He played with his beard. “There is something I want to talk about. I just don’t know how…” He swallowed back pain. “Do you think you’re going to find this monster?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have some ideas?”

“You’ll be the first one to know when I have something definite.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Soon? A week, a month, a year?”

“Every case is different. Right now, this case is top priority.”

He nodded. Rina brought in two giant-sized steaming mugs. “Here we go!”

Golding took the tea, but didn’t drink it. He used it to warm his hands. Tremors seized his body. He was shaking from internal cold. “Sit down, Mrs. Decker…please.”

Rina sat back down, giving Decker the other mug. He thanked her with a nod.

Golding said, “There is something on my mind.”

Silence.

“I wanted to talk to you about this family thing.” He pointed to his chest. “About my father. Ernesto thought things about him. Things he told you…about my father being…you know…”

“I know,” Decker said.

“It isn’t true,” Golding said. “None of it. I swear to you, it isn’t true. My father was a good man: a very righteous and devout man. He wasn’t a Nazi! He couldn’t have been a Nazi.”

“Okay—”

“No! Not okay!” Golding’s hands were shaking, and he splashed hot tea over them. He hardly seemed to notice, but he did put the cup down. “You’ve got to believe me!”

“I believe you, sir.” Decker spoke calmly. “Kids dream up the wildest things. Sometimes, I think they like to create problems for themselves. My own children are no exception.”

Golding sighed. “They do, don’t they?”

“Seems like it.”

“So why do you think Ernesto would make up something like that?”

Decker was thoughtful. “He told me something about the dates not matching—”

“Dates?”

“When your father immigrated to Argentina, was it?”

Golding nodded.

“According to Ernesto, your father told you he had come to South America in 1937. Ernesto told me that he had really immigrated later, in 1945 or 1946—after the war. But kids oftentimes make mistakes.”

“Even if it wasn’t a mistake, that doesn’t make my father a Nazi!” He bit his bottom lip. Blood trickled out. “I just don’t know much about my father. That’s why I’m here.”

More silence.

“My father didn’t talk about his past. No one did. I learned very quickly not to ask questions. But that doesn’t make him a monster. He was kind and gentle and wouldn’t even kill…b-b-bugs! Honestly. He used to wrap them up in a tissue and let them go outside.”

“My wife does that,” Decker said.

Golding’s hands were rubbed raw. “He wasn’t a Nazi. But…Ernesto had some reason to be curious about him. He said he found an Isaac Golding who had died in the camps.”