The Butcher's Theatre (35 page)

“Speaking of your accounts,” Daniel asked him, “do you keep a log of your deliveries?”

“For each day. Then we throw it out.”

‘Why’s that?”

‘Why not? It’s our personal shit. What’s the matter, the government doesn’t give us enough paperwork to store?”

Daniel looked at the arrest report Northern Division had written up on the two. The girl had suffered a broken jaw, loss of twelve teeth, a cracked eye socket, ruptured spleen, and vaginal lacerations that had needed suturing.

“You could have killed her,” he said.

“She was trying to take our money,” protested Brickner. “She was nothing more than a whore.”

“So you’re saying that it’s okay to beat up whores.”

“Well, ah, no—you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. Explain it to me.”

Brickner scratched his head and inhaled. “How about a cigarette?”

“Later. First explain me your philosophy about whores.”

“We don’t need whores, Hillel and me,” said Gribetz. “We get plenty of pussy, any time we want.”

“Whores,” said Brickner. “Who the hell needs them.”

“Which is why you raped her?”

“That was different,” said Brickner. “His whole family knew about her.”

An hour later, they’d given him nothing that cleared them, but neither had they implicated themselves. During the nights of the murders they claimed to have been sleeping in bed, but both lived alone and lacked verification. Their memories failed to stretch back to the period preceding Fatma’s murder, but they recalled delivering parcels to Bet Shemesh the day before Juliet’s body had been found. A painstaking check of Ashdod Customs records revealed an early morning pickup; Shmeltzer was still trying to get hold of the bills of lading from the week of Fatma’s death.

The timing vis-a-vis Juliet was feasible, Daniel knew. Bet Shemesh was just outside Jerusalem, which would have given them ample opportunity to drop off the packages, then go prowling around. But where would they have killed her and cut her up? Neither had residence nor connections in Jerusalem and the lab boys had found no blood in the truck. They denied ever laying eyes on Juliet or going into the city, and no witness placed them there. As for what they’d done with the afternoon, they claimed to have driven back north, spent the afternoon at a deserted stretch of beach just above Haifa.

“Anyone see you there?” asked Daniel.

“No one goes there,” said Brickner. “The ships leak shit in the water—it smells. There’s tar all over the beach that can gook you up if you’re not careful.”

“But you guys go there.”

Brickner grinned. “We like it. It’s empty—you can piss in the sand, do whatever you like.”

Gribetz laughed.

“I’d like for both of you to take a polygraph test.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Brickner in a crude imitation of a child’s voice.

“You’ve had one before. It’s in your file.”

“Oh, yeah, the wires. It fucked us over. No way.”

“No way for me either,” said Gribetz, “No way.”

“It incriminated you because you were guilty. If you’re innocent, you can use it to clear yourselves of suspicion. Otherwise you’ll be considered suspects.”

“Consider away,” said Brickner, spreading his arms.

“Consider away,” said Gribetz, aping him.

Daniel called for a uniform, had them taken back.

A repulsive pair but he tended to believe them. They were low-impulse morons, explosive and psychopathic, playing on each other’s pathology. Certainly capable of damaging another woman if the right situation came up, but he didn’t see them for the murders. The cold calculation that had echoed from the crime scenes wasn’t their style. Still, smarter men than he had been fooled by psychopaths, and there was still the earlier Ashdod material to be looked at. Perhaps something would be found that refreshed their memories about Fatma. Before he ordered them released, he slowed down the paperwork so that they’d be cooling their heels for as long as possible, assigned Avi Cohen to drive up to Nahariya and find out more about them, keep a tight surveillance on them when they got home.

The Druze, Assad Mallah, was also no genius. One of the peepers, he was a withdrawn, stammering type, just turned thirty, with jailhouse pallor, watery blue eyes, and a history of neurological abnormalities that had exempted him from army service. As a teenager he’d burgled Haifa apartments, gorged himself on food from the victims’ refrigerators, and left a thank-you card before departing: a mound of excrement on the kitchen floor.

Because of his age he’d been given youth counseling, which never took place because at that time there’d been no Druze counselors; no one from Social Welfare had bothered to drive up to Daliyat el Carmel to bring him in. But he had received treatment of sorts—severe and regular beatings at the hand of his father—which seemed to have done the trick, cause his record stayed clean. Until one night, ten years later, he was caught ejaculating noisily against the wall of an apartment building near the Technion, one hand gripping the casement of a nearby bedroom window, the other flogging away as he cried out in ecstasy.

The tenants were a married couple, a pair of graduate physics students who’d forgotten to draw their drapes. Hearing the commotion, the husband rushed out, discovered Mallah, beat him senseless, and called the police. During his questioning by Northern District, the Druze immediately confessed to scores of peeping incidents and dozens of burglaries,

which went a long way in clearing the local crime records.

He was a blade man too. At the time of his arrest, there had been a penknife in his pocket—he claimed to use it to whittle and slice fruit. No forensic evidence had been found to contradict him at the time and Northern District had confiscated the weapon, which had since disappeared. At his trial he had the misfortune of drawing the only Druze judge at Haifa Magistrates Hall and received the maximum sentence. In Ramie he behaved well, got good recommendations from the psychiatrists and the administrators, and was released early. One month before Fatma’s murder.

Another penknife had been found on him the day he’d been picked up for questioning. Small-bladed, dull, it bore no similarity to Levi’s wound molds. He was also, Daniel noticed, left-handed, which, according to the pathologist, made him an unlikely candidate. Daniel spent two sluggish hours with him, scheduled a polygraph, and made a phone request to Northern District for a loose surveillance: no intrusion into the village; keep track of his license plate; report his whereabouts if he went into town.

At the same time, the Chinaman and Daoud were interrogating other suspects, working with dogged rhythm, going down the list. They agreed to do a good-guy, bad-guy routine, switching off so that the Chinaman would lean hard on the Jews, Daoud zero in on the Arabs. It threw the suspects off guard, kept them guessing about who was who, what was what. And reduced the possibility of racism/brutality charges, though that would happen no matter what you did. A national pastime.

Two days later, ten of the sixteen had been judged improbable. All agreed to be hooked up to the polygraph; all passed. Of the six possibles, three also passed, leaving three refusers—the Nahariya buddies and an Arab from Gaza. Daoud was assigned to watch the Arab.

Late in the afternoon, Shmeltzer came into Daniel’s office with photocopies of the customs material from Ashdod. During the days preceding Fatma’s murder, Brickner and Gribetz had picked up an unusually full load of cargo—part of an overflow shipment held up at the docks for three weeks due to a stevedore strike. The parcels were destined for the north-central region—Afula, Hadera, and villages in

the Bet She’an valley, a good seventy kilometers above Jerusalem. Which was still driveable if they’d gotten off early.

Daniel, Shmeltzer, and the Chinaman got on the phone, calling each name on the bills of lading, received confirmation that the buddies had been busy for two days straight, so busy that they’d spent the night in Hadera, parking their truck in a date grove belonging to one of the package owners, still asleep when the guy went to check his trees. He remembered them well, he told Daniel, because they’d awoken filthy-mouthed, stood on the truck bed and urinated onto the ground, then demanded breakfast.

“Were there packages in the truck bed?”

“Oh, yeah. Dozens. They stood right on top of them— didn’t give a damn.”

Idiots, thought Daniel, they could have supplied themselves with alibis all along, had been too stupid or too contrary to do so. Maybe being thought of as potential murderers fed their egos.

Dangerous, they bore watching, but were no longer his present concern.

The Arab from Gaza, Aljuni, was their last chance—not that probable, really, except that he was a killer who liked Wades and hated women. He’d carved up one wife in a fit of rage over improperly cooked soup, maimed another, and, three months out of prison, was engaged to a third, sixteen years old. Why did women hook up with that type? Latent death wish? Was being alone worse than death?

Irrelevant questions. Daoud had nothing to report on Aljuni: The guy kept regular habits, never went out at night. No doubt he’d come to naught as a prospect. The winnowing of the sex files had been futile.

He looked at his watch. Eight P.M and he hadn’t called home. He did so, got no answer, and puzzled, phoned the message operator and asked if Gveret Sharavi had tried to get in touch with him.

‘Let me see—yes. Here’s one from her that came in at four forty-three, Pakad. She wants to know if you’ll be joining her, the children, and … it looks like the Boonkers—” ‘Brokers.’

“Whatever. She wanted to know if you’ll be joining them for dinner at seven-thirty.”

“Did she say where?”

“No,” said the operator reproachfully. “She probably expected you to call sooner.”

He hung up, took a swallow of cold coffee from the cup on his desk, and put his head down. A knock on the door raised him up and he saw Shmeltzer enter, looking angry, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

“Look at this, Dani. I was driving home, noticed a guy plastering this to walls, thought you might want to see it.”

The papers were handbills. At the center was a head-shot photo of a Hassid, fortyish, full-bearded, with extravagant side curls. The man looked fat, with flat features and narrow eyes behind black-framed eyeglasses. He wore a dark jacket and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Atop his head was a large, square kipah. Hanging around his neck was a sign with the letters NYPD, followed by several numbers.

A mug shot.

BEWARE OF THIS MAN! was emblazoned under the photo, in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. SENDER MALKOVSKY IS A CRIMINAL AND A CHILD RAPER!!!!!! HIDE YOUR YOUNG ONES!!!!!! Below the warnings were clippings from New York newspapers, reduced to the point where the print was barely legible. Daniel squinted, read with tired eyes.

Malkovsky was from trie Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a father of six, a teacher of religious studies, and a tutor. A student had accused him of forced molestation and the charge had brought forth similar stories from dozens of other children. Malkovsky had been arrested by the New York Police, arraigned, released on bail, and failed to appear at his trial. One of the articles, from the New York Post, speculated that he’d run off to Israel, citing connections to “prominent Hassidic rabbis.”

Daniel put the handbill down.

“He’s living here, the bastard,” said Shmeltzer. “In a fancy flat up in Qiryat Wolfson. The guy I found pasting these up is also a longbeard, named Rabinovitch—also from Brooklyn, knew Malkovsky’s case well, thought Malkovsky was in jail.

He moves to Israel, buys a flat in the Wolfson complex, and one day he spots Malkovsky coming out of an apartment a hundred meters away. It drove him crazy—he has seven kids of his own. He marches straight to Malkovsky’s rebbe and tells him about the shmuck’s history, Rebbe nods and says Malkovsky had done repentance, deserves a second chance. Rabinovitch goes crazy and runs to the printer.”

“A tutor,” said Daniel. “Skips bail and moves into one of the fanciest developments in town. Where does he get that kind of money?”

“That’s what Rabinovitch wanted to know. He figured Malkovsky’s fellow Hassidim donated it on the rebbe’s orders. That may be rivalry talking—Rabinovitch is from a different sect; you know how they like to go at each other—but it makes sense.”

“Why didn’t Rabinovitch notify us?”

“I asked him that. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Far as he’s concerned the police are in on it—how else could Malkovsky get into the country, be running around free?”

“How else, indeed?”

“It stinks, Dani. I don’t remember any Interpol notices or extradition orders, do you?”

“No.” Daniel opened a desk drawer, took out the Interpol bulletins and FBI bulletins and flipped through them. “No Malkovsky.”

“No immigration warnings, either,” said Shmeltzer. “Nothing from the brass or Customs. This rebbe must have massive protekzia.”

“Which rebbe is it?”

The Prostnitzer.”

“He’s new,” said Daniel. “From Brooklyn. Has a small group that broke off from the Satmars—couple of planeloads of them came over last year.”

“To Wolfson, eh? No Mea She’arim for these saints?”

“Most of them live out in the Ramot. The Wolfson thing s probably special for Malkovsky—to keep him under wraps. How long’s he been in the country?”

“Three months—enough to do damage. He’s a kiddy—

diddler, but who knows what a pervert will do? Maybe he’s

shifted his preferences. In any event, someone’s making us look like idiots, Dani.”

Daniel slammed his fist down on the desk. Shmeltzer, surprised at the uncharacteristic display of emotion, took a step backward, then smiled inwardly. At least the guy was human.

Qiryat Wolfson was luxury American-style; a penthouse in the complex had recently sold for over a million dollars. Crisp limestone towers and low-profile town houses, a maze of landscaped walkways and subterranean parking garages, carpeted lobbies and high-speed elevators, all of it perched at the edge of a craggy bluff near the geographical center of the municipality, due west of the Old City. The view from up there was commanding—the Knesset, the Israel Museum, the generous belts of greenery that surrounded the government buildings. To the southwest, an even wider swatch of green—the Ein Qerem forest, where Juliet had been found.