The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Anwar emitted a wounded, rattling cry from deep in his belly, jumped out of the chair, and went for Daniel’s throat. Daniel drew back his good hand, hit him hard against the face with the back of it, his wedding ring making contact with the eyeglasses, knocking them off. A follow-up slap, even harder, rasping the bare cheekbone, feeling the shock of pain as metal collided with bone, the frailty of the other man’s body as it tumbled backward.

  Anwar lay sprawled on the stone floor, holding his chest and gulping in air. A thick red welt was rising among the crevices and pits of one cheek. An angry diagonal, as if he’d been whipped.

  The door was flung open and the guard came in, baton in hand.

  “Everything okay?” he asked, looking first at Anwar hyperventilating on the floor, then at Daniel standing over him, rubbing his knuckles.

  “Just fine,” said Daniel, breathing hard himself. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Lying Jew dog! Fascist Nazi!”

  “Get up, you,” said the guard. “Stand with your hands against the wall. Move it.”

  Anwar didn’t budge, and the guard yanked him to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  “He tried to attack me,” said Daniel. “The truth upset him.”

  “Lying Zionist pig.” An obscene gesture. “Qus Amak!” Up your mother’s cunt.

  “Shut up, you,” said the guard. “I don’t want to hear from you again. Are you all right, Pakad?”

  “I’m perfectly fine.” Daniel began gathering up his notes.

  “Finished with him?” The guard tugged on Anwar’s shirt collar.

  “Yes. Completely finished.”

  He spent the first few minutes of the ride back to Head-quarters wondering what was happening to him, the loss of control; suffered through a bit of introspection before putting it aside, filling his head instead with the job at hand. Thoughts of the two dead girls.

  Neither body had borne ligature marks—the heroin anesthesia had been sufficient to subdue them. The lack of struggle, the absence of defense wounds suggested they’d allowed themselves to be injected. In Juliet’s case he could understand it: She had a history of drug use, was accustomed to combining narcotics with commercial sex. But Fatma’s body was clean; everything about her suggested innocence, lack of experience. Perhaps Abdelatif had initiated her into the smoking of hashish resin or an occasional sniff of cocaine, but intravenous injection—that was something else.

  It implied great trust of the injector, a total submission. Despite Anwar’s craziness, Daniel believed he’d been telling the truth during his confession. That Abdelatif had indeed said something about Fatma being dead. If he’d meant it literally, he’d been only a co-participant in the cutting. Or perhaps his meaning had been symbolic—he’d pimped his ewe to a stranger. In the eyes of the Muslims, a promiscuous girl was as good as dead.

  In either event, Fatma had gone along with the transaction, a big jump even for a runaway. Had the submission been a final cultural irony—ingrained feelings of female inferiority making her beholden to a piece of scum like Abdelatif, obeying him simply because he was a man? Or had she responded to some characteristic of the murderer himself? Was he an authority figure, one who inspired confidence?

  Something to consider.

  But then there was Juliet, a professional. Cultural factors couldn’t explain her submission.

  During his uniformed days in the Katamonim, Daniel had gotten to know plenty of prostitutes, and his instinctual feelings toward them had been sympathetic. They impressed him, to a one, as passive types, poorly educated women who thought ill of themselves and devalued their own humanity. But they disguised it with hard, cynical talk, came on tough, pretended the customers were the prey, they the predators. For someone like that, surrender was a commodity to be bartered. Submission, unthinkable in the absence of payment.

  Juliet would have submitted for money, and probably not much money. She was used to being played with by perverts; shooting heroin was no novelty—she would have welcomed it.

  An authority figure with some money: not much.

  He put his head down on the desk, closed his eyes, and tried to visualize scenarios, transform his thoughts into images.

  A trustworthy male. Money and drugs.

  Seduction, rather than rape. Sweet talk and persuasion—the charm Ben David had spoken of—gentle negotiation, then the bite of the needle, torpor, and sleep.

  Which, despite what the psychologist had said, made this killer as much a coward as Gray Man. Maybe more so, because he was afraid to face his victims and reveal his intentions. Hiding his true nature until the women lost consciousness. Then beginning his attack in a state of rigid self-control: precise, orderly, surgical. Getting aroused by the blood, working himself up gradually, cutting deeper, hacking, finally losing himself completely. Daniel remembered the savage destruction of Fatma’s genitals—that had to be the orgasmic part, the explosion. After that, the cool-off period, the return of calm. Trophy-taking, washing, shampooing. Working like an undertaker. Detached.

  A coward. Definitely a coward.

  Putting himself in the killer’s shoes made him feel slimy. Psychological speculation, it told him nothing.

  Who, if you were Fatma, would you trust to give you an injection?

  A doctor.

  Where would you go if you were Juliet and needed epilepsy medicine?

  A doctor.

  The country was full of doctors. “We’ve got one of the world’s highest physician-to-citizen ratios,” Shmeltzer had reminded him. “Over ten thousand of them, every goddamned one of them an arrogant son of a bitch.”

  All those doctors, despite the fact that most physicians were government employees and poorly paid—an experienced Egged bus driver could earn more money.

  All those Jewish and Arab mothers pushing their sons.

  The doctors they’d spoken to had denied knowing either girl. What could he do, haul in every M.D. for interrogation?

  On the basis of what, Sharavi? A hunch?

  What was his intuition worth, anyway? He hadn’t been himself lately—his instincts were hardly to be trusted.

  He’d been waking at dawn, sneaking out the door each morning like a burglar. Feasting on failure all day, then coming home after dark, not wanting to talk about any of it, escaping to the studio with graphs and charts and crime statistics that had nothing to teach him. No daytime calls to Laura. Eating on the run, his grace after meals a hasty insult to God.

  He hadn’t spoken to his father since being called to view Fatma’s body—nineteen days. Had been an abysmal host to Gene and Luanne.

  The case—the failure and frustration so soon after Gray Man—was changing him. He could feel his own humanity slipping away, hostile impulses simmering within him. Lashing out at Anwar had seemed so natural.

  Not since the weeks following his injury—the surgeries on his hand, the empty hours spent in the rehab ward—had he felt this way.

  He stopped himself, cursed the self-pity.

  How self-indulgent to coddle himself because of a few weeks of job frustration. To waste time when two women had been butchered, God only knew how many more would succumb.

  He wasn’t the job; the job wasn’t him. The rehab shrink, Lipschitz, had told him that, trying to break through the depression, the repetitive nightmares of comrades exploding into pink mist. The urge, weeks later, to hack off the pain-wracked, useless hunk of meat dangling from his left wrist. To punish himself for surviving.

  He’d avoided talking to Lipschitz, then spilled it all out one session, expecting sympathy and prepared to reject it. But Lipschitz had only nodded in that irritating way of his. Nodded and smiled.

  You’re a perfectionist, Captain Sharavi. Now you’ll need to learn to live with imperfection. Why are you frowning? What’s on your mind?

  My hand.

  What about it?

  It’s useless.

  According to your therapists, more compliance with the exercise regimen would
make it a good deal more useful.

  I’ve exercised plenty and it’s still useless.

  Which means you’re a failure.

  Yes, aren’t I?

  Your hand’s only part of you.

  It’s me.

  You’re equating your left hand with you as a person.

  (Silence.)

  Hmm.

  Isn’t that the way it is in the army? Our bodies are our tools. Without them we’re useless.

  I’m a doctor, not a general.

  You’re a major.

  Touché, Captain. Yes, I am a major. But a doctor first. If it’s confidentiality you’re worried about—

  That doesn’t concern me.

  I see. . . . Why do you keep frowning? What are you feeling at this moment?

  Nothing.

  Tell me. Let it out, for your own good. . . . Come on, Captain.

  You’re not . . .

  I’m not what?

  You’re not helping me.

  And why is that?

  I need advice, not smiles and nods.

  Orders from your superiors?

  Now you’re mocking me.

  Not at all, Captain. Not at all. Normally, my job isn’t to give advice, but perhaps in this case I can make an exception.

  (The shuffling of papers.)

  You’re an excellent soldier, an excellent officer for one so young. Your psychological profile reveals high intelligence, idealism, courage, but a strong need for structure—an externally imposed structure. So my guess is that you’ll stay in the military, or engage in some military-like occupation.

  I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer.

  Hmm.

  You don’t think I’ll make it?

  What you do is up to you, Captain. I’m no soothsayer.

  The advice, Doctor. I’m waiting for it.

  Oh, yes. The advice. Nothing profound, Captain Sharavi, just this: No matter what field you enter, failures are inevitable. The higher you rise, the more severe the failure. Try to remember that you and the assignment are not the same thing. You’re a person doing a job, no more, no less.

  That’s it?

  That’s it. According to my schedule, this will be our last session. Unless, of course, you have further need to talk to me.

  I’m fine, Doctor. Good-bye.

  He’d hated that psychologist; years later, found him prophetic.

  The job wasn’t him. He wasn’t the job.

  Easy to say, hard to live.

  He resolved to retrieve his humanity, be better to his loved ones, and still get the job done.

  The job. The simple ones solved themselves. The others you attacked with guesswork masquerading as professionalism.

  Doctors. His mind kept returning to them, but there were authority figures besides doctors, others who inspired obedience, submission.

  Professors, scientists. Teachers, like Sender Malkovsky—the man looked just like a rabbi. A man of God.

  Men of God. Thousands of them. Rabbis and sheikhs, imams, mullahs, monsignors and monks—the city abounded in those who claimed privileged knowledge of sacred truths.

  Spires and steeples. Fatma had sought refuge among their shadows.

  She’d been a good Muslim girl, knew the kind of sympathy she could expect from a mullah, and had run straight to the Christians, straight to Joseph Roselli. Was it far-fetched to imagine Christian Juliet doing the same?

  But Daoud’s surveillance had revealed no new facts about the American monk. Roselli took walks at night; he turned back after a few minutes, returned to Saint Saviour’s. Strange, but not murderous. And phone calls to Seattle had turned up nothing more ominous than a couple of arrests for civil disobedience—demonstrations against the Vietnam War during Roselli’s social-worker days.

  Ben David had raised the issue of politics and murder, but if there was some connection there, Daniel couldn’t see it.

  During the daylight hours Roselli stayed within the confines of the monastery, and Daniel alternated with the Chinaman and a couple of patrol officers in looking out for him. It freed the Arab detective for other assignments, the latest of which had nearly ended in disaster.

  Daoud had been circulating in the Gaza marketplace, asking questions about Aljuni, the wife-stabber, when a friend of the suspect had recognized him, pointing a finger and shouting “Police! Traitor!” for all to hear. Despite the unshaven face, the kaffiyah and grimy robe, the crook remembered him as “that green-eyed devil” who had busted him the year before on a drug charge. Gaza was rife with assassins; Daniel feared for his man’s life. Aljuni had never been a strong possibility anyway, and according to Daoud, he stayed at home, screaming at his wife, never venturing out for night games. Daniel arranged for the army to keep a loose watch on Aljuni, requested notification if he traveled. Daoud said nothing about being pulled off the assignment, but his face told it all. Daniel assured him that he hadn’t screwed up, that it happened to everyone; told him to reinterview local villagers regarding both victims, and save his energies for Roselli.

  If it bothered Daoud’s Christian conscience to be tailing a man of the cloth, his face didn’t show it.

  Malkovsky, the other paragon of religious virtue, was under the surveillance of Avi Cohen. Cohen was perfect for the assignment: His BMW, fancy clothes, and North Tel Aviv face blended in well at the Wolfson complex; he could wear tennis clothes, carry a racquet, and no one would give it a second thought.

  He was turning out to be an okay kid, had done a good job on Yalom and on Brickner and Gribetz—avoiding discovery by the slimy pair, making detailed tapes and doing the same for Malkovsky.

  But despite the details, the tapes made for boring listening. The day after Daniel confronted him, the child raper spent hours traipsing around the neighborhood with four of his kids, tearing handbills off walls, throwing the scraps in paper bags, careful not even to litter.

  According to Cohen, he was rough on the kids, yelling at them, ordering them around like a slavemaster, but not mistreating them sexually.

  Once the handbills were taken care of, his days became predictable: Early each morning he went to shaharit minyan at the Prosnitzer rebbe’s yeshiva just outside Mea She’arim, driving a little Subaru that he could barely fit into, staying within the walls of the yeshiva building until lunchtime. A couple of times Avi had seen him walking with the rebbe, looking ill at ease as the old man wagged his finger at him and berated him for some lapse of attention or observance. At noon he came home for lunch, emerged with food stains on his shirt, pacing the halls and wringing his hands.

  “Nervous, antsy,” Avi said into the recorder. “Like he’s fighting with his impulses.”

  A couple more minutes of pacing, then back into the Subaru; the rest of the day spent hunched over a lectern. Returning home after dark, right after the ma’ariv minyan, no stop-offs for mischief.

  Burying himself in study, or faking it, thought Daniel.

  He’d asked the juvenile officers to look into possible child abuse at home. Tried to find out who was protecting Malkovsky and had met with official silence.

  Time to call Laufer for the tenth time.

  Men of God.

  He arrived home at six-thirty, ready for a family dinner, but found that they’d all eaten—felafel and American-style hamburgers picked up at a food stand on King George.

  Dayan barked a greeting and the boys jumped on him. He kissed their soft cheeks, promised to be with them in a minute. Instead of persisting, they ran off cuffing each other. Shoshi was doing her homework at the dining room table. She smiled at him, hugged and kissed him, then returned to her assignment, a page of algebra equations—she’d completed half.

  “How’s it going?” Daniel asked. Math was her worst subject. Usually he had to help her.

  “Fine, Abba.” She bit her pencil and screwed up her face. Thought a while and put down an answer. The correct one.

  “Excellent, Shosh. Where’s Eema?”

  “Painting.” Absently.
/>   “Have fun.”

  “Uh huh.”

  The door to the studio was closed. From under it seeped the smell of turpentine. He knocked, entered, saw Laura in a blue smock, working on a new canvas under a bright artist’s lamp. A cityscape of Bethlehem in umbers, ochers, and beige, softly lit by a low winter sun, a lavender wash of hillside in the background.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Oh, hi, Daniel.” She remained on her stool, leaned over for a kiss. Half a dozen snapshots of Bethlehem were tacked to the easel. Pictures he’d taken during last year’s Nature Conservancy hayride.

  “You ate already,” he said.

  “Yes.” She picked up the brush, laid in a line of shadow along the steeple of the Antonio Belloni church. “I didn’t know if you were coming home.”

  He looked at his watch. “Six thirty-six. I thought it would be early enough.”

  She put the brush down, wiped her hands on a rag, and turned to him. “I had no way of knowing, Daniel,” she said in a level tone of voice. “I’m sorry. There’s an extra hamburger in the fridge. Do you want me to heat it up for you?”

  “It’s all right. I’ll heat it up myself.”

  “Thanks. I’m right in the middle of this—want to finish a few more buildings before quitting.”

  “Beautiful,” he repeated.

  “It’s for Gene and Luanne. A going-away present.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “Fine.” Dab, blend, wipe. “They’re up in Haifa, touring the northern coast. Nahariya, Acre, Rosh Hanikra.”

  “When are they coming back down?”

  “Few days—I’m really not sure.”

  “Are they having a good time?”

  “Seem to be.” She got off the stool. For a moment Daniel thought she was going to embrace him. But instead she stepped back from the canvas, measured perspective, returned to her seat, and began blocking in ocher rectangles.

  He waited a few seconds, then left to make himself dinner. By the time he’d eaten and cleaned up, the boys had busied themselves again with the Star Wars videotape. Eyes filled with wonderment, they declined his offer to wrestle.