The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Your daughter Fatma, sir.”

  Rashmawi’s face went blank, the dry, well-formeds features settling into paralytic stillness.

  Daniel put down his demitasse, took out the picture, and showed it to Rashmawi, who ignored it.

  “She was found yesterday,” said Daniel, watching the old man’s reaction.

  Rashmawi made a tent of his fingers. Picked up his demitasse but put it down without drinking.

  “I have three daughters,” he said. “Sahar, Hadiya, and Salway. None are idle. Three sons as well.”

  The buzz behind the door had grown louder, solidifying into conversation—urgent, frightened female chatter. A tentative male response. Then a low moan rising steadily in pitch.

  “How long has she been missing?” Daniel asked.

  Rashmawi dragged deeply on his cigarette, drank coffee, and cracked an almond with long, knobby fingers. Removing the nut, he put it in his mouth and chewed slowly.

  The moan behind the door escalated to a high-pitched wail.

  “Silence!” thundered the old man and the wail dissipated into an artificial hush, broken once by a muffled sob.

  Daniel showed him the photo again, caught his eye, and for a moment thought he saw something—pain, fear—pass across the weathered face. But whatever it was vanished instantaneously and Rashmawi folded his arms across his chest and stared past the detectives, as silent and unmoving as a stone idol.

  “Sir,” said Daniel, “it pains me to be the one to tell you this, but Fatma is dead.”

  Nothing.

  Smoke from three untouched cigarettes ribboned lazily toward the ceiling.

  “She was murdered, sir. Violently.”

  A long, maddening silence, every creak and exhalation, thunderous. Then:

  “I have three daughters. Sahar, Hadiya, and Salway. None are idle. Three sons as well. Many grandchildren.”

  The Chinaman swore softly and cleared his throat. “It was a very brutal murder. Multiple stab wounds.”

  “We want to find the person who did it,” said Daniel.

  “To avenge her,” added the Chinaman.

  The wrong thing to say, thought Daniel. Revenge was the prerogative of the family. To suggest that an outsider could accomplish it was at best ignorant, at worst an insult. He looked at the Chinaman and gave his head a barely perceptible shake.

  The big man shrugged and started gazing around the room, restless and eager for action.

  Rashmawi was smiling strangely. He’d placed his hands on his knees and had started to sway, as if in a trance.

  “Any information you can provide is essential, sir,” said Daniel. “About anyone who could have done this to Fatma. Why anyone would have wanted to hurt her.”

  Anyone other than you or your sons . . .

  “A bad influence, perhaps,” said Daoud. “Someone who tried to corrupt her.”

  That, too, seemed the wrong thing to say, for the old man’s face compressed with anger and his hands began to shake. He pushed down harder on his knees to avoid the appearance of feebleness. Clamped his eyes shut and continued swaying, further out of reach than ever.

  “Mr. Rashmawi,” said Daniel, more forcefully. “No young girl should have to come to such an end.”

  Rashmawi opened his eyes and Daniel examined them closely. Irises the color of the coffee in his demitasse, the whites soiled an unhealthy shade of gray. If eyes were the mirror of the soul, these mirrors reflected a weary soul beset by illness, fatigue, the pain of remembrance. Or was it guilt he was seeing, Daniel wondered—segregated from the heart by a fortress of silence?

  Eloquent eyes. But you couldn’t work a case based on unspoken eloquence.

  “Tell us what you know, sir,” said Daniel, fighting back impatience. “What she was wearing when she left, her jewelry.”

  Rashmawi’s shoulders rounded and his head drooped, as if suddenly too heavy for his neck to support. He covered his face with his hands, swayed some more, then raised himself up, fueled by defiance.

  “I have three daughters,” he said. “Three.”

  “Hard-assed old bastard,” said the Chinaman. “Didn’t so much as look at the picture. Our best bet is to talk to the women.”

  They stood by the side of the dirt pathway, several yards from the house. The wailing had resumed and was audible at that distance.

  “We could try,” said Daniel, “but it would be a violation of their family structure.”

  “To hell with family structure. One of them may have sliced her, Dani.”

  “The point is, Yossi, that the family structure makes it impossible for us to get information. Without the father’s permission, none of them is going to talk to us.”

  The big man spat in the dirt, pounded his fist into his hand.

  “Then haul them in! A few hours in a cell and we’ll see about their goddamned family structure.”

  “That’s your plan, is it? Arrest the bereaved.”

  The Chinaman started to say something, then sighed and smiled sheepishly.

  “Okay, okay, I’m talking shit. It’s just that it’s weird. The guy’s daughter is butchered and he’s as cold as ice, making like she never existed.” He turned to Daoud: “That culturally normal?”

  Daoud hesitated.

  “Is it?” pressed the Chinaman.

  “To some extent.”

  “Meaning?”

  “To the Muslims, virginity is everything,” said Daoud. “If the father thought Fatma lost hers—even if he just suspected it—he might very well expel her from the family. Excommunicate her. It would be as if she didn’t exist.”

  “Killing her would accomplish the same thing,” said the Chinaman.

  “I don’t see this as a family affair,” said Daniel. “That old man was in pain. And after seeing the way they live, the factors I mentioned yesterday seem stronger—the Rashmawis are old-school, by the book. Had they chosen to execute a daughter, it would have taken place in the village—a swift killing by one of the brothers, semi-publicly in order to show that the family honor had been restored. Removing the body and dumping it for outsiders to find would be unthinkable. So would mutilating her.”

  “You’re assuming,” said the Chinaman, “that culture overrides craziness. If that was the case, they would have replaced us long ago with anthropologists.”

  The door to the Rashmawi house opened and Anwar came out, wiping his glasses. He put them back on, saw them, and went hastily inside.

  “Now, that’s a strange one,” said the Chinaman. “Home when his brothers are working. Father banishes him to be with the women.”

  “I agree,” said Daniel. “You’d expect him to be allowed to remain in the background—if for no other reason than to wait on the old man. Sending him in with the women—it’s as if he’s being punished for something. Any ideas about that, Elias?”

  Daoud shook his head.

  “A punitive family,” Daniel reflected out loud.

  “He wasn’t surprised when you showed him the picture,” said the Chinaman. “He knew something had happened to Fatma. Why don’t we ask him about the earrings?”

  “We will, but first let’s watch him for a while. And keep our ears open. Both of you, circulate among the villagers and try to learn more about the family. See if you can find out whether Fatma ran away or was banished. And the specific nature of her rebellion. Find out what she was wearing, if anyone can describe the earrings. What about the Nasif woman, Elias? Do you think she’s still holding back?”

  “Maybe. But she’s in a difficult position—a widow, socially vulnerable. Let me see what I can get from others before I lean on her again.”

  “All right, but keep her in mind. If we need to, we can arrange an interview away from prying eyes—a shopping trip, something like that.”

  A loud cry came from the Rashmawi house. Daniel looked at the unadorned building, noticed the empty land surrounding it.

  “No neighbors,” he said. “They keep to themselves. That kind of isolat
ion breeds gossip. See if you can tap into any of it. Call Shmeltzer and find out if any family member has popped up in a file. Keep an eye out, also, for the other two brothers. Far as we know they’re on a job and should be getting back before sundown. Get to them before they reach home. If Anwar leaves the house, have a chat with him too. Be persistent but respectful—don’t lean too heavily on anyone. Until we know any different, everyone’s a potential source of help. Good luck, and if you need me, I’ll be at Saint Saviour’s.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Daniel walked west along the southern perimeter of the Old City, passing worshippers of three faiths, locals, tourists, hikers, and hangers-on, until he reached the northwest corner and entered the Christian Quarter through the New Gate.

  The Saint Saviour’s compound dominated the mouth of the quarter, with its high walls and green-tiled steeple. Double metal doors decorated with Christian symbols marked the service entry on Bab el Jadid Road; the arch above the door was filled by a blood-red crucifix; below the cross strong black letters proclaimed: TERRA SANCTA. Above the doors the steeple topped a four-sided pastry-white tower, exquisitely molded, ringed doubly with iron balconies and set with marble-faced clocks on all sides. As Daniel entered, the bells of the monastery rang out the quarter hour.

  The courtyard within was modest and quiet. Inset into one of the inner walls was a nook housing a plaster figurine of a praying Madonna against a sky-blue background speckled with gold stars. Here and there were small plaques, repetitions of the Terra Sancta designation. Otherwise the place could have been a parking lot, the back door of any restaurant, with its trash bags and garages, functional metal stairs, pickup trucks, and jumble of overhead power lines. A far cry from the visitor’s center on St. Francis Street, but Daniel knew that the plain-faced buildings housed a treasure trove: Travertine marble walls set off by contrasting columns of inlaid granite, statuary, murals, gold altars and candlesticks, a fortune in gold relics. The Christians made a grand show of worship.

  A trio of young Franciscan monks exited the compound and crossed his path, brown-robed and white-belted, their lowered hoods exposing pale, introspective faces. He asked them, in Hebrew, where Father Bernardo could be found, and when they looked perplexed, thought: new arrivals, and repeated the question in English.

  “Infirmary,” said the tallest of the three, a blue-chinned youth with hot dark eyes and the cautious demeanor of a diplomat. From the sound of his accent, a Spaniard or Portuguese.

  “Is he ill?” asked Daniel, aware now of his own accent. A Babel of a conversation . . .

  “No,” said the monk. “He is not. He is . . . caring for those who are the ill.” He paused, spoke to his comrades in Spanish, then turned back to Daniel. “I take you to him.”

  The infirmary was a bright, clean room smelling of fresh paint and containing a dozen narrow iron beds, half of them occupied by inert old men. Large wood-framed windows afforded a view of Old City rooftops: clay domes, centuries old, crowned by TV antennas—the steeples of a new religion. The windows were cranked wide open and from the alleys below came a clucking of pigeons.

  Daniel waited by the doorway and watched Father Bernardo tend to an ancient monk. Only the monk’s head was visible above the covers, the skull hairless and veined with blue, the face sunken, near-translucent, the body so withered it was barely discernible beneath the sheets. On the nightstand next to the bed were a set of false teeth in a glass and a large, leather-bound Bible. On the wall above the headboard Jesus writhed on a polished metal crucifix.

  Father Bernardo bent at the waist, wet a towel with water, and used it to moisten the monk’s lips. Talking softly, he rearranged the pillows so that the monk could recline more comfortably. The monk’s eyes closed, and Bernardo watched him sleep for several minutes before turning and noticing the detective. Smiling, he walked forward, bouncing silently on sandaled feet, the crucifix around his neck swinging in counterpoint.

  “Pakad Sharavi,” he said in Hebrew, and smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

  Bernardo’s waist had thickened since they’d last met. Otherwise he looked the same. The fleshy pink face of a prosperous Tuscan merchant, inquisitive gray eyes, large, rosy, shell-like ears. Snowy puffs of white hair covered a strong, broad head, the snowfall repeating itself below—in eyebrows, mustache, and Vandyke beard.

  “Two years,” said Daniel. “Two Easters.”

  “Two Passovers,” Bernardo said with a smile, ushering him out of the infirmary into a dim, quiet corridor. “You’re in Major Crimes now—I read about you. How have you been?”

  “Very well. And you, Father?”

  The priest patted his paunch and smiled. “A little too well, I’m afraid. What brings you here on a Shabbat?”

  “This girl,” said Daniel, showing him the photo. “I’ve been told she worked here.”

  Bernardo took the picture and examined it.

  “This is little Fatma! What’s happened to her!”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss that, Father,” said Daniel. But the priest heard the unspoken message and his thick fingers closed around the crucifix.

  “Oh, no, Daniel.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her, Father?” asked Daniel gently.

  The fingers left the crucifix, floated upward, and began twisting white strands of beard.

  “Not long ago, at all—last Wednesday afternoon. She didn’t show up for breakfast Thursday morning and that’s the last we saw of her.”

  A day and a half before the body had been found.

  “When did you hire her?”

  “We didn’t, Daniel. One night, about three weeks ago Brother Roselli found her crying, sitting in the gutter just inside the New Gate, on Bab el Jadid Road. It must have been in the early morning hours, actually, because he’d attended midnight Mass at the Chapel of the Flagellation and was returning home. She was unwashed, hungry, generally knocked about, and sobbing. We took her in and fed her, let her sleep in an empty room at the hospice. The next morning she was up early, before sunrise—scrubbing the floors insisting that she wanted to earn her keep.”

  Bernardo paused, looking uncomfortable.

  “It’s not our practice to bring in children, Daniel, but she seemed like such a sad little thing that we allowed her to stay, temporarily, taking meals and doing little jobs so that she wouldn’t feel like a beggar. We wanted to contact her family but any mention of it terrified her—she’d break out into heart-rending sobs and beg us not to. Perhaps some of it was adolescent drama, but I’m certain that a good deal of it was real. She looked like a wounded animal and we were afraid she’d run away and end up in some Godless place. But we knew she couldn’t stay with us indefinitely and Brother Roselli and I had discussed transferring her to the Franciscan Sisters’ Convent.” The priest shook his head. “She left before we had a chance to bring it up.”

  “Did she tell you why she was afraid of her family?”

  “She said nothing to me, but my feeling was that some kind of abuse had taken place. If she told anyone, it would have been Brother Roselli. However, he never mentioned anything to me.”

  “So she stayed with you a total of two and a half weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever see her with anyone else, Father?”

  “No, but as I said, my contact with her was minimal, other than to say hello in the hallway, or suggest that she take a break—she was a hard worker, ready to scour and scrub all day.”

  “What was she wearing the day before she left, Father?”

  Bernardo laced his fingers over his paunch and thought.

  “Some sort of dress. I really don’t know.”

  “Did she wear any jewelry?”

  “Such a poor child? I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Earrings, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps—I’m not sure. Sorry, Daniel. I’m not good at noticing that kind of thing.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Father? Anything tha
t could help me understand what happened to her?”

  “Nothing, Daniel. She passed through and was gone.”

  “Brother Roselli—have I met him?”

  “No. He’s new, been with us for six months.”

  “I’d like to speak to him. Do you know where he is?”

  “Up on the roof, communicating with his cucumbers.”

  They climbed a stone stairway, Daniel sprinting, light-footed and energetic despite the fact that he hadn’t had a real meal all day. When he noticed that Bernardo was huffing and pausing to catch his breath, he slowed his pace until it matched that of the priest.

  A door at the top of the stairs opened to a flat area on the northeast quadrant of the monastery roof. Below was an Old City quilt of houses, churches, and vest-pocket courtyards. Just beyond the melange rose the plateau of Moriah, where Abraham had bound Isaac and where two Jewish temples had been built and destroyed, now called the Haram esh-Sharif and subjugated by the Mosque of the Rock.

  Daniel looked out past the mosque’s gold-leaf dome, toward the eastern city walls. From up here everything looked primitive, so vulnerable, and he was stabbed by a cruel, fleeting memory—of passing under those walls, through the Dung Gate. A walk of death, maddeningly endless—though the shock from his wounds provided a kind of sedation—as those in front of him and to his back fell under sniper fire, crumpling soundlessly, corsages of scarlet bursting through the olive-drab of battle-rancid uniforms. Now, tourists strolled along the ramparts, carefree, enjoying the view, the freedom. . . .

  He and Bernardo walked toward the corner of the roof, where wine casks had been filled with planter’s soil and set down in a long row within the inner angle of the rim. Some were empty; from others the first sprouts of summer vegetables nudged their way upward through the dirt: cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplant, beans, marrow. A monk held a large tin watering can and sprinkled one of the most productive casks, a large-leafed cucumber plant coiled around a stake, already abloom with yellow flowers and heavy with fuzzy fingers of infant vegetable.

  Bernardo called out a greeting and the monk turned. He was in his forties, tan and freckled, with a tense, foxlike face, pale-brown eyes, thin pinkish hair, and a red beard cropped short and carelessly trimmed. When he saw Bernardo he put down the watering can and assumed a position of deference, head slightly lowered, hands clasped in front of him. Daniel’s presence didn’t seem to register.