The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The Chinaman lit a cigarette, offered the pack around. Avi and Daoud accepted. The room went thick with smoke.

  “One more piece of information,” said Daniel. “Just before coming here, I received a call from Holland that strengthens the foreigner angle.”

  He recounted his conversation with Van Gelder, said, “None of the permanent Amelia Catherine staff people or volunteers show up on the Indonesian medical school list. It’s possible one of them attended St. Ignatius under a false name—or under a real name which was changed later. The school had a bad reputation; it was eventually closed down. A doctor who managed to transfer to an accredited institution might very well have wanted to disassociate himself from Sumbok. Thinking along those lines also brought me back to Baldwin—a professional medical administrator. Sometimes people who fail to become doctors establish careers working with doctors.”

  “Boss over the doctors,” said Shmeltzer.

  “Exactly. He could have begun medical studies at Sumbok, been unable to transfer to a legitimate school, and gone into pencil pushing. The same logic could apply to one of the volunteer technicians. In any event, the Dutch murder could come in handy—the Gaikeena girl was killed fifteen months ago. Van Gelder is certain no other similar European homicides have been discovered by Interpol, though I’m still trying to confirm that. If the killer went from Amsterdam straight to Israel, he’d probably be using his current name on his passport. Amsterdam’s working on their passport records—I expect a call, soon. I’ve also requested the original American homicide files, which may contain some helpful details, and the Sumbok medical school list. We’ll be trying to trace where the St. Ignatius students went—graduates and dropouts—if any of them filed for name changes. Gene Brooker will take the Americans; I’ll look at everyone else. If we can place anyone in Amsterdam during the time of the Gaikeena murder, and here during our killings, we’ll move on them.”

  “And if not?” said the Chinaman.

  “If none of our traces is fruitful, we’ll have to start looking at all post-Gaikeena travelers from Amsterdam as well as those arriving on any other flight or cruise that stops over in Amsterdam—which includes a good portion of the New York flights. Big numbers.”

  “Bigger than that,” said Shmeltzer, “if the killer went from Amsterdam to Paris, London, Zurich, Istanbul, Athens, Rome, et cetera, and didn’t kill anyone in those places. Just spent enough time to get hold of a false passport before getting on the plane to Ben Gurion. There goes our match.”

  “It’s possible,” Daniel admitted.

  “Are we planning to check every person who’s entered the country since Gaikeena, Dani? Meanwhile, in five days another bunch of potential victims will be herded into that hospital. Why don’t we go the hell in there, have a look at those staff rooms, try for some physical evidence?”

  “Because the brass says absolutely no. They’re furious about our lifting the Amelia Catherine files without informing them first. Trying to get in there legally is also out of the question—no way will the U.N. capitulate without putting up a fuss. The brass is viewing this case primarily in political terms. During the last week, the United States covertly killed seven Arab-sponsored attempts to condemn us in the Security Council because of the murders. There’ve been three more revenge attempts on Jewish women since the Beit Gvura riot. One came dangerously close to tragedy. I didn’t know about any of them until Laufer told me. Did any of you?”

  Shakes of heads.

  “That shows you how serious they are about keeping this quiet. The early ID on Shahin allowed us to keep the story of her murder completely out of the papers. Two Arab dailies found out anyway, through the Old City rumor mill, and tried to sneak through back-page items on her. They had their presses shut down for seventy-two hours. But we can’t control UNRWA. A confrontation with them will shove the entire case back in the limelight. As will a bungled covert—I know that won’t happen, Nahum, but the guys with the wood-paneled offices don’t share my level of confidence. In neither case are they willing to risk a special session of the Security Council based on three medical charts.”

  “That’s not just Laufer trying to stick it to us?” said Avi.

  “No. Since the mayor’s visit, Laufer’s been relatively quiet, though he’s starting to lean on me again. He’s under plenty of pressure to have the case solved, wouldn’t mind some action. The clear message from on top is we need to give them more evidence before they can authorize a move.”

  “Shmucks,” said Shmeltzer. He made circular motions with his hands. “We have to give them evidence before they’ll allow us to look for evidence—what the hell do they want us to do?”

  “Keep a watch on the hospital, on everyone who works there, log who goes in and who goes out.”

  “Surveillance. Very creative,” said Shmeltzer. “While we sit on our asses, the wolves inspect the lambs.”

  “As you said, we’ve got five days until the next clinic,” said Daniel. “If nothing further turns up by then, a pair of female Latam officers will infiltrate the clinic, prevent any outright abduction. In the meantime, let’s talk about the surveillance.”

  Shmeltzer shrugged. “Talk.”

  “Latam has been authorized to give us ten officers—eight men and the two women. Given the size of Amos Harel’s staff, that’s generous, and they’re all good people—Shimshon Katz, Itzik Nash, guys of that caliber. I briefed them this afternoon. They’ll be keeping a general watch on the hospital premises, check out the volunteers, be at our disposal for backup. It’s still a thin spread, but better than nothing. Avi, I want you to stick with Mark Wilbur, keep an especially close eye on his mailbox. This killer is power-mad, craves the attention all those stories brought him. He’ll be watching the papers for something about Shahin. When nothing turns up, he may get angry, do something dramatic to get Wilbur’s attention. It’s crucial you don’t get made, so change your appearance frequently—kipot, hats, eyeglasses, dirty clothes. Litter-skewer and dustbin one day; felafel wagon, the next.”

  “Litter-skewer—there goes your love life, kid,” said the Chinaman, holding his nose and slapping Avi on the back.

  The young detective rubbed his naked jaw and feigned misery. “Worth catching the bastard just so I can grow it back.”

  “The rest of you, these are your assignments.”

  Back in his office, Daniel checked his desk for the Amsterdam wire, found nothing, and asked the message operator about a call from Bij Duurstede.

  “Nothing, Pakad. We have your message to call you immediately.”

  He depressed the button, released it, and phoned Gene at the Laromme.

  The black man picked up on the fourth ring, said, “Nothing interesting, so far. I reached all the medical and the nursing schools, Baldwin’s college in San Antonio, Texas. Far as I can tell, everyone seems to have gone to school where they said they did—this is only verification of graduation I’m talking about. All the clerks promised to check their complete records. I’ll get back to them by the end of their working day, see if they keep their word. They think I’m calling from L.A. Just in case they bother to check, I phoned my desk sergeant, told him to certify me kosher. But they could end up talking to someone else, so fingers crossed. What about those directories of medical specialists I mentioned—does your library have them?”

  “No, only a list of Israeli doctors.”

  “Too bad. Okay, I can call one of my buddies, have him do a little legwork for me. Anything new from your end?”

  Daniel told him about the call from Amsterdam.

  “Hmm, interesting,” said Gene. “A world traveler.”

  “The wounds on the Amsterdam victim matched our first one. Yet ours duplicates the American pattern. To me it seems like he used Amsterdam as a dry run, Gene. Preparing for something big, here.”

  “Something personal,” said Gene. “Fits with the anti-Semite thing.” Silence. “Maybe that island med-school roster will speed things along.”

  �
��Yes. I’d better go now, see if the wire’s arrived. Thanks for everything, Gene. When I hear more I’ll let you know. When are you moving?”

  “Right now. I was just out the door. You sure this is necessary?”

  “I’m sure. Your phone bill’s already enormous. If you won’t let me compensate you, at least use my phone.”

  “Who compensates you?”

  “I’ll put in a requisition form; eventually they’ll reimburse me. Explaining you would be harder.”

  “All right, but I already gave my hotel room as the mailing address to half the departments I spoke to. Someone’s going to have to be checking all the time to see if something comes in.”

  “I’ll do the checking—you do the phoning. Laura’s expecting you. She’s cleared the desk in her studio. There’ll be sandwiches and—”

  “Drinks in the refrigerator. I know. Lu and I were over for Shabbat lunch. Shoshi made the stuff herself, showed me how she wrapped it all in plastic. They’re all planning on going out for ice cream tonight. Call soon—you might still catch them.”

  “Thank you for the tip. Shalom.”

  “Shalom,” said Gene. “And Shavua tov.” The traditional post-Shabbat wish for a good week.

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Your kids have been educating me.”

  Daniel laughed, fought back the loneliness. Said, “Shavua tov.” Wishful thinking.

  Talking to Gene made him want to call home. Laura answered the phone with tension in her voice.

  He said, “Shavua tov. Sorry I haven’t called sooner—”

  “Daniel, the dog’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “Dayan’s gone, run away. He didn’t get out this afternoon, so Shoshi took him for a walk in the park. She met a girlfriend, started talking, and let go of the leash. When she turned around, he’d disappeared. The two of them looked all over for him. She didn’t want to come home, is locked in her room at this moment, hysterical.”

  “Let me speak to her.”

  “Hold on.”

  He waited for a moment. Laura came back on, said, “She’s too upset or ashamed to talk to anyone right now, Daniel.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Right after Shabbat.”

  Over an hour ago. No one had called him.

  “He’s never done this before,” said Laura. “He’s always been such a coward, clinging to your pants leg.”

  No pants leg to cling to for a while, thought Daniel.

  “How are the boys?”

  “Uncharacteristically quiet. Mikey even tried to kiss Shoshi, so you can imagine what it’s been like.”

  “He’ll come back, Laura.”

  “That’s what I think too. I left the lobby door unlocked in case he does. We were planning to go out for ice cream, but I don’t want the poor little guy trotting up and finding us gone.”

  “Gene will be over soon. As soon as he arrives, go out—it will be good for all of you. In the meantime, I’d check with the Berkowitzes on the second floor—Dayan likes their cat. And Lieberman’s grocery—Shoshi takes him by there regularly. Lieberman gives him chicken scraps.”

  “The Berkowitzes haven’t seen him and he wasn’t hanging around near the grocery. I just got off the phone with Lieberman—he’s home, not opening until tomorrow at ten. I asked him to check for Dayan when he comes in. How’m I doing, Detective?”

  “Aleph-plus. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. Anything new?”

  “Some progress, actually. Far from solved, but the net is tightening, bit by bit.”

  She knew better than to ask for details, said, “You’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.” Then: “Will you be home tonight?”

  “I’m planning on it. I’m waiting for a wire from overseas, will head home as soon as I get it. Where will you be going for ice cream? I can pick up Gene—maybe we can catch you.”

  Laura laughed. “What are the chances of that?”

  “Just in case,” said Daniel.

  “Just in case, I thought Café Max. The boys took long naps—they might be able to handle the late hour. If not, we’ll eat on the run, maybe drop in on your dad.” Laura’s voice broke. “I feel so bad about that little dog. I never wanted him in the first place, but now he’s become a part of us. I know it’s not important compared to what you’re dealing with but—”

  “It is important. When I get out of here, I’ll drive around and look for him, okay? Was he wearing his tag?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, one way or another, we’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Why would he go and do this, Daniel?”

  “Hormones. He’s probably feeling romantic. Probably found himself a girlfriend—a Great Dane.”

  Laura laughed again, this time softly. “Put it that way, and I don’t feel so sorry for him.”

  “Me, neither,” said Daniel. “I feel jealous.”

  CHAPTER

  60

  Gone, all three charts.

  Predictable. Boring.

  Borrring.

  He thought about it and stretched his grin until it threatened to split his face, visualized his face dividing in two and reconstituting. Mytosis—wouldn’t that be something? Two superior Aryan Schwann-hemi-faces rolling over Kikeland like nuclear mace balls, churning up the soup, steamrolling the scum . . .

  Three charts, big deal. They probably thought they had a fucking bible, but they were limited thinkers, predictable. Let it lull them into a false sense of superiority.

  Meanwhile, he’d be creative. The key was to be creative.

  Stick to the plan, but allow for improvisation. Float above the scum-sump, trading identity for triumph.

  Clean up afterward.

  No doubt they were watching.

  No doubt they thought they had it all figured out.

  Like Fields had, so long ago. Grand Prix BoJo, all the real science girls.

  All his little pets, now purified, part of him.

  Nightwing.

  Pet names, private identities. Remembering them made him hard.

  Gauguin Girl, washing clothes by the river when he found her. Hi!

  Voodoo Queen, talking gris-gris and mojo and other spooky jive in the light of a wet, yellow Louisiana moon. Taking him to the cemetery, trying to come on evil. But fading without struggle, just like all the others.

  Pocahontas. Trading it all for powdered trinkets.

  Jugs. Twinkie. Stoner. Kikette. Still, white shells lying emptied, explored. All those welcome holes the ultimate memory picture. All the others. So many others. Pet names, limp limbs, last looks before fading to final bliss.

  Last looks full of trust.

  And here: Little Lost Girl. Beirut Bimbo. The Barreness.

  These sand-nigger females the most trusting of all; they respected a man, looked up to a man of position—a man of science.

  Yes, Doctor.

  Do with me what you will, Doctor.

  He’d come to Kikeland with just a general blueprint for Project Untermensch. Discovering that cave on the nature hike had put it all in place—an inspiration jolt straight to the brain, straight to the cock.

  Nightwing II. Meant to be.

  Executive command to Dieter II, directly from the Führergod.

  His own nature hike with Little Lost Girl.

  Wet cavework, then spread out.

  Spread them all out, wiping his ass all over Kike City.

  He started to stroke himself, one hand resting on the dog collar, fondling the dog tag with the kike letters stamped into it—what did it say? Kikemutt?

  Knowing it wouldn’t take long, the safari almost over.

  Rest in peace. Pieces. Clean-up time.

  Surprise, surprise!

  Bow wow wow.

  CHAPTER

  61

  At ten P.M., Amsterdam called. Van Gelder’s man was a slow talker, deep-voiced. No policeman-to-policeman chit-chat: This
one was all business.

  “Am I speaking to Chief Inspector Daniel Sharavi?”

  “You are.”

  “This is Pieter Bij Duurstede, Amsterdam police. Have you received the St. Ignatius medical school list?”

  “Not yet, Chief Inspector.”

  “We wired it to you some time ago. Let me verify.”

  Bij Duurstede put him on hold, came back moments later.

  “Yes, I’ve verified that it was wired and received. Twenty minutes ago.”

  “I’ll verify on my end.”

  “Let me give you something else first. You requested a cross-reference of eight names with our passport list at the time of the Anjanette Gaikeena homicide. Five out of the eight turned up. I’ll read them to you, in alphabetical order: Al Biyadi, H. M.; Baldwin, S. T.; Carter, R. J.; Cassidy, M. P.; Hauser, C.”

  Daniel copied the names in his notebook, just to keep his hands busy.

  “They arrived from London five days before the Gaikeena homicide,” said Bij Duurstede. “All of them traveled on the same flight—Pan American Airlines, number one twenty, first-class passage. They were in London on a one-day stop-over, arrived there on Pan American flight two, from New York, first-class passage. In London they stayed at the Hilton. In Amsterdam, at the Hôtel de l’Europe. They were here a total of six days, attended a three-day United Nations conference on refugees held at The Hague. After the conference, they did some sight-seeing—canal rides, Volendam and Marken, Edam, the Anne Frank house. The tours were arranged by an agency here—I have the records.”

  The Anne Frank house. A street-corner Mengele would have enjoyed that.

  “Over a hundred delegates attended the conference,” added Bij Duurstede. “It’s held every year.”

  “How close is the De l’Europe to where Gaikeena was found?”

  “Close enough. In between is the red light district.”

  The narrow, cobbled streets of the district came into focus again. Bass-heavy rock music blaring from nearby bars, the night air clammy, the waters of the canals black and still. The athletes, bug-eyed at the brazenness of the place: milk-fed blondes and sloe-eyed Orientals selling themselves as easily as chocolate bars. Some working the streets, others posed, half-naked, in blue-lit window tableaux, inert as statuary.