“Have you talked to the parents at all?”

“Not since the initial interviews,” Decker answered. “I figured I’d call them when I had something worthwhile to tell them.”

The Rabbi crushed out the butt of his handrolled cigarette.

“I’m sure something will break open soon for you, Peter.”

“I appreciate the optimism, Rabbi. This is one of those cases that’s wrapped in layers. And as I peel them off, I know I’m going to find a rotten core. It stinks.”

“Are there ever good cases?” Schulman asked. “That was not meant rhetorically. I’m wondering if there are any cases from which you walk away feeling good?”

“Not really,” Decker said. “But most are very straightforward. A wife shoots her husband because he had a lover. A husband shoots his wife because she nagged him. Mama picked on the son-in-law at the wrong time. This one is not like that, though.”

The Rosh Yeshiva was clearly troubled.

Decker cursed his stupidity. He shouldn’t have told Schulman about his work. The old man had been insulated from the depravity of the outside world and was not equipped to deal with it.

“Don’t worry, Rabbi,” Decker said. “We’ll solve the case.”

He had told Rina that he’d stop by after his session with Schulman. As he approached her door, he could hear voices inside her house—a foreign tongue—Hungarian.

Her parents! Shit!

Reluctantly, he knocked. Rina swung open the door and stared at him, looking haggard. She was holding Jacob and was struggling under his weight, the boy’s feet dangling down to her shins. He was dressed in pajama bottoms but was barechested, his swollen eyes evidence that he’d been crying.

Her parents were standing around the doorway, looking their usual stiff selves. Her mother, Mrs. Elias, though wrinkled around the eyes and lips, was still a very pretty woman. Rina resembled her except that she’d inherited her father’s baby-smooth complexion, ending up with the best of both worlds. Mr. Elias was shorter than his wife, with a solid frame packed with muscle. He appeared agitated, his round face flushed and wet with perspiration.

“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.

“Come in,” Rina said, wearily.

“You didn’t ask who it was?” her mother scolded her in a heavy accent. “It could have been anyone.”

“I saw him through the peephole,” Rina said tensely.

“C’mere, Jake,” Decker said, forcing himself to breathe regularly. “Give your mama’s arms a rest.”

As Decker reached out to take Jacob, the boy screamed, kicked, and buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“He’s had another nightmare,” Rina explained. “I don’t think he’s fully awake. He woke up soaked with sweat, and everytime I try to put a shirt on him he screams. If I try putting him back to sleep, he screams. If someone tries to take him, he screams. I just don’t know what to do.”