The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Those names I read you,” said Daniel. “It would be nice if any of them turn up on your passport records.”

  “All of them are serious suspects?” asked the Dutchman.

  “As serious as we’ve got.” Daniel knew Van Gelder wanted more, a ranking of the names in terms of seriousness; he regretted not being able to provide it. “Anything you can find out about any of them would be tremendously helpful.”

  “Should a passport check prove positive, we’ll be glad to pursue it with the hotels, the airlines, tour bus operators, canal boat drivers, local merchants. If any of those people were in Amsterdam during Gaikeena’s murder, we’ll provide you with the most precise records of their whereabouts and activities that we can muster. I’ll be in England for a week on holiday. While I’m gone, the man to talk to is Pieter Bij Duurstede.” Van Gelder spelled it, said, “He’s a chief inspector, a very conscientious fellow. He’ll contact you immediately if something turns up.”

  Van Gelder gave Daniel Bij Duurstede’s direct-dial phone number, then said, “Meanwhile, I’ll be watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.”

  Daniel laughed. “Thank you, Commissaris. You’ve been tremendously helpful.”

  “Doing my job,” said Van Gelder. He paused. “You know, we Dutch pride ourselves on our tolerance. Unfortunately, that tolerance is sometimes mistaken for passivity.” Another pause. “Let’s catch this madman, my friend. Show him we have no tolerance for his brand of evil.”

  CHAPTER

  59

  Everyone was on time, even Avi, looking like a schoolboy with his short haircut and clean-shaven face; the skin where the beard had been, a sleek bluish-white.

  Daniel turned to the summary of the medical charts and began:

  “All three of them were patients at the Amelia Catherine. Nahum and Elias obtained the files this morning and I’ve abstracted the contents. Both Fatma and Shahin were seen at the Woman’s General Health Clinic, which is held three out of four Thursdays a month. The second Thursday each month is devoted to specialty clinics for women—gynecology and obstetrics; eye diseases; ear, nose, and throat; skin; and neurology. Juliet attended Neurology Clinic to get a refill of her epilepsy medicine.

  “Fatma first: The Thursday before she left the monastery, she was seen, treated for a vaginal rash and pubic lice. The American nurse, Peggy Cassidy, seems to have done most of the actual examining and treating. According to her notes, Fatma came in claiming she was a virgin, had no idea where she could have picked up the lice, or the rash—which turned out to be a yeast infection, something called Candida albicans. During the health screening interview, however, she quickly broke down, admitted she’d been having inter-course with her boyfriend, had brought shame upon her family, and had been kicked out of her home. Cassidy described her as ‘suffering from an agitated depression, fearful, isolated, and lacking in psychosocial support.’ In addition to the guilt about losing her virginity and fear of her family, Fatma was convinced she’d given the lice to Abdelatif and was terrified he’d find out and leave her—though we know from Maksoud, the brother-in-law, that the reverse was probably true. Abdelatif consorted with prostitutes, had infected Maksoud’s entire family with lice more than once.

  “Cassidy dispensed ointment—neomycin sulfate—for the infection and had Fatma take a delousing bath. Her dress was laundered in the hospital washing machine. Cassidy also tried to counsel her psychologically, but wrote that ‘the language barrier and the patient’s defensiveness prevented the development of a therapeutic bond.’ A recheck appointment was scheduled for the following week; Cassidy expressed doubts Fatma would show up. But she did, right on time, at nine-thirty in the morning—consistent with Anwar Rashmawi’s account of observing his sister and Abdelatif leave the New Gate Thursday morning and go different ways. Abdelatif walked to the east side bus station and bought a ticket for Hebron. Now we know where Fatma went.

  “Cassidy’s notes for the second appointment indicate the infection had cleared up, Fatma was free of lice, but emotionally she was worse—‘profoundly depressed.’ Counseling was tried again, with no more success. Fatma was told to return in two weeks, for the next General Health Clinic. Cassidy raised the possibility of a psychiatric consultation. Her notes for both visits were co-signed and concurred with by Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi.”

  The detectives were stone-faced. No one spoke or moved.

  “Now, Juliet,” said Daniel. “She was seen the following Thursday at Neurological Clinic, though the distinctions between the clinics may be in name only. She, too, was seen first by Peggy Cassidy, who noticed the needle marks on her arms and legs, inquired about drug use, and received a denial. Cassidy didn’t believe her, wrote: ‘Patient presents us with symptoms of addiction, as well as mental dullness, perhaps even retardation; possible aphasia due to narcotics abuse, chronic grand mal seizure disorder, or a combination of both.’ The fact that Juliet was a new arrival from Lebanon, lacked family connections and psychosocial support was also recorded.”

  “Another perfect victim,” said the Chinaman.

  Daniel nodded. “Cassidy termed Juliet ‘high-risk for noncompliance,’ also suggested she be given only a small amount of medication to ensure that she returned for an electroencephalogram and intelligence testing. Al Biyadi examined her, dispensed a week’s worth of phenobarbitol and Dilantin, and co-signed Cassidy’s notes. That evening Juliet was murdered.”

  Shmeltzer grunted and shook his head. He’d allowed his beard to grow for several days, looked haggard and old.

  “Our new one, Shahin Barakat,” continued Daniel. “She was seen three times within the last six weeks at the General Health Clinic, the first time by Cassidy and Dr. Carter; the other two by Cassidy and Dr. Al Biyadi. She came in requesting a general checkup, which Cassidy performed and Carter co-signed. Other than an outer-ear infection treated with antibiotics, she was found in good health, though Cassidy noted that she looked depressed. Cassidy also wrote that she ‘related well.’ ”

  “Translate: gullible,” said Shmeltzer.

  “The second visit was a recheck on the ear, which was fine. However, Cassidy noted that she looked even more depressed—sounds familiar, doesn’t it?—and when she was asked about it, began talking about her infertility problems, how being barren had shamed her in the eyes of her husband and his family, how her husband had once loved her but now he hated her. He’d already denounced her once. She was certain he’d complete the talaq and kick her out. To quote Cassidy, she ‘probed for family support and psychosocial resources. Patient reports no siblings, father deceased, a living mother whom she describes as “very sick.” When asked about the nature of the maternal “sickness,” patient responds with visible tension and ambiguous evasions, suggesting some sort of psychiatric problem or other stigmatizing condition.’

  “Cassidy suggested Shahin undergo a pelvic exam as the first stage of diagnosing the cause of her infertility. Shahin asked if any female doctors were available. When informed none were, asked Cassidy to do the exam herself. Cassidy told her she wasn’t qualified for that. Shahin refused to be examined, saying no man other than her husband was allowed to touch her intimately. She also insisted upon an Arab doctor. Cassidy told her the nearest female Arab physician working for UNRWA was a general practitioner who volunteered once a month at a mobile clinic set up in the Deir El Balah camp in Gaza—she’d be happy to arrange a referral. Shahin refused, saying Gaza was too far to travel. At that point, Cassidy gave up, writing: ‘Patient is still firmly in the denial stage regarding her infertility and the status of her marriage. As the marital stress increases she may be more amenable to diagnostic evaluation.’

  “Shahin’s final visit was two days ago. At that time, she was described by Cassidy as ‘profoundly depressed.’ Her husband had completed the talaq, she had nowhere to go, nothing to eat. A weight check showed she’d lost three kilos during the month since the second visit. She explained to Cassidy that she’d lost her appetite, hadn�
��t eaten or slept since being banished, had camped under one of the old trees near the Garden of Gethsemane, didn’t care if she lived or died. Cassidy found her blood pressure to be very low, got her some food and a bath, and tried to offer ‘supportive counseling.’ Shahin expressed fears that she was going insane, admitted that her own mother was mentally ill and her husband had always told her she’d inherit it. Cassidy suggested temporary bed rest in one of the hospital wards, with eventual placement at a women’s shelter. Shahin refused, though she did accept more food. Then, according to Cassidy, she walked out of the hospital against medical advice. Al Biyadi never saw her but he co-signed Cassidy’s notes and concurred with them.”

  Daniel looked up from the summary.

  “Three rootless women, two of them scared and depressed and abandoned, the other a mentally deficient drug addict on the run, with no family ties. As Yossi said, perfect victims, except that the killer hadn’t counted on Abdin Barakat’s enduring love for Shahin. If Elias hadn’t gotten him to open up, we’d still be wondering about the common thread.”

  Daoud acknowledged the compliment with the stingiest of nods.

  “Cassidy and Al Biyadi saw all three of them,” said Daniel. “Carter saw one of them. Both doctors’ contacts appear to have been minimal—a quick look and out the door. Given the patient load at the clinics, it’s possible Fatma’s and Juliet’s names wouldn’t have meant anything to them. But Peggy Cassidy spent time with them. She’d be likely to remember, so at best she withheld material knowledge. At worst—”

  “At worst is more like it,” said Shmeltzer. “Motive, opportunity, means. She and Lover Boy, together.”

  “What’s the motive?” asked the Chinaman.

  “What Dani’s been saying: The two of them are PLO symps, want to pit us against the Arabs, cook up a revenge bloodbath.”

  Daniel noticed Daoud smile at the use of the word us, then lose the smile, quickly. He, too, was unshaven, fatigued. Sitting next to the older man. Scruffy comrades-in-arms.

  “A perfect setup,” Shmeltzer said. “Hundreds of patients coming in and out of that place, the women one day, the men the next. Cassidy screens them, selects the vulnerable ones. As a woman, it’s easy to get them to trust her. To relate. She reassures them the needle is going to make them feel better, calm them down. Then Lover Boy enters and . . .” Shmeltzer drew a finger across his throat.

  Stalking the herd, thought Daniel. Picking off the weak ones.

  “Three kill spots,” continued Shmeltzer. “The cave and each of their rooms.” He turned to Daoud. “Show them the plans.”

  Daoud unfurled the Mandate-era blueprint of the Amelia Catherine’s ground floor and spread it across the center of the conference table. Everyone leaned forward. Daoud pointed to several rooms on the west wing freshly relabeled in red.

  “These were formerly servants’ rooms,” he said. “Now they’re staff quarters. Nahum memorized the door plates.”

  “He did, also,” said Shmeltzer. Frowning at Daoud: “False modesty’s no virtue.”

  “Al Biyadi’s room is right here at the end, closest to the back door,” said Daoud. “Cassidy’s is here, right next to his.”

  “No big surprise if there’s a connecting door between them,” said Shmeltzer. “Two sinks, two bathtubs, plenty of space to butcher and wash at leisure. Easy access to dope, knives, sheets, towels, soap, the hospital washing machine. A few steps to the rear door of the hospital and a quick walk in the darkness down to that tunnel we found.”

  “How far is the end of the tunnel from the murder cave?” asked Daniel.

  “Good couple kilometers,” said Shmeltzer, “but if you went down at night, you could easily escape notice. One of them carries the body; the other, the equipment. All that brush offers a straight, camouflaged track from the hospital to the desert. An aerial view would show one strip of green among many—we could probably get some photos from the air force to prove it.”

  “If they’ve got two rooms, why the cave?” asked the Chinaman.

  “Who the hell knows? They’re crazy,” said Shmeltzer. “Political, but two crazy assholes—a marriage made in hell.”

  Daniel studied the blueprint, then rolled it up and put it next to his notes. “Any chance you were noticed going over the side?”

  “Doubtful,” said Shmeltzer. “They didn’t look for me seriously. Baldwin probably saw it as one crazy old Arab who’d limped off somewhere to die—high risk for noncompliance. They’re probably used to it.”

  Daoud nodded in agreement.

  “What about the missing files?” asked Daniel.

  “Sure, if someone was looking for them,” said Shmeltzer. “But why would they?”

  “Why would Cassidy and Al Biyadi do something as obvious as killing their own patients?” asked Daniel. “And why would they leave records? Why not destroy the charts?”

  “Arrogance,” said Shmeltzer. “Typical U.N. arrogance. They’ve been violating their charter every day since ’48, getting away with shit for so long, they think they’re invulnerable. On top of that, Cassidy and Al Biyadi are both arrogant as individuals—she’s a cold bitch; he prances as if he owns the place, treats the patients as if they’re subhuman.”

  “Sounds like any doctor,” said the Chinaman.

  Daniel recalled his first and only encounter with Al Biyadi, the young physician’s nervous hostility. He remembered the frosty reception Baldwin had given him, how the Amelia Catherine people had made him feel like a foreigner on his own native soil.

  The big pink building had been the logical place to begin. The killer had done his initial dirty work close to home, studying Yaakov Schlesinger’s disciplined schedule, knowing when it was safe to cross the road and dump Fatma’s body. Then dumping Juliet and Shahin across town to divert attention from Scopus.

  Now the investigation had come full circle.

  Two deaths later.

  His mind started to fill with maddening hindsights. Again. Should-haves and could-haves that gnawed at him like tapeworms.

  “Anyone at the hospital could have been watching for vulnerable patients,” he said. “Not just Al Biyadi and Cassidy. Anyone could have gained access to those charts—look how easily you got hold of them. And let’s remember Red Amira Nasser’s weird-eyed American. No way could Biyadi be mistaken for a Westerner. In light of what we know, Amira’s story may be irrelevant, but it would still be nice to get a detailed description from her. Is Mossad still claiming they can’t find her in Jordan, Nahum?”

  “Not a trace,” said Shmeltzer. “It could be the truth, or just more of their cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Either way, I think her story is irrelevant, one of Little Hook’s fantasies. We found no record of her being treated at the Amelia Catherine. She doesn’t fit the mold. And if you want a weird-looking American, why not Cassidy? Maybe she dressed up like a man—she’s a mannish type, anyway. Maybe that’s what impressed Nasser as being weird.”

  “Maybe,” said the Chinaman, “she had one of those sex-change operations.” He chuckled. “Maybe she had balls sewn on ’cause she wanted to be another Golda.”

  Weak smiles all around.

  “With clinics every Thursday, why the time lag?” said Avi. “Two murders a week apart, then nothing until last Friday.”

  “If Amira Nasser’s story is true,” said Daniel, “he made a play for her exactly a week after Juliet’s murder. A break in modus, but Ben David says psychopaths sometimes do that—it’s evidence of a breakdown in their impulse control. Maybe his failure to snare her gave him pause for a couple of weeks, made him careful.”

  “The Amira story is fantasy,” said Shmeltzer. “More likely that the right victim didn’t show up during the next couple of clinics. Not stupid or vulnerable enough.”

  “Good point, Nahum. But we’ve got eight matching American homicides that aren’t fantasies. When Al Biyadi was being denied a visa, his history was looked into pretty carefully, and according to our records, he was in Amman until 1975, no Am
erican trips. That encompasses the first killing in Los Angeles and the second one in New Orleans. I’ve taken seriously your suggestion that he could have traveled back and forth between Jordan and America prior to ’75, as a tourist. I asked the Americans to check their records, in case we missed something the first time. But that means getting their State Department involved and whenever that happens it means paperwork and long delays. In order to shortcut the process I’ve asked Lieutenant Brooker to use his American connections to help me trace the Amelia Catherine staff’s American activities—see what else we can learn about Al Biyadi and Cassidy and the others.

  “In terms of the others, the Canadian, Carter, examined Shahin the first time. He’s fair-haired, would have had free entry to America. Everything we know about him comes from the Peace Corps report. Let’s take a closer look at him. Then there’s the administrator, Baldwin, who is an American. He runs the hospital, has easy access to every file, keys to every room. I also got the impression that he and his Lebanese secretary, Ma’ila Khoury, have a thing going—maybe he has a love/hate relationship with Arab women.

  “Dr. Darousha and Hajab seem clean,” he continued. “According to Shin Bet, neither has been out of the country since ’67. Hajab’s never even been issued a passport. But we’ll look at them again, anyway. Same for the old nurse, Hauser, whom I can’t imagine harming anyone. The volunteers will be more of a problem. Shin Bet’s passed along a list of about two dozen foreign doctors, nurses, and technicians who volunteer at the Amelia Catherine on an occasional basis. They’re generally affiliated with one of the church groups as well as UNRWA, spend most of their time in the camps. Shin Bet had an old list they’d gotten hold of, didn’t want to burgle the U.N. at this particular time, and obtained this list from a plant in one of the Gaza camps. Just a compilation of names, doesn’t give any idea which volunteers, if any, were present at the Amelia Catherine the days our victims were examined.”