The Butcher's Theatre (3 page)

“We don’t know this one’s a whore,” said Daniel, surprised at the edge in his voice.

Laufer grunted, looked away.

“The wounds differ as well,” said Daniel. “The Gray Man made his incision laterally, on the left side of the throat. He severed the major blood vessels but didn’t cut nearly as deeply as this one—which makes sense, because the Gadish woman, the one who’d survived long enough to talk, described his knife as a small one. This poor girl was just about decapitated, which suggests a larger, heavier weapon.”

“Which would be the cause if he’s gotten angrier and better-armed,” said Laufer. “Progressively more violent. It’s a pattern with sex fiends, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” said Daniel. “But the discrepancies go beyond intensity. The Gray Man concentrated on the upper trunk. Struck at the breasts, but never below the waist. And he killed his victims on the spot, after they began to fellate him. This one was murdered elsewhere. Someone washed her hair and combed it out. Scrubbed her clean.”

Laufer perked up. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

The deputy commander grabbed another Oval, jammed it in his mouth, lit it, and puffed furiously.

“Another one,” he said. “Another mad bastard prowling our streets.”

“There are other possibilities,” said Daniel. “What, another Tutunji?” “It needs to be considered.” “Shit.”

Faiz Tutunji. Daniel uttered the name to himself and conjured the face that went with it: long, sunken-cheeked, snaggletoothed, the same lazy eyes in every arrest photo. A petty thief from Hebron, with a talent for getting caught. Definitely small-time until a trip to Amman had turned him into a revolutionary. He’d come back spouting slogans, assembled six cohorts, and kidnapped a female soldier off a side street not far from the Haifa harbor. Gang-raped her in the Carmel mountains, then strangled her and cut her up to make it look like a sex murder. A Northern District patrol had caught up with them just outside of Acre, trying to force another hayelet into their van at gunpoint. The ensuing shootout had eliminated six out of seven gang members, including Tutunji, and the survivor had produced written orders from Fatah Central Command. Blessings from Chairman Arafat for an honorable new strategy against the Zionist interloper.

“Liberation through mutilation,” spat Laufer. “Just what we need.” He grimaced in contemplation, then said, “Okay. I’ll make the appropriate inquiries, find out if any new rumblings have been picked up. It if turns into a security case you’ll liaison with Latam, Shin Bet, and Mossad.” He began walking up the road, toward the still-quiet southern border of the old Hebrew University campus. Daniel stayed by his side.

“What else?” said the deputy commander. “You said possibilities.”

“Blood revenge. Love gone wrong.”

Laufer digested that.

“A little brutal for that, don’t you think?”

“When passion plays a role, things can get out of hand,” said Daniel, “but yes, I think it’s only a remote possibility.”

“Blood revenge,” Laufer reflected. “She look like an Arab to you?”

“No way to tell.”

Laufer looked displeased, as if Daniel possessed some special insight into what Arabs looked like and had chosen to withhold it.

“Our first priority,” said Daniel, “should be to identify her, then work backward from here. The sooner we assemble the tleam, the better.”

“Fine, fine. Ben-Ari’s available, as is Zussman. Which do

you want?” “Neither. I’ll take Nahum Shmeltzer.”

“I thought he retired.”

“Not yet—next spring.”

“None too soon. He’s a dray horse, burned out. Lacks creativity.”

“He’s creative in his own way,” said Daniel. “Bright and tenacious—well suited for records work. There’ll be plenty of that on this case.”

Laufer blew smoke at the sky, cleared his throat, said finally, “Very well, take him. In terms of your subinspector—”

“I want Yosef Lee.”

“Free egg rolls, eh?”

“He’s a good team worker. Knows the streets, indefatigable.”

“How much homicide experience?”

“He put in time on the old woman from Musrara—the one asphyxiated by the burglar’s gag. And he came onto Gray Man shortly before we … reduced our activity. Along with Daoud, whom I also want.”

“The Arab from Bethlehem?”

“The same.”

“That,” said Laufer, “could prove awkward.”

“I’m aware of that. But the benefits exceed the drawbacks.”

“Name them.”

Daniel did and the deputy commander listened with a bland expression in his face. After several moments of deliberation he said, “You want an Arab, okay, but you’ll have to run a tight ship. If it turns into a security case he’ll be transferred out immediately—for his own good, as well as ours. And it will go down on your record as an administrative blunder.”

Daniel ignored the threat, put forth his next request. “Something this big, I could use more than one samal. There’s a kid over at the Russian Compound named Ben Aharon—” “Forget it on both counts,” said Laufer. He turned on his heel, began walking back to the Volvo, forcing Daniel to follow in order to hear what he was saying. “Business as usual—one samal—and I’ve already chosen him. New hire named Avi Cohen, just transferred from Tel Aviv.”

“What talent does he have to pull a transfer so soon?” “Young, strong, eager, earned a ribbon in Lebanon.” Laufer paused. “He’s the third son of Pinni Cohen, the Labor MK from Petah Tikva.” “Didn’t Cohen just die?”

“Two months ago. Heart attack, all the stress. In case you don’t read the papers, he was one of our friends in Knesset, a sweetheart during budget struggles. Kid’s got a good record and we’d be doing the widow a favor.” “Why the transfer?” “Personal reasons.” “How personal?”

“Nothing to do with his work. He had an affair with the wife of a superior. Asher Davidoff’s blonde, a first-class kurva.”

“It indicates,” said Daniel, “a distinct lack of good judgment.”

The deputy commander waved away his objection. “It’s an old story with her, Sharavi. She goes for the young ones, makes a blatant play for them. No reason for Cohen to eat it because he got caught. Give him a chance.”

His tone indicated that further debate was unwelcome, and Daniel decided the issue wasn’t worth pressing. He’d gotten nearly everything he wanted. There’d be plenty of quiet work for this Cohen. Enough to keep him busy and out of trouble.

“Fine,” he said, suddenly impatient with talk. Looking over his shoulder at the Hagah man, he began mentally framing his interview questions, the best way to approach an old soldier.

“… absolutely no contact with the press,” Laufer was saying, “I’ll let you know if and when a leak is called for.

You’ll report directly to me. Keep me one hundred percent informed.”

“Certainly. Anything else?”

“Nothing else,” said Laufer. “Just clear this one up.”

After the deputy commander had been driven away, Daniel walked over to Schlesinger. He told the uniformed officers to wait by their car and extended his hand to the Hagah man. he one that gripped it in return was hard and dry.

“Adon Schlesinger, I’m Pakad Sharavi. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sharavi?” The man’s voice was deep, hoarse, his Hebrew dipped short by the vestiges of a German accent. “You’re a Yemenite?”

Daniel nodded.

“I knew a Sharavi once,” said Schlesinger. “Skinny little fellow—Moshe the baker. Lived in the Old City before we lost it in ‘48, left to join the crew that built the cable trolley from the Ophthalmic Hospital to Mount Zion.” He pointed pouth. “We put it up every night, dismantled it before sunrise. So the goddamned British wouldn’t catch us sending food and medicine to our fighters.” “My uncle,” said Daniel. “Ach, small world. How’s he doing?” “He died five years ago.” “What from?” “Stroke.”

“How old was he, seventy?” Schlesinger’s face had drawn tight with anxiety, the bushy white eyebrows drooping low over watery blue eyes. “Seventy-nine.” “Seventy-nine,” echoed Schlesinger. “Could be worse. He

was a hell of a worker for a little guy, never griped. You come from good stock, Pakad Sharavi.”

“Thank you,” Daniel pulled out his note pad. Schlesinger’s eyes followed him, stopped, focused on the back of his hand. Stared at the scar tissue. An observant one, thought Daniel.

“Tell me about your patrol,” he said.

Schlesinger shrugged. “What’s there to tell? I walk up and down the road five times a night, scaring away jack-rabbits.”

“How long have you been with Hagah?”

“Fourteen years, first spring out of the reserves. Patrolled Rehavya for thirteen of them, past the Prime Minister’s house. A year ago I bought a flat in the towers on French Hill—near your headquarters—and the wife insisted I take something closer to home.”

“What’s your schedule?”

“Midnight to sunrise, Monday through Saturday. Five passes from Old Hadassah to the Ben Adayah intersection and back.”

“Fifteen kilometers a night,” said Daniel.

“Closer to twenty if you include curves in the road.”

“A lot of walking, adoni.”

“For an old fart?”

“For anyone.”

Schlesinger laughd dryly.

“The brass at the Civil Guard thought so too. They worried I’d drop dead and they’d be sued. Tried to talk me into doing half a shift, but I convinced them to give me a tryout.” He patted his midsection. “Three years later and still breathing. Legs like iron. Active metabolism.”

Daniel nodded appreciatively. “How long does each pass take you?” he asked.

“Fifty minutes to an hour. Twice I stop to smoke, once a shift I take a leak.”

“Any other interruptions?”

“None,” said Schlesinger. “You can set your watch by me.”

“What time did you find the girl?”

“Five forty-seven.”

“That’s very precise.”

“I checked my watch,” said Schlesinger, but he looked uneasy.

“Something the matter?”

The old man glanced around, as if searching for eavesdroppers. Touched the barrel of the M-l and gnawed on his mustache.

“If you’re not certain of the precise time, an estimate will do,” said Daniel.

“No, no. Five forty-seven. Precisely.”

Daniel wrote it down. The act seemed to increase Schlesinger’s uneasiness.

“Actually,” he said, lowering his voice, “that’s the time I called in. Not when I found her.”

Daniel looked up. “Was there much of a time lapse between the two?”

Schlesinger avoided Daniel’s eyes.

“I … when I saw her I became sick. Tossed my dinner into the bushes.”

“An understandable reaction, adoni.”

The old man ignored the empathy. “Point is, I was out of it for a while. Dizzy and faint. Can’t be certain how much time went by before my head cleared.”

“Did it seem more than a few minutes?”

“No, but I can’t be certain.”

“When did you last pass by the spot where you found her?”

“On the way up from the fourth trip. About an hour before.”

“Four-thirty?”

“Approximately.”

“And you saw nothing.”

“There was nothing,” said Schlesinger adamantly. “I make it a point to check the gully carefully. It’s a good place for someone to hide.”

“So,” said Daniel, writing again, “as far as you could tell, she was brought there between four-thirty and five forty-seven.”

“Absolutely.”

“During that time, did you see or hear any cars?”

“No.”

“Anyone on donkey or horseback?”

“No.”

“What about from the campus?” “The campus was locked—at that hour it’s dead.”

“Pedestrians?”

“Not a one. Before I found it… her, I heard something from over there, on the desert side.” He swiveled and indicated the eastern ridge. “Scurrying, a rustle of leaves. Lizards, maybe. Or rodents. I ran my light over it. Several times. There was nothing.”

“How long before you found her did this occur?”

“Just a few minutes. Then I crossed over. But there was no one there, I assure you.”

Daniel lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and looked out at the wilderness: jagged golden heights striped rust and green by ancient terraces, dropping without warning to the bone-white table of the Jordanian Rift; at vision’s end, the shadow-like ellipse that was the Dead Sea. A leaden wedge of fog hovered over the water, dissolving the horizon.

He made a note to have some uniforms go over the slope on foot.

“Nothing there,” repeated Schlesinger. “No doubt they came from the city side. Sheikh Jarrah or the wadi.”

“They?”

“Arabs. This is obviously their dirty work.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She was cut up, wasn’t she? The Arab loves a blade.”

“You said Arabs,” said Daniel. “In the plural. Any reason for that?”

“Just being logical,” said Schlesinger. “It’s their style, the mob mentality. Gang up on someone defenseless, mutilate them. It was a common thing, before your time—Hebron, Kfar Etzion, the Jaffa Gate riots. Women and children slaughtered like sheep. The goddamned British used to stand by and let it happen. I remember one time—end of ‘47—they arrested four of our boys and handed them over to a mob at the Damascus Gate. The Arabs ripped them apart. Like jackals. Nothing left to bury.”

Schlesinger’s face had grown hawklike, the eyes com-rressed to slashes, the mouth under the mustache thin-lipped and grim.

“You want to solve this, son? Knock on doors in East Jerusalem.”

Daniel closed the pad. “One more thing, adoni.”

“Yes?”

“You said you live on French Hill.”

“That’s correct. Just up the road.”

“That’s within walking distance of your patrol route.”

“Correct.”

“And by your own account, you’re a strong walker. Yet you drive your car and park it on Sderot Churchill.”

Schlesinger gave him a stony look.

“Sometimes when I finish,” he said, “I’m not ready to go

ne. I take a drive.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Here and there. Anything wrong with that, Pakad?” The old man’s gutturals were harsh with indignation.

“Nothing at all,” said Daniel, but to himself he thought: Ben adam afor, Carmellah Gadish had gasped, when they’d found her. A gray man. Three barely audible words bubbling from between bloody lips. Then, the loss of consciousness, descent into coma. Death.