The police had interviewed several of Dr. Shapira's co-workers, including Dr. Leitner and Naomi Hecht and Moria, but I could tell this had been done halfheartedly. Inspector Kulaski believed from the get-go that this was a robbery, so he didn't see the point in examining any of Dr. Shapira's colleagues too closely.
Kulaski had checked with local pawnshops, hoping the killer had tried to pawn off Dr. Shapira's watch or his wallet, which his wife said was made of leather and might have fetched a few liras, but to no avail. He'd sent inquiries to other municipalities, thinking the killer might have chosen to offload the items far from home, but this yielded nothing as well.
Next, he hauled local criminals in for questioning, hoping to stumble upon the killer, but all this resulted in was plenty of paperwork and no breakthrough. Soon, all Kulaski was left with was the hope that a new piece of evidence would miraculously present itself. I had such evidence in my hotel room, but Kulaski wasn't going to get it. Not yet, at least. This gave me a spark of schadenfreude, the only point of light in the dismal reality of Moria Gafni being a murderer.
The night of the murder, Dr. Shapira was on his way home from the hospital, following a surgery that had gone late. It rained but not too heavily, Dr. Shapira did not own a vehicle, and his home was but a ten-minute walk from the hospital, so the doctor made his way on foot.
He took a shortcut through an alleyway that sliced between two office buildings. That was where the murderer pounced. Two shots and Dr. Shapira was dead. He was a minute away from his apartment. It was his regular route, his wife later told the police, which meant that Moria could have been lying in wait at that particular dark and secluded spot. Or maybe she had followed him from the hospital. Either way, she'd known of his scheduled surgery, which was why she'd changed shifts with Naomi Hecht at the last minute.
The choice of location proved smart. There were no witnesses. Hardly anyone was about that late on a freezing November night. No one had seen anything. No one had heard anything, either. This wasn't surprising. A .25 caliber is a small gun, so the reports wouldn't have been too loud. And it was a winter night, cold and wet. People would have been sleeping with their windows shut, which would have muffled the sound even further. And if the two shots had come close together, people could have mistaken the bangs for a car backfiring or even a thunderclap. Either way, Moria had gotten off clean, and she'd known it, or she surely would have ditched the gun. I wondered why she hadn't done it anyway. Why take the risk of keeping the murder weapon in her possession? And why didn't she get rid of it before she killed herself?
"You look like you've swallowed a lemon," Rapfogel said. He was on his fourth glass of wine by then and slurring his words. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes had a wet look to them. He sounded accusatory, on the verge of anger, as though he knew I was holding back the identity of the killer.
But I wasn't ready to tell the police what I knew just yet. Not until I had the whole picture. Not until I knew why Moria had killed herself and to whom she referred in her note.
"Indigestion," I said, putting the papers back into the file and sliding it across the table. I'd read the whole thing. Now I wanted to get out of that restaurant and away from Rapfogel before he got any drunker. I had a feeling he was a bad drunk. I signaled the waiter for the bill. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."
Rapfogel nodded. "Sleep's the best medicine for everything. Where are you staying? A hotel?"
I nodded, taking out my wallet.
"Which one?"
"Just some hole-in-the-wall," I said. "Not a place I recommend." I didn't want Rapfogel or any other cop to know where I slept.
The waiter came over, and I held back a grimace at the bill. I dumped money on the table and slipped into my coat. Rapfogel slurped what remained in his glass and followed me out.
On the street we shook hands again.
"Thanks," I said.
"Don't mention it." Rapfogel's breath was thick with wine. He patted my shoulder. "You have a good night."
"You too," I said.
He headed one way and I the other. It was nearly eleven by then. I had a fair bit of walking to do, but I didn't mind. The streets were nearly empty, the cold having chased most of Jerusalem's residents to their beds. I lit a cigarette and tried to focus on the hot smoke I was inhaling. I just walked and smoked, paying no mind to my surroundings or the few people I passed by. Sadness flooded me because of what I'd learned, because of what Moria had done.
Leaving Jerusalem's center and entering less choice areas, the frequency of streetlights declined, and shadows permeated the sidewalks and alleyways. Somewhere a cat yowled. A loose shutter squeaked. A flurry of night birds or bats flapped by overhead. There was no traffic. Lights shone in some windows, but most were dark. There was a desolate atmosphere to these streets, as though a plague had ravaged the city and only a few disoriented survivors remained. Or maybe that was the product of my bleak frame of mind.
What was I going to tell Gafni? How would he react to his daughter being a killer? When I'd warned him he might learn things about his daughter he would regret knowing, this was one possibility I hadn't imagined.
I flicked the vestige of my cigarette into the street, took a deep breath of Jerusalem's crisp mountain air, and shoved my hands in my pockets. Which was why I was slow to defend myself when the attack came.
Like lightning on a summer day, it was unexpected and quick. One second I was ambling peacefully on a quiet street; the next I was under assault. The only warning was the sudden thump of running footsteps from behind and a barked command, "Get him!"
My wandering mind and my pocketed hands contributed to my slow reaction. I had barely gotten my hands out and was turning around when something hard struck me across the upper back, just below the neck.
They had picked the right spot. A stretch of dark sidewalk on a block made up of garages, small factories, and shuttered workshops. No residential buildings. No one about.
The blow pitched me forward. Somehow, I managed to block the fall and remain on one knee. I turned my head, saw two shadowy figures standing over me with cloth covering their faces. They were holding something in their hands. Clubs, short and thick. A third man, his face obscured as well, stood a little apart. By his head movements, I could tell he was scanning the street, making sure no one had witnessed the attack. Satisfied, he approached as well, similarly armed.
Waves of pain coruscated down my back and up into my head. My spine felt jarred, my muscles lacking substance. "What are you—" I started to say, but before I could finish the sentence, one of the men landed a hard kick into my stomach. The other whacked me across the back of one thigh with his club. Now I was prone, the asphalt scratchy against the side of my face. I had trouble drawing in breath. The pressure in my chest was torture. I wanted to tell them to take my money and let me be. But before I could utter a syllable, another smack came, another kick, and then another. All I could do was let out choked groans and whimpers as the assailants, all three of them now, rained blows and kicks upon me. Pretty soon, I couldn't even do that. All I did was curl a little and tuck my head in as far as I could, in a feeble attempt to protect my vital organs.
The barrage of blows continued unabated. My body was like a boiling cauldron, each popping bubble an explosion of pain. They hit my legs, my buttocks, my stomach, my back, my head. It was as though they wanted to mark every inch of me.
I wanted to scream for help, but I hadn't the air. A great pressure squeezed my head, as though a giant boot was stamping ever harder on it. My eyes were shut, but pinpricks of light exploded across the lightless backdrop of my vision. Then a deeper darkness crept in, like a black sheet pulled over a corpse on a pathologist's table. It gobbled up not just the pinpricks of light, but also the grunts of the men pummeling me and the sickening thuds of the blows as they landed. It devoured the smell of dirt and oil filling my nostrils. It consumed the rough press of the asphalt on my cheek. And finally, as an act of mercy, like a pair of wet fingers closing on a blazing candle wick, it snuffed out the pain and sucked me into a fathomless abyss into which no sensation could penetrate.
Pain brought me back to wakefulness. A blanket of fiery pain that engulfed me from head to toe. With effort, I pried my eyes open, but I could see nothing but a featureless, uniform brightness. I'm blind, a terrified childlike voice wailed in my head. They kicked my eyes to pulp, and now I'm blind.
But it was only sunlight dazzling me. I shifted my gaze a little, and slowly the brightness dissipated into dancing spots of red and blue and green before evaporating entirely. I saw that I was lying by a large arched window, and sunlight was splashing in directly onto my face.
The terror that gripped me at the thought of being blind vanished like water spiraling down a drain. I let out a breath, then groaned as sharp claws of agony scratched deep inside my chest.
The pain wasn't localized. It came from all over as though I were inside an iron maiden and the lid was being slowly closed upon me, spikes digging into my flesh.
My heart was hammering a demented beat. My ears filled with the furious sound of my rushing blood. It took a few minutes before the pain receded to a persistent ache, permitting thought to return.
I had no clue where I was or how I got there. I was lying in a bed, covered to my neck with a white blanket. I was sweating, but at the same time I was cold and shivering. My tongue was a heavy, sun-baked stone in my arid mouth. My nose was congested and aching, barely allowing the passage of air. My limbs were leaden. The tiniest shift of my head or arms caused a flare-up of pain that momentarily paralyzed me. I hadn't experienced such terrible agony since I had been shot twice during the War of Independence.
That memory gave birth to a realization: I was in a hospital.
Cautiously, I shifted my head sideways, wincing with each minuscule bit of movement. Two more beds. Mine was closest to the window.
I was dead thirsty. As thirsty as I had been in August 1944 in Auschwitz when the Polish summer conspired with the Nazis to torment us. It had been scorching hot then, and there had been hardly any drinking water available to us prisoners, and the Germans had worked us mercilessly.
I tried moving my tongue to wet my lips. It was like pushing a rock uphill. A pointless effort, as it held no moisture whatsoever.
"Water," I said, but it came out a hoarse whisper, the sound barely audible. I tried to summon the strength to repeat the request, but a looming black weight pressed upon me, like a sky thick with storm clouds crashing down upon the earth, and it dragged me down with it into unconsciousness.
