"That's quite an impressive feat of arithmetic, Inspector," I said, and was rewarded with a spasm of pain in my chest, my injured ribs reminding me that I was in no shape to be a smart aleck. But I was also angry—angry beyond good sense, perhaps—at this arrogant, cruel man for what he'd done to me. And I also felt that I couldn't be timid. I had to project strength, though that might have been a fool's errand, considering the state of my face and my obvious infirmity.
Again Kulaski kept his cool. "I couldn't see why Gafni would make an effort for a man such as you. I did some digging. I found out about his daughter's suicide. That's your case, isn't it? That's what you're working on."
"If you're so sure you know everything, why bother asking?"
"What I can't figure out is what there is to investigate. I read the file. There's no doubt that she committed suicide. Mr. Gafni never suggested otherwise."
"You're so curious, why don't you ask him?"
"I became doubly sure that was your case when I heard you were sniffing about the Shapira shooting. Moria Gafni and Kalman Shapira worked together. What do you think, Detective Lapid?" He put a derisive emphasis on the word detective. "You think Moria Gafni shot Kalman Shapira and then, consumed by guilt, committed suicide?"
I was silent, trying to keep my face impassive. But in my mind, one question kept repeating in a shrill refrain, Has he found the gun? Has he found the gun? Has he found the gun?
"I have no idea who killed Kalman Shapira," I said.
"I certainly hope not because withholding evidence pertaining to a homicide is an offense. Not as serious as those you narrowly avoided being charged with, but still no laughing matter."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
He nodded a couple of times, lips primmed. Then, with frightening abruptness, his expression shifted, turning feral. His lips pulled back, showing his teeth. He sniffed loudly, wrinkled his nose, and said, "It stinks in here, you know that? You stink."
I was taken aback by the turn in the conversation. It did not seem in Kulaski's nature to stoop to such crude insults. A portion of his self-possession seemed to have slipped. His mouth and lower jaw were twitching, small incessant tics, like he had a boiling energy inside him, looking for a crack from which to erupt.
"Maybe you can't smell it," he went on, "with your nose busted up like that. But trust me, it's true. You stank the other time, too. You stank of blood and sweat, but mostly of fear. You stink the same way now, even though they washed you up good. They can't wash away the odor of fear."
He looked on the verge of losing control entirely, of shedding what remained of his calm facade and lashing out at me. I knew I would not be able to defend myself. I thought of crying out for a nurse, but even if one heard me, Kulaski would still have time to inflict tremendous pain on me before she entered the room. And if I accused him of doing me harm and he denied it, who would the nurse believe: a respectable police inspector or a patient she knew nothing about?
Kulaski shifted forward, his hand rising, fingers closing, and I braced myself for excruciating agony, opened my mouth to shout for help anyway, but then my roommate quit snoring. In the ensuing silence, Kulaski froze and looked toward the other patient. He couldn't afford to be seen hurting me.
But my roommate didn't wake. He merely let out a phlegmy gurgle, moaned, gasped, shifted a little, and resumed snoring. Kulaski blinked, his tongue flicking across his lips, and the tension in his body eased. He moved back in his chair, unclenching his fingers, composed once more. I exhaled. The moment of danger had passed. My body ached all over, as though it had been struck by phantom fists.
"Perhaps it's time," Kulaski said, "that we talk about the assault you underwent, Mr. Lapid. As it so happens, I'm the investigating officer. Can you tell me what happened?"
"Nothing you don't already know," I said through gritted teeth.
"But I hardly know anything, I'm sorry to say. There were no witnesses to the attack. No one saw a thing." He spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. "I spent all day yesterday pursuing leads, but so far nothing."
He was sending me a message, telling me I had no hope in hell of seeing the men who'd attacked me brought to justice. Not that I expected any different.
"I'm sure you couldn't sleep a wink because of it," I said.
He ignored my sarcasm. "Would you be able to recognize the assailants?"
"They came at me from behind, it was dark, and they wore something across their faces."
"So they could be anyone?"
"Yes. Even you."
He chuckled, wagging his finger as though reproaching me for telling an inappropriate joke. "Just so you know, I was at the station throughout that night, Mr. Lapid. Other officers would vouch for me."
Sure they would. And he would vouch for them if called for. That was how it worked. Cops protecting each other and avenging their comrades. I had no doubt that my assailants were police officers. Told by Kulaski that I'd put one of their colleagues in the hospital and then escaped justice. And then informed that I was back in their city, on their turf, thumbing my nose at them merely by walking freely on their streets. I felt only a limited measure of anger at these men despite the injuries they'd inflicted on me. As far as they knew, I was a violent criminal who'd pulled strings to avoid paying the price for beating one of their own. I'd evaded the justice of the law, so they set out to impose an alternative brand of justice. In their shoes, goaded by the right words from the mouth of an esteemed fellow officer, I might have been persuaded to do the same.
Only Kulaski was to blame. Kulaski with his personal vendetta against me. For some reason, I had become the focal point of his unbounded rage at the demonstrators who had warred with the police outside the Knesset. As through a sniper's scope, his desire for retribution had concentrated all its firepower on a single target: me.
And, deprived initially, his fury and thirst for vengeance had only increased. At first, it was at an intense yet reasonable level. Now it was an obsession.
"Normally, the police could dedicate more manpower to the investigation of your assault," Kulaski said, speaking in a tone that would sound doleful to other ears, but in which I heard an underlying glee, "but, regretfully, many of our officers are unable to carry out their duties because of injuries they sustained defending the Knesset from you and your buddies. So don't expect any breakthroughs."
"I won't be holding my breath," I said.
"A wise decision, Mr. Lapid. A wise decision. And speaking of wise decisions, another unfortunate symptom of the large number of incapacitated officers is an increase in crime here in Jerusalem. Cause and effect, you see. Fewer cops patrolling the streets, the more dangerous the streets become. As you can personally attest." He ran his eyes over me, lingering over various parts of my face, a thin smile on his thin lips. The bastard was relishing the signs of my injuries.
He said, "Jerusalem may remain dangerous for some time, I'm afraid. The smarter, safer thing for you to do would be to return home to Tel Aviv and stay away from the capital. Otherwise, in the current situation, who knows what other calamities may befall you."
The lines sounded rehearsed. Perhaps he had practiced them before the mirror as he was scraping his throat raw with his razor. They were part of the message he'd come here to deliver. The first part was him claiming responsibility for my assault; the second was the threat of worse to come if I did not heed his warning and get out of Jerusalem and never return.
It was effective. Again pain throbbed throughout my body. Fear made each tender spot ache. I curled my fingers into fists to keep the pain from showing on my face, but that only increased my suffering, as battered muscles in my arms tightened and flexed.
"I'll take that under advisement," I said, feeling foolish to keep up the pretense of self-assurance. I was beaten, and we both knew it.
"See that you do," he said. "If I were you, I'd go back to the safety of Tel Aviv as soon as possible. Today."
I stared at him in shock. "The doctor said I should stay in the hospital for several days."
"I'm sure he has his reasons, but the doctor doesn't know everything we do, Mr. Lapid, does he? He doesn't know how dangerous the streets of Jerusalem can be. Or even its hospitals."
Another message. This one saying that I wasn't safe from Kulaski anywhere in the capital. Not even here in the hospital. And this time, the outcome would not be confined to a bevy of injuries. This time, I would end up dead.
