The Forgotten

“I know what you mean.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Decker.”

The apology was stated with such clear sincerity that it brought down the tears. “No one died, no one got hurt. It helps to get perspective.” Rina wiped her eyes. “Most of our silver and gold objects are locked up in that cabinet … the one with the grates. That’s our Holy Ark.”

“Lucky that you had the grates installed.”

“We did that after the Jewish Community Center shootings.” She walked over to the Aron Kodesh.

Shearing said, “Don’t touch the lock, Mrs. Decker.”

Rina stopped.

He tried out a tired smile. “Fingerprints.”

Rina regarded the lock with her hands behind her back. “Someone tried to break inside. There are fresh scratch marks.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Because you have the lock, they musta figured that’s where you keep all your valuables.”

“They would have been right.” A pause. “You said ‘they.’ More than one?”

“With this much damage, I’d say yeah, but I’m not a detective. I leave that up to pros like your husband.”

Abruptly, she was seized with vertigo and leaned against the grate for support. Mickey was at her side.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Decker?”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Fine.” She straightened up, surveying the room like a contractor. “Most of the damage seems superficial. Nothing a good bucket of soapy water and a paintbrush could take care of. The books, of course, are another story.” Replacing them would put them back at least a thousand dollars, money that they had been saving for a part-time youth director. Like most labors of love, the shul operated on a shoestring budget. A tear leaked down her cheek.

“At least no one tried to burn it down.” She bit her lip. “We have to be positive, right?”

“Absolutely!” Mickey joined in. “You’re a real trooper.”

Again, Rina’s eyes skittered across the floor. Among the photos were Xeroxed ink drawings of Jews sporting exaggerated hooked noses. They probably had been copied out of the old Der Stuermer or the Protocol of the Elders of Zion. Again, she glanced at the grainy photographs. Upon inspection, she realized that the black-and-whites did not look like copies. They looked like genuine snapshots taken by someone who had been there. The thought—someone visually recording dead people—sickened her. Now someone was leaving them around as a frightful reminder or a threat.

Again, her eyes filled with furious tears. She was so angry, so desolate, that she wanted to scream at the world. Instead, she took out her cell phone and paged her husband.

Decker had many thoughts rattling through his brain, most of them having to do with how Rina was coping. Still, there was some space left over for his own feelings. Anger? No. Way beyond anger, and that wasn’t good. Such blinding rage caused people to make mistakes, and Decker couldn’t afford them right now. So instead of mulling over a crime he had yet to see, he looked out the windshield and tried to get distracted by the scenery. By the rows of houses that had once been citrus orchards, by the warehouses and strip malls that lined Devonshire Boulevard. He tried not to think about his stepson in Israel or his other stepson at a Jewish high school. Or Hannah, who was currently in second grade—young and trusting and as innocent as those rows of preschoolers led out of the JCC a couple of years ago after that god-awful shooting.

He realized he was sweating. Though it was the usual overcast May in L.A.—the air cool and a bit moldy—he turned the air conditioner on full blast. Someone had given him the address as a formality, but even if he hadn’t known the locale, the cruisers would have been a tip-off.

He parked his car in a red zone, got out, and told himself to take a deep breath. He’d need to be calm, not to deal with the crime but to deal with Rina. A quartet of uniforms was buzzing around the space like flies. Decker hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps when Mickey Shearing caught him.

“Where is she?” Decker’s voice was a growl.

“Inside the synagogue,” Shearing answered. “You want the details?”

“You have details?”

“I have …” Mickey flipped through his book. “… that the first report came in at eight-thirty in the morning from the guy who operates the dry cleaning. I arrived about ten minutes later, found the door lock broken. I called up the synagogue to find out if there was a rabbi or someone in charge. I got a machine with a phone number on it. Turned out to be your wife.”

“And you didn’t think to call me before you called her?” Decker’s glare was harsh.

“There was just a phone number on it, Lieutenant. I didn’t realize it was your wife until afterward.”

Decker broke eye contact and rubbed his forehead. “S’right. Maybe it’s better coming from you. Anyone been interviewed?”

“We’re making the rounds.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Probably done in the wee hours of the morning.” Shearing slid his toe against the ground. “Probably by kids.”

“Kids as in more than one?”

“A lot of damage. I think so.”

“Tell me about the guy in the dry cleaners.”

“Gregory Blansk. Young kid himself. Uh … nineteen …” He flipped through more pages. “Yeah, nineteen.”

“Any chance he did it and is sticking around to see people admire his handiwork?”

“I think he’s Jewish, sir.”

“You think?”

“Uh … yeah. Here we go. He is Jewish.” Shearing looked up. “He seemed appalled and more than a little frightened. He’s a Russian import himself. Two strikes against him—Jewish and a foreigner. This has to scare him.”

“Currently, Detective Wanda Bontemps from Juvenile is assigned to Hate Crimes. Make sure she interviews him when she comes out. Keep the area clear. I’ll be back.”

Having worked Juvenile for a number of years, Decker was familiar with errant kids and lots of vandalism. He had worked in an area noted for biker bums, white trash, hoodlum Chicanos, and teens who just couldn’t get behind high school. But this? Too damn close to home. He was so distracted by the surroundings, he didn’t even notice Rina until she spoke. It jolted him, and he took a step backward, bumping into her, almost knocking her down.

“I’m sorry.” He grabbed her hand, then clasped her body tightly. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m …” She shrugged in his arms. Don’t cry! “How long before we can start cleaning this up?”

“Not for a while. I’d like to take photographs and comb the area for prints—”

“I can’t stand to look at this!” Rina pulled away and turned her eyes away from his. “How long?”

“I don’t know, Rina. I’ve got to get the techs out here. It isn’t a murder scene, so it isn’t top priority.”

“Oh. I see. We have to wait until someone gets shot.”

Decker tried to keep his voice even. “I’m as anxious as you are to clean this up, but if we want to do this right, we can’t rush things. After the crews leave, I will personally come over here with mop and broom in hand and scrub away every inch of this abomination. Okay?”

Rina covered her mouth, then blinked back droplets. She whispered back, “Okay.”