible to him. I haven’t thought much about who Rivka Mendelssohn actually was. Maybe she was a rich bitch. Maybe he kidnapped her and tortured her and tried to extort money from her family because he got tired of being called a wetback.
My phone rings.
“It’s Rebekah.”
“Hold for Lars.”
I hold.
“Rebekah. Can you go to Borough Park instead? They’re having crane lady’s funeral.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Get the scene. Find out whatever you can about her.”
“So is the gardener a suspect?”
“Don’t know. Her body is at the Adonai Funeral Home, so that’s where they’ll gather.” He gives me the address-but I’m already there.
Saul comes out of the funeral home.
“I’m supposed to cover the funeral,” I say, still holding the phone up to my ear. I feel like I can’t bring my arm down. “I guess they’re still interested in the story.”
“Good,” says Saul.
“Why did you bring me here?” I whisper. I can’t get ahold of what’s happening in my body. I feel like I’m going to explode into flames and melt into the cement at the same time.
“I brought you here because, in three hours, Rivka Mendelssohn will be in the ground and the only people who will have seen what happened to her body will be Malka and myself. And whoever did this. And now, a member of the press.”
My mind feels like it belongs to someone else. How did I get here? Who the fuck am I to be entrusted with this? Fucking murder. And we’re the only ones who’ve seen what he did to her.
My stomach heaves and I cover my mouth, but it’s useless. I lean over and vomit up coffee and egg and bile onto the pavement of the funeral home parking lot. The yellow liquid splatters on my shoes. Saul jumps back. I kneel down and gag again, but nothing comes out. My face is wet and hard with tears and snot and I can feel the bits of whatever came out on my lips.
Saul puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “Come, let’s get in my car.”
We walk in silence and I let him open the passenger door for me. He comes around and digs through his center console for Kleenex, which he hands to me. I wipe my face and blow my nose. My mouth tastes like acid. I roll down the window to get some air.
“Did you hear about the gardener?” I say, finally.
“The gardener?”
“Apparently you guys have the Mendelssohns’ gardener in for questioning. He’s illegal.”
Saul is silent.
“Did you know about that?”
“I did not,” he says. “But it is not surprising.”
“Aron Mendelssohn probably gave them his name.”
Saul almost smiles.
“So… what can I use of that? What we just saw?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the fact that she was pregnant is a big deal. My editor might care about that. And maybe that she was hit on the head. And that her head was shaved recently. And that she was tied up.” It is, I realize as I speak, a great story. A scoop.
“Use it all,” says Saul.
“But… can I use your name? And Malka’s?” Malka, who, I realize, doesn’t even know I’m a reporter.
“You can’t use my name,” says Saul. “Definitely not. But your paper allows anonymous sources. Call me an official in the police department with knowledge of the investigation. Don’t mention Malka. Just say everything came from me.”
CHAPTER SIX
Saul leaves me at a deli a few blocks from the funeral home. I order a green tea and sit by the window. The streets are dark. My hands have stopped shaking, but my insides are on a low vibrate. My leg is bouncing beneath the wobbly wood table. I don’t have my pills with me, and I try to focus my mind forward, to problem-solve. But it’s a problem so much bigger than any other I’ve ever tried solving that I can’t even imagine where to begin. It makes no sense to me that the police would give a body away at the crime scene, then allow it to be buried without so much as a toxicology report. What if she was poisoned? What if the killer’s blood or hair is still on her? Or in her? Malka didn’t mention rape, but maybe she’d had sex before she died. Wouldn’t that be a lead? For the first time since I got this job, I know things no one else knows. But I have no idea what to do with what I know. Can I just write what I saw? Will it even make a difference? She’ll be in the ground by midnight.