for a yeshiva—except for the anti-Semitism.
The street narrowed and worked its way into the hillside, the landscape changing abruptly from urban to rural. Heavy thickets of brush and trees flanked the Plymouth, occasionally scraping its sides as it meandered through the mountains. Two miles farther was another turn-off, then the property line of Yeshivat Ohavei Torah.
Marge pulled the car onto a dirt clearing and parked. Decker stepped outside, took a deep breath, and stretched. The dry air singed his throat.
“Gate should be open,” Marge said. “The place is all walled in, but they always leave the gate open.”
“They’ve been vandalized at least twice and you can’t get them to put a lock on the damn gate.” Decker shook the wire fence. “This is just a psychological barrier, anyway. Wouldn’t stop a serious intruder.”
He pushed open the gate and walked inside. “Let’s get on with it.”
The grounds of the yeshiva were well tended but sparsely planted. A huge, flat expanse of lawn was surrounded by low brush and several flat-roofed buildings. Across the lawn, directly in their field of vision, was the largest—a two-story cube of cement. To its right were a stucco annex off the main building, a nest of tiny tract homes, and a gravel lot speckled with cars, to its left, two smaller bungalow-like structures. Behind the houses and buildings were dense woodlands rising to barren, mountainous terrain.
Decker gave the area a quick once-over. The rapist could have entered the grounds anywhere and exited into the backlands. They’d never be able to find him. Unless, of course, he was someone from the inside.
The two detectives walked on a dimly lit path that ran the length of the lawn.
“Where are we going, Peter?”
Decker looked around and saw two figures approaching. They were dressed in black pants, white long-sleeved shirts, and black hats. They must be dying in the heat, he thought. As they drew closer, he saw that both of the men were young—barely out of their teens—and thin, with short beards and glasses. They walked in a peculiar manner, clasping their hands behind their backs instead of swinging them naturally at their sides.
“Excuse me,” Decker said, taking out his shield.
One of the men, the taller of the two, squinted and read the badge. “Yes, Detective? Is anything wrong?”
“Can you please direct us to the bathhouse?” Decker asked.
Both of the boys broke into laughter.
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” the shorter one said, smiling.
“Try Hollywood,” the taller one suggested.
Decker was annoyed. “We received a report that an incident took place here, at the bathhouse.”
“An incident?” said the short one in a grave voice. “You mean a criminal incident?”
“Do you think they mean the mikvah?” the taller one asked his friend, then turned to Decker: “You mean the mikvah?”
“Maybe you should direct us to this mikvah,” Marge said.
“You can’t go there now,” the tall one said to Decker. “It’s only open to women at this time of night.”
The short one prodded him. “The incident obviously has to do with the mikvah.” He looked at Decker and asked, “Was anyone hurt?”
“Stop asking them questions and answer theirs,” his friend scolded, then said to Decker: “The mikvah is that little building in the corner.”
“Thank you,” Marge answered, walking away.
“I hope it’s nothing serious,” the big one added.
Decker gave them a smile, but not a reassuring one.
They walked a few steps, then Marge said, “Notice how they looked at me?”
“They didn’t.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
They’d arrived before the black-and-whites.
Marge knocked on the door and a young dark-haired woman opened it, allowing them to enter after a flash of badges. Immediately, the murmuring that had filled the room died. The detectives were greeted with icy, suspicious stares from four kerchief-headed women crammed into the reception area. In the corner, an elderly bearded man who looked like a rabbi was whispering into the ear of a younger man who was rapidly rocking back and forth.
The young woman motioned them outside.
“I’m Rina Lazarus, the one who called the police,” she said. “The women inside were here earlier tonight. We’ve called a meeting to find out if anyone heard or saw anything unusual on their way home. Unfortunately, no one did.”
“What happened?” Decker asked.
She hesitated and looked around. “A woman was raped.”
“Where is she?” Marge asked.
“With one of the women in a dressing room. She’s about to take a bath—”
“She can’t do that until she’s been examined,” said Marge sharply.
“I know,” Rina said. “The officer I spoke to over the phone mentioned that, but I don’t know if she’s going to be willing to have herself examined.”
Marge eyed Decker, then said: “I’ll talk to her.” Turning to Rina, she asked: “What’s her name?”
“Sarah Libba Adler.”
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Mrs.”
“Is she dressed?” asked Marge.
“I’m not sure. Her husband brought her a change of clothes, but I don’t know if she put them on yet. You’ll have to knock on the door to the bathroom and ask.”
“Where are the original clothes?” Decker asked.
“In a paper sack to the left of the bathhouse door. They’re nothing more than shreds but I thought you might want them.”
“We do,” Marge said. She slapped Peter on the back and disappeared inside.
Rina wasn’t comfortable being alone with a man, even a detective, and suggested they go back inside. That was fine with Decker since the mikvah was air-conditioned. Then seeing two uniforms coming toward the building, Decker motioned them over. He excused himself for a moment, then brought the policemen back to Rina.
“Ma’am, do you know where the rape took place?” Decker asked.
“Over there.” She pointed to an area two hundred feet to the right of the entrance to the bathhouse.
“Could you show us the exact spot so we don’t accidentally
