Asylum City (6 page)

Gabriel felt a little calmer. At least he wasn't alone. He raised his eyes for the first time since he'd finished telling his story. The expression on Arami's face seemed wise and sad at the same time.

“What should I do?” The fear filling his chest felt icy.

“I'm thinking, Gabriel, I'm thinking,” Arami said, moving deeper into the alley.

Gabriel followed, his heart racing. It felt like his head was going to burst.

“Maybe I should go to the police and tell them what happened,” he muttered.

Arami said nothing, just kept looking around nervously.

“I've heard you say they don't really care about us. We're like bugs, it doesn't matter if we live or die,” Gabriel went on. “But still . . . maybe . . . I mean, if I tell them how it happened . . . that Michal was already dead when I got there . . . maybe . . .”

“It's not that simple,” Arami said with a sigh, taking a seat on an upside-down vegetable crate.

“But you know people there,” Gabriel said. “Maybe if you tell them you believe me. . . .” He'd heard the story of how Arami came to work for the police many times. There weren't a lot of success stories like his among the refugees. When Arami arrived in Israel, they threw him in the detention camp like everyone else. Then one Friday night, a pregnant Sudanese woman started screaming that her baby was coming. The handful of soldiers left on weekend duty didn't know what to do. Arami took charge. After assuring the young soldiers, in very good English, that he knew what he was doing, he delivered the baby. In gratitude, the Israelis gave him a job interpreting for the police. Michal explained that Arami sat in the interrogation room and told the Eritreans what the cops were saying and vice versa. Sometimes they even asked him to translate in court. Gabriel said he could do that, too. He also knew English. His father was a minister, he taught him. But Michal didn't think it was a good idea. They had no interest in helping the cops, she said. An older man like Arami had no choice. He needed steady work because he had to send money back to his wife and children in Eritrea. But that wasn't the case with Gabriel.

“We have to think, not rush into anything,” Arami said, interrupting his gloomy thoughts.

“Do you think I should talk to Itai? He's a good man,” Gabriel suggested reluctantly. He knew how hard it would be for him to tell Itai what he'd seen.

“No, absolutely not. You can't trust any Israelis,” Arami said firmly. The rain had picked up. Water was streaming down the flimsy awning. Gabriel's teeth were chattering from the cold.

“I can't go back to my apartment,” he said, stating the obvious.

Arami nodded in agreement.

“So what do you think I should do?” he asked to break the silence. He was beginning to wonder if Arami really believed him.

“For the time being, the best thing for you is to hide out in the park,” Arami said finally.

Levinsky Park is the first stop for all the migrants who arrive in Tel Aviv. During his first two and a half months in Israel, Gabriel had stayed there, too, sleeping on two cardboard boxes he found in the market and covering himself with one of the thin blankets handed out by the aid workers. When it rained, he took shelter under the awning of a butcher shop, shivering in the cold. It would be easy to hide among the hundreds of anonymous faces in the park.

“I'll do what I can to help you. They don't think we're human beings. They can go on believing we just came down off the trees, but we know we're good people. I'll help you. We Eritreans have to stick together,” Arami said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Gabriel couldn't resist hugging Arami before he took off. He couldn't remember the last time he'd embraced anyone.

It was still raining heavily as he walked down the street. He was soaking wet, but he had to find a place to hide. The police were probably looking for him already. Michal's neighbor had seen him. Even if all Africans looked the same to them, he was sure to remember the scar on his cheek.

ANAT
wasn't surprised to see Eyal Ben-Tuvim from Major Crimes pulling up at the crime scene. On her way here, David had called again to warn her that Eyal was trying to snatch the case away from the DC. “Lean on the gas and get there fast,” he'd bellowed. David might be in Austria, but he was still trying to run the show as if he were right here in Tel Aviv. Grabbing the case for his unit wasn't just a matter of pride or ego. It was personal. David and Eyal had been rivals ever since the academy. And the fact that they'd both been in the running for David's current job didn't help.

“What's up, Nachmias? Since when does David let you out on your own?” Eyal asked nastily.

“I'd rather be on my own than with you guys from Major Crimes,” she retorted with a saccharine smile.

“We're catching this case. Call David and tell him he can light another cigarette and go on eating Wiener schnitzel in Vienna,” he shot back as they both strode quickly toward the building. A homicide in a peaceful neighborhood like north Tel Aviv could be a godsend in the race for promotion to superintendent. It would get a lot of press and the brass would be keeping a close eye on the investigation. It was also a refreshing change not to have to deal with the murder of another junkie, wino, or hardened criminal taken out by one of his kind.

They passed the two patrolmen posted at the entrance to the building and started up the stairs. The first minutes were critical. They had to seal off the area as hermetically as possible and try to freeze the crime scene so they could get a picture of it just as the perp had left it. It wouldn't be long before the place was mobbed with the ambulance crew, the CSI team, the medical examiner, and, of course, the higher-ups: the chiefs of Major Crimes and Intelligence, the DC, the Region Commander. In the academy they taught you to leave the scene undisturbed, not to let anyone in, not even the Chief of Police himself. But in the real world? Well, that was something else entirely.

Amnon, the officer in charge, was waiting for them at the door to the apartment. Anat guessed that one of the patrolmen downstairs had responded to the call.

“CSI, the medical examiner, and the mobile lab are on their way,” he informed them. “And an ambulance. But you can see for yourself the paramedics won't have much to do here.”

A woman in her late twenties or early thirties was lying on the living-room floor. Her blue eyes were wide open. There was a large bruise—dark blue and swollen—under her left eye, and a long scratch on her right cheek. Four small blue marks showed on the left side of her neck, with a larger one on the right. Anat didn't need the medical examiner to tell her that the victim had been strangled, that whoever did it used only one hand, and he was right-handed. The woman's head was twisted backward at an awkward angle. Anat could see bruises on her arm through the sleeves of her thin white sweater.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Amnon said. “Michal Poleg, thirty-two. She's single like you, Nachmias. No record.”

As usual, when Anat arrived on the scene the male officers became more interested in examining her than in examining the body. They were just waiting to see a twitch of revulsion or, even better, a tear. When she first made detective, she spent hours practicing her poker face in front of the mirror. She knew that the sights she'd be exposed to would turn a man's stomach, too, but as a woman, she didn't have the privilege of letting it show. By now she'd seen enough bodies in all sorts of disgusting conditions that she didn't have to make an effort to keep her composure. She sometimes wondered what her family and friends would think if they could see how coolheaded she was around a corpse.

“Imagine that,” Eyal said, “someone else your size.”

Anat was used to the jokes about her height, too. She didn't rise to the bait.

The two detectives pulled on gloves and crouched down next to the body almost simultaneously. Just at that moment, the CSI team made their entrance.

“Make sure to take pictures of everything and go over the room with a fine-tooth comb,” Anat said. They threw her a look of disdain. To be honest, she sounded ludicrous even to herself. David had impressed on her the importance of marking their territory by barking orders in all directions. “You have to piss in every corner so they know it's your turf,” he'd instructed her over the phone in typically graphic language.

“So what're you thinking, Nachmias?” Eyal asked in a condescending tone.

If it was anyone else, she would have said, “I don't think there's any point in questioning her,” but she held her tongue. Eyal had no sense of humor.

“The marks on her neck indicate she was strangled. We have to find out if she was raped first, but I doubt it. It doesn't look like her jeans were disturbed.”

In an almost synchronous movement, they both felt the body to check for rigidity.

“Less than twenty-four hours,” Anat said quickly before Eyal could ask her again what she thought.

They rose and began surveying the scene. The room was filled with heavy, dark wood furniture. An elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling. Anat opened one of the dresser drawers and was hit by the strong smell of moth balls. Inside were ironed white sheets with flowers embroidered around the edges, the sort of thing her grandmother would have.

If she had to guess, she'd say Michal had inherited the apartment and everything in it. It didn't seem to reflect the taste of a woman her age.

One picture stood out among the framed tapestries on the walls: a delicate pencil sketch of the victim gazing into the horizon. Moving closer, Anat saw it was signed with the letter “G” alone. Books and newspapers were strewn on the floor and an empty beer bottle stood on a small side table next to the sofa. The coffee table was broken, the glass shattered. Wondering if Michal was the sort to sit on her couch drinking beer on her own, she looked around for another bottle or a glass, but she didn't see any.

“There was a struggle.” For some reason, Eyal felt the need to state the obvious.

Anat strode to the door to check for signs of forced entry. There weren't any. Michal Poleg knew her murderer.

Something caught Anat's eye. She brought her face close to the dark metal door. She missed it before when she came in and went straight for the body, but now she saw there were bloodstains on the outer side of the door.

She gestured for one of the CSIs to take a sample. Eyal was watching her every move.

“Find something?” he asked skeptically.

“Blood,” Anat answered, taking care to sound as impassive as if she was talking about the weather.

“Take a sample and send it to the lab,” Eyal directed the CSI, who nodded obediently. Anat wondered how he would have reacted if she'd said that.

“You should talk to her next-door neighbor,” Amnon advised.

Both detectives turned to him in surprise. Canvassing the neighbors wasn't usually top priority, especially not in an area like this where it was less than likely that any of them would do a runner.

“He witnessed the murder,” Amnon explained. “The patrolman told me.”

“Okay. Make sure nobody messes with the scene and check every surface for prints,” Eyal commanded, making a quick exit. He seemed to be in a race with Anat to get to the apartment next door. The door was open. When they walked in they found a man in his seventies. His thinning hair was disheveled and the tail of his plaid shirt was sticking out of corduroy pants. He was standing in the middle of a living room very similar to the one they had just left, the same sort of dark heavy furniture, shouting at a patrolman who looked very happy to see them. A woman, presumably his wife, was sitting on a sofa covered in plastic, wiping her eyes and petting a brown-and-white Amstaff.

“She ruined the neighborhood,” the man screamed. “I don't have anything against them, but people should stay where they belong. It's no good to mix with them. All you get is a lethal cocktail. I told her so, but did she listen? She didn't give a damn, and now she got what she deserved.”

“Don't say that, Shmuel. She was a nice girl,” his wife cut in.

“Nice? Her grandmother was a nice woman. This one? I don't like to speak ill of the dead . . .” The expression on his face clearly said just the opposite.

“Shmuel and Dvora Gonen,” the patrolmen informed them.

The Amstaff jumped off the woman's lap and padded to Anat. Automatically, she reached out to pet it. She loved dogs, especially big ones. If Eyal hadn't been there, she would have asked the dog's name. It helped people open up, made them feel more comfortable. But he would undoubtedly regard the question as unprofessional.

“Chief Inspector Eyal Ben-Tuvim. This is Inspector Anat Nachmias,” Eyal said by way of introduction, stressing the difference in their ranks to make it clear who was in charge.

Shmuel Gonen looked at her in surprise. When civilians envision a detective, they generally picture a man, certainly not a short, skinny woman with frizzy hair, freckles, and a wrinkled jacket.

“Are you the one who called the police?” she asked in a businesslike tone, removing her hand from the dog. It's best to start with short, informative questions.

“Of course. With my own eyes, I saw the African . . .” Anat could tell he was revving up for another barrage, but Eyal nipped it in the bud.

“Amnon,” he shouted into the hallway.

“I put out an APB, but there's nothing yet. Looks like he got away,” Amnon yelled back.

“Shit,” Eyal spat. Something in his expression changed. It was barely detectible, but Anat knew him well enough to notice it.

“Okay, let's start from the beginning and take it one step at a time,” she said to Shmuel Gonen in an effort to get things back on track.

“I'll be right back,” Eyal said, heading for the door.

Anat wasn't surprised.