He laughed. Then his face turned serious as he picked up a slim brown folder from his desk. He looked from the folder to me.

"I peeked at it. It's pretty brutal."

"I understand they were killed with a knife," I said.

"They were. But that wasn't the extent of it." He grimaced. "To do such things to anyone is unimaginable, but to a baby…" He shook his head and seemed to gaze into a place deep inside himself.

He had the smooth dark skin common among Yemenite Jews and soulful eyes of such a deep brown that it verged on black. His hair was the color of coal and cut in short, thick curls. His features were soft, rounded, almost cherubic. He was thirty years old, four years my junior, but appeared no older than twenty-five. He was dressed in his police uniform, which was, as always, pressed to perfection.

"I think I can handle it, Reuben," I said gently.

He blinked and nodded and handed over the folder. "I don't doubt it, Adam. But what good would it do your client to know the grisly details of her son's death?"

"I don't plan on telling her," I told him, running my hand over the smooth cover of the file folder. "Not yet."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're going to investigate this case."

"I am going to do exactly that."

"After ten years? What can you hope to find?"

"I don't know. But it's the only way I can think of to help my client. And I know something the cops who worked this case ten years ago did not. I know the victims' true identities. It may lead to nothing, but it does give me reason to hope I can find out something the original investigators didn't."

"Still, after ten years…" He paused, tapping a forefinger on his desk. "You know, Adam, if you're keen on catching criminals, the place for you is in the police force."

"Why? You think if I were a cop, I'd be allowed to work on this case?"

"A case this old? No chance. We're overworked and understaffed as it is. All right, I see your point. But there are other cases, more recent cases. A man like you, who was a police detective—you belong here."

We'd had this conversation before. Reuben couldn't understand why I didn't join him in the police. I never explained to him that I had spent too long in uniform, following other people's orders. I did it in Auschwitz because to do otherwise would have led to my being killed. I did in the army because I wanted to live a free man in an independent country. But I never wanted to do it again.

"It's not for me, Reuben."