But the wounds which caused both Carella and Meyer to turn away from the body were the slashes on the insides of the rabbi’s hands. These, they knew, were the defense cuts. These spoke louder than all the others, for they immediately reconstructed the image of a weaponless man struggling to protect himself against the swinging blade of an assassin, raising his hands in hopeless defense, the fingers cut and hanging, the palms slashed to ribbons. At the end of the alley, the patrolman who’d first arrived on the scene was identifying the body to the medical examiner as the one he’d found. Another patrolman was pushing curious bystanders behind the police barricade he’d set up. The laboratory boys and photographers had already begun their work.
Carella and Meyer were happy to be inside the synagogue again.
The room was silent and empty, a house of worship without any worshipers at the moment. They sat on folding chairs in the large, empty room. The eternal light burned over the ark in which the Torah, the five books of Moses, was kept. Forward of the ark, one on each side of it, were the lighted candelabra, the menorah, found by tradition in every Jewish house of worship.
Detective Steve Carella began the litany of another tradition. He took out his notebook, poised his pencil over a clean page, turned to Yirmiyahu, and began asking questions in a pattern that had become classic through repeated use.
“What was the rabbi’s name?” he asked.
Yirmiyahu blew his nose and said, “Solomon. Rabbi Solomon.”
“First name?”
“Yaakov.”
“That’s Jacob,” Meyer said. “Jacob Solomon.”
Carella nodded and wrote the name into his book.
“Are you Jewish?” Yirmiyahu asked Meyer.
Meyer paused for an instant, and then said, “Yes.”
“Was he married or single?” Carella asked.
“Married,” Yirmiyahu said.
“Do you know his wife’s name?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s Havah.”
“That’s Eve,” Meyer translated.
“And would you know where the rabbi lived?”
“Yes. The house on the corner.”
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know. It’s the house with the yellow shutters.”
“How do you happen to be here right now, Mr. Cohen?” Carella asked. “Did someone call to inform you of the rabbi’s death?”
“No. No, I often come past the synagogue. To check the light, you see.”
“What light is that, sir?” Carella asked.
“The eternal light. Over the ark. It’s supposed to burn at all times. Many synagogues have a small electric bulb in the lamp. We’re one of the few synagogues in the city who still use oil in it. And, as shamash, I felt it was my duty to make certain the light —”
“Is this an Orthodox congregation?” Meyer asked.
“No. It’s Conservative,” Yirmiyahu said.
“There are three types of congregation now,” Meyer explained to Carella. “Orthodox, Conservative and Reform. It gets a little complicated.”
“Yes,” Yirmiyahu said emphatically.
“So you were coming to the synagogue to check on the lamp,” Carella said. “Is that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what happened?”
“I saw a police car at the side of the synagogue. So I walked over and asked what the trouble was. And they told me.”
“I see. When was the last time you saw the rabbi alive, Mr. Cohen?”
“At evening services.”
“Services start at sundown, Steve. The Jewish day —”
“Yes, I know,” Carella said. “What time did services end, Mr. Cohen?”
“At about seven-thirty.”
“And the rabbi was here? Is that right?”
“Well, he stepped outside when services were over.”
“And you stayed inside. Was there any special reason?”
“Yes. I was collecting the prayer shawls and the yarmelkas, and I was putting —”
“Yarmelkas are skullcaps,” Meyer said. “Those little black —”
“Yes, I know,” Carella said. “Go ahead, Mr. Cohen.”
“I was putting the rimonim back onto the handles of the scroll.”
“Putting the what, sir?” Carella asked.
“Listen to the big Talmudic scholar,” Meyer said, grinning. “Doesn’t even know what rimonim are. They’re these decorative silver covers, Steve, shaped like pomegranates. Symbolizing fruitfulness, I guess.”
Carella returned the grin. “Thank you,” he said.
“A man has been killed,” Yirmiyahu said softly.
The detectives were silent for a moment. The banter between them had been of the faintest sort, mild in comparison to some of the grisly humor that homicide detectives passed back and forth over a dead body. Carella and Meyer were accustomed to working together in an easy, friendly manner, and they were accustomed to dealing with the facts of sudden death, but they realized at once that they had offended the dead rabbi’s sexton.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cohen,” Carella said. “We meant no offense, you understand.”
The old man nodded stoically, a man who had inherited a legacy of years and years of persecution, a man who automatically concluded that all Gentiles looked upon a Jew’s life as a cheap commodity. There was unutterable sadness on his long, thin face, as if he alone were bearing the oppressive weight of the centuries on his narrow shoulders.
The synagogue seemed suddenly smaller. Looking at the old man’s face and the sadness there, Meyer wanted to touch it gently and say, “It’s all tight, tsadik, it’s all right,” the Hebrew word leaping into his mind — tsadik, a man possessed of saintly virtues, a person of noble character and simple living.
The silence persisted. Yirmiyahu Cohen began weeping again, and the detectives sat in embarrassment on the folding chairs and waited.
At last Carella said, “Were you still here when the rabbi came inside again?”
“I left while he was gone,” Yirmiyahu said. “I wanted to return home. This is the Pesach, the Passover. My family was waiting for me to conduct the seder.”
“I see.” Carella paused. He glanced at Meyer.
“Did you hear any noise in the alley, Mr. Cohen?” Meyer asked. “When the rabbi was out there?”
“Nothing.”
Meyer sighed and took a package of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He was about to light one when Yirmiyahu said, “Didn’t you say you were Jewish?”
“Huh?” Meyer said. He struck the match.
“You are going to smoke on the second day of Pesach?” Yirmiyahu asked.
“Oh. Oh, well ...” The cigarette felt suddenly large in Meyer’s hand, the fingers clumsy. He shook out the match. “You — uh — you have any other questions, Steve?” he asked.
“No,” Carella said.
“Then I guess you can go, Mr. Cohen,” Meyer said. “Thank you very much.”
“Shalom,” Yirmiyahu said, and shuffled dejectedly out of the room.
“You’re not supposed to smoke, you see,” Meyer explained to Carella, “on the first two days of Passover, and the last two, a good Jew doesn’t smoke, or ride, or work, or handle money or —”