The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Three laughing, round-faced infants.

  This doesn’t make sense, he told himself. But it was nice. He didn’t fight it.

  The portrait took on color, depth, achieved photographic realism. A sky-sized mural.

  Four giant faces—his own face, smiling now. Beaming down from the heavens.

  “Who?” he asked, staring at the infants. They seemed to be smiling at him, following him with their eyes.

  “Our children,” said the girl. “One day we’ll make beautiful babies together. You’ll be the best father in the world.”

  “How?” asked Daniel, knowing her, but not knowing her, still dream-baffled. “How will I know what to do?”

  The blond girl smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “When the time comes, you’ll know.”

  Daniel thought about that. It sounded right. He accepted it.

  At eight-thirty, Gene and Luanne arrived with flowers and chocolates. Gene chatted with him, slipped him a cigar, and told him he expected a speedy recovery. Luanne said he looked great. She bent and kissed his forehead. She smelled good, minty and clean. When they left, Laura went with them.

  The next afternoon was spent tolerating a visit from Laufer and other members of the brass. Faking drowsiness in the middle of the D.C.’s little speech.

  Laura returned at dinnertime with the children and his father, bringing shwarma and steak pitas, cold beer and soda. He hugged and kissed all of them, stroked Mikey’s and Benny’s buttery cheeks, let them play with the wheelchair and fiddle with the television. Watched Shoshi stare out the window, not knowing what to say.

  His father stayed late, taking out a Tehillim and singing psalms to him in a sweet, soothing voice, using ancient nigunim from Yemen that synchronized with his heartbeat.

  When he woke up, it was nine forty-five. The room was dim; his father was gone. Only the psalmbook remained, closed on his nightstand. He picked it up, managed to open it one-handed, chanted the old tunes softly.

  Shmeltzer burst into the room minutes later. A heavyset nurse followed on his heels, protesting that visiting hours were long over; this patient had already had too many visitors.

  “Off my back, yenta,” said the old detective. “I’ve put up with your rules long enough. This is official police business. Tell her, Dani.”

  “Official police business.” Daniel smiled. “It’s all right.”

  The nurse placed her hands on her hips, adjusted her cap, said, “It may be all right with you, but you don’t make the rules, Pakad. I’m calling the attending doctor.”

  “Go, call him,” said Shmeltzer. “While you’re at it, take a tumble with him in the linen closet.”

  The nurse advanced on him, fumed, retreated. Shmeltzer dragged a chair to the bed and sat down.

  “Bastard’s real name was Julian Heymon,” he said. “American, from Los Angeles, rich parents, both dead. A loser from day one, kicked out of Sumbok—why, we don’t know, but a place like that, it had to be serious. He couldn’t get into any other medical school and tramped around the U.S., living off inheritance and attending medical conventions using false identities. Our busting him helped the FBI close fourteen murders. There are at least five other possibles. Don’t hold your breath waiting for thanks.

  “The real Sorrel Baldwin was a medical administrator from Texas, bright young guy on his way up—earned a master’s degree at the American University and stayed on to work at their hospital when Beirut was still Zurich East. He stayed a year, returned to the U.S. in ’74, took a position running a fancy pathology lab in Houston that catered to heart surgeons—Heymon’s father was a heart surgeon, a Yid—do you believe that! So there may have been some weird connection there. In the shit we found in the German Colony house, there are multiple references to another father, some guy named Schwann. We’re still trying to sort that out, along with boxes of the preserved animal corpses and Nazi shit that he scrawled on the walls. He filled a couple of notebooks, too, labeled them EXPERIMENTAL DATA: REAL SCIENCE, but it was mostly incoherent crap—psycho ravings, torture experiments. From what I can tell, you were right about the racial angle. We found the phrase Project Untermensch several times—something about using the murders to set us against the Arabs, them against us, until we wiped each other out. Finishing off—”

  Shmeltzer stopped. Cleared his throat, looked out the window. “Anyway, that’s the long and short of—”

  “Finishing off Shoshi was his final ploy,” said Daniel. “He planned to mutilate her, leave a note next to the body attributing it to an Arab revenge group.”

  Shmeltzer nodded. “According to his notes, his next destination was somewhere in Africa—South Africa or Zimbabwe. Pit whites against blacks. Far as I’m concerned, it was all bullshit. Shmuck enjoyed killing, plain and simple. Tried to gussy it up with political motivation. Whatever you did to him was too good.”

  Daniel closed his eyes. “What happened to the real Baldwin?”

  “That’s one to feel sorry for,” said Shmeltzer. “Poor devil was on top of the world until he attended a medical finance convention in New York, back in ’75. Had dinner with some other administrators, went out for a stroll, and was never heard from again.”

  “Ten years ago,” said Daniel, remembering what Gene had said about America: Big country, big mess. Missing persons who stayed missing.

  “Heymon was patient, I’ll say that for him,” said Shmeltzer. “He held on to Baldwin’s papers—for four years used them only to get duplicates, transcripts. We found other false IDs in the German Colony house, so the bastard had his pick. In ’79 he got a job, as Sorrel Baldwin—an administrator in an abortion clinic in Long Beach, California. Four years later, he hooked up with the U.N.—Baldwin’s résumé was first-rate, not that they’re that picky. He pushed U.N. paper in New York for a while—probably enjoyed working for Waldheim, eh?—studied Arabic, then applied for the Amelia Catherine job and got it. The rest is history.”

  “What about Khoury, the girlfriend?”

  “She claims to be as shocked as anyone. We’ve got nothing that proves otherwise. She says she knew Baldwin—Heymon—was a weird one. Never tried to get her in bed, happy just to hold hands and gaze at the stars, but she never suspected, blah blah blah. We’ll keep an eye on her anyway. Maybe I’ll assign Cohen to it—she’s a looker, comes on strong.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  Shmeltzer shrugged. “According to him, perfect—big John Wayne thing, for the moment. When you get down to it, he didn’t go through that much. Your finishing off Heymon gave his heroin dose time to wear off. Cohen woke up all by himself, saw the animal heads, and probably thought he’d died and gone to hell. But he denies it, says it was funny—some joke, eh? He wriggled to a phone, put a pencil in his teeth, and dialed 100. By the time Daoud and the Chinaman got there, he was out of his ropes, bragging how simple it had been. He’ll get credit for the German Colony bust, a promotion, like all of us. You’re the only one who got bruised—tough, luck, eh?”

  “Me and Richard Carter,” said Daniel.

  “Yeah, tough luck for him too,” said Shmeltzer. “Guy’s at Hadassah, but he’ll live. The watchman, Hajab, got a split mouth. The teeth you knocked out were false—let the fucking U.N. buy him a new bridge. Needless to say, the bastards from the Hill of Evil Counsel tried to raise a stink, bring you up on charges, but the brass and the mayor stood up for you. Something about tearing down the fucking hospital for national security purposes.”

  Daniel coughed. Shmeltzer poured him a glass of water, held the glass to his lips.

  “Two other tidbits, Adon Pakad. Amira Nasser, the red-headed whore, supposed to be in Amman all this time? Rumor has it that she was on Shin Bet’s payroll, free-lancing for dollars, on top of her street work, in order to pick up on bomb talk. When she encountered Heymon, started talking about it, Shin Bet pulled her off, sent her to a safe house in the Negev.”

  Daniel sat up, was hit with a wave of pain. “Nice guys. They couldn�
�t have let us talk to her, given us the ID?”

  “Bad timing, low priority,” said Shmeltzer. “Rumor has it that she didn’t get a good look anyway.”

  “Rumor has it, eh? Your friend been getting talkative?”

  Shmeltzer shrugged again, adjusted his glasses. “My famous fatal charms. She thinks I’m still available, wants to get on my good side.”

  “What’s the second tidbit?”

  “More wonderful timing. Remember that pregnant kibbutznik I talked to—Nurit Blau, used to be a tour guide for the Nature Conservancy, had total amnesia? She saw Baldwin’s picture in the papers, this morning. Called me up and said, oh, yeah, that guy, he was on one of my tours, snooping around. Anyway, I can be of help, blah blah blah—idiot, probably give birth to a cabbage.”

  Daniel laughed.

  The door opened. The heavy nurse stormed in, a young doctor at her side.

  “Him,” she said, pointing at Shmeltzer.

  “Finished so soon?” Shmeltzer said to the doctor. “Tsk, tsk, not good at all, got to work on your staying power.”

  The doctor was perplexed. “Adon,” he began.

  “Good night, Pakad.” Shmeltzer saluted, and left.

  CHAPTER

  72

  A candle burned on the nightstand.

  At least another two kilos gained, estimated Daoud, as he watched Mona get into bed. She’d unbraided her hair and combed it out to a black, glistening sheet that hung past her waist. And what a waist! Her softness concealed by a tent of soft cotton nightgown, but the curves coming through—all that comforting roundness.

  She got in beside him, causing the bed coils to creak, laid her head on his chest, and sighed. Fragrant of cologne and the sweets he’d bought her: sugar-coated almonds, Swiss chocolate filled with fruit paste, honeyed figs.

  “Was the dinner acceptable?” she asked timidly.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to eat or drink?”

  “No.”

  She lay there, breathing heavily. Waiting, the way a woman should, for him to make the first move.

  The closet-sized bedroom was silent; an open window revealed a starry Bethlehem sky. All six children and Grandma finally put to bed. The rugs beaten, the kitchen washed down and aired.

  Time to rest, but even after the heavy meal and sweet tea, he was unable to unwind. All those hours spent in the shadows, waiting, watching, and now it was over. Like that.

  Thank God, no more murders. But still, a letdown.

  He’d done his job well, there were promises of promotion, but when the end had come, he’d been sitting and watching and waiting.

  Much talk of all of them being heroes, but the Yemenite was the true hero, had met the killer face to face, washed his hands in the devil’s blood.

  He’d visited Sharavi in the hospital, brought him a cake Mona had baked, moist and rich, spiced with anise, stuffed with raisins and figs.

  The Yemenite had eaten with him. Commended his performance, repeated the promises of promotion.

  Still, he wondered what lay ahead.

  Walking the line. Serving at the pleasure of strangers.

  Cases like the Butcher came up once in a century. What further use would they have for him, waiting and watching? Betraying his Arab brethren? Making more enemies, like the one in Gaza?

  Mona’s dimpled hand caressed his chin. She purred like a well-fed cat, eager, ready to take him in, make another baby.

  He rolled over, looked at her. Saw the pretty face, cushioned, like a piece of gift glass.

  She closed her eyes, pursed her lips.

  He kissed her, propped himself up, hiked up his night-shirt, and prepared to climb atop the mountain.

  Mona parted her thighs and extended her hands toward him.

  Then the phone rang in the sitting room.

  “Oh, Elias,” she murmured.

  “One moment,” he said, climbed out of bed, and went in to answer it.

  He picked up the receiver. The ringing had wakened the baby. Covering one ear to blot out its cries, he placed the other against the phone.

  “Daoud? Chinaman here.”

  “Good evening.”

  “I’m at French Hill. Got an assignment for you, interrogation.”

  “Yes,” said Daoud, smoothing his shirt down, suddenly alert. “Tell me.”

  “You know all those confessors that have been crawling out of the woodwork since the Butcher thing closed? Finally we’ve got one that looks promising—for the Gray Man. Old plumber, in gray work clothes, marched into Kishle a few hours ago, carrying a knife and crying that he did it. They would have kicked him out as a fake, but someone was smart enough to notice that the knife matched the pathologist’s description. We hustled it over to Abu Kabir—blade fits right into the wound mold. Guy’s an Arab, so we thought you’d be the one to handle it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “When can you be here?”

  The baby had gone back to sleep. Daoud heard a sound from the bedroom, turned and saw Mona, filling the width of the doorway. A plaintive look on her face, like a kid begging for goodies but not expecting any.

  Daoud calculated mentally.

  Mona clasped her hands across her pendulous belly. The nightgown rippled. Her earrings shone brightly in the candlelight.

  “Ninety minutes, maybe less,” said Daoud. Then he hung up and pulled off his nightshirt.

  CHAPTER

  73

  The best disco in Tel Aviv: huge, tropical motif, silk ferns and papier-mâché palms, green-and-black velvet walls and aluminum-rainbow ceiling, strobe lights, a high-tech German sound system that could make your ears bleed.

  The best drinks too. Russian vodka, Irish whisky, American bourbon, French wine. Freshly squeezed orange and grapefruit juice for mixers. And food: barbecued lamb ribs at the bar. Fried eggplant, steak on bamboo skewers, shwarma, shrimp, Chinese chicken salad.

  American rock, all back-beat and screaming guitars.

  The best-looking girls, going crazy to the music, making love to every note. Scores of them, each one a perfect doll, as if some horny Frankenstein had invented a Piece of Ass Machine and turned it on full-force tonight. Firm breasts and jiggling tushes, hair tosses and glossy white smiles turned multicolor by strobe flashes.

  Hip-thrusting, wiggling, as if the dance were sex itself.

  Avi sat smoking at a corner table near the bar, by himself. Wondering if it had been wrong to come.

  A slim brunette at the bar had been making eyes at him for five minutes, crossing and uncrossing silver lamé legs, sucking on a straw, and letting one high-heeled slipper dangle from her toes.

  But a hungry look on her face that made him feel uneasy.

  He ignored her, ate a shrimp without tasting it.

  Another guy came over and asked her to dance. The two of them walked off together.

  Twenty-dollar cover charge, plus drinks, plus food. He had thought this would be the way to wipe his head clean, but was it?

  The noise and drinks and laughter seemed only to make everything worse. Emphasizing the difference between good clean turn-ons and what had happened to him. Like putting what had happened into a picture frame and hanging it on the wall for everyone to see.

  It was crazy, but he couldn’t help feeling branded, couldn’t shake the thought that everyone knew about him, knew exactly what the fucking pervert had done to him.

  Those eyes. Bound and gagged, he’d looked up into them, seen the grin, known the meaning of evil.

  I’m saving you, pretty one. Thank me for it. . . .

  Another girl sat down at the bar. Strawberry blonde, tall and fair, not his usual type. But nice. She spoke to the bartender, lit a cigarette while he prepared her something lime-green and foamy in a brandy snifter, a piece of pineapple stuck on the rim.

  She smoked, drummed her fingers on the bar top, bobbed in time to the music, then started looking around. Her eyes fell upon Avi. She checked him out, head to toe. S
miled and sipped and smoked and batted her lashes.

  Nice lashes. Nice smile. But he wasn’t ready for it.

  Didn’t know when he’d ever be.

  Frame it and hang it on the fucking wall.

  Everyone knew. Though the secret sat like a stone in his chest.

  Last night he’d awakened, smothered by the stone, cold and damp and relentless. Struggling against dream bonds, unable to breathe . . .

  Pretty one.

  The strawberry blonde swiveled on her stool in order to give him a full front view. Lush figure, all curves. Red brocade shorty jacket over black leotard. Low cut. Healthy chest, lots of cleavage. Long, shiny hair that she played with, knowing it was gorgeous. Maybe the color was natural—he wasn’t close enough to tell for sure.

  Very nice.

  A flash of green strobe light turned her into something reptilian. It lasted for only a second but Avi turned away involuntarily. When he looked again she was bathed in warm colors, nice again.

  He smoked.

  She smoked.

  Big-shot Lover Boy.

  Everyone had nice words for him—Sharavi, the Arab, even old Shmeltzer.

  Far as they knew, he’d slept through it all, dosed up on heroin.

  Didn’t know the maniac had let him come out of it, didn’t know what the fucking shit had done with him.

  To him.

  Making him the woman. Calling him pretty one, cursing in German as he played out his filthy . . .

  The agony, the shame. After the fucking shit left, he bloodied his hands freeing himself, dressed himself before they had a chance to find out the truth.

  The next day, he’d driven all the way to Haifa, found a doctor up on the Carmel, and using a false name, told a lame story about bleeding hemorrhoids which the doctor hadn’t even pretended to believe. Cash up front had stifled any questions. Ointments, salves, the blood test results back yesterday.

  Everything normal, Mr. Siegel.

  Normal.

  The secret intact. He returned to Headquarters a hero.

  If any of them ever found out, they’d never look at him the same.

  He wanted desperately to put the memories out of his mind, but they kept returning—in dreams and daydreams, filling empty moments, dominating his thoughts.