The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He looked in the mirror above the bureau. Picked up the earrings and stared at them—cheap shit, but precious to him. He shuddered, put them down, took the scalpel and drew the blade across his throat, a millimeter short of contact. Pretending. A lovely pantomime. Feeling his erection return. Touching the handle of the scalpel to his cock, probing his balls, twiddling the short hairs around his anus.

  “Little Dancer,” he said, out loud, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice. Dry mouth. Another beer would taste good. In a minute.

  He looked at the knife again, kissed the blunt edge. Laid it on his thigh and shivered.

  Little Dancer. How it loved to waltz lightly on ballroom floors of flesh, tracing its progress in frothy scarlet. Dipping deeper and uncovering the mysteries within. Dance and skip, slice and delve.

  Real science, the ultimate blend of real science and art.

  Last night’s dance party had gone well, so clean, so orderly.

  A lovely affair. Lovely.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Nahum Shmeltzer walked unnoticed through the lobby of the King Solomon Sheraton, made his way through a gaggle of tourists, and went down the stairs, past the Japanese restaurant and into the American one. Blond oak, dark-green upholstery and mirrored panels, plastic-coated menus, glass cases holding fake antiquities. Cute. The woman liked American food.

  As usual, he was early and he expected to wait for her. But she’d arrived already and was sitting in a booth in a mirrored alcove, reading the menu—though she probably knew it by heart—a cup of coffee at her fingertips.

  She saw him and waved. Smiling prettily.

  Not bad for someone her age.

  Though he knew the smile was contrived, he enjoyed looking at her. A lot more pleasant than the two hours of paperwork to get the sex offender programs run.

  A hostess offered to seat him. He told her he was joining madame and walked to the booth. She greeted him with obvious warmth, held out a fine-boned hand, and said it had been a long time since they had seen each other.

  “Too long,” said Shmeltzer. “Must be three or four months.” Three months since the last liaison. Ten months since that night in Eilat.

  “Exactly. Please sit, dear.”

  A waiter came. Blond with a Yankee accent. Handed him a menu, took his order for hot tea with lemon, and left.

  “You look well,” Shmeltzer told her, meaning it, though it was part of the speech. She’d tinted her hair a dark chestnut-brown, but had allowed a few gray strands to remain. Her tailored suit was beige linen and the topaz brooch on her lapel set off the brown specks in her eyes. She’d applied her makeup effectively—softening the wrinkles instead of trying to mask them.

  All in all, a classy production. Terrific bone structure. The kind who’d look right at home in the fancy places in any major city. He’d heard stories: that she’d been widowed in ’56, worked the black-tie-and-Beretta circuit overseas, from London to Buenos Aires, then New York for a long time. That she’d made a fortune in the American stock market. That she’d been involved in the Eichmann capture. That she’d used her own kids as cover. No way to know how much was true, how much was bullshit. Now Shin Bet had her and she stayed close to home, though Shmeltzer still had no idea where her real home was. He’d looked through the files once, trying to find her, wanting a follow-up to Eilat. No address, no number. Nobody by that name, adoni.

  She smiled, folded her hands in front of her, and Shmeltzer imagined the kind of assignments she was pulling now: society matron nibbling canapés at consulate parties. Doting grandma on a park bench, feeding sweets to her aineklach, diapers sharing space with the 9 mm in her purse. Rich tourist lady lounging in the hotel suite adjoining that of a certain visiting dignitary, stethoscope to the wall, fancy machines whirling and humming. No paperwork or garbagebin stakeouts for her.

  Too rich for his blood. Eilat had been a fluke, post-assignment tension release.

  He looked around the restaurant. Across the room sat a group of American college kids. Three females, two males. Hebrew U., probably. Escaping dormitory cooking for a night out on the town. Nine-dollar hamburgers and Coca-Cola.

  A young couple with two small children sat at the far end. The husband looked like a professor, bearded, with glasses; the wife, small, ginger-haired, a real looker. The kids were boys, one about six, the other younger. They drank milk, laughed, punched each other. He picked up scraps of conversation. American-accented English. All of them in brightly colored shorts and polo shirts. Probably exactly what they looked to be, though you could never be sure.

  Otherwise, the place was dead—most of the tourists religious, taking their Shabbat meals at the King David or the Plaza, where the setup was more traditional.

  “Not much business,” he said.

  “Past the dinner hour,” said the woman.

  The waiter brought his tea and asked if they were ready.

  She ordered a minute steak and scrambled eggs with chips—calling them french fries—and more coffee. Still full from the mixed grill at Kohavi’s, he settled for a basket of rolls, margarine, and jelly.

  They made small talk as they ate and she had apple pie for dessert. After the waiter removed the dishes, she put her purse on the table, took out a compact, and opened it. Looking into the mirror, she smoothed back nonexistent strands of hair. As she freshened up, Shmeltzer noticed that she’d left the purse open so that he could see the tape recorder within—a miniaturized Japanese model, voice-activated, the size of a cigarette pack. High-tech. Her people loved it.

  “I’m going shopping tomorrow, dear,” she said, touching his hand. The touch brought back memories, soft white skin under black silk. “Is there anything you need?”

  Enunciating clearly, he told her.

  CHAPTER

  10

  As the sun began to sink, Elias Daoud crossed himself and prayed for progress.

  The village suburb of Silwan was a dense honeycomb of flat-roofed, porridge-colored dwellings notched into the hillside just southeast of the Old City, segregated from the city walls by the Valley of Kidron. Just north of the village, at the foot of the eastern wall, ran the Gihon Spring that fed the Pool of Siloam—the water supply for ancient Jerusalem. Women still went there to wash their laundry, and on his way up, Daoud saw a group of them—laughing and joking as they dipped sodden garments into the still, green water. Telling tales no man would ever hear.

  And then he knew. That was where he’d seen her, during the course of his Number Two Gang investigation, when he’d assumed the identity of a dusty-faced punk with a hunger for dope.

  He’d shuffled past the pools on his way to meet a dealer near the city walls, had seen her with a group of other, older women. Squatting, washing, laughing. The pretty face marred by the missing tooth.

  Or had it been another? Was his mind playing tricks on him? His drive to succeed distorting his memory?

  No, he was sure. The girl had been one of the washers. Her origins were here.

  He trudged forward.

  A spiraling, single-lane road provided access to the lowest level of the village. Narrow, jerry-built pathways and dirty alleys led to some of the upper houses; others could be reached only by donkey or on foot. He found it easiest to park the Citroën in an empty lot and walk most of the way.

  It had been the same at Abu Tor, except that the Jews were starting to take over there, buying the biggest houses, renovating, settling in.

  He’d concentrated on the poorer houses. Spent hours hiking and climbing, his thin-soled shoes steadily corroded by gravel and rock. The beige suit he’d worn to look good at the meeting, wilted and stained.

  You couldn’t talk to everyone, so his strategy had been to seek out the central meeting places, which, in a village, meant a cubbyhole café or soda stand on wheels. But Friday was Muslim Sabbath and everything was closed. The men were at the mosque or napping; in either event he couldn’t interrupt and hope to get cooperation. And the women wouldn’t speak t
o him without their husbands’ permission. So he contented himself with stopping the occasional pedestrian, showing the girl’s picture, asking his questions.

  For the most part he encountered children or young men, walking in pairs and trios, aimless, with hungry eyes. The children giggled and scampered away. The young men responded to his greetings with curiosity and distrust, refused to believe he was a policeman until he showed his credentials; once they’d seen the badge, read his name, disbelief turned to instant hostility.

  In and of itself, hostility was tolerable—he’d grown up in a Muslim neighborhood and throughout his childhood had been labeled an infidel. Joining the police force had brought forth further accusations of infidelity from some of those he’d considered friends. Yet his faith in Christ the Savior and his ambition remained unshaken and he truly believed that he’d grown inured.

  But hostility led to silence, and silence, to a detective, meant failure. Which was something he refused to tolerate. The case was important and he was determined to push himself. To prove himself to the Jews. Working under Sharavi was a stroke of good luck. The Yemenite had a reputation as a fair one, basing his decisions on merit, not religion. If a guy produced, it would be worth something. But there would be obstacles—the old guy, Shmeltzer, who’d be dogging him, waiting for a chance to show he was inferior. No way would Daoud give him anything to work with.

  And the hostility of the Muslims.

  Walking the tightrope, as usual.

  As evening approached he was sour with impatience, bathed in his own sweat, marching forward on swollen feet, but remembering the girl’s face as she washed clothes, then the death photo, knowing he had to continue.

  An hour into Silwan he received his first smile of the day.

  He’d just spent a fruitless five minutes with a gang of youths loitering near a disabled tractor and had climbed to the middle level of the village, walking along a dirt path barely wide enough for two people to pass. All the houses he passed were locked and quiet, the only sound the clucks of chickens and brays of goats. But at the end of the path he saw human movement on the steps of a tiny box of a building with turquoise shutters. A man sitting, swaying back and forth.

  He walked toward the house and saw that it was cell-like, with a single window to the right of the door. The shutters were splintering and in need of paint, the steps framed by a rusty pipe arbor wrapped with the stiff brown tendrils of a dead grapevine. And the man was a boy. About seventeen, swaying as he peered closely at a book in his lap. Another surly one, no doubt.

  But then he noticed that this boy looked different. Soft and slovenly. Hunched over, as if his spine were made of some pliable material. An undersized bullethead shaved to bristle length, sooty smears of peach fuzz on cheeks and chin. A weak chin. Moist, drooping, sheeplike eyes. The swaying, stiff and arrhythmic, punctuated by random finger flutters.

  The boy continued reading, unresponsive to the presence of a stranger. Puzzled, Daoud stepped forward and cast a shadow over the book. The boy looked up and smiled. A smile of such innocence and warmth that the detective found himself smiling back.

  “Good afternoon.” Daoud’s fingers drummed against the envelope that held the photo of the murdered girl.

  More smiles, no answer. Thinking the boy hadn’t heard, he repeated himself.

  A blank stare. Another smile. Loose-lipped and gaptoothed.

  Daoud looked at the book in the boy’s spreading lap. The Arabic alphabet. A child’s primer. Filthy, fluttering fingers held it awkwardly. A smell arose from the boy’s home-made clothing. The stink of someone who didn’t know how to wipe his ass properly.

  An idiot. Figured.

  “See you later,” Daoud said, and the boy continued to stare, intensely, as if committing the detective’s face to memory. But when Daoud stepped away the boy suddenly grew alarmed. Dropping the primer, he pulled himself clumsily to his feet and held on to the pipe arbor for support. Daoud saw that he was a tall one, with heavy, sloping shoulders, and wondered if he was dangerous. He tensed in anticipation of trouble, but the boy showed no signs of aggression, only frustration. Eyes rounding, he moved his lips furiously, churning soundlessly, until finally a croak emerged, followed by garbled noise that Daoud had to strain to understand:

  “Hellosir. Nie-niceday!”

  An idiot who could speak. A meager blessing, but maybe the poor guy had enough sense to be of some help.

  “Good book?” he asked, looking at the fallen primer, shielding his nose with his hand to block out the stink. Trying to make conversation, establish rapport.

  The boy was silent, staring at him, uncomprehending.

  “Learning the alphabet, my friend?”

  More blank stares.

  “Want to look at something?” Daoud tapped the envelope. “A picture?”

  The boy craned his neck, gawked at him. Rolled his eyes. Idiotically.

  Enough of this, thought Daoud. He turned to leave.

  The boy rocked on his feet and started gurgling and gesturing wildly. He pointed to his eyes, then to Daoud’s lips, reached out suddenly to touch those lips with a grubby finger.

  Daoud stepped nimbly away from the contact and the boy pitched forward, adding shouts to his gestures, slapping his own ears so hard it had to hurt.

  Definitely trying to communicate, thought Daoud. He strained to understand.

  “Seedwords! Seedwords! No ear, no ear!”

  As the boy kept up his singsong, Daoud played it back in his head. Seedwords? Words? See dwords. See the words. No hear—

  “You’re deaf.”

  The boy’s smile lit up his face. Clapping his hands, he jumped up and down.

  Who was the real idiot? Daoud castigated himself. The poor kid could read lips but he—the brilliant detective—in his attempt to keep his nostrils unsullied had been hiding his nose and mouth when he talked.

  “Seedwords, seedwords!”

  “Okay.” Daoud smiled. He came closer, made sure the boy had a clear view of his lips. Overenunciated: “What’s your name, my friend?”

  Straining neck cords, a moment’s delay, then: “Ahmed.” Muddily.

  “Your family name, Ahmed.”

  “Nsif.”

  “Nasif?”

  Smiles and nods.

  “Hello, Mr. Ahmed Nasif.”

  “H’lo.”

  The effort of speaking made the boy’s body go tense. Words were accompanied by the flapping of hands, the strange finger flutters.

  This is more than just deaf, thought Daoud. Some sort of spastic condition. And mentally defective, just as he’d first thought. Speak to him as if to a child.

  “I am Sergeant Daoud. I am a policeman.”

  More smiles. The crude pantomime of shooting a gun. “Boom boom.” The boy laughed, and drool trickled down a corner of his mouth.

  “That’s right, Ahmed. Boom, boom. Would you like to look at a picture?”

  “Boom, boom!”

  Daoud pulled the photo out of the envelope, held it close enough for the sheep-eyes to see, not so close that the flapping hands could grab out and maul it.

  “I’m looking for this girl, Ahmed. Do you know her?”

  An emphatic nod. Eager to please.

  “You do?”

  “Dirl, dirl!”

  “Yes, a girl. Does she live here in Silwan, Ahmed?”

  The boy said “dirl” again, the word preceded by something Daoud couldn’t make out.

  “Say that again, Ahmed.”

  The boy pawed at the photo. Daoud pulled it back.

  More pawing, as if he were trying to hit the picture.

  “What’s her name, Ahmed?”

  “Badirl!”

  “She’s a bad girl?”

  “Badirl!”

  “Why is she a bad girl, Ahmed?”

  “Badirl!”

  “What has she done wrong?”

  “Badirl!”

  “Do you know her name, Ahmed?”

  “Badirl!”
/>   “All right, Ahmed. She’s a bad girl. Now tell me her name, please.”

  “Badirl!”

  “Where does she live, Ahmed?”

  “Badirl!”

  Sighing, Daoud put the picture away and started leaving. Ahmed gave a loud shriek and came after him, putting a padded hand on his shoulder.

  Daoud reacted swiftly, turning and pushing the boy away. Ahmed stumbled and landed in the dirt. He looked up at Daoud, pouted and burst into loud sobs. Daoud felt like a child abuser.

  “Come on, Ahmed. Settle down.”

  The door to the house opened and a small woman stepped out, bosom drooping, round dark face emerging like a hickory nut from within the folds of her melaya.

  “What is it?” she said in a high, sharp voice.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama!” wailed the boy.

  She looked at the fruit of her loins, then over at Daoud with a combination of sadness and muted anger. A look that said she’d been through this many times before.

  The boy reached his hands out, cried “Mama.” Daoud felt like apologizing but knew it was the wrong approach for someone like her. To the traditional ones, raised on beatings by fathers and husbands, kindness was interpreted as weakness.

  “I’m Police Sergeant Daoud of the Kishle Substation,” he said, stiffly. “I’m searching for someone who knows this girl.” A wave of the photo. “Your son said he did and I was attempting to learn what he knew.”

  The woman snorted, came forward and glanced at the photo. Looking up without expression, she said, “He doesn’t know her.”

  “Badirl!” said Ahmed, clucking his tongue.

  “He said he did,” said Daoud. “Seemed quite sure of it.”

  “Lessano taweel,” snapped the woman. “He has a long tongue.” She chattered rapidly: “His talk is like dung. Can’t you see he’s a fool?” Coming down the steps, she walked to the boy, slapped him sharply on the head, and took hold of his shirt collar.

  “Up, you!”

  “Mama, Mama!”

  Slap, drag, slap. The boy got halfway to his feet and the woman, breathing hard, pulled him up the stairs toward the door.