The Butcher's Theater

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Wilbur said nothing.

  “May I ask which scholar?”

  “My sources are confidential. Your government assures the right—”

  Sharavi smiled.

  “Mutti Abramowitz isn’t much of a scholar. In fact, his father told me his grades in Bible Studies have always been very poor.”

  Little guy put his hands on his knees and leaned forward, as if expecting an answer.

  “What’s your point?” said Wilbur.

  Sharavi ignored the question, opened his attaché case, and rummaged in it. Head concealed by the lid, he asked, “Where were you three Thursdays ago?”

  “Now, how am I supposed to remember that?”

  “The day before Juliet Haddad’s body was found.”

  “I don’t know where I was, probably following some . . . Whoa, wait a minute. I don’t have to do this.” Wilbur stood. “I want a lawyer.”

  “Why do you think you need one?” Sharavi asked, mildly.

  “Because you people are trampling on my rights. My strong advice to you is quit right now and minimize the damage, because I’m going to raise a stink the likes of which—”

  “Sit down, Mr. Wilbur,” said Sharavi.

  Dry Voice took a step forward, hand in jacket. “Sit, shmuck.”

  Wilbur sat, head swimming with booze and bad vibes.

  “What were you doing three Thursdays ago?” Sharavi repeated.

  “I have no idea. I’d just gotten back from Greece, but you guys probably know that, don’t you?”

  “Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad.”

  “My articles speak for themselves.”

  Dry Voice said, “Your articles are shit.”

  “Tell me about the wounds on Juliet Haddad’s body,” said Sharavi, almost whispering.

  “How the hell would I know anything about that?”

  Sharavi unfolded the Herald Tribune, searched for a place with his finger, found it, and read out loud: “‘ . . . rumors of sacrificial mutilation have persisted.’ Where did you hear those rumors, Mr. Wilbur?”

  Wilbur didn’t reply. Sharavi turned to the others and asked, “Have you heard such rumors?”

  Three head shakes.

  “We haven’t heard any such rumors, Mr. Wilbur. Where did you hear them?”

  “My sources are confidential.”

  “Your sources are shit,” said Dry Voice. “You’re a liar. You make them up.”

  “Inspector Shmeltzer lacks tact,” said Sharavi, smiling, “but I can’t argue strongly with him, Mr. Wilbur.” Little bastard held out his hands palms up, all sweetness and light. The palm of the messy hand was puckered with scar tissue.

  “Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar,” he said, shaking his head. “A clown like Samir El Said as a sociological scholar. Rumors of ‘sacrificial mutilations.’ You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Wilbur.”

  “Lying shmuck,” said Dry Voice.

  “Listen,” said Wilbur, “this good-cop-bad-cop stuff isn’t going to work. I’ve watched the same movies you have.”

  “You like movies, don’t you?” Sharavi reached in the briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Wilbur.

  The notes and title page for his screenplay. Not the original, but photocopies.

  “You have no right—”

  “Very interesting reading,” said Sharavi. “You seem to have many ideas about the Butcher.”

  “That’s fiction—”

  Sharavi smiled. “Many ideas,” he repeated. “It was you who named him the Butcher, wasn’t it? So in one sense you invented him.”

  “What else did you steal from my office?”

  “Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad.”

  “I already told you—everything I know is in my stories.”

  “Your stories are shit,” said Dry Voice—Shmeltzer.

  “This is outrageous,” said Wilbur.

  “Murder is always outrageous,” said Sharavi.

  “Breaking into my office, stealing my personal—”

  “Just like Watergate,” suggested Sharavi.

  “Wilburgate,” said Shmeltzer. “Shitheadgate.” He said something in Hebrew. Handsome and Slant-Eye laughed.

  Sharavi shook his head. The others quieted.

  “A good imagination,” he said, returning his attention to Wilbur. “You hear rumors that the police haven’t heard, receive letters from someone you claim is the Butcher—”

  “I claimed nothing of the sort, I simply—”

  “You implied it strongly. Just as you implied that the Gvura people were responsible—”

  “I analyze facts,” said Wilbur. “Do my research and come up with feasible hypotheses—”

  “Feasible hypotheses?”

  “You got it, chief.”

  “You seem to know more about the Butcher than anyone. His motives, his ‘sacrificial mutilations,’ what goes on inside his head. He must appreciate your understanding, think of you as a friend, because he sends you a letter—a letter without postage. A letter without any fingerprints or serum traces except the ones that match those removed from your liquor bottle and typewriter. Your fingerprints. Your serum type.”

  “That envelope was stuck in my mail.”

  “Yes, that’s what Mutti says. However, the mail lay in the box there for an hour before he collected it and brought it to you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning perhaps you placed it there yourself.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “No,” said Sharavi. “That’s a feasible hypothesis. Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar is absurd.”

  “Why would I do something like that?” asked Wilbur, knowing the question was stupid, the answer obvious. “I report the news,” he said. Talking to the walls. “I don’t create it.”

  Sharavi was silent, as if digesting that.

  “This morning,” he said, finally, “five men died, a woman will probably lose her baby, another man, a good portion of his intestines. Several others were injured. All because of ‘news’ that you invented.”

  “Blame the messenger,” said Wilbur. “I’ve heard it before.”

  “I’m sure you have. My research reveals you have a history of inventing the news. Mardi Gras ritual murders that turn out to be suicides, exposés that end up exposing nothing.”

  Wilbur fought to stay cool. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “But that’s old mischief,” said Sharavi. “My primary concern is how far your current inventing went. Could you have been hungry enough for a juicy crime story to supply the crime?”

  Wilbur shot out of his chair.

  “What the hell are you saying!”

  Sharavi closed his attaché case, placed it on his lap, and smiled.

  “Learning by doing, Mr. Wilbur. It ensures realism.”

  “This conversation is over.” Wilbur’s heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He forced a cool tone: “Nothing more without my lawyer.”

  Sharavi waited a long time before speaking. Let the silence sink in.

  “Where were you three Thursdays ago, Mr. Wilbur?”

  “I don’t know—but I was in Greece when the first one was killed! Across the goddamned Mediterranean!”

  “Sit down,” said Shmeltzer.

  “Bullshit,” said Wilbur. “Pure and total bullshit harassment.”

  Sharavi waved Shmeltzer away and said, “Remain on your feet if you like.” The gold eyes remained steady. “Tell me, Mr. Wilbur, what sharp-bladed instruments do you own besides the Sabatier cutlery in your kitchen and the Swiss Army knife in your desk?”

  “Absurd,” said Wilbur. His damned heart wouldn’t quiet.

  “Do you rent another flat besides the one on Rehov Alharizi?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You’ve quoted Samir El Said, extensively. What’s the nature of your relationship with him?”

  Wilbur didn’t a
nswer.

  “Talk, shmuck,” said Dry Voice.

  “I have nothing to say. This whole thing is a crock.”

  “Are you engaged in a homosexual relationship with Professor El Said?”

  That took Wilbur by surprise. He tried to maintain a poker face but, from Sharavi’s smile, knew he’d been unsuccessful.

  “I thought not,” said the little bastard. “You are a little old for him.”

  “I’m not homosexual,” said Wilbur, thinking: Why the hell am I defending myself?

  “You like women?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t like cutting them up.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Shmuck’s religious,” said Dry Voice.

  “I have nothing to say,” said Wilbur.

  “Look,” said Sharavi, “we have plenty of time. When it gets dark, we’ll use flashlights to chase away the rats.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Wilbur.

  But the stonewall didn’t work.

  Sharavi proceeded to question him for another hour and a half about the murders. Times, places, where he bought his linens, what kind of soap he used, how many kilometers a day he drove. Were his eyes healthy, what drugs he took, did he shower or take baths. What were his views on personal hygiene. Seeming irrelevancies. Picayune details that he’d never thought about. Asking the same questions over and over, but changing the phrasing ever so slightly. Then coming out of left field with something that sounded totally irrelevant and ended up being somehow tied in with something else.

  Trying to confuse him.

  Treating him like a goddamned murderer.

  He was determined to resist, give the little bastard nothing. But eventually he found himself relenting—worn down by the smiles and the repetition, Sharavi’s unflappable manner, the way he ignored Wilbur’s outbursts, refused to take umbrage at Wilbur’s insults.

  By the time the reporter realized he was losing, he’d already lost, answering questions with numbed docility. His feet tired from standing, but refusing to sit for fear of underscoring his submission.

  As the interrogation wore on, he rationalized it away by telling himself the little bastard was giving in too. Acting nicer.

  Treating him like an adviser, not a suspect.

  Believing him.

  After ninety minutes, Sharavi stopped the questions, chatted with him about trivia. Wilbur felt himself loosen with relief. Sat down, finally, and crossed his legs.

  Twenty minutes later, the chatting ceased. The basement cavity had grown darker, colder. Nightfall.

  Sharavi said something to Slant-Eye, who came over and offered Wilbur a cigarette. He refused. Finally, Sharavi clicked the attaché case shut, smiled, and said, “That’s it.”

  “Great,” said Wilbur. “Drop me back at Beit Agron?”

  “Oh, no,” said Sharavi, as if the request had taken him by surprise.

  Slant-Eye put a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder. Handsome walked over, put handcuffs on him.

  “This is Subinspector Lee,” said Sharavi, looking at the Oriental. “And this is Detective Cohen. They’ll be taking you back to Jerusalem. To the Russian Compound, where you’ll be booked for obstructing a criminal investigation and with-holding evidence.”

  A flood of words rose in Wilbur’s gullet. He lacked the will to expel them and they stagnated.

  Sharavi dusted off his trousers.

  “Good afternoon, Mark. If there’s anything else you wish to tell me, I’ll be happy to listen.”

  When the BMW had driven off, Daniel asked Shmeltzer, “What do you think?”

  “Only thing I got from his eyes is alcoholism—you should have seen the bottles in his flat. As far as the grin goes, we didn’t give him much chance to smile, did we, Dani? Nothing we’ve turned up in the flat or the office implicates him, and the Greek thing checks out as an alibi for Fatma’s murder—though if he’s got pals, that’s meaningless. What did Ben David tell you about the letter?”

  “That the Bible quotes could mean a real fanatic or someone wanting to sound like one. One thing’s for certain: Whoever wrote it is no true scholar—the passages from Leviticus are out of sequence and out of context. The one about washing the legs refers to a male animal. It smells deceptive—someone trying to distract us.”

  “Someone trying to pin it on the Jews,” said Shmeltzer. “Exactly this Wilbur shmuck’s style.” He spat into the dirt. “Ben David have anything to say about the printing used for the address?”

  “The block letters were written very slowly and deliberately by someone familiar with writing English. Along with the fact that English was used for the address instead of Hebrew, that could support our foreigner angle, except that the Bible quotes were in Hebrew. But Meir Steinfeld came by just before I picked you guys up, told me about the prints and the serum and shed some light on the Hebrew. The text matched that of a gift edition Hebrew-English Bible—common tourist item, printed locally. Mass-market—no use checking bookstores. He showed me a copy, Nahum. The text is printed correspondingly. Anyone could read the English, then cut out the matching Hebrew verse. Addressing the envelope would be a different matter.”

  “Some fucking anti-Semite,” said Shmeltzer. “Fucking blood libel.”

  “The alternative, of course, is that whoever sent the letter knows Hebrew and English and used both languages to play games with us, show off how clever he is. That kind of posturing is consistent with serial killers.”

  “If the letter-writer’s the killer.”

  “If,” agreed Daniel. “It could be pure mischief. But there’s the washing reference.”

  “Press leak,” said Shmeltzer.

  “If it was, someone in the press would have used it. Even Wilbur made no mention of it specifically, just talked in general terms about sacrifices. And Ben David thought it looked promising from a handwriting perspective, said the slowness and the pressure of the writing indicated calculation and suppressed anger—lots of anger. The tearing of the paper shows that the anger is threatening to break through the suppression.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If the writer’s our killer, we’re probably in for another murder. Maybe soon—today is Thursday.”

  “Not if Wilbur’s our guy and we keep him locked up,” said Shmeltzer.

  “Not necessarily. You’re the one who likes the group theory.”

  “I like this guy, Dani. Wouldn’t mind cooling his ass at the compound for a while, see what a little tenderizing does to his memory for detail. At the very least we can tie him up for a while on the obstruction thing, fucking bastard.”

  “You enjoyed the interrogation, didn’t you, Nahum?”

  “Labor of love.”

  The two of them got in the Escort. Daniel revved up the engine, drove out of the basement and across the rocky surface of the site. Gravel spattered the underside of the car. Only a semicircle of sun was visible over the horizon. The darkness had turned the partially framed building into something ephemeral. Atrophied.

  “Speaking of obstruction,” said Shmeltzer, “Drori, the anesthesiologist, is eliminated. Night of both murders he was on duty at the hospital, working emergency surgeries. Thing that pisses me off is that the Thursday night that Fatma was killed, Krieger—the one who informed on him—was there too. They did an operation together. Krieger was trying to harass the guy.”

  “Personal thing, as we suspected,” said Daniel.

  Shmeltzer gave a disgusted look. “I tailed. Drori to find out where he goes on those middle-of-the-night drives when Krieger’s on duty. Straight to Krieger’s flat to fuck Krieger’s wife. Same old jealousy shit—bastard was trying to use us as his henchmen. If we weren’t so busy, I’d pull him in, teach him a lesson.”

  “Anything on the desert hikes?”

  “University and the Nature Conservancy still checking—the usual bureaucratic bullshit.”

  Daniel steered the Escort onto the road and headed south. They rode for a while without speaking, past the upper
Ramot, and down toward A and B. Just ahead of them, an Egged bus had pulled up to the curb. Dozens of dark-garbed yeshiva boys alighted; their mothers, waiting at the bus stop, greeted them with soft bosoms, kisses, and snacks. The bus swung out sharply, moving nonchalantly into the path of the Escort, and Daniel had to weave sharply to avoid hitting it.

  “Idiot,” muttered Shmeltzer. His glasses had been knocked loose and he straightened them. A hundred meters later he said, “Busting a journalist, Herr Pakad. Going to bring down big buckets of political shit.”

  “I’ll wear a hat,” said Daniel. He pressed his foot to the floor and sped back toward the city and its secrets.

  CHAPTER

  52

  Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, thought the Grinning Man, masturbating. Then, thinking: I sound like Lawrence fucking Welk, and starting to giggle.

  But it was wonderful. Sand-niggers and kikes chewing each other up. Ripping and squeaking like the little hook-nosed rodents they were.

  And he, the trainer.

  Project Untermensch.

  He flashed a mind picture of opposing rat hordes, charging at each other on little rat feet. Pouring out of sewer pipes, up out of putrid storm drains, bubbling to the surface of sinkholes.

  Little brown sand-nigger rats with little rag heads and black whiskers. Little pink-and-gray kike rats with yarmulkes and chin-beards. Yammering and shrieking and snapping, biting off snouts and lips and leaving gaping holes like the pictures in Dieter Schwann’s big green book.

  Chomp. There goes a tail.

  Chomp. There goes an ear.

  Chewing each other up until there was nothing left but little bone piles and little moist rat stains that you could clean up really good.

  And blessed silence—space for a white man to walk.

  No more bad-machine noises.

  Plenty of elbow room.

  Chomp.

  What a terrific feeling, to set something into motion and watch it work out just the way you planned.

  Real power.

  Real science.

  Power. The thought of it made him come sooner than he’d planned. He was lost in the orgasm for a few brain-shattering moments, rocking back and forth on the bed, stroking and squeezing himself with one hand, caressing the half-healed swastika wounds on his thighs with the other.