The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The office he entered was one-third larger than his, but it housed two people. A pair of desks had been placed in an L. On the wall behind them, a single shelf held books, a collection of straw dolls, and a sachet that emitted a light aroma of patchouli.

  Both youth officers were on the phone, talking to bureaucrats. Both wore pastel short-sleeved blouses over jeans. Otherwise, physically and stylistically, they were a study in contrasts.

  Hanna Shalvi sat nearer to the door, diminutive, dark, bespectacled; baby-faced, so that she didn’t look much older than the children she worked with. She asked a question about a family’s fitness, nodded as she listened, said “yes” and “hmm” several times, repeated the question, waited, repeated.

  A few feet away, Alice Yanushevsky hunched over her desk, jabbing her pencil in the air and smoking like a chimney. Tall and moon-faced, with straw-colored hair cut in a Dutch-boy, she demanded fast action from a recalcitrant pencil-pusher in a voice tight with impatience.

  “This is a girl in jeopardy! We’ll have no more delays! Am I understood?” Slam.

  A sweet smile for Daniel. A drop in vocal pitch: “Good morning, Dani.” She picked up a cardboard tube, opened it, and unfolded the contents. “Like my new poster?”

  It was a blowup of the American rock band Fleetwood Mac.

  “Very nice.”

  “Avner gave it to me because he says I look like one of them”—she swiveled and pointed—“the English girl, Christine. What do you think?”

  “A little,” he conceded. “You’re younger.”

  Alice laughed heartily, smoked, laughed again.

  “Sit down, Pakad Sharavi. Just what is it that you need?”

  “Photographs of missing girls. Brunettes, probably fifteen or sixteen, but let’s play it safe and go twelve to nineteen.”

  Alice’s green eyes jumped with alarm.

  “Something happened to one of them?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Can’t say anything right now. Laufer’s put a gag on.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Sorry.”

  “All take, no give, eh? That should make your job easy.” She shook her head scornfully. “Laufer. Who does he think he’s kidding, trying to keep anything quiet around here?”

  “True. But I need to humor him.”

  Alice stubbed out her cigarette. Another shake of the head.

  “The girl in question has dark skin, dark hair,” said Daniel. “Roundish face, pretty features, chipped teeth, one missing upper tooth. Anyone come to mind?”

  “Pretty general except for the teeth,” said Alice, “and that could have happened after the disappearance.” She opened one of her desk drawers, pulled out a pile of about a dozen folders, and thumbed through them, selecting three, putting the rest away.

  “All our open cases are being entered into the computer, but I have a few here that just came in recently. All runaways—these are the ones in your age range.”

  He examined the photographs, shook his head, gave them back.

  “Let’s see if she has any,” said Alice. Rising, she stood over Hanna, who was still nodding and questioning. Tapping her on the shoulder, she said: “Come on, enough.”

  Hanna held up one hand, palm inward, thumb touching index finger. Signaling savlanut. Patience.

  “If you haven’t convinced them yet, you never will,” said Alice. She ran her fingers through her hair, stretched. “Come on, enough.”

  Hanna conversed a bit more, said thank you, and got off the phone.

  “Finally,” said Alice. “Take out your recent files. Dani needs to look at them.”

  “Good morning, Dani,” said Hanna. “What’s up?”

  “He can’t tell you but you have to help him anyway. Laufer’s orders.”

  Hanna looked at him, dark eyes magnified by the lenses of her glasses. He nodded in confirmation.

  “What do you need?” she asked.

  He repeated the description of the murdered girl and her eyes widened in recognition.

  “What?”

  “Sounds like a kid I processed two weeks ago. Only this one was only thirteen.”

  “Thirteen is possible,” said Daniel. “What’s her name?”

  “Cohen. Yael Cohen. One second.” She went into her files, talking as she sorted. “Musrara girl. Fooling around with a twenty-two-year-old pooshtak. Papa found out and beat her. Next day she didn’t come home from school. Papa went looking for her, tried to beat up the boyfriend, too, got thrashed for his efforts. Ah, here it is.”

  Daniel took the file, homed in on the photograph, felt his spirits sink. Yael Cohen was curly-haired, bovine, and dull-looking. A missing tooth, but that was the extent of the resemblance.

  “Not the one,” he said, giving it back to Hanna. “The rest are in the computer?”

  “In the process of being entered,” said Alice.

  “How many cases are we talking about?”

  “Missing girls in that age range? About four hundred nationally, sixty or so from Jerusalem. But the files are classified alphabetically, not by age or sex, so you’d have to go through all of them—about sixteen hundred.”

  Tedious but workable.

  “How can I get hold of them?”

  “Go down to Data Processing and pull rank.”

  He spent the next two hours on the phone, phoning Dr. Levi at Abu Kabir and being told by an assistant that the pathologist was out of the office; requesting a copy of Schlesinger’s service record from Civil Guard Headquarters; getting a records clerk to search for any sort of priors on the Amelia Catherine staff; attempting, without success, to find out if any of the three detectives had received his message. Letting Data Processing know that someone would be down to examine the missing-juvenile files. Filling out the mountain of requisition forms that legitimized each of the requests. Hampered at every step by his inability to satisfy the curiosity of the people whose cooperation he needed.

  At twelve-fifteen, Levi called.

  “Shalom, Pakad. I’ve finished the preliminary on the young one from this morning. I know it’s priority so I’ll read from my notes: Well-developed, well-nourished mid-adolescent female of Eastern descent. Multiple stab wounds, shock from voluminous loss of blood—she was drained.”

  “How?”

  “Gravity, probably. Tipped over so that it flowed through the throat wound.”

  Like a butchered animal, thought Daniel. One hand tightened around the receiver. The other scrawled hastily as the pathologist continued to recite his findings:

  “The ear pierces were old. Inside the hole was some blackening, which turned out to be steel oxide on the spectograph—non-gold wire, which means the earrings themselves probably weren’t gold and they may have been removed recently.”

  “Could the wire have been gold-plated?”

  “Possibly, or gold paint. Let me continue. There were no defense cuts or ligature marks, so she didn’t resist and she wasn’t tied up. Which would indicate lack of consciousness during the actual cutting, but there was no evidence of head trauma. However, I did find two fresh needle marks on the arms and the gas chromotography came up with opiates. Heroin. Not enough to kill her unless she had an idiopathic sensitivity, but enough to sedate her.”

  “Was she cut up before or after sedation?”

  “From the lack of resistance, I’d say after. For her sake, I hope so.”

  “Anesthesia,” said Daniel.

  “Considerate of the bastard, eh?”

  “Any sign that she was an addict?”

  “On the contrary: The organs were clean, mucosa clear. No other marks besides the two fresh ones. All in all, a healthy young lady.”

  “What about sexual assault?”

  “The whole damned thing was a sexual assault,” said Levi. “You saw the genitalia. If you mean was there semen, no visible patches, but the region was too torn up for a complete analysis. The tests we ran were negative. Let’s see w
hat else . . . oh, yes, the wounds were caused by more than one instrument. At least two, maybe more.”

  “What kinds of instruments?”

  “Knives. Very sharp. One with a curved blade, the other larger, straight-edged. The larger one was used on the throat. One strong slash from left to right, so we’re probably dealing with a right-handed person, which doesn’t help you much.”

  “Any similarity to the Gray Man homicides?”

  “None whatsoever. Gray Man used a serrated blade, relatively dull—we hypothesized a kitchen knife, remember? Whoever did this used something finely honed.”

  “Like a razor?”

  “Razor sharp but definitely larger than your standard safety blade.”

  “What about a straight razor?”

  Levi’s pause implied contemplation.

  “From my inspection of the wound,” he said, “I’d say the big one’s larger than your average straight razor. There was little or no sawing—the initial cut went right through. Though I suppose it could be one of those old-fashioned heavy ones the barbers used to shave people with.”

  “What about the curved one?”

  “Short-bladed. First thing I thought of was a curved scalpel, but I checked all of mine against the wounds and none of them fit. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t some kind of surgical knife that would. But it could just as easily be something else: woodcarver’s tool, linoleum cutter, even a one-of-a-kind—anyone can buy a knife, shape it, and sharpen it. I took wound casts. If you bring me a weapon I can tell you if it fits.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. What about the sheet?”

  “We’re not finished with it but it looks like standard domestic issue so I doubt you’ll get anywhere pursuing that line of inquiry. Same for the soap and shampoo she was washed with. Neka Sheva Green.”

  “What do you make of the fact that she was washed?”

  “Someone was trying to get rid of physical evidence. And did a damned good job of it—so far we’ve come up with no fibers except for those from the sheet, no foreign secretions or residue other than a few grains of garden-variety silica sand. It took a lot of care to get her that clean.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of psychology,” said Daniel. “A symbolic gesture. Washing away guilt.”

  “Lady Macbeth?” said Levi doubtfully. “I suppose anything’s possible when you’re dealing with twisted minds.”

  “You see this as the work of a madman?”

  “Not a drooling, raving lunatic—too much planning and precision for that. But twisted, nonetheless. A sadistic psychopath.”

  “Any ideas about the ethnicity of the girl?”

  “Eastern is as far as I’ll go. I checked for clitorectomy but there was too much tissue damage to tell. Not that it’s the marker it used to be—many of the Arabs have stopped circumcising their women. The only ones you can count on to do it routinely are the Bedouins, and this one’s no Bedouin.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No tattoos. The soles of her feet were too soft. And when they kill their own, they bury them in the desert. Besides, a Bedouin girl of this age would have been married already and not allowed far enough out of the tent to get into trouble.” Levi paused. “Says something for primitive culture, eh?”

  At one o’clock Daniel went down to the Forensics lab and received confirmation of Levi’s assessment of the sand: nothing unique. Steinfeld had just begun developing photographs of the dead girl. One was a head shot, which revealed none of the wounds. Her face was placid and she could have been asleep. Daniel got the tech to print two dozen. Slipping the pictures in a large envelope, he left Headquarters and drove to the center of town.

  Traffic was slow on Rehov King George, streets and sidewalks crammed with Sabbath shoppers, the babble of vendors and hawkers blending discordantly with diesel rumble, brake squeals, and the earsplitting blasts of auto horns. He got stuck at a red light behind an Egged bus and had to breathe in rancid exhaust mixed with wafts of hot grease from a nearby food stand. Melekh HaFelafel. “The Felafel King.” Down the block was The Juice King, just around the corner The Emperor of Hamburgers. A nation of monarchs . . .

  The bus moved and he sped forward, hooking a sharp left into the mouth of Rehov Ben Yehuda and parking illegally at the top of the street. Placing a police identification card on the dash of the Escort, he locked the car and left, hoping some underobservant rookie wouldn’t clamp a Denver Boot on his tires.

  The front door of The Star Restaurant was open, but he was early, so he walked past the restaurant and down the sloping street toward his father’s shop.

  Once just another auto-choked Jerusalem thoroughfare, Ben Yehuda had been closed to cars several years ago and transformed into a walking mall all the way to the big clock at Zion Square. He made his way through a wash of people—lovers holding hands as they window-shopped and traded dreams; children clinging to parental hands, their buttery faces smeared with pizza and ice cream; soldiers on leave; and artsy types from the Bezalel Institute, drinking iced coffee and eating paper-cradled napoleons at the parasoled tables of sidewalk cafés.

  He walked past a shwarma stand, saw customers waiting eagerly as a counterman shaved juicy slices from a spinning, fat-topped cone of spiced lamb. Nearby, long-haired street musicians strummed American folk songs without passion, huddled like empty-eyed scarecrows over open instrument cases speckled with coins. One, a pale, skeletal, lank-haired woman, had brought a battered upright piano on wheels and was pounding out bad Chopin to a derisively grinning audience of taxi drivers. He recognized a Latam officer, Wiesel, at the rear of the group, avoided even momentary eye contact with the undercover man, and walked on.

  The sign in his father’s window said CLOSED, but he peered in through the front door and saw movement from the back room. A rap on the glass brought his father to the front, and when he saw Daniel, his face lit up and he unlocked it quickly.

  “Shalom, Abba.”

  “Shalom, son! Come in, come in.”

  Standing on tiptoes, the older man embraced him, kissing both his cheeks. In the process, his beret came loose and Daniel caught it for him. His father placed the hat atop his shiny dome and thanked him, laughing. Arm in arm, they entered the shop.

  The odor of silver solder permeated the air. An elaborate filigree brooch lay on the workbench. Threadlike wire of silver looped around teardrop-shaped freshwater pearls, the outer perimeter of each loop a delicate braid of gold wire. Wire that seemed too thin to work with, but which his father’s hands transformed to objects of strength and beauty. Angel hair, his Uncle Moshe had told him when he was a child. Your abba spins the hair of angels into wondrous forms.

  Where does he get it, Dod Moshe?

  From the heavens. Like manna. Special manna granted by Hakadosh Baruch Hu to those with magic hands.

  Those same hands, nut-brown and hard as olive wood, cupped his chin now. More kisses, the momentary abrasion of the old man’s beard. A flash of white-toothed smile through steel-wool whiskers. Black eyes flashing mischievously from a saddle-leather face.

  “Something to drink, Daniel?”

  “Just some water, please, Abba. I’ll get it.”

  “Sit.” Staying him with a finger, his father moved quickly to the back room and returned with a bottle of orange juice and two glasses. Taking a stool next to Daniel’s, he filled both glasses, recited the shehakol blessing, and the two of them drank, his father sipping, Daniel emptying the glass in three swallows.

  “How are Laura and the children?”

  “Terrific, Abba. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better. Just received a lovely commission from some tourists staying at the King David.” He pointed at the brooch. Daniel picked it up gingerly, ran his index finger over the elaborate ridges and swirls. As fine and unique as fingerprints . . .

  “It’s beautiful, Abba.”

  His father shrugged off the compliment. “Wealthy couple from London. They saw something like it in the hotel gift
shop, asked me what I would charge to make it up, and made their decision on the spot.”

  Daniel smiled, placed his hand on the old man’s bony shoulder.

  “I’m sure the decision was based on more than cost, Abba.”

  His father looked away, embarrassed. Busied himself with refilling Daniel’s glass.

  “Have you eaten? I have pita, hummus, and tomato salad in the refrigerator—”

  “Thanks anyway, but I have a lunch appointment at The Star.”

  “Business?”

  “What else. Tell me, Abba, has anyone tried to sell you a pair of cheap earrings recently?”

  “No. The American longhairs try from time to time, but nothing recently. Why?”

  “It’s not important.”

  They drank in silence for several moments. His father was the first to speak.

  “You’re caught up in something ugly.” A half-whisper. “Extreme violence.”

  Daniel stared at him, astonished.

  “How did you know that?”

  “It’s not difficult. Your face has always been a mirror. When you came into the shop you looked burdened. Mournful. As if a cloud had settled over your brow. The way you looked when you came home from war.”

  Daniel had placed the brooch in his bad hand in order to drink; suddenly he felt his fingers close around it. The clumsy press of numbed flesh against frail filament. Stupidly destructive. Alarmed, he uncurled his fingers and placed the jewelry back upon the worktable. Looking at his watch, he stood.

  “Have to be going.”

  His father climbed down from the stool, took his son’s hands in his.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Daniel.”

  “No, no. I’m fine.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it. You’re the best.”

  “Thank you, Abba.”

  They walked to the door. Daniel pushed it open and let in the heat and noise of the plaza.

  “Will you be praying with Mori Zadok tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No,” said his father sheepishly. “I have an . . . engagement.”

  “On Rehov Smolenskin?”

  “Yes, yes.”