The Ritual Bath. Faye Kellerman

was no place like home in the daylight: the glow of the sun-drenched living room, the air pungent with the tangy smell of citrus from the groves, exercising the horses, working up a sweat. After the time he spent dealing with human slime, it made him feel clean.

      But the nights he found lonely. He knew some women, and that helped, but the relief was short-lived. More and more he found himself coming back to the station after the sun went down. Such had been the case tonight.

      Decker parked himself in the overstuffed armchair, the one that the Lazarus woman had sat in while she graded papers. So she was a teacher. Made sense. She dressed like a schoolmarm—collar buttoned up to the chin, long-sleeved blouse and below-the-knee A-line skirt. Of course, so did all the other women in the place. Even primmer.

      But there was something about her that was different—more secular. Maybe it was her long, loose hair. He tried to imagine her out of the yeshiva context and dressed in more contemporary fashion. Tight pants and a clingy sweater. Then he shifted gears and visualized her in a string bikini, that thick black hair hanging down a smooth, slender back, skin deeply bronzed, her ass slightly falling out of the panty bottoms as she waded in the water. He’d bet she had a nice ass under all that camouflage.

      He reveled in his fantasies, then snapped himself out of it. She was religious and married. Shit. When he’d been married, it had seemed as if the whole world was single, and now that he was single, all the desirables had been snatched up.

      Why was he always one step behind, in work as well as romance? Like with the Foothill rapist. Just when Decker thought he’d figured out his next move, the asshole would elude him with a change of technique. He wondered if this case was his handiwork. Unlikely, since the Foothill rapes had always taken place in Sylmar, far west of this area. But you never knew: The prick was clever with twists and turns.

      He glanced back to the rabbi, who was still talking. What was he saying to the husband? Life goes on? You’ll survive, she did? Decker felt a great deal of empathy for the young man. He could sense the rage, the frustration and helplessness. (“I wasn’t there to prevent this.”) Buddy, if it’s any consolation, there are plenty of others who have felt the same way you do. Decker had spoken to hundreds of them.

      Marge returned from talking with Mrs. Adler, gave him a thumbs up sign, and went outside. Good. The lady still hadn’t bathed.

      Finally Decker caught the rabbi’s eye, and the old man gave him a cordial nod. The detective knew he was going to have his chance soon and was determined not to come away empty-handed.

      Ten minutes later, the rabbi got up and so did Decker. The husband walked away without a word.

      The rabbi was a tall man, not as tall as Decker, but at least six one. Decker put him in his early seventies. Much of his face was covered with a long salt-and-pepper beard, and what wasn’t hidden by hair was a road-map of creases. His eyes were dark brown, clear and alert, the brows white and furry. For a man his age he was straight-backed, slender, and a fastidious dresser. His black pants were razor-pressed, his white shirt starched stiff, and the black Prince Albert coat carefully tailored. Crowning his head was a black felt homburg. It all added up to a stately demeanor. Regal, like an archbishop.

      “Thank you for bearing with me,” the rabbi said, offering him a firm, dry hand. “Terrible, terrible thing.”

      The old man’s voice was crisp and slightly accented.

      “How’s he holding up?”

      “Zvi?”

      “He’s the husband, isn’t he?”

      The rabbi nodded. “He’s in shock, almost as bad as his wife. Numb.”

      Decker said nothing, suddenly feeling tired. He was sick of crud.

      “What can I do for you?” the old man asked.

      “Please sit down, Rabbi.” Decker offered him the armchair.

      “Thank you, but I prefer to stand. I sit all day.”

      “That’s fine.”

      “Would it bother you if I smoked?” the rabbi said.

      “On the contrary, it sounds like a fine idea.” Decker took out a pack and offered one to him.

      The rabbi shook his head. “Those aren’t cigarettes. The tobacco leaves have been sprayed, watered down, processed, and diluted by a filter.” He pulled out a silver case, opened it, and showed him a dozen hand-rolled cigarettes. “Try a real smoke.”

      Decker lit the rabbi’s, then took one for himself and lit up.

      Both of them inhaled in silence.

      “Nu, so how does it taste?” the rabbi asked.

      “It’s wonderful tobacco.”

      “My own special blend. Turkish with just a hint of Latakia.” The rabbi blew out a haze of smoke. “Now, how can I be of service?”

      Decker ran his fingers through his hair. “We’re having a bit of a compliance problem here, Rabbi. Mrs. Adler isn’t willing to have herself examined for criminal evidence.”

      “Internally?”

      “Internally and externally. She’s not willing to have her bodily injuries photographed either. Although it’s much easier with pictures, we could get by with detailed notes. But we really need the internal.”

      The rabbi stared at him impassively.

      “Since you’re the head of this place I was hoping you could persuade her to help us out.”

      “I suppose you could demand legally that she come in for the exam,” the rabbi said.

      “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. The poor woman has already gone through enough.”

      “You’re a wise boy, Detective. You don’t mind me calling you boy, do you? I call all my bochrim—my pupils—boys. At my age everyone around me looks like a boy.”

      Decker smiled.

      “I didn’t catch your name, Detective.”

      “Decker. Peter Decker.” He handed the rabbi a card.

      “Decker,” the rabbi mouthed to himself. “I am Rav Aaron Schulman.”

      “Honored, Rabbi Schulman.”

      The old man let out a cough.

      “Mrs. Adler is a free agent. Despite what the local residents think, this place isn’t a cult and I’m not a guru. People are free to come and go on their own. More important, people are free to think on their own.”

      He began to pace. “I can’t go up to her and say, ‘Sarah Libba, cooperate with this man.’ That’s not my function. But if you want some advice, I can give you some.”

      The Rosh Yeshiva’s voice had taken on a sing-song cadence.

      “Please, Rabbi.”

      “If you want to get her to cooperate, you’re going to have to understand a little about her before this ordeal. Psychologically and sociologically. The women here have their own doctor, in Sherman Oaks I believe. A female named Dr. Birnbaum. Phyllis Birnbaum. I don’t think Sarah Libba’s frightened about the exam per se, but she’s not going to allow herself to be touched by a man, especially after what happened.”

      Schulman sucked hard on the cigarette, causing the tip to glow bright orange.

      “So if I were you, instead of wasting my time trying to talk her into something, I’d call up my captain and see if the Department can’t work something out—an exception—allowing Dr. Birnbaum to act as a medical examiner this once. No doubt there will be bureaucratic problems. But if you want it to get done, it will get done, my boy. Correct?”

      Decker smiled and nodded assent.

      “After Dr. Birnbaum has been approved by the officials,