The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Not for now,” said Daniel. “Thanks.”

  The two of them stood and Ben David walked him back into the waiting room. A young couple sat at opposite ends of the sofa, arms folded, eyes cast downward. When the door opened, both of them looked up briefly, then returned to staring at the rug. Daniel saw their fear and shame, wondered why Ben David didn’t have a separate exit for his patients.

  “One moment,” the psychologist told the couple. He accompanied Daniel out the front door and to the curb. The morning had filled with traffic and sunshine, the hum of human discourse filtering from Keren Hayesod to the quiet, tree-shaded street. Ben David took a deep breath and stretched.

  “Psychopaths can be arrogant to the point of self-destructiveness,” he said. “He may get careless, make a mistake, and tell you who he is.”

  “Gray Man never did.”

  Ben David tugged at his beard. “Maybe your luck will change.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Ben David placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes softened as he searched for a response. For the first time, Daniel saw him in a different light—paternal, a therapist.

  Then, all at once, he drew away and said,

  “If it doesn’t, more blood.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  He interviewed sex offenders and false confessors all day—wretched men, for the most part, who seemed too downtrodden to plan anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. He’d talked to many of them before. Still, he considered each of them a pathological liar, put them through the entire grilling, reducing some to tears, others to a near-catatonic fatigue.

  At seven he returned home to find Gene and Luanne there, the table set for guests. He didn’t recall Laura mentioning a visit, but lately he’d been far from attentive, so she might very well have spelled it out for him without its sinking in.

  The boys attacked him, along with Dayan, and he wrestled with them, absently, noticing that Shoshi hadn’t come forward to greet him.

  The reason was soon obvious. She and Gene were playing draw poker in a corner of the living room, using raisins for chips. From the size of the piles it was clear who was winning.

  “Flush,” she said, clapping her hands.

  “Oh, well,” said Gene, throwing his cards down.

  “Hello, everyone,” said Daniel.

  “Hello, Abba.” Preoccupied.

  “’Lo, Danny. Your turn to deal, sugar.”

  The boys had run to the back of the apartment, taking the dog with them. Daniel stood alone for a moment, put his attaché case down, and went into the kitchen.

  He found Laura and Luanne at the table, both in light cotton dresses, examining a large white scrapbook—his and Laura’s wedding album.

  “You were both so young,” said Luanne. “Oh, hello, Daniel.”

  “Hello, Luanne.” A smile for Laura.

  She smiled back but got up slowly, almost reluctantly, and he felt more like a stranger than ever.

  “I just called your office,” she said, pecking his cheek. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze, released it, and went to examine the roast in the oven.

  “You were some couple,” said Luanne. “My, my, look at all those coins. That is simply gorgeous.”

  Daniel looked down at the picture that had captured her attention. The formal wedding portrait: he and Laura, holding hands, next to a ridiculously large wedding cake—his mother-in-law’s idea.

  He wore a white tuxedo with a silly-looking ruffled shirt, plum-colored cummerbund and bow tie—the rental store had insisted it was all the rage. Smiling but looking baffled, like a child dressed up for a dance party.

  Laura looked majestic, nothing silly about her. Swallowed up by the Yemenite wedding gown and headdress that had been in the Zadok family for generations but belonged, really, to the Yemenite community of Jerusalem. A treasure, centuries old, lent to any bride who requested it. A tradition that stretched back to San’a, celebrating social equality: The daughters of rich men and beggars came to the huppah dressed in identical splendor, each bride a queen on her special day.

  The gown and headdress and accompanying jewelry were as heavy as chain mail: tunic and pantaloons of crisp gold brocade; three rings on every finger, a trio of bracelets around each wrist; scores of necklaces—strings of silver and gold coins, filigree balls glowing like silver gumdrops, amber beads, pearls and gemstones. The headdress high and conical, layered with alternating rows of black and white pearls and topped by a garland of white and scarlet carnations, the pearl chin-piece hanging down to the clavicle like a glittering, shimmering beard; a fringe of tiny turquoise pendants concealing the top half of the brow, so that only the center of Laura’s face was visible. The young, beautiful features and enormous pale eyes framed and emphasized.

  The night before, she’d had her palms and soles smeared red in the henna ceremony, and now this. She’d barely been able to walk; the merest flick of a wrist elicited a flash of gemfire, the jangle of metal against metal. The old women tended to her, jabbering incomprehensibly, holding her upright. Others scraped out complex rhythms on finger cymbals, coaxed near-melodies from antique goatskin drums. Whooping and chanting and singing women’s songs, the Arabic lyrics subtly erotic. Estelle had gotten right in with them, a small woman, like her daughter. Light-footed, laughing, whooping along.

  The men sat in a separate room, eating, drinking Chivas Regal and arak and raisin brandy and Turkish coffee augmented with arak, linking arms and dancing in pairs, listening to Mori Zadok sing men’s songs in Hebrew and Aramaic. Stories of the Great Ones. The Rambam. Sa’adia Gaon. Mori Salim Shabazi. The other elders followed him, taking turns delivering blessings and divrei Torah that praised the joys of marriage.

  Daniel sat at the center of the table, drinking the liquor that was placed in front of him, remaining clear-headed in the manner of the Yemenites. He was flanked by his father, who sang along in a high, clear tenor, and his new father-in-law, who remained silent.

  Al Birnbaum was fading away. The liquor was turning him pinker by degrees. He clapped his hands, wanting to be one of them, but succeeded only in looking baffled, like an explorer cast among primitives. Daniel felt sorry for him, didn’t know what to say.

  Later, after the yihud ceremony, Al had cornered him, hugging him, slipping money into his pocket and planting a wet kiss on his cheek.

  “This is wonderful, son, wonderful,” he blurted out. His breath was hot, heavy with arak. The band had started playing “Qetsad Merakdim”; celebrants were juggling and dancing before the bride. Al started to sway and Daniel placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Birnbaum.”

  “You’ll take care of her—I know you will. You’re a good boy. Anything you need, ask.”

  “Thank you very much. I appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome, son. The two of you will make a beautiful life together. Beautiful.” A trickle of tears hurriedly wiped and camouflaged by a fit of coughing.

  Later, of course, the phone calls had come. Static-laden long-distance calls buzzing across two continents. Poorly concealed cries of parental loneliness that always seemed to interrupt lovemaking. Not-so-subtle hints about how wonderful things were in California, how was the two-room flat working out, was the heating fixed yet, did it still smell of insecticide? Al had a friend, a lawyer, he might be able to use someone with investigative skills; another friend owned an insurance agency, could steer him into something lucrative. And if he got tired of police work, there was always room in the printing business. . . .

  Eventually, the Birnbaums had accepted the fact that their only child wasn’t coming home. They purchased the Talbieh apartment, all those bedrooms, the kitchen full of appliances, supposedly for themselves. (“For summer visits, darling—would you kids be good enough to house-sit?”)

  The visits took place every year, l
ike clockwork, the first two weeks in August. The Birnbaums arriving with half a dozen suitcases, half of them full of gifts for the kids, refusing the master bedroom and sleeping in the boys’ bunk. Mikey and Benny moving in with Shoshi.

  Thirteen summers, sixteen visits—one extra for the birth of each child.

  The rest of the time, the Sharavis house-sat. More luxury than a policeman could expect . . .

  “You looked like a princess, Laura,” said Luanne, turning a page and studying pictures of dancing Yemenites.

  “I lost two pounds perspiring,” laughed Laura. She poked at the roast with a fork. Then her face grew serious and Daniel thought he saw her fight back a tear.

  “It was a beautiful gown,” she said. “A beautiful day.”

  Daniel walked over to her, put his arm around her waist, enjoying the feel of her, the sharp taper inward, the sudden flare of hip under his palm. She raised the fork and he felt a current of energy dance along the surface of her skin, involuntary and tremulous like the quivering flanks of a horse after exercise.

  He kissed her cheek.

  She winked at him, put the roast on a platter, and handed it to him.

  “Help me serve, Pakad.”

  During dinner, Luanne and Gene talked about their trip to Eilat. Snorkeling in the crystalline waters of the Red Sea, the coral forests below, schools of rainbow-colored fish that swam placidly up to the shoreline. The long gray shapes Gene was certain had been sharks.

  “One thing I noticed,” said Luanne, “was the shrimp. Everyone was selling it or cooking it or eating it. I didn’t feel I was in a Jewish country.”

  “First-rate shrimp,” said Gene. “Good-sized, deep-fried.”

  After dessert, everyone pitched in clearing the dishes, Mikey and Benny laughing uproariously as they balanced stacks of plates, Shoshi admonishing them to be careful.

  Then the children retreated to Shoshi’s room to watch a videotape of Star Wars—the TV, VCR, and tape, donations from Los Angeles—and the women went back to the wedding album. Gene and Daniel stepped out on the balcony and Gene pulled out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” said Daniel.

  “Once in a great while I sneak one in after a really good meal. These are Cubans—picked them up in the duty-free at Zurich.” Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out another. “Want one?”

  Daniel hesitated. “Okay. Thank you.”

  They sat, put their feet over the railing, and lit up. At first the bitter smoke made Daniel wince. Then he found himself loosening up, feeling the heat swirl around inside his mouth, enjoying it.

  “Speaking of sharks,” said Gene, “how’s your case?”

  “Not good.” Daniel told him about Juliet, the endless interviews of doctors and nurses, the pressure exerted on hordes of sex offenders, all useless so far.

  “Boy, do I know the name of that tune,” said Gene, but there was a lilt in his voice, the mellow satisfaction of home-coming. “Sounds like you’ve got a real winner on your hands.”

  “I spoke to a psychologist this morning, trying to get a profile.”

  “What’d he tell you?” asked Gene. He lay back and put his hands behind his head, looked up at the black Jerusalem sky, and blew smoke rings at the moon.

  Daniel gave him a summary of the consultation with Ben David.

  “He’s right about one thing,” said Gene. “The psych stuff’s darned close to worthless. I’ve worked Lord knows how many homicides, gotten bushel-basketfuls of psych profiles, never solved a case with one of them yet. And that includes the nut-case serials.”

  “How do you solve them?” On the surface a foolish question, far too artless. But he felt comfortable with Gene, able to speak openly. More open than he could be with his own family. It bothered him.

  Gene sat up, edged his chair closer to Daniel’s.

  “From where I sit, sounds like you’re doing everything right. Truth is, lots of times we don’t solve them. They stop killing or die and that’s that. When we do catch them, nine times out of ten it’s because of something stupid—they park their car near the murder scenes, get a couple of parking tickets which show up on the computer. A records check, just like you’re doing. Some angry girlfriend or wife turns them in. Or the killer starts playing games, letting us know who he is, which means he’s basically catching himself. We’ve done nothing but cut along the dotted line.”

  The black man sucked on his cigar and blew out a jetstream of smoke. “These cases are hell on the ego, Danny Boy. The public gets hold of them and wants instant cure.”

  Keep pounding the pavement and wait for the killer to give himself away. The same thing Ben David had told him.

  He could have done without hearing it twice in one day.

  He got into bed, hugged and kissed Laura.

  “Ooh, your breath—have you been smoking?”

  “One cigar. I brushed my teeth. Want me to brush again?”

  “No, that’s all right. I just won’t kiss you.”

  But moments later, her legs wrapped around him, the fingers of one hand languidly caressing his scrotum, the other entangled in his hair, she opened her mouth and relented.

  He woke up in the middle of the night, his mind still going like a dieseling engine. Thinking of death camps and hypodermics and long-bladed knives that could sever a neck without sawing. Blood flowing in gutters, disappearing down sewer drains. A city drenched in blood, the golden stone turned to crimson. Headless dolls crying out for salvation. Himself suspended in mid-air, like one of Chagall’s birds. Frozen in space, unable to swoop. Helpless.

  CHAPTER

  28

  The first time the war between the grown-ups ended differently, he’d been caught by surprise.

  Usually they’d shout themselves into exhaustion, the viciousness defused by alcohol and fatigue, trailing off in a mumble of last words.

  Usually she would outlast Doctor, spitting out the final curse, then lurching upstairs, woozily, the boy anticipating her retreat and running ahead of her, safe in bed, hidden under the covers, as her footsteps grew faint, her dirty talk faded to silence.

  Doctor usually stayed in the library for a while, walking back and forth, drinking and reading. Sometimes he fell asleep on the tufted leather sofa, still in his clothes. When he came upstairs, he, too, trudged heavily. Leaving the door open in a final act of generosity, so that the boy could share his nightmares.

  The time it was different, he’d been six years old.

  He knew this with certainty because his sixth birthday had been three days before, a non-event marked by gaily wrapped gifts from the most expensive toy store in town, a cutting-of-the-cake ceremony grudgingly attended by both parents. Then a double-bill monster movie accompanied by one of the maids, the one with the horse face, who had no use for children and hated him in particular.

  During intermission he went to the theater bathroom and peed all over the wall, then bought so much popcorn and candy that twenty minutes later he was back in the bathroom, throwing up into his pee puddles.

  So he was sure he was six.

  On the night it ended differently, he wore pale-blue pajamas with a monkey and parrot pattern, sat curled on the sixth stair, massaging a polished wood baluster. Hearing the usual bad-machine sounds, happy because it was something he was used to.

  Then a surprise: no dirty talk. Silence.

  The tearing and ripping ended so suddenly that for a moment the boy thought they’d actually destroyed each other. Blam.

  Then he heard the sound of heavy breathing, a moan—was someone being hurt?

  Another moan, more breathing. Fear wrapped itself around him, cold, icy fingers squeezing his chest.

  Could this be it? Was this the end?

  Cautiously, like one of the robot monsters he’d seen in the movie, he made his way down the remaining seven stairs. The heavy double doors to the library were partially open. Through the opening came a narrow triangle of yellow light. Ugl
y yellow, like the pee puddles.

  He heard more moans, tasted something sweet and bitter, and was seized with an urge to throw up. He held his breath, put his hand on his tummy, and pressed in hard to make the feeling go away. Telling himself: Go away.

  “Oh!”

  His mother’s voice, but she sounded different. Scared. The breathing continued without her, huffing, not stopping, like a toy train: Doctor.

  “Oh!”

  What was happening?

  “Oh, Charles!”

  He gathered up his courage, tiptoed to the door. Peeked through the yellow space and saw them.

  Doctor was sitting on the couch, still wearing his white shirt and tie, but with his pants and underpants down around his ankles. His legs looked gross, all hairy and thick, like a gorilla’s.

  She was naked, white as her nightgown, her back to the door, her white-yellow hair loose and shiny.

  Her head was on Doctor’s shoulder, her chin kind of squeezing into his neck. Like she was trying to vampire-bite him.

  She was sitting on Doctor. Her hands were in his hair. She was rubbing his hair, trying to pull it out.

  Oh, no, look at her butt!

  It was hanging down like two giant eggs and there was something between it. Something going into it. A pole with black hair-fuzz around it, like a pink grapefruit popsicle. No, a pole, a wet, pink pole—his father’s thing!

  Oh, no. He wanted to throw up again, gagged, swallowed the bad taste, and felt it burn him down to his tummy.

  The thing was a weapon. An egg masher.

  You could use it as a weapon!

  He stared, unable to breathe, chewing on his fingers.

  It was in her. In and out. Oh, no, it was stabbing her, hurting her—that’s what was making her cry and moan. She was being stabbed by Doctor’s thing!

  He could see Doctor’s face rolling back and forth over her shoulder, like someone had cut it off but it was still alive, all sweaty. A sweaty zombie head, with a mean smile. All scrunched up and pink and wet, just like his thing.