By their misdeeds—real or perceived—they had engendered the sort of poisonous emotional mixture that often finds an outlet in murderous fantasies and on occasion crosses the line into actual killing. In Ofra's case, it appeared, it had done both in abundance.
Skimming the poems while keeping track of the passing seconds in my head, I encountered dark, disturbing visions of revenge and retribution, of death and torment, all suffered by those who had wronged Ofra. The poems and suicide note, combined with what I had learned earlier at the police station, extinguished all doubt. The case was finished. I had found the guilty party. It was Ofra Wexler.
The sound of braking tires came from below. A number of car doors slammed in rapid succession. The police were here. It was time to go.
I left the apartment, finding no one on the landing, and shut the door softly. I descended the stairs at a leisurely pace, greeted the two policemen who entered the lobby, and exited the building as they began bounding up the stairs. Outside was another pair of officers. One was kneeling beside the body while the other was doing his very best to disperse the crowd.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turned left at the curb and put the scene of death behind me.
I made my way back to the police station, located Inspector Bartov, and fed him a redacted version of events. I told him I'd been hired to look into the five-year-old unsolved slaying of Anna Hartman. I told him I'd come to suspect that other actors of Shoresh Theater who had died over the past dozen years had, in fact, been murdered. I told him I'd suspected Ofra Wexler of being behind said murders. I told him I'd just seen Ofra's body, but kept my visit to her apartment to myself. Nor did I tell him that up until this morning, I'd had a second suspect in mind.
I would have preferred not to tell the police anything about my business, but I figured they would soon be talking to Ofra's colleagues, and that some of them might let on that a certain private detective had been asking questions about one or more of the murders mentioned in Ofra's suicide note.
As I told the inspector of my investigation and connected one dot to its companion, I watched his expression shift from ignorance through bewilderment to incredulity.
It helped when news of Ofra's death and the content of her suicide note reached his desk, and also when I showed him her name in Amiram Gadot's file. "That's why my apartment was so tidy," I said. "He wasn't there to rob the place. He was there to kill me."
Calling Netanya and getting Meltzer on the line cleared away all remnants of disbelief. But it took a while. Meltzer was not a man who admitted making a mistake easily.
But to give him credit, when he finally transitioned from skeptic to believer, he did so without rancor or bitterness. And when he thanked me for the work I'd done and apologized for doubting both me and my sanity, I could tell both the thanks and the apology were heartfelt and sincere. Any negative feelings he directed solely at himself.
"I screwed up," he said. "I should have found out Ofra Wexler had ties to this criminal."
"Don't beat yourself up. I only learned of it by accident." I told him how it was Reuben who deserved the credit, not me, and that seemed to make him feel a little better. "Besides, his record was made up entirely of nonviolent crimes," I said. "Not a record that screams murderer." For that, I thought, you needed to see his eyes up close and personal.
Bartov had me draft and sign a new statement. I kept it as brief as possible, stating most of the general facts without going into too much detail. When Bartov read it, he asked me why I'd failed to include the name of my client.
"That's confidential," I said.
His face went hard. "This is a murder case. You're not chasing after some cheating husband here. This is serious stuff."
"I know it is. I was a police detective myself, once upon a time."
That gave him pause, and we spent the next five minutes reviewing my history as a police detective in Hungary.
Still, Bartov persisted, "Not knowing who hired you, it leaves a hole in the report."
"Not one that matters. You already got the killer, and the woman for whom he killed. And they're both dead. There's not going to be a trial. No one will ever read all this paperwork, you know that."
He did, but he was the sort of cop who felt it was his absolute right to know absolutely everything.
"Listen," I said. "I'll make you a deaclass="underline" you let the matter of my client's identity go and you can leave my name out of this whole thing. No need to mention my involvement at all. Take all the credit; reap all the rewards."
He eyeballed me for a moment, and I could see he wondered why I was making him this offer. But he was also tempted, and that superseded his curiosity.
"What do we do about this?" he asked, laying his palm on the statement I'd just signed.
“Misplace it somewhere,” I said. "No one will care. Your superiors would much rather have the papers report that this case was solved by one of their own than by a private investigator."
We both knew this was true. The police didn't want it to look like they needed outside help solving cases, especially murders. It made them look inept and foolish. It might lead to budget cuts, which was what police higher-ups feared most.
So Bartov and I shook hands, and I watched him slide my statement under a stack of files in a desk drawer and slam it shut.
34
"Incredible," Birnbaum said with a shake of his head. "Utterly incredible."
It was early in the afternoon, a few hours after Ofra had plunged to her death.
We were seated at Café Tamar on Sheinkin Street, a stone's throw from the offices of Davar, where Birnbaum worked. On the table between us stood a pot of coffee and two mugs. The mugs were empty, as was the pot. We had been sitting there for nearly two hours, during which time I told Birnbaum almost everything.
"I owe you an apology," he said. "I was wrong and you were right."
"There's nothing to apologize for, Shmuel. All your objections were perfectly logical."
"What made you so sure, then?"
"I don't know. It was just a feeling."
Birnbaum regarded me with a glint of admiration. "You are a superb detective, Adam."
"Not really. If Reuben Tzanani hadn't noticed Ofra's name in Amiram Gadot's file, and if he hadn't remembered it from Anna's, I wouldn't have made the connection."
"Is this the Reuben who saved your life in the War of Independence?"
"One and the same. You should have written about him instead of me, you know. He was the true hero."
Birnbaum nodded and offered a wistful smile. "You may be right, but no heroic tale has ever been written about someone carrying a wounded comrade off the battlefield. Our heroes either kill the enemy, sacrifice themselves for their country, or both. Still, I don't doubt that he is a remarkable man. But all things considered, it wasn't his timely assistance that solved the case, but your killing of Amiram Gadot. It was what drove Ofra to leap from her window, wasn't it?"
"I don't think it was remorse, no matter what her suicide note said. I think Amiram was supposed to come see her once he had killed me. When he didn't show, she knew something had gone wrong and worried that soon I would discover they knew each other." I smiled a wry smile. "She may have overestimated my abilities."
"Now, now," said Birnbaum, wagging a finger. "Belittling yourself is not only unbecoming, Adam; in this case, it is also unjustified. If not for your honed instincts, a woman who orchestrated three murders, and the man who committed them, would still be roaming free. You have much to be proud of."