The Butcher's Theatre (34 page)

He’d been on his vacation—ten days of R and R in Athens—when the murders story broke. The international Trib hadn’t carried it—the first he’d heard of it was a page-two item in the Post he’d picked up on the plane back to Ben Gurion.

Like most foreign correspondents, he spoke no Hebrew or Arabic and depended upon native journalists for his information—the Post for the Jewish angle, the English edition of Al Fajr for the Arab side. Both were highly partisan, but that was okay; it spiced up his pieces. Anyway, it was either that or bird-dog the government spokesmen, and Israeli mouthpieces were cagey, paranoiac, always grooming themselves for victim status. Always worried someone was out to get them, invoking military censorship when they didn’t want to deal with something.

The vacation had been a good one. He’d met up with an Italian photojournalist named Gina, a skinny, bleached-blond freelance with an appetite for sauteed calamari and cocaine; they’d met on the beach, traded meaningful looks, puffed-up bios, and shared a line from a vial that she carried in her beach bag. She had a room in his hotel, checked out of it, and moved in with him, living off his expense account for a week and a half of fun and games, then woke him up early one morning with a blow-job and breakfast, left him eating dry toast as she tossed him a ciao and was out the door, back to Rome. Wild girl, not pretty, but adventurous. He hoped she hadn’t given him a dose of anything.

He took another swallow of Turkey, motioned for a refill. Two murders—potential start of a serial. It just might play back home, the kind of thing the wire services sometimes went for. No doubt the Times men—New York and L.A.—had gotten hold of it, but they usually stayed away from crime stories, milked the political stuff, which was always in heavy supply. So maybe there was still something to work with.

Being out of the country when it broke bothered the Jimmy Olsen part of him, but after six months in Israel he’d

needed the time off. The country was hyperkinetic; the pace could drive you crazy.

Stuff never stopped coming at you, but most of it was noise. Grabowsky had loved it—he was a certified information junkie, firing off pieces right and left, breaking productivity records before he’d ventured too far into the Bekaa and gotten his arm blown off. The day after he’d been certified a cripple, the wire service had called Wilbur in from Rio. Farewell to a beautiful assignment. A little boring—how much could you write about favelitos, generals, and sambas, and Mardi Gras was a once-a-year thing—but my, my, what a culture, white sand, all those women sashaying topless along Ipanema, caramel asses hanging out of G-string bikini bottoms.

After three fat years under the Brazilian sun, Manhattan seemed poisonous, unhealthily clamorous, a headache machine. Welcome home, Mark. Home. Backslapping and speeches from the boys in the New York office, kudos to old Grabowsky, drink to the one-armed Hemingway (could he, Wilbur wondered, learn to type with that prosthesis?), and keep the fire burning in the Holy Land, Mark. Rah, rah.

Not his style. He’d laid his Front Page fantasies to rest a long time ago, wanted to take things easy, enjoy life. The wrong man for the Israel bureau.

The pace.

A story that was milkable for a week anywhere else faded in a day here, crowded out by something new before the ink was dry. Crazy coalition government, had to be at least twenty political-parties—he was a long way from knowing all of them—constantly taking shots at one another, clawing for little smidgens of power. Knesset meetings turned invariably to shouting matches; last week there had been a fist fight. They couldn’t talk softly; a real Brooklyn deli scene—the constant charges and countercharges of corruption, virtually all of it noise. The Arabs were no better, always whining, buttonholing him, wanting to see their names in print. Cries of oppression from guys driving Mercedes and living off the U.N. dole.

Everyone had an axe to grind; in the six months he’d been there, a week hadn’t gone by without some kind of major

political demonstration. Usually there were two or three. And the strikes—the doctors, the nurses, the postal workers. Last month the taxi drivers had decided they wanted more money from the Transportation Ministry, blocked the main thoroughfares of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv with their cabs, burned an old jalopy in the middle of King George Street, the tires stinking to high heaven. Wilbur had been forced to leave his car at home and walk everywhere, which inflamed his corns and heightened his antipathy toward the country, the obstreperousness—the Jewishness of it.

He finished his drink, put the glass down on the bar, and looked around. Six tables, five empty. Two guys in a corner: Margalit from Davar, Aronoff from Yediot Aharonot—he hadn’t gotten close to either of them. If they’d noticed him come in, they didn’t show it, eating peanuts, drinking ginger ale, and talking in low voices.

Ginger ale. Another problem. Newshounds who didn’t take their drinking seriously. No one did. The country had no drinking age—a ten-year-old could waltz into a grocery and buy hundred-proof—and yet, no one went for it. A kind of snobbery, as far as he was concerned. As if they considered sobriety some sort of religious virtue, regarded booze as a goy weakness.

He called for another Turkey. The bartender was the owner’s nephew, quiet kid, not a bad sort. In between orders, he studied from a math book. He nodded in response to Wilbur’s call and brought the bottle over, poured a full measure without comment, asked Wilbur if he wanted something to eat.

“What do you have?”

“Shrimp, lobster cocktail.”

Wilbur felt himself grow irritated. Patronized.

“What about soup?” He smiled. “Chicken soup. With matzo balls.”

The kid was impassive. “We’ve got that too, Mr. Wilbur.”

“Bring me a shrimp cocktail.”

Wilbur looked across the bar as the kid disappeared into the kitchen, read the gag cards again. An eye chart that spelled out TOO MUCH SEX MAKES YOU GO BLIND if you read it the right way; a placard announcing ONCE A king, always a KING, BUT … ONCE A KNIGHT IS ENOUGH!

The door to the street swung open, letting in heat, and Rappaport from the Post walked in. Perfect. It was Rappaport’s byline on the murder story, and he was an American, Princeton grad, a former hippie type who’d interned at the Baltimore Sun. Young, Jewish, and fast-talking, but he didn’t mind a tipple once in a while.

Wilbur motioned toward the empty stool on his left and Rappaport sat down. “Steve, old boy.”

“Hello, Mark.”

The Post man was wearing a short-sleeved safari shirt with oversized pockets, denim walking shorts, and sandals without socks.

“Very casual,” said Wilbur appraisingly.

“Got to beat the heat, Mark.” Rappaport took a bulldog pipe, tobacco pouch, and matches out of one of the big pockets and placed them on the bar.

Wilbur noticed that the other two Israeli journalists were also informally attired. Long pants, but lightweight sport shirts. Suddenly his seersucker suit, button-down shirt, and rep tie, which had looked natty when he’d dressed this morning, seemed out of place, superfluous.

“Righto.” He loosened his tie and pointed to the rolled-up Post. “Just finished reading your piece. Nice chunk of work, Steve.”

“Routine,” said Rappaport. “Straight from the source. The police covered up the first one, fed us a false quick-solve, and we swallowed it, but there were rumors that it was too easy, too cute, so we had our feelers out and were ready for them the second time.around.”

Wilbur chuckled. “Same old bullshit.” He picked up the newspaper, used it for a fan. “Nasty stuff, from the sound of it.”

“Very. Butchery.”

Wilbur liked the sound of that. He filed it away for future use.

“Any leads?”

“Nothing,” said Rappaport. He had long hair and a thick handlebar mustache that he brushed away from his lips. “The police here aren’t used to that kind of thing—they’re not equipped to handle it.”

“Amateur hour, huh?”

The bartender brought Wilbur’s shrimp.

“I’ll have some of that too,” said Rappaport. “And a beer.”

“On me,” Wilbur told the bartender.

“Thank you much, Mark,” said Rappaport.

Wilbur shrugged it off. “Gotta keep the expense account going or the main office gets worried.”

“I won’t tell you about my expense account.” Rappaport frowned. “Or lack thereof.”

“Police beating their meat?” asked Wilbur, trying to get the conversation back on track. It was a little too obvious and Rappaport seemed to have caught it. He picked up the pipe, rolled it in his palm, then filled it, lit it, and regarded Wilbur over a rising plume of smoke.

“Same thing back home,” said Wilbur, backtracking casually. “Stepping over each other’s feet and snowing the press.”

“No,” said Rappaport. “That’s not the situation here. Major Crimes is a fairly competent unit when it comes to their specialty—security crimes, bombs left in trash bins, et cetera. The problem with this kind of thing is lack of experience. Sex murders are virtually unknown in Israel—I went into the archives and found only a handful in thirty years. And only one was a serial—a guy last year, cutting up hookers. They never caught him.” He shook his head, smoked. “Six months in Baltimore, I saw more than that.”

“Last year,” said Wilbur. “Could it be the same guy?”

“Doubtful. Different M.O.‘s.”

M.O.‘s. The kid had been reading too many detective novels.

“Two in a row,” said Wilbur. “Maybe things are changing.”

“Maybe they are,” said Rappaport. He looked concerned. The sincere worry of a good citizen. Unprofessional, thought Wilbur. If you wanted to be effective you couldn’t be part of it.

“What else you have been up to, Steve?” he asked, not wanting to sound too eager.

“Sunday puff piece on the new Ramat Gan mall—nothing much else.”

“Till the next pseudo-scandal, eh?”

Before Rappaport could reply, his shrimp and beer came. Wilbur slapped down his American Express card and called for another Turkey.

“Thanks again,” said Rappaport, tamping his pipe out and laying it in an ashtray. “I don’t know, maybe we are changing. Maybe it’s a sign of maturity. One of the founders of the state, Jabotinsky, said we wouldn’t be a real country until we had Israeli criminals and Israeli whores.”

We. The guy was overinvolved, thought Wilbur. And typically arrogant. The Chosen People, thinking they invented everything, turning everything into a virtue. He’d spent four years on a midtown Manhattan beat for the New York Post, could tell the kid plenty about Israeli criminals.

He smiled and said, “Welcome to the real world, Steve.”

“Yup.”

They drank and ate shrimp, talked about women and bosses and salaries, finally got around to the murders again. Wilbur kept a running tab going, cajoled Rappaport into having anothershrimp cocktail. Three more beers and the Post man started reminiscing about his student days in Jerusalem, how safe it had been, everyone keeping their doors unlocked. Paradise, to listen to him, but Wilbur knew it was self-delusion—nostalgia always was. He played fascinated listener and, by the time Rappaport left, had filed away all his information and was ready to start writing.

Ten days since the discovery of Juliet’s body, and nothing new, either good or bad.

They’d narrowed the sex offender list down to sixteen men. Ten Jews, four Arabs, one Druze, one Armenian, all

busted since Gray Man. None had alibis; all had histories of violence or, according to the prison psychiatrists, the potential for it. Seven had attempted rape, three had pulled it off, four had severely beaten women after being refused sex, and two were chronic peepers with multiple burglary convictions and a penchant for carrying knives—a combination the doctors considered potentially explosive.

Five of the sixteen lived in Jerusalem; another six resided in communities within an hour’s drive of the capital. The Druze’s home was farther north, in the village of Daliyat el Carmel, a remote aerie atop the verdant, poppy-speckled hills that looked down upon Haifa. But he was unemployed, had access to a car, and was prone to taking solitary drives. The same was true of two of the Arabs and one of the Jews. The remaining pair of Jews, Gribetz and Brickner, were friends who’d gang-raped a fifteen-year-old girl—Gribetz’s cousin—and also lived far north, in Nahariya. Before going to prison they’d shared a business, a trucking service specializing in picking up parcels from the Customs House at Ashdod and delivering them to owners’ homes. Since their release they’d resumed working together, tooling along the highways in an old Peugeot pickup. Looking, Daniel wondered, for more than profit?

He interviewed them and the Druze, trying to make some connection between Juliet Haddad’s Haifa entry and home bases near the northern border.

Gribetz and Brickner were surly, semiliterate types in their mid-twenties, heavily muscled louts who smelled unwashed and gave off a foul heat. They didn’t take the interrogation seriously, nudged each other playfully and laughed at unspoken jokes, and despite the tough-guy posturing, Daniel started perceiving them as lovers—latent homosexuals perhaps? They seemed bored by discussion of their crime, shrugged it off as a miscarriage of justice.

“She was always loose,” said Gribetz. “Everyone in the family knew it.”

“What do you mean by ‘always’?” asked Daniel.

Gribetz’s eyes dulled with confusion.

“Always—what do you think?” interceded Brickner.

Daniel kept his eyes on Gribetz. “She was fifteen when

you raped her. How long had she been … loose?”

“Always,” said Gribetz. “For years. Everyone in the family knew it. She was born that way.”

“They’d have family parties,” said Brickner. “Afterward everyone would take a drive with Batya and all the guys would have a go at her.”

“You were there too?”

“No, no, but everyone knew—it was the kind of thing everyone knew.”

“What we did was the same as always,” said Gribetz. “We went for spin in the truck and had her good, but this time she wanted money and we said fuck you. She got mad and called the cops, ruined our lives.”

“She really fucked us up,” confirmed Brickner. “We lost all our accounts, had to start from scratch.”