“I know, but I don’t know how to…” He sighed. “Everything in that part of Europe is so foreign to me. My father…he gave me nothing about his past. He used to say that now we are in America, and that’s all that mattered. He considered himself an American. He was very angry with me when the Vietnam War came and I protested against it. Though he never raised his voice, I’m sure he thought I was ungrateful. The subtleties of First Amendment rights were as foreign to him as the sixties’ hippie, drug-laden culture.”

Rina cleared her throat. “I was planning on going to the Tolerance Center in the next day or two. They have archivists there whose specialties are filling in blanks. If you give me Ernesto’s school papers, maybe I can look through them—”

“Not until we do,” Decker interrupted. He regarded Golding. “I’d like to go over your son’s room first thing this morning.”

Golding nodded permission. “If you think it will help bring the monster to justice. I have my own opinions, of course.”

“Which are?”

“That the horror had nothing to do with my son,” Golding stated. “Dr. Dee Baldwin was murdered miles away from my boy. He was just in the wrong place….” The man looked away. “You can go through his room if you have to. But I have my doubts.”

“Thank you,” Decker said.

“And if you find anything relevant to my father, you will give the papers to your wife…so she can check it out with the Holocaust Center’s archivist?”

And what could Decker say to that? “Mr. Golding—”

“Carter, please.”

“Carter, what if the information is…painful to you?”

“I already said that nothing could compare. I owe this to Ernesto. And I will do this for him! And if you can help me, you’d be doing something for Ernesto as well. But if there’s a conflict, I’ll hire someone privately.”

“It may come to that,” Decker said.

“In the meantime, maybe your wife can find out something.” Golding reached into his pocket and pulled out a colored Polaroid of an elderly man, Carter, and two burgeoning adolescents. “The most recent picture I have of my father. Dad was notoriously camera shy.” He looked down. “If he were a wanted man, that would make sense.”

Rina took the photograph and studied it—a study of three generations. Grandfather Yitzchak was flanked by Carter on the left and the boys on the right. Carter and his sons wore T-shirts, jeans, and big smiles. Grandfather Yitzchak had on an old narrow-lapel black suit, white shirt, and a thin tie to match. His expression was not exactly stern…more like shy. “How old is this?”

“Four years. Dad was seventy-eight. He was the last of my family to go. Mom died ten years earlier.”

Rina nodded. “And the boys?”

“Ernesto was thirteen, Karl was eleven.”