The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Marciano smoked some more, took another swallow from the canteen. A chorus of ambulance sirens rose shrilly and diminished, backed by racing engines, the still-lusty epithets of the Gvura people.

  “In terms of your case,” said the colonel, “we found a newspaper article in the Fiat—you know the one I mean.”

  “I haven’t read the paper today,” said Daniel.

  “In that case I’ll get it for you.” Marciano got on his knees, stuck his head out of the truck, and called an MP over.

  “Get the bag labeled Number Nine out of the evidence case.”

  The MP trotted off.

  “Where’s Kagan?” asked Daniel.

  “With his wife. Shooting those Arabs seemed to shake her up. She collapsed shortly afterward—they took her to Hadassah for observation.”

  Daniel remembered the woman’s quiet grace, hoped she was all right.

  “What’s the casualty situation?” he asked.

  “The three dead ones from the Fiat. The pregnant one received only a few scratches, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she loses her baby. Arnon’s belly wound looked serious, lots of blood loss—when they carried him off he was unconscious. You just saw the one with the knife—no doubt he’ll be a hero by this evening. Stupid bastard didn’t leave us much choice. Six of my boys received flesh creases. Bunch of Arabs with rubber bullet injuries. We took another ten in custody, including El Said and the four gangsters in the second car—we’re taking them to Ramle. You can have a go at them by evening, though I doubt you’ll learn anything—just another action-reaction.”

  The MP came back with a paper bag. Marciano took it, pulled out a folded newspaper and gave it to Daniel.

  This morning’s Al Quds. A front-page headline that read: NEW EVIDENCE IN BUTCHER MURDERS POINTS TO ZIONIST MURDER PLOT. An Arabic translation of a wire service story by Mark Wilbur, augmented by florid inserts authored by the local editor.

  “It ran in our papers too,” said Marciano. “Without the extra bullshit.”

  “I’ve been out in the field since sunrise,” said Daniel, immediately regretting the apologetic sound of it. The field. Walking the desert near the murder cave, his beeper signal weakened by the surrounding hills. Walking in circles, like some Judean hermit. Hoping to find . . . what? New evidence? Cosmic insight? Cut off from reality, until he returned to his car, got the riot call from Shmeltzer.

  He read the article, grew progressively angrier with each sentence.

  Mark Wilbur claimed to have received a message from someone—an anonymous someone, who the reporter strongly implied was the Butcher himself. A blank piece of paper upon which had been pasted two paragraphs excised from a Hebrew-language Bible, the precise translation and references supplied by “biblical scholars.”

  The first, according to Wilbur, was “the traditional Old Testament justification for the Judaizing of Palestine”:

  AND BECAUSE HE LOVED THY FATHERS, AND CHOSE THEIR SEED AFTER THEM, AND BROUGHT THEE OUT WITH HIS PRESENCE, WITH HIS GREAT POWER, OUT OF EGYPT; TO DRIVE OUT NATIONS FROM BEFORE THEE GREATER AND MIGHTIER THAN THOU, TO BRING THEE IN, TO GIVE THEE THEIR LAND FOR AN INHERITANCE, AS IT IS THIS DAY. (DEUTERONOMY 4:37–38)

  The second was termed “a collection of Mosaic sacrificial rituals taken from the Book of Leviticus”:

  AND IF HE BRING A LAMB AS HIS OFFERING FOR A SIN-OFFERING, HE SHALL BRING IT A FEMALE WITHOUT BLEMISH. (4:32)

  BUT THE INWARDS AND THE LEGS SHALL HE WASH WITH WATER. (1:13)

  WHATSOEVER SHALL TOUCH THE FLESH THEREOF SHALL BE HOLY; AND WHEN THERE IS SPRINKLED OF THE BLOOD THEREOF UPON ANY GARMENT, THOU SHALT WASH THAT WHEREON IT WAS SPRINKLED IN A HOLY PLACE. (6:20)

  Shall he wash with water, thought Daniel. Except for those close to the investigation, no one knew about the washing of the bodies. Barring a leak, that meant the paragraphs might very well be the real thing. Material evidence that Wilbur had failed to turn over.

  He tightened his jaw, read on:

  “. . . cannot dismiss the possibility of religious-ethnic motivations behind the Butcher slayings. Both victims were young Arab women, and though police have refused to discuss the details of the case, rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted since the discovery, almost a month ago, of the first victim, Fatma Rashmawi, 15.”

  The article went on that way for several more paragraphs, discussing the conflicts between “right-wing religious settlers on the West Bank and the indigenous Palestinian population,” noting that “although prayer has replaced animal sacrifice in Jewish worship, frequent references to sacrificial ritual remain an important part of the liturgy,” quoting choice phrases from Moshe Kagan’s most inflammatory speeches, stressing the Gvura leader’s use of the Bible to justify “coercive territorial expansion.” Citing the growing anger among many Israelis toward “what are perceived as random terrorist acts on the part of disenfranchised Palestinians.”

  Reminding everyone of the tradition of revenge in the Middle East.

  Coming as close as possible to blaming the Gvuraniks, or someone like them, for the murders, without actually spelling it out.

  But doing it subtly—managing to come across as objective and truth-seeking. Wreaking more damage with nuance and implication than by direct accusation.

  “Wonderful thing, freedom of the press.” Marciano smiled.

  Daniel put the newspaper back in the bag, said, “I’ll keep this. What else do you have?”

  “All the weapons, tagged and ready for fingerprinting. We’ve tried to keep the car clean, too, but Gvura people were all over it. The Hebron revenge flat’s sealed and guarded. When can your people get to it?”

  “Right away. Can you patch me to French Hill?”

  “Easy enough,” said Marciano, crushing out his cigarette.

  The two of them climbed out of the truck bed and back up into the cab. The colonel punched a few buttons, handed Daniel the radio, said good-bye and good luck, and stepped out. Daniel watched him stride onto the asphalt, stooping to examine a bloodstain, conferring with an underling, gazing neutrally at the Gvura people, who were beginning to return to their homes.

  The pace of activity had slowed. Only the heat remained constant. A flock of ravens rose from the vineyard, flying overhead in formation, then reversing itself and settling in the fig trees. Big, lazy-looking birds, their well-fed bodies sheathed by blue-black wings as glossy as an oil slick. Perched with uncharacteristic silence on the gray, knobby branches.

  Suspicious creature, the raven. Noah had sent one out to seek dry land; it had come back before completing the journey. Convinced, according to the rabbis, that Noah had designs upon its mate.

  Daniel stared at the birds for a moment, then got on the radio.

  CHAPTER

  51

  Wilbur never heard them coming. He was celebrating the Butcher-letter story—the biggest pickup ever—rounding off the afternoon at Fink’s with a belly full of steak and chips washed down with shots of Wild Turkey and Heineken chasers. The place was empty—all the others were scrambling to write up the Gvura riot thing. Far as he was concerned, that was the same old stuff, be stale by sunrise. He was enjoying the solitude, easing down his fifth chaser and fading into a nice summer high, when he felt his elbows in the vise-grip, saw the gray sleeve hook around his neck and flash the badge in his face.

  “What the—” He tried to turn around. A big, warm hand clamped around him and held his head still, exerting pressure behind the ears and keeping him staring straight ahead. Another hand took hold of his belt and pushed forward, preventing him from backing off the barstool.

  He looked for the bartender, someone to witness what was going on. Gone.

  “Police. Come with us,” said a dry voice.

  “Now wait one sec—” He was lifted off the stool, all booze-limp, marched out the door to a waiting car with its motor idling.

  As they dragged him, he tried to clear his head, zero in on details.

  The car: white Ford Escort four-door. No
chance to look at the plates. The driver was shielding his face with a newspaper.

  The rear door opened. He was eased in, next to a young guy. Good-looking. Tan. Bearded. Skintight red polo shirt, tight designer jeans. Angry face.

  “Seat belt,” said Dry Voice, and he got in, too, sandwiching Wilbur and slamming the door shut. Wilbur examined him: an older one, limp gray suit, glasses, pale face, beak-nosed and thin-lipped. Semitic version of the guy in “American Gothic.” Something about him made Wilbur’s stomach queasy.

  He fought to suppress his fear, telling himself: No problem, this is a democracy. No Tontons Macoute/Savak types here, unless . . . they weren’t policemen. All he’d seen of the badge was a flash of metal—cops in a democracy weren’t supposed to behave like this.

  Nasty thoughts flashed through his mind. Israeli mafia. Or some crazy Arab group—even though neither of the two in the back looked like Arabs. Maybe Gvura crazies getting back at him for the riot.

  A fourth man came around from the rear of the car and got in front, next to the driver. Bushy black hair, big and broad—had to be the one who’d grabbed his neck. Black polo shirt. Huge, hunched shoulders—weight lifter’s shoulders. The seat creaked when he moved.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Seat belt,” repeated Dry Voice, and when Wilbur hesitated, both he and Handsome reached over and fastened the belt themselves, yanking it tight over his midriff.

  The driver put the Escort in gear. Kinky-haired, modified Afro with a yarmulke bobby-pinned to the crown. Crocheted black yarmulke with red roses around the border. Band of dark skin showing above a white shirt collar—a black Jew?

  Kinky backed out HaHistadrut Street, onto King George, drove north, shot the amber light at the Yafo intersection and continued on Straus, weaving in and out of traffic like some joyrider.

  Straight out of a second-rate foreign film, thought Wilbur. French or Italian. Only this was real and he was scared shitless.

  The Escort hurtled along at breakneck speed until coming to a red light at Malkhei Yisrael, at which point Kinky hooked into an alley so narrow its stone walls threatened to scrape the sides of the car. Kinky maintained his pace, dodging potholes and rubbish.

  Wilbur’s fingernails dug into his knees. His tailbone was taking a beating, though most of the impact was absorbed by the bodies of Handsome and Dry Voice, compressing him shoulder to shoulder. They stared straight ahead, paying no attention to him, as if he were too insignificant to deal with. Smelling of cologne and sweat. Dry Voice kept one hand in his jacket.

  Very subtle.

  The alley hairpinned. Kinky kept speeding.

  Wilbur stared at the floor in order to keep from heaving.

  They emerged on Yehesqel, turned left on Shmuel Hanavi, and Wilbur thought: They are police. Taking me to National Headquarters on French Hill.

  Outrageous.

  He permitted himself to get angry, began selecting the precise wording of his official protest.

  Then the Escort bypassed the police compound and continued north and he felt the fear rise again in his gut, stronger, mingling with booze-tinged nausea.

  “I demand to—” Croaking. Sounding like a wimp.

  “Quiet,” said Dry Voice, meaning it.

  Kinky kept up the speed. They zipped through the northern suburbs, passed Ramot Eshkol, and the city stopped looking citylike.

  Goddamned desert. Empty stretches that preceded the Ramot. Then the northern heights themselves.

  Ramot A.

  Ramot B.

  Wilbur forced himself to keep concentrating on the details, keeping his mind on the story that would come out of all this. The story he was going to shove down these bastards’ throats: Reporter abducted; State Department protests. International scandal. Exclusive story by Mark A. Wilbur. TV interviews, talk shows. Dinner at the White House. No problem selling this screenplay . . . Who’d be right to play him? Redford? Too flat . . .

  On the story, off reality.

  The four men in the car didn’t talk. They really didn’t seem concerned with him.

  That scared him.

  Details:

  Apartment tracts knocked up quickly for new immigrants—clusters of no-frills rectangles, cinder block faced with limestone, sitting on dry beds devoid of landscaping. Depressing. Like the housing projects back in New York, but these had a ghost-town quality to them, separated from one another by acres of sand.

  Laundry on lines.

  A vest-pocket park shaded by pines and olives. Kerchiefed women pushing strollers. Hassid types walking with their hands clasped behind their backs. A small shopping center.

  A handful of people. Too far away to notice what was happening.

  Or care.

  The Escort kept barreling along, traveling so fast the chassis was rattling.

  Ramot Pollin.

  Fewer people, then none. Things were starting to look downright desolate.

  Half-finished foundations. Scaffolding. The skeletal underpinnings of buildings. A prefab gas station on a concrete pad, the windows opaque with dust and still X-taped, four oblong trenches where the pumps were going to be.

  But no workers, no signs of construction activity. Some goddamned strike, no doubt.

  Trenches. Tractor treads. Craters occupied by dormant bulldozers and cranes, the dirt pushed up around the rims in soft brown pyramids.

  Unfinished roads bleeding off into dust.

  Quiet. Silent. Too damned silent.

  A roller-coaster hump in the road, then a sharp dip, another construction site at the bottom, this one stillborn, completely deserted: a single story of cinder block, the rest wood frame. Off in the distance, Wilbur could see tents. Bedouins—where the hell were they taking him?

  Kinky answered that question by driving off the road, down a muddy ditch, and onto the site. He circled the cinder-block wall until coming to a six-foot opening at the rear and driving through it.

  Another car was parked inside, half-hidden by shadows. Red BMW, grayed by dust.

  Kinky turned off the engine.

  Wilbur looked around: dark, damp place, probably the future subterranean garage. Roofed with sheets of plywood and black plastic tarp. Garbage all over the dirt floor: nail-studded wood scraps, plasterboard fragments, shreds of insulation, bent metal rods, probably a healthy dose of asbestos particles floating in the air.

  During orientation, Grabowsky had amused him with stories of how the Israeli mafia buried their victims in the foundations of buildings under construction. Religious Hassid types who were kohens—some special kind of priest—afraid of going into the buildings because Jewish law prohibited them from being near dead bodies.

  No longer amusing.

  No, couldn’t be. Kinky wore a yarmulke. Nice Jewish boy, no mafia.

  Then he remembered some of the stuff that guys with yarmulkes had pulled off in the diamond district.

  Oh, shit.

  “Okay,” said Dry Voice. He opened the door. Wilbur saw the gun bulge under his suit jacket. Wool suit—asshole wasn’t even sweating.

  All of them except Kinky got out of the car. Dry Voice took Wilbur’s elbow and led him a few feet past the front bumper.

  Handsome and Iron Pumper folded their arms across their chests, stood there staring at him. Iron Pumper turned full face. Wilbur saw he was an Oriental—goddamned Oriental giant with cold slit eyes. This had to be a dream. Too much booze—he’d wake up any moment with a four-plus hangover.

  A door slammed. Kinky was out of the car now, holding an attaché case in one hand, the paper he’d used to shield his face in the other.

  Wilbur looked at the paper. This morning’s international Trib, his Butcher-letter story on page two.

  Dry Voice held on to his elbow. Handsome and Slant-Eye had backed away into the shadows, but he could still sense their presence.

  Kinky came closer. Small guy—not black, more like a mixed-blood, the kind you saw all over Brazil. But with weird golden eyes that shone in the d
imness like those of a cat. The hand holding the paper was a mess—stiff-looking, covered with shiny pink scars. Real contrast to the rest of him, which was all brown and smooth and seamless. Baby face. But the eyes were old.

  “Hello, Mr. Wilbur.” Soft voice, barely an accent.

  “Who are you?” Who the fuck are you!

  “Daniel Sharavi. I understand you’ve been asking about me.”

  Goddamned geezer at the archives. They all stuck together.

  “In the course of my work—”

  “That’s what we want to talk to you about,” said Sharavi. “Your work.” He waved the Herald Tribune.

  Wilbur felt the anger return. More than anger—rage—at what the bastards had put him through.

  “This stinks,” he said. “Kidnapping me like some—”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” said Dry Voice, tightening the hold on his elbow. Heavier accent than Sharavi, but no mistaking the words or the tone.

  Sharavi glanced at Dry Voice, smiled apologetically, as if excusing an errant brother. So this was going to be one of those good-cop-bad-cop routines . . .

  “Have a seat,” said Sharavi, motioning to a plywood board suspended on cinder blocks.

  “I’ll stand.”

  Dry Voice led him to the board and sat him down. Hard.

  “Stay.”

  Wilbur stared up at him. Asshole looked like an accountant. IRS auditor delivering bad news.

  Wilbur kept eye contact. “These are Gestapo tactics,” he said.

  Dry Voice knelt in front of him, gave a very ugly smile. “You’re an expert on Gestapo?”

  When Wilbur didn’t answer, the asshole stood, kicked the dirt, and said, “Shmuck.”

  Sharavi said something to him in Hebrew and the guy moved back, folded his arms over his chest like the others.

  Sharavi lifted a cinder block, brought it close to Wilbur, and sat on it, facing him.

  “Your article today was very interesting,” he said

  “Get to the point.”

  “You used a biblical scholar to locate the precise references of the passages.”