The Hyena Murders

Credit: Mapping Specialists Ltd.

Credit: Mapping Specialists Ltd.

Timeline

Pre-modern Times

Modern Times

1

By the time Chief Inspector Sarit Levine arrived at the Aklilus’ imposing mansion, situated in the heart of Jerusalem’s fashionable German Colony, the narrow street in front of their house was already clogged with police cars and a gaggle of reporters. The police had blocked off both sides of Cremieux Street and roped off the spacious front and side yards with red crime scene tape. Curious neighbors, mostly housewives and children with their nannies, jostled reporters to get a closer look. Moshe Aklilu was one of the more famous residents living on this street, a recently elected member of the Knesset and a frequent guest on television talk shows. He was often described as the future hope of the Beta Israel and a role model for Ethiopian Jews. What could have brought the police to his house?

Sarit straightened her spine to stretch to her full five feet of height, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the crowd. As she strode past several uniformed police posted at the crime scene perimeter, she flashed her credentials. The men took a step back as if physically threatened by this petite embodiment of incontestable authority.

She marched up to the first crime scene officer she spotted, a dark, wiry man with a large mole on one cheek. He stood at the top of the mansion’s front steps, eyeing the crowd nervously.

Where’s the body?

He thrust his head backwards.

Sarit pushed past him and walked into the spacious front hall. Her dark brown eyes stared straight ahead, oblivious to the gleaming parquet floor under her feet, the plush Oriental carpets to her right and left, and the pendulous stalactite of glass crystals hanging overhead. Neither did she notice the small, dark housemaid, dressed in black from head to toe, sitting on the bottom step of the curving marble staircase, sobbing.

In seconds she was through the house and out the double glass doors leading to a magnificent backyard garden, which flamed with the pastel blooms of Israeli autumn. Dr. Avraham Selgundo, the Chief Medical Examiner of the Jerusalem District Police, looked up when the glass doors slammed shut, announcing Sarit’s arrival.

You haven’t missed anything, Inspector. I’m just beginning my preliminary examination.

And?

You know I can’t say anything conclusive until I do the postmortem.

Sarit grunted.

Dr. Selgundo stood up from his crouch and brushed dirt off the knees of his crime scene whites with both hands.

Sarit pointed down at the slender body, lying face-up on the close-cropped grass. She put the woman’s age at no more than twenty-five. Likely worked out compulsively at a gym, ate like a sparrow.

His wife?

Selgundo nodded.

Her name’s Titi, he said. Age twenty-three. One of your forensic guys told me she was crowned Miss Beersheva a few years back.

Sarit peered down at Titi’s slight body. So peaceful in death. Arms at her sides, relaxed. Eyes closed. She was dressed in a skimpy red halter top and shorts not much more ample than a thong. In the bright sun her ebony skin glistened as did the tight red coils of hair helmeting her head. Her face was meticulously made up: moist red lip gloss, heavy mascara, a flick of blush, and lashes too long to be natural.

Who gardened in such an outfit? And what was with all the makeup?

It looked like the young woman had been planting bulbs. A pile of them, not much bigger than shallots, lay in a mounded pile nearby. The woman’s small hands were enveloped by bright red cotton gloves, their padded white palms flecked with red polka dots. A few tools lay beside the body. A small spade and a hand rake. The rake’s tines and the spade’s silver scoop, which gleamed in the brilliant morning sun, were unsullied by dirt. The family no doubt had a full staff of real gardeners to tend such a jungle.

"Nu, at least give me your first impressions, Avraham."

The cause of death is almost certainly stabbing. But I won’t know that definitively until I do the post.

Sarit ran her eyes over the beautiful corpse, from stiletto heels to henna curls.

What sort of weapon?

You know I don’t speculate about such things, Sarit.

Sarit’s breathy grunt was meant as a rebuke, but the Medical Examiner showed no reaction. They had played out this scene dozens of times over the years. But Sarit would never give up bullying Selgundo at each new crime scene. So much valuable time was lost waiting for autopsy results! Killers profited from such scrupulous caution.

So, what else can you tell me?

Selgundo withdrew a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his Tyvek coveralls and wiped his brow. Although it was already November, Jerusalem was in the grip of an unusual heat wave. And the winter rains hadn’t yet begun.

She was stabbed in the back with considerable force.

Sarit waited for the medical examiner to turn over the body. But he didn’t move. She bit her lower lip to curb her tongue.

I haven’t yet removed her gloves to look for defensive wounds, but I doubt I’ll find any. Selgundo pointed one latex-gloved finger at the gardening tools lying on the clipped grass. These were laid down carefully, not thrown. If she did see her attacker approach, she wasn’t startled or frightened by him. So she probably knew him. He paused and looked down at the still form, breathtakingly lovely even in death. Of course, if he snuck up behind her, she might not have had time to react. Or she could have put the tools down earlier. He turned to look at Sarit. We’ll know more when I open her up.

You know this is top priority, Avraham. Moshe Aklilu is a prominent member of the Knesset. Extremely well-connected. He’ll want to know the name of his wife’s killer as soon as possible.

Selgundo nodded and sighed. Whenever Sarit Levine showed up at his crime scenes, the case was always top priority. Somehow, she was always the first to learn about high-profile murders—movie stars, politicians, military heroes, athletes, business moguls. Her ambition seemed to have endowed her with some kind of sixth sense. No doubt she would climb fast and far up the ladder.

Oh, one more thing. Selgundo dug into a pocket of his overalls and fished out a small plastic baggie, filled halfway with white powder. I found this in her shorts.

Sarit raised her sandy eyebrows, then bent forward for a closer look.

Cocaine? You’re kidding me! First thing in the morning? While she’s gardening?

Selgundo shrugged.

I only dissect their bodies, not their minds. He chuckled, then immediately flattened his affect when he saw Sarit’s taut frown. Maybe she forgot she still had it on her.

Give it to Golyat to enter into evidence. He’s around here somewhere.

Selgundo looked around helplessly. He scanned the sprawling backyard. In-ground lap pool, fancy wet bar, chaise lounges. An elaborate playground set. A brand-new soccer ball nestled under a bush. The scene was crawling with uniformed police, crime scene officers, forensic photographers, and a suit from a government office. He raised his palms toward Sarit, imploring.

She ignored the gesture and thrust her pointed chin at him.

Better get on it. As I said, top priority.

Not waiting for the medical examiner’s protest, she spun on her heels and strode determinedly toward the glass doors of the back terrace. She shoved one side open, then slammed it shut behind her. Then she marched toward the living room, a path clearing before her.

Like the Israelites plowing through the Red Sea.

2

Moshe Aklilu entered his home office and sat down at the elegant mahogany desk.

Poor Titi!

He sighed. A heavy tear, unbidden but welcome, rolled down his dark stubbled cheek.

Picking up his new Montblanc Meisterstück Rollerball, a birthday present from the Prime Minister, he dangled it between two fleshy fingers. He was oblivious to the commotion roiling just outside the closed door of his home office. He stared at the pile of colorful Get Well cards sitting on the desk in front of him. Given that his young wife lay newly murdered in his backyard, no one at the Jewish Agency would fault him for reneging on his promise to the Director: to sign almost a hundred cards intended for Ethiopian children currently interned in Israeli hospitals. It was something he did every year since becoming the first Beta Israel MK elected to the Israeli parliament. Above his flamboyant signature, he would always add a personal note: You’re in my prayers, Hagit! Refu’ah shelemah, Baruch! As he signed each card, he would remind himself that someday this child might be his constituent. It never hurt to start early.

If one didn’t know that Moshe was once a poor immigrant from Ethiopia, his home office certainly wouldn’t betray the fact. Two of the room’s white walls were covered with several large paintings by avant-garde Ethiopian Israeli artist, Nirit Takele. No colorful folk art from the old country. No eye-catching weavings or pots.

Half the room was taken up by a seating area. One corner held a right angle of plush sectional couches marbled in earth tones. Facing the couches was a large round table. Its glass surface was covered with awards inscribed with Moshe’s name—a deep cut-crystal bowl, a glass obelisk and globe, and a Lucite map of Ethiopia standing erect in a black plastic base.

The wall across from one of the sectionals was plastered with photographs: Moshe posing with Israeli and foreign leaders, businessmen, sports heroes, beauty contestants. The largest photo, positioned in the center of the wall in a gaudy gold frame, featured his second wife, Titi, wearing a gold mesh bikini. The cross-body sash read: Miss Beersheva 2015. Next to her stood her proud husband, holding a gold tiara poised above her red curls. There were no photos of Moshe’s daughter, his son and daughter-in-law, or his eighteen-month-old grandson.

A sharp rap on the door startled Moshe. He dropped the pen, which bounced and rolled toward the edge of the broad desk. He reached out to grab it before it tumbled onto the plush white carpet, but he was too late. He stood up, walked around the desk, and retrieved it, carefully placing it back into its dark teak tray.

Walking toward the door, he glanced down at his white shirt and decided to leave the top button undone. But perhaps he should shed the sandals and put on the stylish black shoes he always kept polished in the closet? No, dammit! He was at home. Why should they expect him to be formally dressed? His young wife lay dead in the garden!

He returned to the wooden desk and sat down. Then he folded his large hands together neatly on the blotter.

Come in!

The door opened, revealing Moshe’s son Elvis, dressed even more casually than his father. Denim shorts, fraying at the edges. A white T-shirt. Barefoot. Such disrespect! Moshe hoped the damn media would cut him some slack on a day like this.

What is it?

Hagar said you wanted to see me before we talk to the police.

Even making allowances for the shock of Titi’s death, Moshe found his son’s brusque manner offensive. Elvis’s sharp chin jabbed at the ceiling, as if in defiance of some slight. His sandy hair, slicked down with too much gel, reached almost to his shoulders. And Moshe could smell his son’s sweat from where he sat. The boy would forever be an embarrassment to him, despite all that his father had done for him.

They told me they found drugs on your stepmother.

Elvis snorted as he did every time his father referred to Titi this way. Moshe’s second wife was six years younger than her stepson. And her childlike innocence rubbed Elvis the wrong way. She seemed completely oblivious to her husband’s many faults.

What do you know about this? Moshe demanded.

Why should I know anything about it?

I assume you sold them to her.

Elvis shrugged and walked into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. He flopped down on one of the soft couches, placing his bare heels on the edge of the round glass table. Then he laced his hands together, placed them behind his head, and leaned back.

And I suppose you think I killed her.

His pronouncement was not posed as a question. It was intended as a challenge—or a threat.

Elvis leaned forward and picked up the clear globe from its geometric glass base. He began tossing it from one hand to the other, the sweep of the globe’s arc inching steadily higher. He stared at his father, grinning.

Moshe fought the urge to command him to stop. Or to rush over and snatch the fragile orb from his hands. Elvis was clearly trying to provoke him. He would not respond to the goad.

Both waited for the other to speak. The silence became oppressive, like clammy air before a storm.

Moshe couldn’t breathe. A bony hand gripped his throat. His son’s smile widened. Panicking, Moshe sucked in a mouthful of air and slowly exhaled. The skeletal fingers loosened their grasp.

Didn’t I tell you to cut ties with that shiftless gang of yours? You know they’re all going to end up behind bars—or dead. What makes you think it won’t happen to you?

Elvis tossed the glass ball high into the air. It hit the stippled surface of the ceiling, shearing off flecks of white paint. The paint chips rained down upon the glass table, the couches, the carpeted floor, and Elvis’s head. He giggled, then shook off a shower of white flakes.

Why should I worry—when you can always get me off?

Moshe slammed his large palms on the hard surface of his desk and rose from his seat. He felt blood burning his dark cheeks. His hands, slack at his sides, curled into fists.

I’m so tired of this, Gidon!

Elvis’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck. His father never used his given name—unless he was really mad. Mad enough to throw him out of the house. Mad enough to turn him over to the cops.

I swear I had nothing to do with this, Abba! Not the drugs. And definitely not Titi’s murder.

Don’t lie to me! I know all about your dirty business with the Ukrainians. And the Maghrebis. The drugs. The extortion. The smuggling. I wasn’t born yesterday.

He sank down into his chair and sighed.

You just don’t get it, do you? You and your friends are rank amateurs. They’ll eat you alive, these monsters you’re dealing with.

Enough already! Stop treating me like some loser. You know nothing about me!

Elvis sprang up from the couch, flung back his right arm, and hurled the glass globe. It hit the photograph of his father and Titi, shattering the framed glass into a haze of shards. Moshe ducked under his desk. Moments later he straightened up and stared across the polished wood surface at his son. Then he closed his eyes and slowly shook his head from side to side. When he opened them, his dark lashes glistened in the soft glow cast by the two recessed lights above his desk.

I had such high hopes for you, you know. My only son. How I rejoiced when you were born! Moshe’s voice was muffled, as if strained through gauze. And now look at you! A drug addict, a high school drop-out, a gangster. Why’d you have to drag her down with you?

Elvis leaned back against the soft couch, threw his head back, and grunted. He wiggled one hand into the tight pocket of his jeans, fished out a cigarette and lighter, and lit up. He inhaled deeply and blew out a coiled weave of smoke, staring at it until it dissolved into threads, then dissipated. He leaned forward. Seeing no ashtray on the glass table, he flicked the ash onto the white carpet, muffling a giggle.

Then he stood up and retrieved the globe from the middle of the floor. Its glass surface was chipped and veined with hairline cracks. Grasping it with both hands, he walked back to the couch and flopped down. He gazed down at the globe, poring over its fissured skin as though it enciphered deep secrets. When he next spoke, he addressed the globe.

And why’d you have to marry someone young enough to be your daughter? And throw out my poor mother like a piece of trash!

Moshe was too tired to strike back. He spoke into the dark pockets of his hands.

I’m begging you, Elvis. Take care of this before it’s too late. I’ll ask the police to provide better security for us. Maybe install a few more surveillance cameras outside.

Elvis leapt up from the couch and tossed the cracked globe to the carpeted floor. It rolled a few feet before coming to a stop.

The two men glared at each other across the broad, gleaming desk. Elvis broke free first, jerking his body away from his father like an iron bar freeing itself from a powerful magnet. He spun on his heels and strode out of the office. The wooden door whooshed closed behind him. Only a few of his receding footsteps could be heard before the room returned to its silence.

Moshe lifted his head and straightened his broad shoulders. He reached out his right hand and gently lifted the sleek silver and blue pen from its teak cradle, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He picked up the next Get Well card from the top of the tall stack and signed it. Then he added it to the others, not bothering to write a personal note to the sick child who would receive this card in the hospital.

What does it matter? he thought. They don’t know who I am, and I don’t know who they are. They’ll get well with or without my prayers. Or they won’t. There’s not much I can do about any of it.

3

Sarit waited until Titi’s body was on its way to the Institute for Forensic Medicine in Abu Kabir before gathering the Aklilu family together for an interview. They convened in the Aklilus’ spacious living room, furnished ostentatiously in leather, glass, and glazed ceramic. Like the lobby of a celebrity law office, she thought. Impersonal and designed to dazzle.

They were certainly a striking family: the patriarch, Moshe, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, almost two meters tall, with jet-black hair and eyes, and a single gold upper tooth beaming like a searchlight. Moshe’s daughter, Hagar, like her father, was tall and raven-skinned, with dark eyes and crinkly hair. Her thick black eyebrows formed a single line over the bridge of her sharp-edged nose.

Her brother, Elvis, on the other hand, seemed to have descended from a completely different bloodline. Perhaps he favored his mother. Esti, Moshe’s first wife, was French. Elvis was slight and stoop-shouldered, with sandy hair and skin the color of a rusty nail. The only feature he shared with his father and sister were dark eyes, but his were set close together, making him appear to be always brooding.

The only other family member present in the room was Elvis’s wife, Shulamit. Endowed with a high brow and cheekbones, dark arching eyebrows, and an aquiline nose, she evinced a regal beauty. Like the Queen of Sheba, thought Sarit, legendary ancestor of the Ethiopian Jews. Her hair was reddish brown, hinting of some European genes. But her most unusual feature were her eyes, honey-colored like amber. The young woman appeared passive, almost detached. As Sarit questioned the others, Shulamit glanced indifferently at her eighteen-month-old son, Bekeli, who was playing beside her on the carpeted floor, chortling to himself.

The interview did not begin well. It went downhill after that.

Before Sarit even had a chance to deliver the remarks she’d prepared on her way, Moshe Aklilu launched into a speech. Unlike the rest of his family and Sarit, he remained standing.

I demand a full government investigation into my wife’s death! he thundered. Bekeli began to whimper. Shulamit made no effort to comfort him. Her murder was indisputably a hate crime.

I can assure you, MK Aklilu, said Sarit, "that our investigation is only preliminary. If we find anything pointing to a racist motive, I won’t hesitate to kick it up the chain of command. The Minister of Security has made it abundantly clear to me that finding your wife’s killer is our top priority. He’s pledged to make all resources available to us."

Sarit’s words seemed to appease Moshe, although she knew it wouldn’t be long before he was posturing in front of the cameras outside, fulminating about this travesty of justice. The man was a shameless publicity hound, always stirring up his constituents against the government. If she didn’t crack this case within forty-eight hours, her commander would be breathing down her neck.

Can you tell me where you were last night, MK Aklilu?

Moshe harrumphed, then tossed back his head. His glutinous, tightly coiled hair did not stir.

I was at home the entire time, watching the World Cup playoffs. I shut the TV off about midnight. When I got into bed, my wife was asleep. When I woke up this morning, at about eight, she was no longer in bed, but her side was still warm.

Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts during this time?

Moshe eyed her darkly.

No one disturbed me while I was watching TV. And no one saw me go upstairs last night or come down this morning.

She ignored the large man’s menacing tone and calmly wrote down his answers in her small black notepad.

How about you, Gidon?

She deliberately chose to call Moshe’s son by his legal name, a name she knew the young man hated. He much preferred Elvis, which called attention to his retro pompadour. But Sarit had always found provocation an effective strategy when it came to hotheads like him.

Elvis glared at her, then smiled, twisting a renegade curl around his index finger.

I was out clubbing in Tel Aviv, like I am most nights. Can’t remember exactly where or with who or when. But if you insist, I can probably come up with some names.

Sarit thought about asking him why he was out clubbing without his wife but decided not to push it. No sense alienating him too much this early in her investigation.

When she turned to question his wife, Shulamit, Elvis didn’t give her a chance to speak for herself. And the woman showed no signs of resenting her husband’s presumption.

My wife was home asleep at the time of the murder. Our two maids can vouch for her.

Shulamit sat still as a stone, neither affirming nor denying her husband’s claim. Not even blinking her eyes.

How about you, Hagar?

Hagar looked up, startled. Her eyes opened wide, like an animal’s caught in high beams.

I was at a three-day conference for primary school teachers in Haifa until early this morning. As soon as I heard the news, I headed back to Jerusalem. I got here just after the police cordoned off our house.

As she spoke, Hagar twisted the hem of her patterned skirt tightly between her hands. The muscle under one of her eyes began twitching involuntarily. Sarit crossed her off her list of suspects. The young woman