Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“Why are you wearing long sleeves? It’s hot as hell outside.”

“Dress code.”

“I’ve seen many students with their sleeves rolled up.”

“I’m not a student. I’m a teacher.”

“Do you mind if I see your arms?”

Gilbert paused.

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like you.”

“I’d like to see your forearms, Mr. Gilbert.”

He hesitated, then rolled up his sleeves. They were both free of scratches.

“Satisfied?” Gilbert said, rebuttoning the cuffs.

Decker stuck the note pad in his pocket and stood up.

“Thank you for your time.”

“He was Joe Cool,” Decker told Marge. “Unflappable.”

“No scratches?” Marge asked.

“No. But he hesitated before showing me. Maybe he wasn’t so sure if there were or weren’t.”

“When do you talk to the other one?”

“Six-thirty. After work, at his apartment.”

“Then what?”

Decker shrugged.

“Do you suspect Gilbert?”

“I suspect everyone I’ve talked to. Unfortunately, I don’t have any evidence.”

“Except Cory Schmidt,” Marge corrected.

“Yeah, Cory is tied to the murder. I don’t know about the rape.” Decker sipped coffee, then put the cup on his desk. “What about Professor Fred Dooley?”

“He’s been on sabbatical in Greece for the last six months.”

The phone rang.

“Decker.”

“It’s Mike.”

“How’re you doing with Rayana?”

“Diddlysquat,” said Hollander. “But I got some good news for you.”

“What?”

“I found Cory Schmidt.”

“Where?”

“At a head shop in Sun Valley. I nosed around and found out one of his friends used to work there. Sure enough, the little shit was in the back room toking on some homegrown weed dipped in dust. Sucker’s as high as a kite. I’ve got him cuffed. Right now I’m waiting for transport.”

“Good going, Mike. Bring him in.”

The kid was full of spit and fire and had to be physically restrained by an officer. Decker closed the door to the interview room and stood across from him with his hands folded across his chest. Schmidt was wearing a Black Sabbath midriff T-shirt and a pair of black leather pants. His hair was dirty and hung limply to his shoulders.

“I wanna lawyer, pig,” he spat.

“You’ll get one,” Decker said. “It’ll be by the book, Cory. It’s too big to lose on a technicality. But let me tell you this, son. You’re fucked.”

“I ain’t your son.”

“We’ve got evidence. We’ve got lots and lots of evidence.”

“Bullshit!”

“Do you want to confess?”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure, now?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Get him out of here.”

Moshe Feldman’s shrink, Dr. Marder, had phoned while he was with Cory. Decker returned the call and thanked him for being so prompt.

“No problem, Detective. I’ve just dropped the report in the mail. If you have any questions about it, feel free to call me. I can’t disclose any of our other previous therapy sessions because, of course, those were confidential. This evaluation is different because it was court ordered.”

“Can you summarize the report for me now?”

“Sure. It is my professional opinion that Moshe Feldman witnessed something traumatic and brutal that night. Whether he actually saw a murder, a rape, or a beating, I don’t know. I don’t think he knows. Whatever he saw or heard involved more than one person. Moshe remembers seeing four people. That’s about it.”

“Do you trust this guy, Doctor?”

“I don’t think he was fantasizing.”

“What is he? A psycho?”

“No. He’s not psychotic or psychopathic in any classic sense. No hallucinations, no voices telling him to kill or rape, so far as I know. He has a conscience-an overly developed one at that. The guy is crippled by guilt. If I had to put a label on him, I’d say he was schizoid with an affective disorder. He’s oriented-he knows who he is and where he is-but his emotions are inappropriate or flat.”

“Do you think he could be dangerous?”

“I can’t predict that. Any psychiatric professional who says he can predict future behavior based on past performance is full of horseshit. Do I think he would kill or rape? No. Would I stake my professional reputation on it? No.”

“So he could be violent?”

“At this time, I’ve no indication that he’s violent. But I’m not saying he could never be violent.”

“And you think he saw something brutal being carried out by at least four people.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor.”

“I hope I’ve been helpful. I like Moshe. I have a great deal of respect for Rabbi Schulman. I used to learn under him. The man is brilliant. I’d like to see the yeshiva free and clear of this mess.”

“So would I,” said Decker.

“Okay,” Marge said, handing Decker the report. “Some of the shoe prints matched Schmidt’s. But a lot didn’t. The report says seven different prints were lifted.”

“One of them was Feldman’s.”

Marge thought.

“Yeah, one of them was Feldman’s, one of them was Marley’s. I figure it like this: Schmidt and friends makes five; Feldman makes six; Marley makes seven.”

“You think there were five of them who attacked Florence?”

“Yeah.”

Decker skimmed the pages of the document, then said, “I just spoke to Feldman’s shrink. He says Feldman remembers seeing only four people. But his accuracy is up for grabs.”

“How many guys were involved with Rina that day at the supermarket parking lot?” Marge asked.

“Four. Cory and three of his cohorts.”

“So if it was the same guys who attacked Marley, Feldman should have seen five people-Cory and his friends and Marley.”

“Unless Marley was down by the time he witnessed the scene,” Decker said. “In either case, it still doesn’t add up to five people who attacked Marley.”

“So maybe Cory brought along an extra?”

“Could be.” Decker plopped the papers onto his desk. “It would be nice if we could round up all the shoes of every suspect we have in this case and check them for matching prints.”

“And maybe collect a couple of pairs of loafers while you’re at it.”

Decker looked down at his weather-beaten oxfords.

“No joke. Where’s Cory now?”

“In a holding pen. He’s due to be arraigned this afternoon. Hollander is going down to court. Prosecutor’s going for top bail and thinks he’ll have no trouble getting it. Schmidt’s his own worst enemy.”

“Who’s been assigned to the case?”

“George Birdwell.”

“He’s good.” Decker leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Anything new with Rayana?”

Marge shook her head.

“Mike says same old shit. Hasn’t discovered anyone new. Rayana goes to work, comes home, and surfaces only to walk her dog. It wears a doggy sweater all the time-even in this heat. God forbid Poochy should catch cold.”

“Shit.”

Early evening. The air was still scorching, thick, and smoggy. Decker pulled the Plymouth into a red zone and put an LAPD sticker on the dashboard.

Matthew Hawthorne lived in an apartment district in Sun Valley. The area was full of multiple dwellings boasting exotic names like South Pacific and Blue Hawaii . None of them lived up to their tropical labels. The exteriors were gray stucco, and the landscaping had withered in the heat. The majority of them had pools, but the water, instead of iridescent blue, was algae green. Hawthorne lived at number 12, on the second floor of Bali Hai . Decker knocked, and the door flew open.