The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter thirty-five

Grand title notwithstanding, Chief of Synagogue Security Peter Wichs stood all of five-foot-four in polyester pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a chewed-up collar. Black eyes floating in black pools snapped from point to point on Jacob’s face, committing him to memory — a veteran security man’s practice.

“You are the detective Jacob Lev,” Peter said.

Jacob laughed. “Heard of me?”

Wichs’s smile resembled a badly broken bone: jagged and white and protruding unnaturally through split flesh.

The handshake went on a bit too long for Jacob’s taste; his palm felt moist when he offered it to Wichs’s assistant, Ya’ir, a rangy blond man no older than Jan, with an Israeli accent.

They went inside the shul, ducking under the barrier rope and heading down the hall, past the rabbi’s study and various offices labeled in flaking gilt, to a door marked BEZPECÍ/SECURITY.

The log was kept in English, the guards’ common language. The entry for the night of April 15, 2011, described a white male, 1.75 to 1.8 meters tall, approximately 70 to 80 kilos. He had light eyes and brown hair and wore metal eyeglasses, brown overcoat, gray suit, black necktie with silver or light blue stripes. He’d kept his hand in his coat pocket and appeared to be making a fist, raising the possibility of a concealed weapon. He sweated visibly and sounded nervous. He stated that he came from the UK, but declined to supply a passport or ID. He could not correctly name the last Jewish holiday, and when asked to wait, he had run away.

“This guy,” Ya’ir said, “if I sawed him at the airport, I would pull to the alarm.”

“Did you call the cops?”

Peter gestured to the well-used logbook. “This is Prague. We can’t report every unusual character. They’d stop taking us seriously.”

“Then the lieutenant contacted you.”

“For the tapes. Unfortunately, as I told him, the cameras are merely a visual deterrent.”

“Did he ask you to take a look at the victim?”

Ya’ir shook his head. Peter said, “I wasn’t notified until later that afternoon. The body had already been removed.”

Jacob said, “What I’m about to show you isn’t pretty.”

He handed his phone to Ya’ir, who recoiled from the gory image.

“Bear in mind, a lot of things change after death. Skin color, muscle tone.”

“He is not wearing glasses,” Ya’ir said. “But for me, I think yes, he’s the same.”

He passed the phone to Peter.

The Czech guard’s reaction was rather different: he glanced briefly at the screen, turned it facedown on the desk. There was none of the visceral horror that even now had Ya’ir chewing his tongue.

Peter Wichs simply stared off into nowhere, the epitome of indifference.

Jacob shifted, unnerved. As a rule of thumb, the more excitably someone acted in the interrogation room, the less likely he was to be guilty. Conversely, the worst guys put their heads down and took a nap. They had nothing to discuss.

“What do you think?” Jacob asked. “Same guy?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”

“You want to take another look?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Or I can show you a different—”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Uh-huh,” Jacob said. “Okay, well... I talked to Klaudia Navrátilová this morning. She seemed unclear on what had happened.”

“Naturally. She experienced a terrible trauma.”

“Did you discuss it with her?”

“Me? No. Our interactions were professional and infrequent.”

“Still, you must’ve been upset when you heard what happened to her.”

“Naturally,” Peter said.

“She’s nice girl,” Ya’ir said.

“You were friendly,” Jacob said, more to Peter than Ya’ir.

The Czech guard shrugged again. “As I said, professional. And infrequent.”

“Did she give a reason for quitting?”

“I imagine she found the memories too painful.”

“She told me something I’m having trouble understanding.” Jacob opened his notepad to the page where Klaudia had written bláto. “Do you know why she’d say that?”

“I don’t know what is this,” Ya’ir said.

“It means ‘mud,’” Jacob said. “Is that right?”

Peter nodded once.

“What do you think she meant by that?” Jacob said.

“She’s maid,” Ya’ir said. “She is all the time think about dirt.”

“Mud. Not dirt.”

“Put water, it’s the same.”

Jacob waited for Peter to say more. Peter continued to gaze away. “Can either of you think of anyone who might’ve been in or around the building on the night of the attack?”

“Who would be here?” Peter asked.

“Somebody who has a key, say, and wants to come in early to get ready for davening.”

“We have enough difficulty getting a minyan, let alone at four in the morning.”

“Members of the community who take an especially protective view of the shul?”

“We all do,” Peter said. “It’s our heritage.”

“You’re chief of security, though. It must mean more to you than most.”

“Everyone respects the shul.”

Silence.

Jacob said, “There was a message left on one of the cobblestones.”

“We have graffiti,” Ya’ir said.

“This wasn’t done by a run-of-the-mill vandal,” Jacob said. He lifted the phone off the desk, found the picture of the defaced stone, displayed it.

“You can understand,” he said, “why I think it’s not entirely out of line to wonder about an offender with a Jewish background.”

The guards remained silent. Ya’ir shot a glance at Peter.

Jacob said, “Someone replaced the stone.”

“Naturally,” Peter said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate to leave a hole in the ground.”

“Do you know what happened to the old one?”

“I assumed the police had taken it away as evidence.”

“Lieutenant Chrpa said he came back to look at it and it was missing.”

“I can’t tell you anything about that.”

“Can’t tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said.

Jacob looked at Ya’ir, who made a helpless face.

“Perhaps the lieutenant misplaced it,” Peter said.

“He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would,” Jacob said.

Peter tapped his chin. “Anything is possible.”

“I’ve also been told that the garret door was found open,” Jacob said.

“Occasionally someone tries to climb up the exterior ladder,” Peter said. “Tourists who’ve read the stories and had too many beers.”

“What do they do, once they’re up there?”

“Come down. There is no access. The door is locked from the inside.”

“You’re not concerned someone might fall?”

“We can’t be expected to account for everyone’s foolishness,” Peter said.

“Sure. Sure. But you told the lieutenant that a wind had blown it open.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“Well,” Peter said, “I imagine that’s possible, too.”

“Not if the door’s locked from the inside,” Jacob said.

Ya’ir looked intrigued.

Peter, harder to say.

He said, “Ordinarily, it’s locked.”

“But?”

“I would have to imagine that it wasn’t, that night.”

“You imagine,” Jacob said.

Peter smiled wanly. “It’s a bad habit.”

“All right, then. Who do you imagine unlocked the door?”

Another silence, longer.

Peter said, “Go take the first shift, please, Ya’ir.”

“There is time still,” Ya’ir said.

Peter didn’t reply, and the Israeli sighed and got up.

When he was gone, Jacob said, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s him,” Peter said. “Your head. It’s the same man, the Englishman. I have no doubt.”

“You didn’t want to say so in front of Ya’ir.”

“I didn’t want to upset him.”

“He seems like a pretty tough guy.”

“On the outside. There’s a program, young Israelis fresh from army service. We fly them out for a couple of years, then they go back.” Peter studied him. “How old are you, Jacob Lev?”

“Thirty-two.”

“This is your first visit to Prague.”

Jacob nodded.

“You never wanted to come before.”

“I never had the chance. Or the money.”

“How do you like it so far?”

“Honestly? It kind of creeps me out.”

“You’re not the first to think so.”

“You never answered my question. How’d the garret door get unlocked?”

“It’s possible that I left it open by accident.”

“You’ve been inside.”

“Often.”

“I thought it was forbidden.”

“Somebody has to tend it.”

“The chief of security doesn’t have better things to do?”

Peter smiled. “A big title, for a small job.”

“Who else goes up there?”

“It’s not open to the public.”

“Besides you, who has access?”

“No one.”

“What about the rabbi?”

“Rabbi Zissman has only been with us three years. He knows better than to ask.”

“How long does someone have to work here before they can go up?”

“Longer than three years.”

“And how often are you up there?”

“Every Friday.”

“Before Shabbat.”

Peter nodded.

“And do you typically unlock the door?”

“Not typically.”

“So, then.”

“It’s merely one hypothesis,” Peter said.

“The other being?”

“Tourists.”

“You can’t blame everything on them,” Jacob said.

“I don’t see why not,” Peter said. He shifted. “I suppose I must’ve left it open, that day.”

“That’s your final answer.”

“Yes, Jacob Lev,” Peter said. “I imagine it is.”

Jacob asked, “What’s up there, anyway?”

He expected Peter to laugh, or to rebuff him with a cluck of the tongue.

Instead the guard stood, jangling his keys. He withdrew a small flashlight from a drawer and rapped its butt end against the desk.

“Come.”