“Just hear me out, all right? I’ve been working with sex crimes for three years now, and I don’t say this to everyone. Sometimes rapes are random-the woman is in the wrong place at the wrong time-sometimes they’re not. This is one of the cases where there’s intentionality. The guy isn’t out to pound out his hatred on the first woman he sees. He’s out for you. You’re symbolic of something to the son of a bitch.”
“All the more reason I shouldn’t run away. If he’s out to get me, then he’ll follow me.”
“What about your kids?”
“Peter, where would I go? Back to my parents and involve them in this ordeal? In an apartment to live among anonymous strangers who don’t give a damn about me? At least here people know what’s going on. People look after me. You call me; Sarah calls me every night at eleven. Here people care. I can’t run away. If you really think I’m in danger, then I’ll learn how to protect myself.”
She touched his shoulder holster.
“Teach me how to use it.”
“Oh, that’s a great solution. Play Annie Oakley, and you’ll definitely wind up damaged.”
“That’s downright sexist.”
“I’d say the same thing if you were a man, only I’d use Wyatt Earp.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
“As I recall, you trusted me with your own weapon a while back.”
“Florence might have still been alive. I had to look for her. I had no choice but to give you a gun.”
“And I have a lot of choices now?”
“You have a good one. You can leave. You didn’t have that option the night of the Marley murder.”
“Well, I don’t think escaping is a viable option in this case.”
“A gun is no good unless you know how to use it.”
“So teach me.”
“I mean use it psychologically. I know you could learn how to shoot. But when you point a firearm at an assailant, you’d better be damn sure you’re willing to pull the trigger and blow the bastard away. Because if you don’t, he’s going to grab the gun and use it on you. Could you kill someone?”
“I kicked Cory when I had to.”
“Could you kill someone?”
“If he was attacking my kids-”
“Could you draw a gun and kill someone if he was attacking you?”
“If I felt threatened, I think I could do it.”
“You think?”
“Yes, then. Yes, I could.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t know me all that well.”
“Maybe I’ve just seen too many nice people wind up in the morgue because they thought they could do it, also.”
“I fought back with Cory, Peter. And it felt good. Not everybody fights back, either.”
“It’s not the same thing as pulling the trigger.”
“You’re the cop. You tell me you’re worried about me. Then you tell me not to fight back.”
“A gun is not the answer.”
“Well, neither is escaping.”
He touched his throbbing head, then took her hand again.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not reckless, Peter. I called you the minute I thought something was amiss. And I’ll do the same thing if need be in the future. I’m not going to go after the rapist, but he’s not going to drive the boys and me away, either. If I’m attacked, I want to be able to take care of my kids and myself. I just know I could do it.”
She looked him in the eye.
“I could learn how to use a gun from someone else, you know.”
“I know.” Decker gave her a weak smile and looked inside the picnic bag. There was no sense pursuing the discussion.
25
The printer clicked rhythmically while spewing out a white stream of computer paper. When the machine finished its obbligato, Decker detached the printout from the remaining roll of blank paper and took the pile over to his desk.
He sat down, gulped lukewarm coffee, and stared at the columns in front of him, noticing that the print had become very light. It was the third ribbon he’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours. He squinted in an attempt to bring the words into sharper focus, but his eyes were too damn tired. Pushing aside stacks of papers, he rubbed them hard and stretched. His back and neck were stiff, his shoulders ached, and his head throbbed. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out the aspirin bottle only to find it empty, and tossed it disgustedly in the trash.
Placing his hands behind his neck, he leaned back into the chair, propped his feet on the desk, and gazed upward, hoping that the ceiling would provide a burst of sudden insight. When nothing came, he figured it best to clear his mind and start over, get a fresh perspective. He rested a few more moments, enjoying the blank view, then sat back upright.
He studied the printout again. Hundreds of thousands of bytes of data had revealed nothing. He’d started with his original suspects and the M.O. of the crime. When nothing immediate panned out, he’d punched in the names of known local anti-Semites, then sex offenders now on parole, followed by yeshiva boys whom Rina had taught and men she’d gone to college with, throwing in people like a chef tossing in ingredients to revive a failed recipe. In the end he was no closer to the culprit. It boiled down to the same people. He picked up a pencil and scribbled the first name.
Shlomo Stein.
A son of a bitch. He fit his former image far better than his latter. The man had made no attempt to hide his contempt for the detective, and the police in general. Furthermore, he’d been preachy and condescending-nothing worse than a reformed felon. But his answers had been straightforward and on the level. Even more important was the fact that, on the night of the Adler rape, he’d been attending a Talmudic discourse with thirty other men.
Decker crossed his name off.
Shraga Mendelsohn.
Quieter than Stein, but still spooky. Spoke in a mumble. Inappropriate smiles and never made eye contact. If a case against Stein could have been made, Mendelsohn would have been great for the accomplice. But on his own, there was nothing. Besides, his alibi the night of the rape had been the same as Stein’s. They were both at the lecture.
Scratch Mendelsohn.
Moshe Feldman.
Decker wrote a big question mark after his name.
Matt Hawthorne.
His alibi the night of the Marley murder had checked out. His friend had verified his presence at the movies. Furthermore, the candy counter girl remembered Hawthorne because he had made a weak attempt to flirt with her. The picture had ended at nine thirty-eight. It was possible time-wise that Hawthorne could have driven straight to the yeshiva, noticed Marley was dead, and attempted a break-in, but the scenario didn’t make much sense. First, he’d have had to move very quickly and precisely to make the timing fit, and second, how would Hawthorne have known that Marley had been killed?
Hawthorne didn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts the night of the rape, claiming he was home alone, reading a book. But Decker figured the filled bookcase in his apartment was more than just a prop. Hawthorne was an English teacher and probably did read a lot. The bottom line was that he failed to arouse genuine suspicion. His agitation had seemed to result more from nerves than guilt.
Decker gave him a small question mark.
Steve Gilbert.
He was the most interesting. Not made a bit nervous by the presence of the police. Detached, almost amused by the whole thing. Not the spacey, schizoid physics major Decker had imagined. And he’d done a two-year hitch in the army, including ten months in Nam as a clerk. Unfortunately, the guy’s personal records were sealed. Decker wondered why he hadn’t been assigned to frontline combat. Maybe the army knew there was something kinky about him. Maybe he was trigger-happy. The asshole who shot at him had sure known how to use a piece.