Mid-morning on a Monday: it's not exactly busy in the Jewish Bookstore. Gisa Cohen has brought in shipment and is currently stocking all of the Rosh Hashanah stuff: honey pots, apple dishes, plates with honey and bees on them, red aprons with yellow lettering, potholders with beehives, paper products and charms and planners with the year '5778' on them. There's no one currently here at this hour. The shop isn't exactly the most profitable thing in the universe, but it manages to keep the lights on. Sipping coffee from a large blue earthenware mug, Gisa carefully sets up a display of apple-and-honey-themed kitchenware. Israeli pop plays, and the golem hums along with it, if not very well.
The front door opens, pushed by a strong and blocky hand worn and scarred by age and years. The hair is salted pepper, matching the short-clipped sidesweep on the officer's head, top covered by the uniform hat he wears. The police blue of his uniform contrasts well with the sun-tanned Caucasian skin, with patches and badge and gear a-plenty, and he's followed by a younger man, fresh from the academy, at that age. After looking around, pale eyes fix on Gisa, and he tips his hat. "'Scuse me, ma'am. Are you Gisa Cohen?" His accent is native.
The younger man, with a much-broken nose, is of mixed African and European descent, skin a milky chocolate. He does a double-take at Gisa, seeming surprised, then returns to his inspection of the shop. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, and while one eye is coffee-bean brown, the other is bright blue.
"Yes, I am Gisa Cohen," agrees the woman in question. She turns about from her work, setting behind the counter the boxes for the beehive honeypot and apple honeypot that she just neatly set out on the display. Her head tilts slightly to the side; there's something -- for those who can see miens -- a little off about how utterly symmetrical Gisa is. That and the ceramic skin make the golem a little Uncanny Valley, to be sure. And then, of course, there's the accent, which sounds exactly like the Amazons from the Wonder Woman movie, since everyone just matched Gal Gadot's Israeli accent. "Shalom, officers. How may I help you? Would you like some coffee?"
The younger man's startle is not openly acknowledged, though her eyeflames -- or her eyes, whatever the viewer sees -- slide to him, and then back to the older officer. She crosses the room, holds out her hand to the older officer. In America, everyone shakes hands, right?
"Thank you, no." He shakes his head regarding the coffee. The older officer steps forward without hesitation, accepting the offered hand, then takes a step back again, introducing himself as, "Detective Hewitt," then gesturing toward the younger man, "Officer Lopez."
The younger officer tips his hat, but leaves it up to his superior to speak.
"Ms. Cohen, we're here to ask some questions about the disappearances and subsequent deaths of thirteen men, women and children. As your business is what it is, we're hoping you can help." He pulls out a spiral-bound paper notepad, but doesn't write anything yet, waiting for her consent.
"Detective, Officer," Gisa responds, folding her hands in front of herself after the handshake. In the back of the golem's mind, she's whispering Baruch HaShem that she is the one here when the police have come: not her anti-authority boyfriend/motleymate, and not the motleymate who thinks rainbow camoflage armor is smart, and not the communist dolly. Yep. Very lucky the actual owner and the least likely to set things on metaphorical fire is here. "Of course I will be glad to speak with you, if I can help you in your work on that terrible event."
Taking in a deep breath, Gisa lets it out slowly from her bellows lungs; it sounds like a blacksmith working at the forge to her, a leathery sort of thing, but it only sounds like sighing to those who see her mask. "As my business is what... what is, Detective? I am sorry, I do not think that I understand that statement. How may I help you, and what makes my business ... helpful?" Her brow knits up, and she smooths her face, calming any reactions she might have or display so as to give only her most helpful, placid golem face. Hopefully.
Detective Hewitt lifts a finger, gesturing around the shop. "Kabbalah, ma'am. Frankly, we're chasing any angle we can get on this one. Doesn't seem likely, but better safe than sorry." He lifts a shoulder, attitude and weariness expressing better than words how far they're scraping the barrel to find clues on this case. "You know of any importance in the number thirteen? Or," he checks a note a few pages back, "six, or seven? A thirteen-hour clock, bodies laid out in order of age. Women even, men odd. Infant boy at 13, elderly woman at 12."
"Mmm. I would be very surprised indeed if any actual reading of Kabbalah -- as opposed to the Madonna-level celebrity Kabbalah -- had anything to do with it. For one, we don't even begin to teach it properly to anyone until they're at least forty years old, and not only is 'lo tirtzach' -- thou shalt not kill -- quite high on our list of commandments, but we do have concerns as a community about the concept of blood libel. So I should be very surprised indeed if any serious student were involved. Actual students are a small community, relatively speaking." Gisa's ceramic fingers stay folded together in front of them. "The immediate answer that I can think of, the most obvious, which might occur to someone who was dabbling for unwell ritual reasons, is that the number 13 in kabbalah is a signifier of unity. Unlike in Western numerology, it is not an unlucky number. You see, the word "one" in Hebrew is echad. That word is spelled alef, chet, daled, and in Kabbalah every letter has a numerical value."
She pauses, allowing the Detective to catch up in note-taking, and then she goes on. "For aleph, the value is one, for chet eight, for daled, four, and so the total numerical value of echad, that is, the word one, is 13. So the number thirteen is a number of unity, symbolizing oneness. Echad is the word we use to say The Lord Is One, and so it is a significant word, liturgically." A pause. "I imagine that is not particularly helpful, but that is the meaning of the number thirteen in Kabbalah."
The Detective writes quickly, and stops her a few times to get the spelling on the letters and foreign words down correctly, but at the end, after a glance at his younger colleague doesn't net more than a brief shake of his head, the officer closes his notepad and pulls out a business card. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll get this back to the station. If you think of anything else, call the number on the card, and Betty'll get the information to us. We're doing our best to see this case gets closed as quickly as possible."
They'd darn well better be. Who wants murders and bizarre occult arrangements of bodies in -their- neighbourhood?
"I will call you if I do think of anything, or if I hear anything, or what have you," Gisa agrees, stretching out her hand to take the card. It's tucked into her pocket, where Herbert can complain later about it invading his space. The neurotic little crab shifts a little bit in her pocket, and the Elemental folds her hand over same, because normal people don't carry hermit crabs in their jean pockets. Once he settles, she offers her hand again to the officers. "I have every faith in your efforts, gentlemen. Thank you again."
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