The Missing File (14 page)

Answer: Don't know—maybe
on Thursday and on Tuesday. No, on Monday.

Question: So, on Thursday
a week and a half ago?

Answer: Not last
Thursday, the one before.

Question: Did Ofer call
you?

Answer: Yes.

Question: Both
times?

Answer: Yes.

Question: And what did
you talk about?

Answer: He asked if I
wanted to go with him to a movie on Friday.

Question: This was the
first conversation, right?

Answer: Yes.

Question: What time did
he call?

Answer: How should I
know? In the evening, I guess.

Question: And what did
you say?

Answer: I said sure, but
that I had a family dinner so I couldn't go then.

Question: And?

Answer: He said no
problem, maybe another time. I thought he thought I was lying, so I said I
could go on Saturday. But then I remembered that I couldn't on Saturday
either.

Question: So how did you
make plans for the following Friday?

Answer: I said what about
next Friday, and he said okay.

Question: If I understand
you correctly, he may have thought you were trying to reject him. Do you
think he was sure you were going out?

Answer: Yes, that's why
he called on Monday. We said we'd go see
Twilight,
and he called to say he thought that by Friday it wouldn't
be playing at the cinema nearby so we should choose another movie or go see
it at another mall. It was sweet that he called just for that. Like he was
thinking about it. We agreed he'd call on Thursday and we'd decide
then.

Question: Did he call
from home?

Answer: How am I supposed
to know? I think so. Maybe. I still have the number in my phone. Maybe it
also says what time it was.

Question: Okay, please
check.

Answer: —

Question: In any of your
conversations did Ofer say anything that may have sounded like he was
distressed or in danger?

Answer: No.

Question: Are you sure?
Try to remember. Maybe he said something that made you think he's afraid of
something.

Answer: Why would he say
anything like that? We barely knew each other.

Question: That's not the
point. Just try to remember. Maybe Ofer said he wasn't sure if he would make
it on Friday, that something might come up that would force him to
cancel?

Answer: No.

Question: Do you have a
boyfriend?

Answer: You think I'd be
going out with someone else if I had a boyfriend?

Question: Did you have a
boyfriend?

Answer: Like a steady
boyfriend?

Question: A boyfriend; a
young man you go out with.

Answer: No.

Question: How old are
you?

Answer: Fifteen and two
months.

Question: Why did you ask
your friends to give your number to Ofer?

Answer: What? I didn't
ask them. I said he was cute and that I'd go out with him. Yaniv said he'd
give him my number, and I said I didn't care.

Question: Why did you
like him?

Answer: What do you
mean?

Question: Why him out of
everyone else? Why did you ask them to give him your number?

Answer: How should I
know? And I told you, I didn't ask them to. He seemed cute. He was quiet. I
thought I wouldn't mind getting to know him and maybe go out with him, but
it didn't mean anything.

Avraham put down the papers. He admired Ma'alul's
purposeful style of investigation.

At this point, no other investigation existed, only
the search for Ofer.

And it meant a lot.

He already knew what he'd pick up from the grocery
store on the way home and what he'd have for supper. He switched the computer to
standby mode, turned off the light in the office, and left.

Part Two

9

W
hat am I doing in Brussels?

The question played on his mind all week, from Sunday through to Saturday—well, until Friday evening, at least, when the despair lifted and the days that passed took on a different hue.

Avraham walked out of the terminal into the arrivals hall at Brussels Airport on Sunday afternoon.

Jean-Marc Karot was the type of person one notices on first glance; not noticing him meant he wasn't there. Neither was there anyone holding up a sign reading “Avraham Avraham” or “Abraham Abraham,” or even “Brussels Police.” He waited.

Fortunately, he had prepared a folder containing the confirmation of his hotel reservation. The cab ride took less than half an hour and cost fifty-five euros—five euros more than the per diem allowance he had received in an envelope from the Manpower Division and from which he had hoped to save.

A
message from Jean-Marc was waiting for him when he arrived at the Espagne Hotel: “Sorry for not coming to the airport. Contact me urgently.” He called from room 307. The Belgian policeman answered in French, and sounded agitated. The shouting and police sirens in the background made it sound like he was at the scene of a terror attack or caught up in a revolution.

He had arrived on the worst day possible. Earlier that afternoon, two cyclists had discovered the body of Johanna Getz, a twenty-five-year-old landscape architect, in a potato field on the outskirt of Brussels. She had disappeared exactly a week earlier, and the police had been searching for her ever since.

Avraham felt a chill run through him.

But the circumstances were entirely different. It was clear from the moment Johanna Getz's partner, a graphic designer in his late twenties, reported her missing that she had fallen victim to a serious crime. She had returned on Sunday evening to the apartment she shared with her partner and another roommate in the north of Brussels, and, based on the evidence at the scene, had been forcibly abducted shortly thereafter. Her wallet and purse were found on the table in the kitchen; a dried-out pizza she had been warming up was still in the oven. The Belgian press gave the story extensive coverage. Some newspapers implied that it would be preferable for young women not to walk the streets alone at night, or even remain at home alone, until the mystery of Johanna's disappearance was resolved. Now, with her body found, and with the media in the dark, the fear had mounted—and with it, the pressure on the police.

Avraham turned on the small television set in his room. One of the six stations he could get clearly was showing what appeared to be a report from the field where the body had been found. He couldn't spot Jean-Marc among the numerous policemen who were on the scene, all wearing gloves and special plastic shoe coverings, but assumed he was there, as he had told him. The entire police exchange program appeared to be an exercise in futility, he thought, unless they gave him a full-time interpreter.

The rain caught him only two minutes after he had been out on the street. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, he was walking down a long, dimly lit street that appeared to lead to nowhere, and the name of which was nowhere to be seen. Brussels was shrouded in darkness, and all the stores were shuttered. Instead of at a local bistro, he opted to have supper at a Subway, where he also took cover from the driving rain. Low-calorie bread, ham, mayonnaise, and a touch of mustard. There was a women's basketball game on the television, on Eurosport 2—a team from Kaunas against one from Prague. It was exactly 9:00 p.m. when he returned to his small room at the Espagne. His parents had called his cell phone every ten minutes, despite his warning that the calls were expensive. His father wanted to make sure he had arrived safely—as if he would not have heard on the news had the plane crashed or had he been abducted somewhere between Tel Aviv and Brussels. “I saw on the Internet that it's raining in Brussels,” he said.

A
ny hope of progress in the investigation that had been awakened in Avraham died out during the days leading up to his trip. It was a slow death, accompanied by spasms and convulsions. Shrapstein's line of inquiry, which had momentarily gripped the interest of the entire team—even Avraham's—turned out to be a dead end. The parolee was called in for questioning, denied any involvement, and claimed he had been in Jerusalem the week Ofer disappeared. His statement checked out. Shrapstein bid a sad farewell to the suspect at the entrance to the station, promising him they would surely meet again, before renewing his search for other known criminals in the area.

Avraham interviewed Rafael and Hannah Sharabi twice more—once together, and then separately. He went back to the fight, or argument, that may have taken place between them, or between the two of them and Ofer, on Tuesday night. They insisted that there had been no fight. He also questioned other neighbors who may have heard the argument, but the ones from the apartment opposite the Sharabi home on the third floor had been at a bar mitzvah that evening.

He also returned to the subject of Ze'ev Avni. Both Rafael and Hannah Sharabi told him they had stopped the private lessons at Ofer's request. He felt he had improved sufficiently and wanted to work on his math. The parents liked the private tutor and appreciated his dedication to their son, but Ofer had adamantly refused to continue with the lessons. Had something happened between them? Had Avni hurt Ofer in any way? Certainly not, to the best of their knowledge. Ofer had simply insisted that he no longer needed help with English and they respected his wishes.

Avraham asked Ma'alul to have an unofficial word with the principal of the school where Avni worked, and Eliyahu met with him on one of Avni's days off. He tried to ease the concerns of the principal, and stressed that the police had no information about any wrongdoing on the part of Avni toward students; but, yes, the talk may have been somewhat damaging to the teacher. It was inevitable. No complaints had been filed against Avni. Two years previously, a student had claimed that Avni had intentionally failed him in an exam, but the kid was a serial complainer. Avni had no history of disciplinary problems, despite not being well liked. “Do I have anything to be concerned about? Do you think I should suspend him temporarily or keep an eye on him?” the principal asked. “Not at the present time,” Ma'alul said. “But one should always keep an eye out.”

The already meager number of calls from civilians with potential information also dwindled. On Tuesday, the Tiberias police conducted searches on the basis of reports that two youths—one matching the general description of Ofer—had been smoking hashish and were involved in a fight at one of the beaches on Lake Kinneret. On Wednesday, Ilana called him in the morning, before eight, to tell him about a youth from Holon who had gone missing during the night. It turned out to be a false alarm. The teenager in question—a punk rocker or goth—was nothing like Ofer. He was found that afternoon at the apartment of a girlfriend, high, and sleeping in the bed of the girl's parents, wearing only boxer shorts and army boots.

The days went by, and concern for Ofer's fate increased.

They had no choice now but to turn to the media. The approach was formulated a week after Ofer's disappearance. Ilana had made the decision, and Avraham spent Thursday on the telephone with television production assistants. No one was very enthusiastic about the story—because there was no story; some of them even told him so outright. One of them asked if he thought they were dealing with a kidnapping or murder, and if he planned to intimate as much in the broadcast—if not, it would be hard to get it on the air. They eventually gave him three and a half minutes on the early-evening news show. The interview was recorded on Thursday but aired only on Sunday, when he was on the plane to Brussels. And all the while, the threat of having the investigation taken out of his hands hung over him like a dark cloud that would clearly rain down on him at some point.

J
ean-Marc picked him up from the hotel on Monday morning in a new navy-blue Peugeot. The Belgian policeman was dressed in black trousers and a thin blue sweater and looked refreshed, as if he had slept the entire weekend. He stepped out of the car to embrace his Israeli colleague. The streets were still quite dark, and the road glistened with rain. Jean-Marc Karot drove like a man possessed.

The underground parking garage that swallowed them up was full of police vehicles.

An urgent meeting had been called for 8:30 a.m. at the Division Centrale, the main unit of the Brussels police. More than fifteen investigators and other team members were gathered around an oval-shaped table. Each was holding a steaming paper cup. Avraham sat behind them on a chair whose backrest was propped up by one of the walls of the room. His view through the window showed heavy gray skies. Maps and charts were pinned to a large display board in the corner of the room, and a laptop computer connected to a projector was screening photographs and short video clips from the potato field where the body had been found. Johanna Getz had been found fully clothed. There were bruises on her lower stomach and back; she had been strangled to death.

They took a short break an hour into the meeting.

“Well, what do you think?” Jean-Marc asked him in English, with a thick French accent, and Avraham just said, “I didn't understand a single word.”

They decided that Avraham would wait at a café across the road from the police station while Jean-Marc looked into the possibility of getting him an interpreter, and also made inquiries as to how the exchange program would continue in light of the urgent investigation. The Brussels police force was entirely focused on that one single matter.

“You came the wrong week,” Jean-Marc observed, not for the first time.

At least the coffee at the small café was excellent. He sat at a large window overlooking the street. The Division Centrale was located in a five-story brown brick building. It was almost 10:00 a.m. and the sun had yet to show its face. The long, narrow windows of the investigators' offices, with their high ceilings, were framed with pale wood, and a warm orange light shone from the rooms. Avraham thought it was difficult to conceive that they were the rooms where investigations into murders, rapes, and drug crimes were conducted. From the outside, the building had the appearance of a university library. Through one window on the first floor he could see a chest of drawers made from antique wood on top of which rested three police hats—blue, white, and black.

Jean-Marc Karot would have preferred it had Avraham said, “Forget the interpreter, give me the address of some brothels in the city and maybe we'll talk later in the week.” That's what he had done in Israel. He stopped by the station for a brief visit and accompanied Avraham on a tour of police headquarters in Tel Aviv, where he met with Ilana. Then he spent the rest of the time sunbathing at the beach, despite the fact that it was still winter, and looking for “clean and respectable places where a man can have a good time.” After work one day, Avraham took him out to eat at a good restaurant on the Tel Aviv promenade. The guest showed no interest at all in the cases his host tried to share with him, while polishing off two bottles of white wine with his fish.

After about an hour and a half at the café, Avraham's patience wore thin and he went for a walk.

The Division Centrale lay on the corner of two small, picturesque streets, Rue du Midi and Rue du Marché au Charbon, in what appeared to Avraham to be an old part of the city. The streets in the area were narrow and well-kept, and the centuries-old buildings that rose up alongside them tilted over so that their roofs were almost touching, like treetops arching over a roadway. The stores were high-end ones: antique furniture shops, chocolatiers, and an endless number of small art galleries that displayed abstract, incomprehensible works in their pristine windows—as if the Belgians had forgotten how to paint simple works depicting dark skies or a tree or a young woman lying dead in a potato field. He was shocked to come across Homo Erectus, a gay bar and gallery, right opposite police headquarters, and was even more surprised when he realized that the narrow street led him directly to Grote Markt, the only place in Brussels he knew he had to see. The Internet sites he had browsed through ahead of his trip all said that the city's main square was a must-see attraction. Avraham couldn't understand why writer Victor Hugo had described it as “the most beautiful square in the whole of Europe.”

And Eliyahu Ma'alul still had not called.

Ma'alul, who would make sure the case did not slip out of Avraham's control, had promised to call him every day to update him with information from their ongoing routine checks at hospitals each morning, as well as any responses to his television appearance. “Avi, I know what you are afraid of, and you have nothing to worry about,” Ma'alul had said to him before he left for the airport. “I'm here and I've got you covered, don't worry.”

O
n Tuesday and Wednesday, he continued to tag along behind Jean-Marc. Without an interpreter.

Use of civilian security cameras in Brussels had increased ever since European Union regulations came into effect and the city was flooded with large waves of immigrants from Eastern Europe and Africa. As a result, the police were in possession of images of Johanna Getz—albeit from strange angles and tinged with a greenish hue—drinking beer at a bar on Sunday evening, a few hours before she was abducted from her apartment. They also had pictures of her buying a frozen pizza, a carton of milk, and cigarettes at a supermarket on the way home. She was also caught by a camera installed on the street in which she had lived. She was tall and thin, with blond hair, and didn't appear drunk.

What's the use of it all? Avraham wondered. After all, you already know she had made it to her apartment. True, the security cameras may have captured someone following her on the way—but they hadn't. They also failed to document the moment she was taken from her apartment. Moreover, the Belgian investigators were all worked up by the fact that her body was found fully clothed, but without shoes, and that one pink sock appeared to be missing. Jean-Marc spoke to him about the missing sock as if he were a character in an Agatha Christie novel. Pictures of the other sock were aired on television. Did they think the murderer had taken a sock as a souvenir? “We request information from the public regarding anyone who may have been spotted with the deceased's pink sock displayed in their living room!” In any event, the forensic investigators assessed that the body had been lying among the potatoes for several days. Perhaps a raccoon or a rat had pulled the sock off her cold foot? Avraham thought that it was for the best, after all, that there weren't too many detective novels in Hebrew and that Israeli police investigators didn't read the ones that did exist, the way Belgians probably did.