The Butcher's Theatre (51 page)

phone. left a message with the switchboard for Samal Cohen

to call in immediately, then hung up, irritated. Just when he’d

thought the kid was shaping up. So much for flexibility.

“Let’s begin,” he said, tapping the pointer to the map.

Last night he’d called each of them, informed them about

the cave. Now he went over the basics, gave them time to

take notes before returning to his seat and picking up the Forensics report.

“We owe Meir Steinfeld a dinner at Cow on the Roof. He worked all night and came up with more than we could have hoped for. There were two classes of animal blood in the cave—rodent and canine—and one human sample, type O, Rh positive. Both Fatma and Juliet were Opositive, but they differed on the haptoglobin test. Juliet was type two, the commonest, but Fatma was type one, which shows up in only about fifteen percent of the population. All Steinfeld found was type one, so it looks as if Juliet wasn’t killed in the cave.”

“That’s no proof Fatma was,” said Shmeltzer. “Fifteen percent isn’t that rare.”

“No proof,” said Daniel, “but strong indications. Steinfeld estimates the volume of blood loss as monumental. Dr. Levi confirms it would have had to be fatal. The anthropometric analysis of the outline on the rock indicates a slender female of Fatma’s height. A copious amount of dried blood was found in the dirt at the head of the rock, suggesting a deep. draining head or neck wound. The blood flow over the sides indicates smaller, multiple wounds on the trunk. Know of any other victims who fit that description?”

“For the sake of argument,” said Shmeltzer, “here’s another scenario: The Bedouins cut up one of their own women on that rock. Executed her for fucking the wrong guy or talking out of turn, then buried her somewhere in the desert.”

“The time frame doesn’t work,” said Daniel. “Steinfeld estimates the age of the blood at three to six weeks—nothing he’ll swear to, but it’s definitely older than eight days, which is howJong the Bedouin have been grazing in that part of the desert. Border Patrol’s had a good fix on them for some time —since the end of the rainy season they’ve been up north, nowhere near the cave. And the shred of cloth fits the description of the shift Fatma was last seen wearing.” He paused. “It’s not ironclad, but it’s well worth pursuing.”

Shmeltzer nodded and drank more coffee. “All right,” he said, “two killing grounds. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Daniel. “And neither body was washed in that cave—there’s been no water down there for four months and both bodies were washed thoroughly.”

“You could bring water into the desert in bottles,” said the Chinaman. “Last summer we spent a couple of weeks at my wife’s kibbutz. They put me to work at the carp ponds, schlepping bottles of distilled back and forth in order to backflush the filters. Big plastic ones—they hold eight liters each, weigh about thirty kilos. Two would be enough to wash a body, don’t you think?”

Shmeltzer got up and took a close look at the map. “We’re talking a four-kilometer climb, Yossi. Down a mountainside in the dark. Know anyone who could pull that off while hauling sixty kilos of water, maybe a forty-kilo corpse as well?” The Chinaman grinned and flexed a huge bicep. “Is that a confession, Goliath?” Shmeltzer shook his head and returned to his seat.

“The water could have been carried down on donkey—

back.” said Daniel, “but no one’s spotted any donkeys down

there-and it would be tremendously inefficient. The more

logical assumption is that Fatma was murdered in the cave and

most of her blood was allowed to drain out there. The body

was then moved to the second place, where the final cleanup

took place. Maybe the same place Juliet was killed.”

“He kills her, then moves her to wash her,” said the Chinaman. “Very weird. What’s the point?”

“Like a sacrifice on an altar,” said Shmeltzer. “A korban, straight out of the Bible.” He smiled sourly. “Maybe we should

have grilled Kagan’s people more thoroughly.” Korbanot, the ancient Judaic sacrifices that antedated prayer. Daniel had thought of it himself—the implications disturbed him. Looking across the table, he sought out the single

non-Jewish face. Daoud’s expression was noncommittal. ‘Yes,” he said. “More of that same ceremonial quality.” He found a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard:

FATMA: Killed in cave, washed ? JULIET: Killed ? , washed ?

‘There are caves near Ein Qerem,” said Daoud. “Not far from where Juliet was found. And some of the streams there are still running.”

Daniel nodded. “The Border Patrol began searching them

at sunrise. Afif called in an hour ago—they’ve found nothing so far.”

“Maybe we’ve got more than one kill spot,” said Shmeltzer. “because we’ve got more than one killer. Why not a whole group .of murderous bastards, some crazy cult? Way things are going, it wouldn’t surprise me. They could bring water down to the cave in small containers. If they used their homes, there’d be God knows how many kill spots to choose from.”

“A caravan of people would be conspicuous in the desert,” said Daniel. “Afif s men would have been likely to spot them with the infrared.”

“Those boys are eagle-eyes but they’re not infallible,” said Shmeltzer. “They missed a murderer hiking four kilometers with a body over his back and gear—the knives, the sheet, some kind of portable light. Assuming he cut her at night.”

“All right,” said Daniel, “we won’t rule it out.” He wrote: multiple killers? on the board. Pausing to take a sip of coffee, he found it had turned tepid and replaced the cup on the table.

“Something else,” he said. “From the outside, the cave looks impenetrable. Someone would have had to inspect it to know about it. It’s not exactly a garden spot—the guides don’t take tourists down there.”

“Which is why I thought of the Bedouins,” said Shmeltzer. “They know every crack in the sand. Or maybe we’ve got murderous archaeologists on our hands.”

“Contact the university, Nahum, and the Nature Conservancy. Find out if any digs have been planned in the area, any groups taken on hikes down there within the las year or so.”

Shmeltzer nodded and made a note.

“Next order of business,” said Daniel. “I got a call from the army about Aljuni—the wife murderer from Gaza. He gal tired of being watched, finally agreed to a polygraph. Tel Aviv will do it and send us the report. Any other updates? Then on to Little Hook’s story about the flat-eyed American.”

“Little Hook’s a treacherous piece of dirt,” said Shmeltzer, “He’d just as soon lie as breathe.”

“Any reason for him to make up a story like this one? asked Daniel.

Shmeltzer held out one hand and ticked off fingers. “Avoiding a larceny bust, trying to curry favor with us, attention seeking.”

“I don’t think so, Nahum,” said the Chinaman. “The lowlife have come around to our side on this one. This Butcher shit is wiping them out financially. Red Amira may have spun a yarn for Little Hook, but my bet is that he’s repeating it faithfully”

“Putting aside Little Hook’s credibility,” said Daniel, there are problems fitting the story to our case. From the way it sounds, Flat Eyes was looking for a curbside pickup. Nothing about our killer indicates that type of impulsive selection. And neither of our victims was working the streets: Fatma was no whore; Juliet had just gotten into town—she had no time to set up her brothel contacts and had no street experience here in Israel.”

‘She streetwalked in Haifa,” said the Chinaman.

“For one day before she got caught. And she was clumsy-the Northern District detective who picked her up told me he was surprised she was a professional. She had no idea sex for hire was legal as long as she kept her mouth shut. He caught her breaking the soliciting law aggressively, throwing herself at sailors. No doubt she would have gotten smarter had she stayed alive and eventually found employment, but the whores and pimps you’ve spoken to never spotted her or Fatma working Jerusalem, did they, Yossi?”

‘No’ admitted the big man. “neither of them have been seen at the pickup places. But Juliet could have done some back-alley stuff. And it’s possible Fatma wasn’t that innocent.

Her boyfriend was slime—maybe he sold her to others.”

‘Maybe,” said Daniel, “According to the brother, Abdel said she was dead, which could have meant she’d turned promiscuous, but no one spotted her hooking and the regular girls always notice newcomers.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t see either of them meeting the killer at curbside. This wasn’t just quick sex—they were shot up with heroin, injected without resistance. To me that says some kind of seduction was used to snare them. Juliet was a drug user, so for her the heroin may have actually been the lure. But what convinced a traditional girl like Fatma to lie there and get stuck?”

“First thrills,” said the Chinaman. “When they fall, they fall fast.”

“We have evidence she hadn’t fallen that far. A few days before she left the monastery, she waited in the olive grove for Anwar, begged him to help her reconcile with the family. So her corruption was far from complete. Taking that needle was a big step—someone very credible had to convince her to do it, or trick her. Someone exploiting a position of trust. Which is why we spent so much time on the doctors, why I put Elias on the monk.” To Daoud: “How’s that going?”

“The same. He starts walking, then all of a sudden he stops and heads back for the monastery. The farthest he’s ever gotten is to the end of the Via Dolorosa. Usually he returns after just a few steps. As if something’s bothering him.” “Stick with it. Maybe you’ll find out what it is. Daoud nodded, then said, “One question, Pakad.” “What is it?”

“The issue of the casual pickup. We’re dealing with a psychologically disturbed person, a deviate. Perhaps he deviated from his own rules and yielded to impulse.”

“Perhaps he did, Elias. But why would he go for Amira Nasser? Fatma and Juliet looked remarkably alike, which implies he’s after a certain type—small, pretty brunettes wearing earrings. And he probably likes them young—Juliets baby face fooled him. Without her wig, Amira is a petite brunette, but someone watching her work wouldn’t know that. He’d see a redhead, hot pants and fishnets, all plastered with makeup.”

“Maybe he goes for different types for different things.” said the Chinaman. “Redheads for sex, brunettes for killing.” “Wait a minute,” said Shmeltzer. “Before we go any further with this, let’s bear in mind that this American guy didn’t do a damned thing that was incriminating. He offered cash, the whore turned him down, he walked away, end of story. Supposedly he had flat eyes—whatever that means. Very weak. boys. And the fact that it comes via the hunchback makes it weaker than weak.”

“I agree with you,” said Daniel, “but weak is better than nothing. And having stated all the problems with the story. it still holds my interest. The fact that Amira was scared by this guy can’t be brushed off—prostitutes get good at assessing their customers because their safety depends on it. If Amira thought there was something weird about him, there

probably was. And the time frame is appealing: Thursday night—a murder a week. Now, exactly how did she describe him, Yossi?” The Chinaman flipped through his note pad. “According to Little Hook he was ‘an American with crazy eyes … he came out of nowhere … she figured he’d been hiding somewhere off the road.’ I took a look at the area—there’s a small field someone could hide in. Forensics found some tire marks, lots of footprints, but all of it was too indistinct to identify.” “Go on,” said Daniel. “He offered sex for money, but his eyes scared her and she refused.’ I asked Little Hook what was wrong with the eyes and he said Amira had told him they were ‘flat. Mad … A strange smile, veiy wide, a grin. But the grin of a killer.’ As to what made it a killer’s grin, he said, ‘Not a happy grin, very crazy.’”

The big man closed the pad. “I tried to get more— squeezed him hard enough to get juice, but that’s all there is. If you want, I can pick him up again.”

“Just see that he stays in town.” Daniel got up, wrote AMERICAN? on the board.

‘To Amira,” he said, “American could have meant any number of things—a genuine American, someone who spoke English or wore American clothes. Or someone who looked American, which could translate to fair-skinned, big-boned, a T-shirt with the American flag—who knows? But at the

very least we’re talking about some kind of foreigner—a man

with a non-Levantine appearance. Which gives us a possible line of inquiry.”

“Comparisons with foreign homicides,” said Shmeltzer. ‘America and Europe.”

‘Exactly. Our new Interpol liaison in Bonn is a fellow named Friedman. I’ve been trying to reach him since Yossi told me Little Hook’s story. He’s out of town—no one in his office will say where. When he calls in I’m going to have him

contact all the Interpol chiefs in Europe, see if they can find records of similar crimes within the past ten years. It shouldn’t be difficult; with the exception of the Germans, their homicide rates are generally as low as ours. A vicious one will stand out. The American situation’s more complicated: They record tremendous numbers of sex murders each year and there’s no central reporting—each city has its own police jurisdiction. They seldom communicate with one another. Lately, though, the FBI’s gotten involved—they’ve been collating homicides and finding serial murderers who travel across the country, killing people. They’re in the process of setting up ? computer bank, and I think I have a way of hooking into it without going through all the red tape. In the meantime, though, it would be nice to talk to Amira. Any information on her whereabouts, Yossi?”

“All three of us picked up rumors that she’s back in Jordan,” said the Chinaman, “living in one of the towns outside Amman. Elias and I heard she’s in Suweilih. Cohen was told Hisban. When we tried to trace the origin of the rumors, all we got is something that somebody told somebody after he heard it from somebody.”

“Weaker than weak,” said Shmeltzer. “Speaking of ru-mors, Shin Bet’s confirmed Darousha’s definitely homosexual. Had an affair last year with a Jewish doctor. Hajab the watchman spends his off-hours at Darousha’s place in Ramallah, doing odd jobs. Maybe they’re into funny business. Want Shin Bet to stay on it?”