Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re still legally married to your ex-wife. If there was a kinyan , a valid transaction.”

“We’ve been divorced for five years.”

“Civilly. But maybe not according to Jewish law. By any chance, has your ex-wife remarried?”

“Yes. About two years ago. She went all the way and married a real Jew this time.”

The rabbi looked pained.

“ Vay is mere . And do they have children?”

Decker looked at him.

“As a matter of fact, she just lost a premature baby. She was six months pregnant when she went into labor, but the baby didn’t survive. She’s okay physically, but my daughter tells me she’s not doing too well emotionally.”

“Now that was basheert ,” the rabbi said to himself. “Detective Decker, to be on the safe side, I’m going to prepare you a get -a Jewish divorce. A civil divorce is insignificant for religious purposes. Otherwise, your ex-wife’s future children may be considered mamzerim -bastards-and be irrevocably stigmatized.”

Decker’s eyes grew cold.

“I’m stigmatized?”

“ You are not a mamzer . Your parents were not married at the time of your birth, but you are still a full-fledged Jew. A mamzer is the product of an adulterous union between a married Jewish woman and a Jewish man, or of incest. According to Jewish law, it’s possible that you’re not legally divorced from your wife.”

“She doesn’t know I’m Jewish.”

“But you knew you were Jewish at the time of your marriage?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Do you have any objection to her finding out?”

“Not really.”

“Then let me divorce you properly.”

Decker smiled slightly.

“Let me ask you this, Rabbi. Had my ex-wife’s baby lived, would it have been considered a bastard?”

“Debatable but possible. Every marriage is looked at individually because the consequences are so severe. Once decided, it is one of the few things in Jewish law that is completely irreversible. Why condemn your former wife’s children to such a fate when the whole thing can be easily resolved? Let’s divorce you according to halacha.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Sign a document that I will prepare. And deliver it personally to your ex-wife.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll need to know your ex-wife’s Hebrew name, that of her father, and your father’s. I’m assuming you don’t have a Hebrew name.”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right. Your English name will be sufficient. I’ll also need the date of your marriage.”

“I can give that to you right now. The rest I’m going to have to find out.”

“Write it all down for me tomorrow. Then I will come with you to your ex-wife’s house and divorce you properly.”

Decker smiled at him, still bemused.

“Okay.”

The rabbi placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It was fate that led you here. It was basheert . Something pulled you to us.”

A rape and a homicide, Decker thought. But he didn’t answer.

“You were searching for something, Detective.”

“So far as I know, Rabbi, I still am.”

Cory Schmidt sat slumped in the interview room, head down, smoking a cigarette. His stringy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and dark circles underlined his eyes. The prison denims he wore were wrinkled and too big for him. Taking a deep drag, he looked around, then turned his attention back to the tabletop in front of him. He had been stripped of his earrings, his wrist bracelets, and all of his bravado.

He fidgeted, growing increasingly jumpy in this pisshole. Man, he felt alone. Someone had told his mother about the arrest a couple of days ago, but the lazy bitch hadn’t bothered to show her face. She was probably glued to the boob tube-her fuckin’ soaps. His old man didn’t care, either. Too busy gettin’ tanked somewhere. Shit! When you come right down to it, ain’t a soul who gave a flying fuck about you. Not your parents, not your buddies, not your chicks. Nobody. He looked at the suit sitting next to him-some righteous fuck-off of a public defender named Ronson. Who was he trying to kid with his dipshitty beard and fako English accent? A first-class jiveass turkey fag. Dude didn’t do a fucking thing except scribble notes, shuffle papers, and clear his throat, asking if there were any questions, talking to him like he was a retard. Man, there was nothing left to say. Cory finished the last hit of nicotine and wondered if he wasn’t better off with a bullet in his head.

Decker stood outside the interview room waiting for Birdwell, the deputy D.A., to return from his phone call. The prosecutor was a young, good-looking, bespectacled black kid with a baby-smooth face and short kinky hair-a Berkeley grad, sharp, with a lot of spirit. He’d do well in the system. The detective wondered how he would have fared had he gone into public law. In retrospect, it had been a big mistake to join his father-in-law’s practice. Estate planning and wills. Big bucks but mind-numbing.

Seeing Captain Morrison enter the squad room, Decker waved him over. David Morrison was in his early fifties, built wiry, with thin gray hair and flaccid cheeks. His tie was slightly askew, and he straightened it as he approached Decker.

“Where’s Birdwell?” he asked.

“Taking a phone call.”

The two men waited in silence until Birdwell returned.

“What do we have, George?” Morrison asked.

“He wants to trade,” Birdwell said.

“What’s the deal?” the captain asked.

“He’ll cop a plea of assault to the Adler woman in exchange for the names of his cohorts on the Marley murder,” the prosecutor answered.

Morrison turned to Decker.

“I thought Adler was a rape.”

“The doctor screwed up the exam,” said Decker. “While she noted semen in the vaginal and anal regions, she failed to note any penetration because it was so slight. So without the words forced entry in writing, technically, it’s not a rape.”

“And he wants Cory to be tried as a juvenile,” Birdwell added.

“Well, he can forget about that,” Morrison said. “So all we can get Cory on is assault?”

“No,” Birdwell answered. “On the Marley case, he’s a full-blooded Murder One. Right now I have more than enough for the prelim. If we want his buddies, we’ll have to go down to an assault.”

“No dice,” Morrison said.

“Schmidt was set up,” Birdwell said.

“Schmidt was at the scene of the murder,” Morrison said. “His shoe prints were lifted. So were tire tracks from his bike. I don’t know who did the slicing, but Schmidt was there. No way a piece of shit like that is going to get away with a simple assault.”

“Then we’re letting his friends get away with murder,” Decker said.

Morrison frowned.

“What do we have on his friends?” he asked.

“Right now, nothing,” Decker said. “They claim that they were biding their time with their girlfriends. The young ladies verify their story.”

“We know what that’s worth,” said the captain.

“Absolutely,” the prosecutor said, scratching his head. “But with no hard evidence, it’s their word against ours.”

“And Cory’s alibi for the night?” the captain asked.

“At first he claimed to be with them,” Decker said. “But they denied it. So now he’s without alibi and very amenable to making a deal. Schmidt’s the way to get to them.”

“Do we know that Schmidt didn’t do the slicing?” asked Morrison.

“In the opinion of the M.E., the killing slash was done by a left-handed person,” said Decker. “Schmidt is right-handed.”