The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  CHAPTER

  35

  Stacks of newspaper clippings covered Laufer’s desk. The deputy commander began fanning them out like oversized playing cards.

  “Garbage-sifting time,” he said. “Read.”

  Daniel picked up a clipping, put it down immediately after realizing it was one he’d already seen. Ha’aretz was his paper; he liked the independence, the sober tone—and the reporting on the murders was typical: factual, concise, no thrills for ghouls.

  The party-affiliated papers were another story. The government organ gave the crimes short shrift on a back page, an almost casual downplay, as if hiding the story would make it go away.

  The opposition paper played a shrill counterpoint, using Daniel’s name to segue into the Lippmann case, offering a blow-by-blow rehash of the scandal, making much of the fact that prior to his assassination the late, discredited warden had been a darling of the ruling party. Implying, not so subtly, that any rise in violent crime was the government’s fault: Failure to raise police salaries had led to continued corruption and ineptitude; a poorly administered Health Ministry had failed to handle the issue of dangerous mental patients; the psychological frustration caused by the ruling party’s economic and social policies engendered “deep-rooted alienation and concomitant hostile impulses in the general populace, Impulses that are at risk for spilling over into bloodshed.”

  The usual partisan nonsense. Daniel wondered if anyone took it seriously.

  Haolam Hazeh and the other tabloids had done their heavy-breathing bit: lurid headlines and hints of perverted sex in high places. Gory-detail crime stories fighting for space with photos of naked women. Daniel put them down on the desk.

  “Why the rehash? It’s been two weeks since Juliet.”

  “Go on, go on, you’re not through,” Laufer said, drumming his fingers on the desk. He picked up a thick batch of clippings and shoved it at Daniel.

  These excerpts were all in Arabic: Al Fajr, Al Sha’ab, other locals at the top of the pile, foreign stuff on the bottom.

  Arabic, thought Daniel, was an expansive, poetic language, lending itself to hyperbole, and this morning the Arab journalists had been in fine hyperbolic form: Fatma and Juliet restored to virginity and transformed to political martyrs victimized by a racist conspiracy—abducted, defiled, and executed by some night-stalking Zionist cabal.

  The local publications called for “hardening of resolve” and “continuation of the struggle, so that our sisters have not perished in vain,” stopping just short of a call for revenge—saying it outright could have brought down the heavy hand of security censorship.

  But the foreign Arab press screamed it out: officially sanctioned editorials from Amman, Damascus, Riyadh, the Gulf states, brimming with hate and lusting for vengeance, accompanied by crude cartoons featuring the usual anti-Jewish archetypes—stars of David dripping blood; hook-nosed, slavering men wearing kipot and side curls, pressing long-bladed knives to the throats of veiled, doe-eyed beauties wrapped in the PLO flag. The kipot emblazoned with swastikas—the Arabs loved to co-opt the Nazi stuff, spit it back at their cousins. The Syrians went so far as to link the murders to some occult Jewish ritual of human sacrifice—a harvest ceremony that the writer had invented.

  Vile stuff, thought Daniel, reminiscent of the Der Stürmer exhibit he’d seen at the Holocaust Memorial, the Black Book that Ben David had shown him. But not unusual.

  “The typical madness,” he told Laufer.

  “Pure shit. This is what stirred it up.”

  He gave Daniel an article in English, a cutting from this morning’s international Herald Tribune.

  It was a two-column wire service piece bearing no byline and entitled “Is a New Jack the Ripper Stalking the Streets of Jerusalem?” Subtitle: “Brutal Slayings Stymie Israeli Police. Political Motives Suggested.”

  The anonymous journalist had given the killer a name—the Butcher—an American practice that Daniel had heard Gene decry (“Gives the bad guy the attention he craves, Danny Boy, and makes him larger than life, which scares the heck out of the civilians. Every day that goes by without a bust makes us look more and more like clods”). The actual information about the killings was sparse but suggestively spooky and followed by a review of the Gray Man case, using copious quotes from “sources who spoke on condition they would not be identified” to suggest that both serial killers were likely to remain at large because Israeli police officers were inept homicide investigators, poorly paid, and occupying “lowly status in a society where intellectual and military accomplishments are valued but domestic service is demeaned.” Illustrating that with a rehash of the six-month-old story about new recruits having to apply for welfare, the wives’ picket of the Knesset.

  The Herald Tribune article went on to wallow in armchair sociology, pondering whether the murders were symptomatic of “a deeper malaise within Israeli society, a collective loss of innocence that marks the end of the old idealistic Zionist order.” Quotes from political extremists were given equal weight with those from reasoned scholars, the end result a weird stew of statistics, speculation, and the regurgitated accusations of the Arab press. All of it delivered in a morose, contemplative tone that made it sound reasonable.

  The final paragraph was saturated with pessimism that seemed almost gleeful: “Tourism has always constituted a vital part of the fragile Israeli economy and in light of current economic difficulties, Israeli officials have put forth especially strong efforts to negate their country’s image as a dangerous place to live and visit. But given the recent handiwork of the Gray Man and the Butcher, experts’ predictions of increasing violence against both Arabs and Jews, and the subsequent inability of the Israeli police to cope with that violence, those efforts may be doomed to failure.”

  Daniel put the clipping down and said, “Who wrote this?”

  “Wire service putz by the name of Wilbur. Replaced Grabowski—the one who ignored cordons up in Bekaa and got his arm blown off. This one came over six months ago, spends most of his time at Fink’s, drinking himself numb.”

  Daniel recalled a press conference he’d attended a few months ago. One of the faces had been new.

  “Dark, puffy-looking, gray hair, bloodshot eyes?”

  “That’s him, a goddamned shikur—just what we need.” Laufer shoved aside papers and created a clearing in the middle of the desk top. “His last big story was a feature on the fig harvest—glorious Arab workers, bonded to the soil.”

  “Is he pro-PLO?”

  “From what we can tell he has no political leanings one way or the other. Anti-work is what he is—gets his stuff secondhand and plays around with it in order to make it sound profound. All that shit about ‘unnamed sources.’ ” The deputy commander sat down and glared at Daniel.

  “This time he stirred up the shitpile but good—puffs up a two-week-old story and gets every other hack hot to outdo him. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than feeling his ass under my boot, but we’re stuck with him—free press and all that. We’re the ultimate democracy, right? Out to prove to the goyim how righteous we are.”

  Laufer picked up the Herald Tribune piece, looked at it, and ripped it in half, then in half again. “Now that he’s seen how successful he’s been, he’ll be exploiting this Butcher shit as long as it remains unsolved. And you can bet the others keep falling over one another to outdo him. Bastards.” A sickly smile spread across the pouchy face: “The Butcher. Now your killer has a name.”

  Your killer. Like one parent blaming another for the behavior of a delinquent child.

  “I don’t see how we can concern ourselves with the press,” said Daniel.

  “The point is,” continued Laufer, “that your team has accomplished nothing tangible. You’re giving them all a giant tit to suck.”

  Daniel said nothing.

  Laufer raised his voice: “I’ve sent you four memos of inquiry in the last six days. None have been answered.”

  “There was nothing to r
eport.”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what there was to report! When I send a memo, I expect a response.”

  “I’ll be more conscientious,” said Daniel, “about responding to your inquiries.”

  The deputy commander stood, placed his knuckles on the top of the desk, and leaned on them, thick torso swaying, looking like a gorilla.

  “Cut the crap,” he said. “Get the patronizing tone out of your voice.” A thick hand slapped the desk. “Now catch me up—what do you have?”

  “As I said, nothing new.”

  “What route did you take to reach that glorious destination?”

  Daniel gave him a review of procedures, the interrogation of the sex offenders, the surveillances and record checks, the matching wound molds that confirmed both women had been cut with the same knives. Knowing any mention of similarities between Fatma and Juliet would be a slap across the deputy commander’s flabby face, a reminder that his quick-solve press release was now a departmental joke.

  But Laufer seemed almost to revel in the misery, making Daniel repeat himself, go over picayune forensic details that had no bearing upon the cases. When he finally seemed sated, Daniel took a copy of the handbill out of his attaché case and handed it to Laufer.

  The deputy commander glanced at the paper, crumpled it, tossed it into the wastebasket.

  “What of it?”

  “I wasn’t notified of his presence.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “We’re investigating two sex murders, and a sex offender moves into the community—”

  “He’s a child molester, Sharavi, not a murderer.”

  “Sometimes,” said Daniel, “they go hand in hand.”

  Laufer raised one eyebrow. “Upon what do you base that statement?”

  Ignorant pencil-pusher, thought Daniel. And the man had attained his post all because of him. He fought to hold on to his temper.

  “Upon American crime data, FBI reports . . . Several serial murderers have been found also to be child molesters. Sometimes they alternate between killing and molesting phases; sometimes the crimes occur in tandem. If you’d like, I can show you the sources.”

  Laufer chewed his lip, tormenting the rubbery flesh. Cleared his throat and tried to regain face.

  “You’re telling me that most serial murderers are molesters?”

  “Some.”

  “What percentage?”

  “The sources didn’t say.”

  “If you quote statistics, be prepared to back them up with numbers.”

  Daniel was silent. Laufer smiled. Now it was his turn to patronize.

  “Some murderers, Sharavi, are also thieves. Some are reckless drivers. The pedophile thing may be nothing more than a random correlation—nothing to make Malkovsky a suspect.”

  “What,” Daniel asked, “does this guy have going for him in order to earn this kind of protekzia?”

  “Protekzia has nothing to do with it,” snapped Laufer. “He’s never been convicted of anything.”

  “He escaped before trial.”

  “He’s a Jew, Sharavi. You saw that beard—as long as Moses’. Entitled to entry under the Law of Return.”

  “So was Meyer Lansky, but we sent him back to America.”

  “Malkovsky’s no Lansky, believe me. Besides, we’ve received no extradition request from the Americans.”

  “Yet,” said Daniel. “What happens when we do?”

  Laufer ignored him. “In the meantime, he’s well supervised. His rebbe vouches for him.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Daniel, “that we employed rebbes as probation officers.”

  “That’s enough! A decision was made, in a specific context. A decision that you needn’t concern yourself with.”

  “The man,” said Daniel, “is seriously disturbed. He admitted to me having erotic feelings for his own daughters, denied molesting them, but I think he’s lying.”

  “You think? You’ve harassed him, have you?”

  “I’ve spoken to him.”

  “When and where?”

  “Yesterday, at his apartment.”

  “What else have you done?”

  “He’s under surveillance.”

  “By whom?”

  “Cohen.”

  “The new hire—how’s he doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Told you he was a good kid. Anyway, call him off and reassign him.”

  “Tat Nitzav—”

  “Call him off, Sharavi. Malkovsky is being handled. Stick to your own case and it might even get solved.”

  Daniel’s abdomen was hot as a fry pan, his jaw so tight he had to consciously relax it in order to speak.

  “If you don’t approve of how I’ve done my job, feel free to remove me from the case.”

  Laufer looked at him hard, then applauded.

  “Very theatrical, Sharavi. I’m impressed.”

  He pulled an English Oval out of his shirt pocket. Lit it, smoked, and let the ashes fall on the clippings. A stray ember rolled from the papers onto the desk top and he stubbed it out with a fingertip. Examining the gray-smudged finger, he said, “If and when you’re removed, the decision won’t be yours. In the meantime, stay out of administrative matters and concentrate upon the job at hand. Tell me, how many staff meetings have you had?”

  “Staff meetings?”

  “Getting the team together, sharing information.”

  “I’m in daily contact with each of them.”

  “How many times have all of you gotten together?”

  “Twice.”

  “Not nearly enough. In cases such as these, communication is paramount. Collating, correlating, the tying up of loose ends. You may have missed something—another Anwar Rashmawi.”

  Laufer played with the cigarette ashes, allowed his words to sink in.

  “Communicate,” he said. “Vertically and horizontally. And expand your thinking. Open up new avenues of investigation.”

  Daniel took a deep breath, let it out silently. “Such as?”

  “Such as Arab girls are being cut up like kebab meat. Such as maybe the Arab papers aren’t all wrong. Have you thought of talking to Moshe Kagan and his gang?”

  “Am I to consider Rabbi Kagan a suspect?”

  “Rabbi Kagan thinks he’s another Kahane. Arabs are subhuman—unclean animals. He goes to their villages and calls them dogs to their faces. He and his Gvura hooligans are a giant pain in the ass—bunch of misfits and nut cases. All they want is an excuse to go around breaking heads. Is it illogical to suppose that one of them has convinced himself it’s a mitzva to slaughter unclean animals?”

  “No,” said Daniel, “not illogical at all. But we ran a check on them last year, after Kagan was elected. Found no evidence of violence beyond tough talk and a couple of light skirmishes with the communists.”

  But even as he spoke, he recalled what Ben David had told him: Racist politics and psychopathy can be comfortable bedfellows. . . . We’re not all lambs. There’s a reason for the sixth commandment. . . .

  “Times change,” Laufer was saying. “Crazies get crazier.”

  “The other thing to consider is that he’s a Member of the Knesset—”

  “One lousy seat,” said Laufer. “An aberration—next election he’ll be out on his ass. Couple of years from now he’ll be back battling blacks in Brooklyn.”

  Brooklyn, thought Daniel. In a couple of years, where would Malkovsky be? He said nothing, but his thoughts were transparent and Laufer read them.

  “Obviously, you like talking to rabbis, so talk to this one. Your kipah should help forge a bond between the two of you. I also heard that he likes Yemenites, tries to recruit them to prove he’s not a racist. Go, drop in on him, send him regards from the whole damned department—two hundred thousand dollars American his last demonstration cost us in extra man-hours, barricades, new windshields. Send him regards and ask him if his hooligans have turned into slaughterers.”

  Laufer looked down and bega
n shuffling papers. Smoking and rubber-stamping and signing his name. Daniel stood there for several moments, knowing if he left without being formally dismissed, the DC would dump on him.

  “Anything else, Tat Nitzav?”

  Laufer glanced up, feigning surprise at his presence. “Nothing. Get going. Go about your business.”

  He went back to his office, radioed Avi Cohen at Wolfson, had him come back to Headquarters and, when he arrived twenty minutes later, told him of Laufer’s decision.

  “Pencil-pushing prick,” exploded the young samal. “Just when I’m getting a feel for the pervert—he’s getting more and more nervous, always looking over his shoulder. Scratching his head and his crotch, pacing the courtyard. This morning he drove by a school, stopped for a few moments, and looked through the gate. I know he’s up to something, Pakad.”

  “Which school?”

  “The religious public school—Dugma, on Rehov Ben Zvi.”

  Mikey and Benny’s school. Daniel visualized Malkovsky’s enormous body silhouetted against the fence, pressing against the chain link.

  “His own kids don’t go there?”

  “No, they’re at the Prostnitzer Heder, near Mea She’arim. He’d already dropped them off and was on the way home when he stopped at Dugma.”

  “Did he do anything besides look?”

  Avi shook his head. “Look was all, but I tell you he’s getting more and more jumpy—yelling at his wife, showing up later and later at the yeshiva. And he’s always alone. I haven’t seen him with the rebbe. Yesterday he left early, went home, and stayed inside all day—no evening minyan, nothing. Maybe he had a cold or something, but I wouldn’t count on it. For all we know he could be abusing his own daughters.” Avi shook his head in disgust. “He’s going to pop. I can feel it. This is the worst time to back off.”

  His handsome face shone with excitement. The thrill of the hunt, a detective’s joy. The kid would work out fine, Daniel decided.

  “Dammit,” said Avi, “isn’t there some way to get around it?”

  “No. The order was clear.”