Asylum City (11 page)

They got Gabriel's address and place of employment from OMA, but when they checked them out, they were told that he'd vanished. No one knew where he'd gone. His boss, Amir, reported that Gabriel had asked to leave work early the day Michal's body was discovered. According to his coworkers, he'd gotten a phone call just before he left. Anat tried to find out what the call was about and why he'd left so suddenly, but nobody seemed to know. Amir also confirmed that Gabriel had a scar on his left cheek. She didn't mention the scar to the OMA workers because she didn't want them to know that Gabriel was the target of their investigation. If they knew he was a suspect, they'd close ranks and refuse to answer any more questions. Everyone she spoke to at the aid organization described Gabriel as a likable, gentle boy with the soul of an artist. They were all very fond of him. Anat didn't want to set off any alarm bells that might prompt someone to warn him or help him hide from the authorities. People were always suspicious of the police. Regev claimed the cops had an interest in abetting the migrants; the aid workers were convinced of the exact opposite.

She also read the Immigration Police records on Gabriel. Like every other African infiltrator caught by the Israeli army (in fact, once they were across the border, they actually sat there and waited for the soldiers to come), he'd been taken to the detention camp at Ketziot Prison for questioning, and a hearing had been conducted to determine whether or not he was eligible for deportation. Gabriel claimed to come from Eritrea. He said his mother had urged him to leave the country to avoid conscription into the army, and he'd taken his sister with him because she was at risk of being raped and tortured. His sister had been abducted by their Bedouin guides in Sinai, and he hadn't seen her since.

Gabriel was granted a temporary work visa and had to register with the Interior Ministry every three months. The law required asylum seekers to provide a current address and report any change of address. In actuality, few migrants complied with that regulation, and from what Anat understood, no one ever bothered to enforce it.

In Yaron's opinion, the fact that Gabriel fled the scene and went into hiding was proof enough that he killed Michal. Anat didn't agree. People like Gabriel fled at any sign of trouble, whether they were guilty or not. It was just force of habit.

If, in fact, Gabriel was responsible for Michal's death, Anat presumed it was the result of a lovers' quarrel. That was merely her gut feeling for the time being, based mainly on his portrait of Michal. He'd not only made her look much prettier than she was, but he'd drawn her face with a softness and serenity that didn't jibe with what they'd learned about her. Gabriel saw something in Michal that no one else did, something Anat thought could only come from an intimate relationship.

“THAT'S
her boss, Itai Fisher,” Yaron said, interrupting her thoughts.

Fisher was a tall, solid man with long hair, big hands, and large, expressive eyes. His voice broke as he spoke about Michal, but his words were articulate despite his obvious emotion. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt that was a bit small on him, like an elementary school kid dressed for a Memorial Day ceremony.

Anat's mother thought she'd never go out with a cop because they were barely literate. She couldn't be more wrong. Almost all the people she worked with had been to college, and most of them had a master's degree, thanks in part to the boost in salary that came with it. The reason she'd never fallen for a cop was that police work attracted macho types, and she didn't go for he-men. She'd never be one of the boys, either. On the few occasions when they let her in and she kidded with her colleagues, the conversation inevitably ended with the line, “If you weren't a lady, I'd have an answer for that.”

Anat's phone vibrated while Fisher was talking. She ignored it. It would be rude to answer it in the middle of a funeral, and anyway, she was listening very closely to the story he was telling.

“Yochai wants to talk to you. He says it's urgent,” Yaron told her. He had no qualms about answering his phone.

“Turn that thing off,” she snapped. Everything was urgent with Yochai.

Yaron threw her a nasty look. Like many of the cops in the district, he didn't trust her. She was a woman, and a young one at that, and they didn't believe she was in it for the long haul. Fully aware of their attitude, Anat pulled rank as seldom as possible.

She continued to scan the crowd, trying to judge their response to Fisher's moving words. When he passed her on his way out, she couldn't resist complimenting him on his eulogy.

From the interviews with the OMA workers, they knew that Gabriel was close to Itai as well as Michal. Consequently, at this stage they'd decided not to question Fisher about Gabriel to be sure he didn't interfere with the investigation. They'd also discovered that Gabriel was a bone of contention between Itai and Michal, who argued about him like parents fighting over their child's future. They seemed to fight a lot, but always over issues that came up at work. All their colleagues agreed that the arguments were never personal; they stemmed only from their deep commitment to the people who asked for their help. The general feeling was that Itai usually gave in. In the words of one of the girls who clearly had a crush on him, “He's such a kind person.”

Anat didn't want to draw any hasty conclusions. It was still too early in the investigation. Nevertheless, there was something to be said for Yaron's dismissal of Fisher's theory about what happened to Michal. Anat had read the report of Michal's accusations against the “Banker.” She didn't have any hard evidence, just speculations and hearsay from people she refused to name, supposedly to protect them. You couldn't build a case on rumors and the presence of some Israelis in suits around the old bus station. Besides, Anat was pretty sure Michal knew her killer, but by her own account, she had no idea who the “Banker” was or who he was working for.

Fisher reacted to her compliment with a perplexed look, which she found quite attractive.

As soon as she left the cemetery, Anat returned Yochai's call. She'd harbored a vague hope that the scar-faced African kid had turned up, but she was disappointed.

“David broke his leg in Austria,” the DC announced with no preamble.

“What? How? Is he okay?”

“Major Crimes doesn't want the case, so we're stuck with it,” Yochai went on, ignoring her questions. “Can you handle it?”

“Yes,” she said instinctively.

Silence. Had she answered too quickly? She could see him sitting at his desk amid the piles of paper, licking his lip.

“All right, then. It's yours. Don't let me down, Nachmias. And keep me informed.” Yochai hung up.

Anat smiled inwardly. Michal Poleg was her first homicide.

YARIV
lay awake in bed. Inbar was sleeping peacefully beside him. Her rhythmic breathing irritated him. He hadn't been able to sleep like that in days.

Inbar had no idea what he was going through. She was so naive. She thought he was nervous about the wedding and kept trying to reassure him, saying it was only natural. He'd told her the bruises came from banging into the closet door. He couldn't use the bicycle excuse with her because she knew his bike had been stolen and he hated rent-a-bikes. She accepted his story without reservation and didn't ask any questions. There were no raised eyebrows, no cross-examinations, no sarcastic remarks about his clumsiness. As he'd expected, her main concern was whether or not the marks would disappear in time for the wedding. “I want them to take photos in both black-and-white and color,” she'd explained, continuing to nag him with details that only aggravated him even more.

He had to pull himself together and keep his nerves in check. Every little thing set him off. He was bickering with everyone. Yesterday he'd even lost it in court, virtually yelling at Judge Barak. Luckily, she didn't make a big deal out of it, just declared a ten-minute recess to give him time to cool off.

Michal's funeral was on the evening news. He knew he ought to be saddened by her death, but all he felt was anger. He was angry at her for filing a complaint against him and then getting herself murdered, angry at Aloni for making him take garbage illegal alien cases, angry at Regev for urging him to stick with them, angry at the whole pile of shit he was in.

He felt a small spark of optimism when he listened to Regev's latest public tirade. The politician accused the migrants of murdering Michal, implying that the same fate was in store for anyone who had anything to do with them. Maybe he knows something I don't, Yariv allowed himself to speculate. But that hope died as quickly as it hatched. He knew Regev too well. Blaming the migrants was just a knee-jerk reaction for him.

Inbar changed position in her sleep, throwing an arm over his chest. He flinched and moved farther away. The secret that lay between them was making him feel contempt for her. They were supposed to meet with a photographer yesterday, but he canceled at the last minute. He'd deliberately waited till the last minute. He couldn't talk to photographers now. He knew she was disappointed, but she held her peace. Her silence aroused his contempt as well. Couldn't she see that he was falling apart?

Throwing off the blanket, Yariv got out of bed. Outside, the rain was coming down hard. It was freezing cold, but he was sweating. On his way past the kitchen he saw the time on the microwave oven: 2:46 a.m.

He'd been calling Kobi several times a day. He had to talk to someone, and Kobi was the only one he could be open with. His friend knew the whole story, and their conversations were confidential. Yariv realized he was starting to get on Kobi's nerves—he could hear it in his voice—but he couldn't stop. He needed to hear him say that he had nothing to worry about, that the cops weren't going to knock on his door any minute.

Yariv paced back and forth in the apartment, just like he did every night. Yesterday he read an article on the Internet about how the mind worked. It seemed the brain could protect itself by blocking out painful memories. They were simply erased. Maybe that's what was going on with him. Maybe he couldn't remember what happened that night because he killed her.

ITAI
was walking down one of the narrow streets in the Shapiro district adjacent to the old bus station. A group of teenagers were gathered on the sidewalk, smoking and talking loudly. Children were riding their bikes in the street. Two toddlers dressed in rags were playing on the curb. An old man was pawing through a trash can looking for plastic bottles he could redeem for a few agorot.

Itai climbed the stairs of a dilapidated building, making his way through the garbage strewn everywhere. The whole place reeked of urine. At least the cold weather had sent the cockroaches into hiding.

Drug dealers used to live here. The line of junkies waiting to score used to reach down the stairs and out the front door. The cops cleared them out, and the asylum seekers moved in. There were only a few Israelis left, those who were too poor to move, who were left behind and forgotten like always.

Itai knocked on one of the doors. Like all the other doors in the building, it bore a sign with a number, but it wasn't the apartment number. It was the rent. Every now and then the landlord would show up, cross out the number, and replace it with a higher one. Several local rabbis had forbidden their congregants to lease apartments to migrants and the ban was having an impact. Rents were going up.

Why didn't they understand that as long as there was no comprehensive solution to the problem, it was in their best interest not to make life any harder for the asylum seekers? When people have their backs to the wall, something's going to explode, and you can expect a lot of casualties—to say nothing of the blow such behavior dealt to the basic values of Israeli society. It was a heavy price to pay.

Water dripped on Itai's head from laundry thrown haphazardly over an improvised clothesline on the landing above.

He missed Michal. Their incessant arguments had caused him to regard her mainly as a thorn in his side. But now that she was gone, he realized how much help she had been to him, how much he had relied on her, how often he had sought her advice.

“Enough with those Africans already,” his mother shouted at him over the phone yesterday. “You're driving your father and me crazy. What did we do to make you obsess over them?” Itai said good-bye and hung up.

He'd gotten an earful from Ronny, too. He told his friend to ask his wife to explain to Ayelet that he couldn't take her out for the time being, not her or anyone else. “Asshole,” Ronny sputtered. “I don't know how you did it, but she likes you. You need to get out there and have some fun, get laid. You still remember how to do it, don't you?” He told Ronny he'd think about it, but he knew he wouldn't. “Just wait. We've got reserve duty in a couple of months and I'll be on your back night and day until you to understand how fucked up you are,” Ronny promised.

“IT'S
Itai Fisher from OMA,” he called through the door when no one responded to his knock. A few months ago, Gabriel had overcome his embarrassment and agreed to show him where he lived.

The door was opened by a young woman wrapped in a woolen shawl. Itai vaguely remembered her face. He was hit by a wave of cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of frying and strong spices.

“I'm looking for Gabriel,” he said, retreating a few steps.

The woman gazed at him with hollow eyes and said nothing.

“Does he still live here?”

“I need medicine,” the woman said, coughing.

“Come to the office with me and I'll see how we can help you,” he replied with a warm smile.

“There's no food,” she went on. “No warm clothes.”

Itai stood there in silence. She was using a common tactic of asylum seekers. They made you feel guilty in order to get what they wanted, whether it was money, food, medicine, or help with the authorities. It worked very well on Michal, for one. He was more immune. As an Israeli, he already had enough things to feel guilty about, and the condition of the asylum seekers wasn't one of them. We aren't responsible for the situation in Africa, he reminded himself. They came into our homes as uninvited guests, trespassers. But now that they're here, we owe it to them, and to ourselves, to treat them as humanely as possible. Guilt has nothing to do with it. Israel has no reason to feel guilty.