Survival Of The Fittest

“At root, he's a coward, so he preys upon the weak.”

His head snapped back, as if struck. The cigarette shook and he jammed it into his mouth. Smoking, he played with a cuff button, stared at me again. “As you said, these are guesses.”

“Yes.”

“But if there's any truth to them, the killing won't stop, will it? Because his tension won't simply disappear.”

“It's possible.”

“Also,” said Carmeli, “he may have murdered before.” He turned to Milo. “If that's so, why haven't the police discovered similar crimes?”

His voice had risen and the words tumbled out. Snubbing out the second cigarette, he used his index finger to shape the ashes on the table into a thin gray line.

Milo said, “This may be a beginning, sir. A first crime.”

“The killer began with my Irit?”

“It's possible.”

“Why?” said Carmeli, suddenly plaintive. “Why Irit?”

“We don't know yet, sir. That's one of the reasons I'm here to-”

“How extensively have you looked for other murders, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Very extensively, but we're still in the process-”

“The process, the process- your predecessors said there's no central crime computer in California. I was incredulous so I checked. And verified it.” Carmeli shook his head. “Absurd. Your department claims to be… Israel has a population of five million and our crime situation is much less severe than yours and we centralize our files. Excepting political incidents, we experience fewer than a hundred murders per year. That's comparable to a busy weekend in Los Angeles, right?”

Milo smiled. “Not quite.”

“A bad month, then. According to the mayor's office, Los Angeles had one thousand and four murders last year. Other American cities are even worse. Thousands and thousands of murders in this vast country. Without centralized files how can you hope to access information?”

“It's tough, sir. We do have some central-”

“I know, I know, the FBI,” said Carmeli. “NCIC, various state logs, I know. But reporting procedures are slipshod and inconsistent and there's tremendous variation from city to city.”

Milo didn't answer.

“It's chaos, isn't it, Detective? You really don't know if similar crimes have occurred and you're unlikely to ever know.”

“One thing that might help in that regard, sir, would be publicizing the crime. I understand your reluctance but-”

“Again,” said Carmeli, clenching his jaws. “Back to me. Us. What could you possibly expect to gain by publicizing the crime other than subjecting my family to more pain and possibly endangering the children of my colleagues?”

“Endangering them how, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Either by inspiring the murderer to kill another Israeli child or giving someone else ideas- go after the Zionists. At that point, we would be feeding terrorist fantasies.” He shook his head again. “No, there's no point, Mr. Sturgis. Besides, if this killer has struck before, it's been somewhere other than Los Angeles, right?”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Carmeli?”

“Because surely, even with your slipshod procedures, you would have heard about it, no? Surely child murders aren't that routine, even in Los Angeles.”

“No murders are routine to me, sir.”

“So you'd know if there were others, wouldn't you?”

“Assuming the crime was reported.”

Carmeli squinted in confusion. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Many crimes aren't. Murders that look like accidents often aren't.”

“But the death of a child!” said Carmeli. “Are you telling me there are places in this city where parents wouldn't report the death of a child?”

“There are, sir,” said Milo, softly. “Because many child homicides are committed by parents.”

Carmeli went white.

Milo began to rub his face but stopped himself. “What I'm saying, sir, is that we can't assume anything at this point, and going public could jog someone's memory. A crime that was similar in some crucial way could emerge. Maybe years ago, maybe in another city. Because if we get good media coverage, the exposure would reach other cities. But I can also see your point about the danger. And to be honest, I can't promise it would do any good.”

Carmeli breathed rapidly several times and placed his hands on the couch. “Your honesty is… laudable. Now I will be frank with you: not a chance. The risk-outcome ratio isn't good, I won't have another child's death on my conscience. So what other avenues will you pursue?”

“I'll ask lots of questions. Could I ask you a few more?”

“Yes,” said Carmeli, weakly. He reached for a third cigarette, picked up the matchbook but didn't light up immediately. “But if they're about our family life, I'll simply tell you what I told the others: We were happy. A happy family. We never appreciated how happy we were.”

The black eyes closed, then opened. Flat no longer. Something burned within.

“Back to the political issue for a second, sir,” said Milo. “No doubt the consulate gets threats. Do you save them?”

“I'm sure we do but that's not my area.”

“Do you have any objection to turning over copies?”

“I can ask.”

“If you tell me whose area it is, I'll be happy to ask, myself.”

“No, I'll do it.” Carmeli's hand began to shake. “Your comment. About parents killing their own children. If you were implying-”

“I wasn't. Of course not, please forgive me if I offended you. I was just explaining why some crimes don't get reported.”

The black eyes were now moist. Carmeli removed his glasses and wiped them with the back of one hand. “My daughter was- a very special girl. Raising her was challenging and I believe we loved her more because of it. We never hurt her. Never lifted a finger against her. If anything we spoiled her. Thank God we spoiled her!”

He put the glasses back on, slapped his hands back down on the couch. “What other questions do you have?” Hardened voice.

“I'd like to know more about Irit, Mr. Carmeli.”

“In what way?”

“The kind of child she was, her personality. The things she liked and disliked.”

“She liked everything. A very agreeable child. Kind, happy, always laughing, always wanting to help. I assume you've got Gorobich's files?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't need to go over the details of her… medical condition. As a baby she had a fever that did damage.”

Slipping his hand under his jacket he drew out a large calfskin billfold. Inside were slots for credit cards. A photo sat in the first one and he slipped it out and showed it to us without relinquishing it.

Wallet-sized headshot of a beautiful, smiling child in a white dress with puff sleeves. Jewish star necklace. The same fair, curly hair and flawless skin, the same face… a mature face, no outward sign of retardation. In the death picture she'd looked younger. In this one, sparked by the joy of life, she could have been anywhere from twelve to seventeen.

“This was Irit, Detective. Not the images in your files.”

“How long ago was this taken?” said Milo.