"I don't know," I answered truthfully. But it fit in with the scenario Rivlin had painted. I could picture the scene: Willie Ackerland is wrenched from sleep by the sound of Esther being slaughtered. He senses the wrongness of the situation and is struck by fear. The fear rises to sheer panic by the sight of the stranger in the room, by the smell of blood. He opens his little mouth and begins shrieking. The sound reaches Haim's ears. It's louder than usual because this is no ordinary crying. Then the killer acts. Maybe he tries putting a hand over Willie's mouth, partially muffling his cries; or maybe he stabs down with his knife. The knife finds the heart and Willie's cries quickly subside in volume as his life flickers out.

So yes, Haim Sassoon indeed might have heard Willie's death cries.

I said, "Are you sure you can't say at what time you heard this? Not even a rough estimate?"

Haim shook his head, his expression close to despair.

"It's all right," I said, warding off the pointless apology or excuse that I could see coming. "You couldn't have known what was happening." I smiled a reassuring smile, but I was cursing inside. If Haim could have told me at what time he'd heard a baby crying, I might have known the exact hour the murders took place. All I had now was the frustrating sense of being close to a crucial piece of information, only to see it slip from my grasp.

"You did good," I told him, feeding him the lie that would make him feel better. "You helped."

"Yeah?" He smiled, relieved.

"Yeah."

I started to get up, extending my hand to him, when I caught a contemplative look on his face.

"What?" I said.

"It's funny, but a memory just popped into my head. I'm not sure how useful you’ll find it."

I sat back down, elbows on thighs, hands clasped together between my knees. "Let me hear what it is and I'll decide."

"It was a few days before the murders," Haim said. "I can't say for sure how many. Two, maybe four or five, no more than that. I was walking down Rothschild Boulevard and I saw Esther sitting on a bench. She was talking with a woman—more accurately, the woman was doing most of the talking. She was angry. She wasn't shouting, but I could tell by her gestures."

"Angry with Esther?"

"Yes. I think so. I couldn't hear what she was saying."

"Did you tell Sergeant Rivlin about this?"

"No," he said sheepishly.

"Why not?"

Haim shrugged helplessly. "I didn't think it was important. He only asked me about men whom I might have seen with Esther." Then he added by way of an excuse, "I was a boy."

There it was again, I thought, Rivlin's assumption that the killer had to be male. And my assumption as well, I hated to admit.