The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He turned at the sound of a diesel engine. A UNRWA panel truck—the one from Nablus—pulled up in front of the hospital and stopped. The driver got out and loosened the tailgate, disgorging twenty or thirty men who limped down and joined the grumblers from the city. The groups merged into one restless crowd; the grumbling grew louder.

  Hajab picked his clipboard off the ground, got up, and stood before them. A sorry-looking bunch.

  “When may we enter, sir?” asked a toothless old man.

  Hajab silenced him with a look.

  “Why the wait?” piped up another. Younger, with an impudent face and runny, crusted eyes. “We’ve come all the way from Nablus. We need to see the doctor.”

  Hajab held out his palm and inspected the clipboard. Seventy patients scheduled for Saturday Men’s Clinic, not counting those who walked in without appointments, or tried to be seen with expired refugee cards or no cards at all. A busy Saturday made worse by the heat, but not as bad as Thursdays, when the women came—droves of them, three times as many as the men. Women were weak-spirited, crying Disaster! at the smallest infirmity. Screeching and chattering like magpies until by the end of the day, Hajab’s head was ready to burst.

  “Come on, let us in,” said the one with the bad eyes. “We have our rights.”

  “Patience,” said Hajab, pretending to peruse the clipboard. He’d watched Mr. Baldwin, knew a proper administrator had to show who was in charge.

  A man leaning on a cane sat down on the ground. Another patient looked at him and said, “Sehhetak bel donya”—“without health, nothing really matters”—to a chorus of nods.

  “Bad enough to be sick,” said Runny Eyes, “without being demeaned by pencil pushers.”

  A murmur of assent rose from the crowd. Runny Eyes scratched his rear and started to say something else.

  “All right,” said Hajab, hitching up his trousers and pulling out his pen. “Have your cards ready.”

  Just as he finished admitting the first bunch, a second truck—the one from Hebron—struggled up the road from the southeast. The engine on this one had an unhealthy stutter—the gears sounded worn, probably plenty else in need of repair. He would have loved to have a go at it, show what he could do with a wrench and a screwdriver, but those days were gone. Al maktoub.

  The Hebron truck was having trouble getting over the peak of Scopus. As it lurched and bucked, a white Subaru two-door came cruising by from the opposite direction—from the campus of the Jews’ university. The Subaru stopped, rolled several meters, and came to a halt directly across the road from the Amelia Catherine. Probably a gawker, thought Hajab, noticing the rental plates and the yellow Hertz sticker on the rear window.

  The door of the Subaru opened and a big guy in a dark suit got out and started walking toward the Amelia Catherine. The sun bounced off his chest and reflected something shiny. Cameras—definitely a gawker—two of them, hanging from long straps. From where Hajab sat they looked expensive—big black-and-chrome jobs with those oversized lenses that stuck out like noses.

  The gawker stopped in the middle of the road, oblivious to the approaching truck despite all the noise it was making. He uncovered the lens of one of the cameras, raised the machine to his eyes, and started shooting pictures of the hospital.

  Hajab frowned. That kind of thing just wouldn’t do. Not without some sort of payment. His commission.

  He pushed himself out of his chair, wiped his mouth, and took a step forward, stopped at the sight of the Hebron truck coming over the peak and headed straight for the guy with the cameras, who just kept clicking away—what was he, deaf?

  The driver of the truck saw him late, slammed on the brakes, which squealed like scared goats—another job for an expert mechanic—then leaned on his horn. The guy with the cameras looked up, waved hello like some kind of mental defective, and stumbled out of the way. The driver honked again, just for emphasis. The guy with the camera bowed and trotted across the road. Headed right for Hajab’s chair.

  As he got close, Hajab saw he was a Japanese. Very big and broad for one of them, but Japanese just the same, with the goofy tourist look they all had: ill-fitting suit, wide smile, thick-lensed eyeglasses, the hair all slicked down with grease. The cameras hanging on him like body parts—Japanese babies were probably born with cameras attached to them.

  They were the best, the Japanese. Rich, every one of them, and gullible—easy to convince that the commission was mandatory. Hajab had posed for a group of them last month, gotten five dollars from each one, money he still had in a coffee can under his bed in Ramallah. His own bed.

  “No pictures,” he said sternly, in English.

  The Japanese smiled and bowed, pointed his camera at the rose garden beyond the arch, snapped a picture, then swung the lens directly in line with the front door.

  “No, no, you can’t take pictures here,” said the watchman, stepping between the Japanese and the door and wagging his finger in the big yellow face. The Japanese smiled wider, uncomprehending. Hajab searched his memory for English words, retrieved one Mr. Baldwin had taught him: “Forbidden!”

  The Japanese made an O with his mouth, nodded his head several times, and bowed. Refocusing his camera—a Nikon; both of them were Nikons—on Hajab. The Nikon clicked and whirred.

  Hajab started to say something, was distracted for a moment by the rattle of the Hebron truck’s tailgate chains, the slamming of the gate on the asphalt. The Japanese ignored the noise, kept shooting Hajab’s portrait.

  “No, no.” Hajab shook his head.

  The Japanese stared at him. Put the first camera down and picked up the second. Behind him the Hebron truck drove away.

  “No,” Hajab repeated. “Forbidden.”

  The Japanese smiled, bowed, started pressing the second camera’s shutter.

  Idiot. Maybe “no” meant yes in his language—though the ones last month had understood. Maybe this one was just being obstinate.

  Too big to intimidate, Hajab decided. The best he could do was disrupt the photographs, follow up with a little pantomime using his wallet.

  He told the idiot: “U.N. say, must pay for pictures,” put his hand in his back pocket, was prevented from proceeding by the swarm of Hebron patients hobbling their way to the entry.

  Aggressive bunch, they pushed up against him, tried to get past him without showing their cards. Typical Hebron animals. Whenever they were around, it meant trouble.

  “Wait,” said Hajab, holding out his palm.

  The Hebron patients pressed forward anyway, surrounding the big Japanese and beginning to stare at him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust as he kept taking pictures.

  “Cards,” announced Hajab, spreading his arms to prevent any of them from getting through. “You must show cards! The doctors won’t see you without them.”

  “He saw me last month,” said a man. “Said the card wasn’t necessary.”

  “Well, it’s necessary now.” Hajab turned to the Japanese and grabbed hold of his arm, which felt huge under the suit sleeve: “Stop that, you. No pictures.”

  “Let the man take his pictures,” said a man with a bandaged jaw and swollen lips, the words coming out slurred. He grinned at the Japanese, said in Arabic: “Take my picture, yellow brother.”

  The Hebron ruffians laughed.

  “And mine.”

  “Mine, too, I want to be a movie star!”

  The Japanese reacted to the shouts and smiles by snapping his shutter.

  Hajab tugged at the Japanese man’s arm, which was hard as a block of limestone and just as difficult to budge. “No, no! Forbidden, forbidden!”

  “Why can’t he take his pictures?” a patient demanded.

  “U.N. rules.”

  “Always rules! Stupid rules!”

  “Forget the rules! Let us in—we’re sick!”

  Several patients pushed forward. One of them managed to get around Hajab. The watchman said, “Stop, you!” and the sneak halted. Stooped-over little fellow
with sallow skin and a worried face. He pointed to his throat and his belly.

  “Card?” said Hajab.

  “I lost it,” said the man, talking with effort in a low croak, still holding his belly.

  “The doctor won’t see you without it.”

  The man moaned in pain.

  “Let him in!” shouted someone. “He vomited in the truck, stunk it up.”

  “Let me in—I have to vomit too,” said another voice from the crowd.

  “Me, too. I have loose bowels as well.”

  Laughter, followed by more crudities.

  The Japanese seemed to think the merriment was directed at him; he responded to each jest and rude remark with a click of his shutter.

  A circus, thought Hajab, all because of this camera-laden monkey. As he reached up to pull down the Nikon, several rowdies made for the door.

  “Stop your pictures!” he said. “Forbidden!” The Japanese smiled, kept clicking away.

  More patients were pushing through now. Heading for the front door, not a single one of them bothering to show his card.

  Click, click.

  “Forbidden!”

  The Japanese stopped, lowered his camera and let it rest against his broad chest.

  Probably out of film, thought Hajab. No way would he be permitted to reload on hospital property.

  But instead of reaching into his pocket for film, the Japanese smiled at Hajab and held out his hand for a shake.

  Hajab took it briefly, withdrew his hand, and held it palm up. “Twenty dollars, American. U.N. rules.”

  The Japanese smiled again, bowed, and walked away.

  “Twenty dollars,” laughed a patient as he walked by.

  “Twenty dollars for what, a kiss?” said another.

  Hajab thought of going after them, stepped aside instead. The Japanese stood in the middle of the road again, pulled a third camera, a smaller one, out of his jacket pocket and took more of his damned pictures, then finally got in his Subaru and drove off.

  Nearly all the Hebron patients had gotten to the door. Only a few stragglers remained, limping or walking the stingy, halting steps of the truly disabled.

  Hajab headed back to the shade of his chair. Hot day like this, it didn’t pay to expend precious energy. He settled his haunches on the thin plastic seat and wiped his brow. If things got crazy inside, that wasn’t his problem.

  He sat back, stretched his legs, and took a long sip of tea. Unfolding the paper, he turned to the classified section, became engrossed in the used car ads. Forgetting his surroundings, forgetting the Japanese, the jokers and malingerers. Not paying the stragglers one bit of attention, and certainly not noticing two of them who hadn’t arrived on the truck with the others. Who’d emerged, instead, during the height of the commotion created by the Japanese, from a thicket of pines growing just outside the chain-link border at the rear of the hospital compound.

  They wore long, heavy robes, these two, and dangling burnooses that concealed their faces. And though they hadn’t been required to use them, in their pockets were refugee cards closely resembling the ones issued by UNRWA. Reasonable facsimiles, printed up just hours before.

  Inside the hospital, things were indeed crazy. The air-conditioning system had broken down, turning the building into a steam bath. Two volunteer doctors hadn’t shown up, appointments were already running an hour behind schedule, and the patient load was heavy, injured and sick men spilling out of the waiting room and into the main hallway, where they stood, squatted, sat, and leaned against the plaster walls.

  The stagnant air was fouled by unwashed bodies and infection. Nahum Shmeltzer staked out a place against the north wall and watched the comings and goings of doctors, nurses, and patients, with a jaundiced eye.

  The little false mustache was ridiculous, perched above his lip like a piece of lint. He hadn’t shaved or showered and felt as unclean as the rest of them. To top it off, the robes Latam had provided him were abrasive as horsehair, heavy as lead. He was sweating like a sick man, starting to feel really feverish—how was that for method acting?

  The only bright spot was the smile the costume had elicited from Eva. He’d picked her up at Hadassah, taken her home, tried to get her to eat, then held her for four hours before falling asleep, knowing she’d be up all night, waiting by the phone. The old man was close to death; she kept wanting to return to the hospital, afraid of missing the moment he slipped away.

  Still, when Shmeltzer had gotten up at five and put on the Arab get-up, the corners of her mouth had turned up—only for a moment, but every little bit helped. . . . Shit, he was uncomfortable.

  Daoud didn’t seem to mind any of it, he noticed. The Arab stood across the hall, blending in with the others, cool as rain. Making occasional eye contact with Shmeltzer, but mostly just fading into the background. Backing up against the door of the Records Room and waiting for Shmeltzer’s signal before making unobtrusive movements with his hands.

  Movements you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for them. The hands busy at the lock but the face blank as a new note pad.

  Maybe Arabs weren’t bothered by this kind of thing, thought Shmeltzer. If they could be trusted, they’d make great undercover men.

  Arabs. Here he was, surrounded by them. Except for prison camp duty in ’48, he’d never been with so many of them at one time.

  If they knew who he was, they’d probably tear him apart. The Beretta would pick off a few, but not enough. Not that they’d ever find out. He’d looked in the mirror after putting on the outfit, surprised himself with what a good Arab he made. Ahmed Ibn Shmeltzer . . .

  Someone lit a cigarette. A couple of others followed suit. A guy next to him nudged him and asked if he had a smoke. All that despite the fact that the American nurse, Cassidy, had come out twice and announced No Smoking in loud, lousy Arabic.

  The Arabs ignored her; a woman talking, she might just as well have been a donkey braying.

  “Smoke?” repeated the guy, nudging again.

  “Don’t have any,” Shmeltzer said in Arabic.

  The Cassidy girl was out in the hall again, calling out a name. A beggar on crutches grunted and bumped his way toward her.

  Shmeltzer looked at the nurse as she escorted the cripple to an examining room. Plain as black bread, no breasts, no hips, the type of dry cunt always exploited by greasy sheikhs like Al Biyadi.

  A few minutes later, the sheikh himself stepped out of another examining room, all pressed and immaculate in his long doctor’s coat. He glanced at the mob of patients with disdain, shot his cuffs, and exposed a flash of gold watch.

  A white swan among mud ducks, thought Shmeltzer, and he knows it. He followed Al Biyadi’s path across the hall and into the Records Room. Daoud had moved away from the door, sat down, and was feigning sleep.

  Al Biyadi used a key to open the door. Arrogant young snot—what the hell was he doing working here instead of renting a suite of offices in Ramallah or on a good street in East Jerusalem? Why lower himself to stitching up paupers when he could be raking in big money attending to landowners’ families or rich tourists at the Intercontinental Hotel?

  The initial research had shown him to be a playboy with expensive tastes. Hardly the type to go in for do-gooding. Unless there was an ulterior motive.

  Like access to victims.

  Dani’s theory was that the Butcher was a psycho with something extra—a racist out to cause trouble between Jews and Arabs. Shmeltzer wasn’t sure he bought that, but if it was true, it only strengthened his own theory: Al Biyadi was a closet radical and best bet for the Butcher. He’d said as much at the emergency staff meeting last night. No one had agreed or disagreed.

  But he fit, the snot, including the fact that he’d lived in America.

  Ten years ago, Nahum, Dani had objected. Their typical debate.

  How do you know?

  Our passport records confirmed it during the initial research.

  Ten years. Four years too late to matc
h two of the murders from the FBI computer.

  But Shmeltzer wasn’t ready to let go of the bastard that easily. Before settling in Detroit, Michigan, for college, Al Biyadi had lived in Amman, attending a high-priced boarding school, the same one Hussein’s kids went to. Rich kid like that, he could have easily gone back and forth between Jordan and America as a tourist, using a Jordanian passport. Any trips taking place before his return to Israel wouldn’t show up in their files.

  American Immigration would have records of them, though. Dani had agreed to get in touch with them, though if past history was any indicator, getting the information would take weeks, maybe months.

  Meanwhile, as far as Nahum Shmeltzer was concerned, the book was still open on Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi. Wide open.

  Anyway, there was no reason to be wedded to the American murders. Maybe the similarity was just a coincidence—a strong one, granted, what with the caves and the heroin. But maybe certain types of sex maniacs operated in patterns, some common psychological thread that made them carve up women in similar ways, dump them in caves. Dani’s black friend had said the match was too close for coincidence. An American detective would know plenty about that, but even he was theorizing. There was no hard evidence. . . .

  Al Biyadi came out of the Records Room bearing several charts, locked it, stepped over Daoud, and pursed his lips in distaste.

  Prissy, thought Shmeltzer. Maybe a latent homosexual—the head-doctor had said serial killers often were.

  Look at the woman he chose: The Cassidy girl had no meat on her—not much of a woman at all, especially for a hotshot rich kid like Al Biyadi.

  A strange pairing. Maybe the two of them were in it together. Closet radicals intent on fomenting violent revolution—a killing team. He’d always liked the idea of more than one murderer. Multiple kill spots, a partner to help carry stuff to and from the cave, serve as lookout, do a nice thorough washing of the bodies—nursie serving doctor.