The Butcher's Theatre (84 page)

“The army’s on alert in the territories—Marciano’s in charge in Judea; Yinon in Samaria, Barbash in Gaza. The Border Patrol’s conducting individual searches at the Allenby Bridge and Metulla, tightening things up along all perimeters and within the Old City. They’re also staking out forested areas and are stationed near the murder cave. Telescopic surveillance of the Amelia Catherine has been expanded to another infrared from the desert aimed at the rear of the compound.”

He unfolded several sheets of paper. “These are the home numbers of records clerks and their bosses at the phone company, the Licensing Office, the Ministry of Construction and Housing, the Ministry of Energy, all the banks. We’ll divide them up, start waking people, try and find the home away from home. Look for Carters and Terrifs—include all

spelling variations. Now that we know who he is, he won’t be able to get far.”

But to himself he thought: Why should catching a madman be easier than finding my own dog.

He worked until six, setting up and monitoring the search for Richard Carter, before allowing himself a cup of coffee which his dry throat and aching stomach rejected. At six-ten he went back to his office and pulled out the notes he’d taken during his first and only meeting with Carter. Read them for the twentieth time and watched Carter’s face materialize before his mind’s eye.

An unremarkable face, no monster, no devil. In the end it was always like that. Eichmanns, Landrus, Kurtens, and Barbies. Disappointingly human, depressingly mundane.

Amira Nasser had supposedly talked about mad eyes, empty eyes. A killer’s grin. All he remembered about Carter’s eyes were that they were narrow and gray. Gray eyes behind old-fashioned round eyeglasses. A full ginger beard. The shambling, careless carriage of a backpacker.

Former hippie. A dreamer.

Some dreams: a nightmare machine.

He forced coffee down his throat and recalled something else—incongruous chuckling in response to his questions.

Something amusing. Dr. Carter?

Big fingers running through the beard. A smile—if there had been something evil about the smile, it had eluded him.

Not really. Just that this sounds like one of those cop shows back home—where were you on the night and all that.

The bastard had seemed so casual, so relaxed.

Daniel punished himself with self-scrutiny. Had he been careless, missed something? A psychopathic glint in the gray eyes? Some near-microscopic evidence of evil that he, as a detective, was expected to pick up on?

He replayed the mental movie of the interview. Reviewed his notes again. Questions, answers, the smiles.

Where were you on the night and all that.

And where are you tonight, Richard Carter, you murderous scum?

At seven A.M. Shmeltzer brought him a list of names gleaned from phone books, utility bills, and housing files. Two Carters in Jerusalem, five in Tel Aviv, including a senior officer at the American Embassy. One in Haifa, three more scattered throughout the Galilee. No Richards. Three Trifs, four Trif-uses, none of them Richards or initial D’s. No Tarrifs or Terrifs. All old listings. He dispatched men to check out the local ones anyway, had the other divisions do the same with the people in their bailiwicks.

At seven-twenty he called home. Laura answered. He heard the boys hollering in the background, music from the radio.

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Hello, Laura.”

“That bad?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Pause. “Okay.”

He felt impatient with her, intolerant of any problem short of life and death. Still, she was his lover, his best friend, deserved better than to be dismissed like a subordinate. He tried to soften his voice, said, “I’m sorry. I really can’t get into it.”

“I understand,” she said. Automatically.

“I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

“Don’t worry. Do what you have to do. I’ll be busy all morning with straightening up and finishing the painting for Lu and Gene. After school, Lu and I are taking the boys to the zoo, then to dinner. Shoshi didn’t want to go. She’s sleeping over at Dorit Shamgar’s house—the number’s on the refrigerator.”

Daniel thought of Mikey and Benny frolicking at the zoo, remembered what Laufer had said about the schematics found in the house on Ibn Haldoun. Horrific bomb-blast visions filled his head. He chased them away—a steady diet of those kinds of thoughts could drive a man crazy.

“Why didn’t she want to go to the zoo?” he asked.

“It’s for babies; she and Dorit have more important things to do—she wants to be on her own, Daniel. Part of establishing her identity.”

“It’s not because she’s still upset over the dog?”

“Maybe a little of that too. But she’ll work it through— Here’s Gene. He worked most of the night, refuses to go home and get some rest.”

“Okay, put him on. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Danny,” said Gene. “I’ve been following up this Terrif thing and—”

“Terrifs a name used by Richard Carter,” said Daniel. He filled Gene in on the night’s events. Talking to a fellow policeman after excluding his wife.

Gene listened, said, “What a mess. Terrible about your man.” Silence. “Carter, huh? Sonofagun. Everything I’ve got on him spells clean. The records from McGill check out—the med school transcripts clerk said the guy was an honor student there, did very good research on tropical diseases. The Peace Corps said he continued that research with them, saved plenty of lives. With the exception of a bust for marijuana when he was in high school, no one has a bad word to say about him.”

“I do,” said Daniel. “The records are probably falsified. It would be the least of his sins.”

“True. I’ve got more info for you. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“I started thinking about the American murder sites—your point about nice weather, vacation spots. Vacation cities are also popular with organizations when it comes to locating their conventions—as in medical conventions. I’ve managed to get through to the chambers of commerce in New Orleans and Miami, convinced them to go through their ‘73 and ‘78 convention records, respectively, and found one common thread: The Society for Surgical Pathology held conventions

in both. It’s a relatively small group of hotshot doctors, but the conventions are attended by lots of people—scientists, technicians, students. I called their headquarters in Washington, D.C. The 73 roster had been tossed out, but they still had the one from August 78. Sure enough, a D. Terrif attended the Miami convention, registered as a student. The convention began two days prior to the murder and ended five days after. My info on Richard Carter is that he was still a student in 78—got his M.D. in 79. But he was doing his first Peace Corps bit in Ecuador that summer.”

“How do we know he didn’t leave Ecuador and fly to Miami for a week? Used the Terrif name to conceal his identity, then returned to doing good deeds as Carter.”

“Dr. Carter, Mr. Terrif. Split personality?”

“Or just a clever psychopath.”

“Yeah, it would fit with something else I came up with. After we found that D. Terrif reference in the Shehadeh file, I called one of my buddies at Parker Center, asked him to check all the files for someone by that name. He came up empty, even in the social security files. No such person ever received a card—which is just about every adult who pays taxes in America. Now, Carter’s a Canadian, so it wouldn’t apply to him, but my buddy said something interesting: that Terrif didn’t even look like a bona fide name, that the first thing he thought of was that it was an abbreviation for Terrific.”

Daniel thought about it. The kind of linguistic nuance that he’d fail to catch, working in a foreign language.

“D. Terrific,” said Gene. “Maybe the D stands for some other name or maybe it stands for Doctor.”

“Doctor Terrific.”

“Like a superhero. Scum takes on an alter ego when he goes out to kill.”

“Yes,” said Daniel. “It feels right.”

“Doesn’t seem immediately helpful,“said Gene, “but when you get him to trial, it could be.” He started to yawn, stifled it.

“Absolutely,” said Daniel. “Thanks for doing all of this, Gene. Now please go back to the hotel and get some sleep.”

“Soon. First I want to look into Canadian Terrifs, then see if I can find an old Ecuador-to-Miami plane reservation made out to any Carters or Terrifs. A very long shot, because it was seven years ago, but you never know what pays off. Where you going to be?”

“In and out,” said Daniel. “I’ll check in with you at the end of the day, if not before.”

“Okay. Good luck. And be sure to call me when you catch the scum.”

Monday, five P.M. One of the local members of Al Biyadi’s terrorist cell continued to avoid capture, no word from Paris, and Mossad was still stalling.

Richard Carter had been spotted sixteen times throughout the state of Israel, as far north as Quneitra, as far south as Eilat. Sixteen fair-haired, ginger-bearded men were pulled off the streets for questioning, all eventually released: five Israelis, four Americans, two Britons, two Germans, a Swede, a Dane, and one unfortunate Canadian tourist detained for five hours by Tel Aviv detectives and left behind by his tour group as they boarded an excursion flight to Greece.

Two Volkswagens matching the one Avi Cohen had driven were located and impounded, one on Kibbutz Lavi, the other in Safed. Both owners were interviewed intensively. The Safed car belonged to an artist of wide reputation and mediocre talent who protested loudly that he was being harassed because of left-wing political views. Verification of ownership and registration of both vehicles was obtained.

At six, Daniel and Amos Harel reviewed the written logs of the Amelia Catherine surveillance:

Six-thirteen A.M.: A blue Renault panel truck from the Al Aswadeh Produce Company in East Jerusalem drove around to the rear of the hospital. The chain-link gate was locked. One man got out, walked to the front. Sorrel Baldwin’s secretary, Ma’ila Khoury, came out, spoke to him, went back inside. Minutes later, Khoury unlocked the gate and signed for the groceries. Delivery completed, the truck departed six twenty-eight A.M. License plate number recorded and verified as registered to Al Aswadeh.

Seven-ten a.m.: Zia Hajab arrived at the East Jerusalem bus station on the Ramallah-to-Jerusalem bus. He bought a cold drink from a street vendor, walked from the station to the hospital. By eight a.m. he was sitting at his post.

Nine-twenty A.M.: Dr. Walid Darousha returned from Ramallah in his Peugeot, parked in back, entered the hospital.

Ten-fifteen a.m.: Ma’ila Khoury left the hospital in Sorrel Baldwin’s black Lancia Beta and drove to Hamashbir Letzarkhan on King George Street. Spent two hours in the department store, purchasing panty hose, a negligee, and a foam-rubber pillow. Paid for the merchandise with Sorrel Baldwin’s U.N. Visa card. Serial number recorded and verified. Ate lunch at Cafe Max and returned to the hospital at one forty-three P.M.

Eleven a.m.: Fourteen male patients lined up at the entrance to the hospital. Zia Hajab kept them waiting for twenty-two minutes, then let them in. All were gone and accounted for by two forty-five P.M.

Three-eleven p.m.: A Mercedes truck with green cab and metal van painted with the name, address, and phone number of the Bright and Clean Laundry Service of Bethlehem drove around to the back of the hospital. Ten sacks removed, six delivered, along with numerous folded tablecloths and sheets. Some of the sacks were judged large enough to hold a human body. Enlarged photographs of the delivery men revealed all of them to be Arabs, none bearded, none bearing the slightest resemblance to Carter. The truck departed three twenty-four P.M. License plates recorded and verified as registered to Bright and Clean.

Four forty-two P.M.: A new Mercedes glass-top bus brought a group of Christian tourists from the Intercontinental Hotel on the Mount of Olives to the Amelia Catherine. Twenty-three tourists. Nine men, excluding the driver and the guide. No male tourists under the age of sixty. The driver and guide were both Arabs, not tall, dark-haired; one was bearded. Their heights estimated at a meter seven, each. Zia Hajab was given money by the guide, the tourists permitted to enter the courtyard of the hospital, take pictures. The bus departed at four fifty-seven. License plate recorded and verified to Mount of Olives Tour Company, East Jerusalem.

Five forty-eight: A white Mercedes-Benz diesel sedan with United Nations plates drove around to the back of the hospital. A man wearing a kaffiyah and Arab robes removed several cardboard boxes labeled RECORDS in Arabic and delivered them to the hospital. Two of the boxes were judged possibly large enough to conceal a human body if the body was bent to the point of contortion. The man was estimated to be approximately the same height as Richard Carter. Several photographs were taken and enlarged. Headdress and position of subject prevented a full-face photo. A partial profile shot revealed a hairless chin and small dark mustache, no spectacles, no resemblance to a computer-enhanced portrait of Richard Carter minus his beard. License plate recorded and verified to U.N. Headquarters at Government House.

“It doesn’t say he left,” said Daniel.

“He arrived fifteen minutes ago, Dani,” said Harel, pointing to the time. “You got this hot off the press. If he spends the night, you’ll be the first to know.”

At six-fifteen, Daniel drove home for a shower and change of clothes, parked the Escort near the entrance to his building. A faint breeze blew, causing the jacaranda trees to shudder.

He walked to the pebbled-grass exterior door and found it locked. Had the dog returned?

As he fitted his key in the lock, he heard shouts, turned, and saw rotund figure half a block away, trotting toward him and waving. A white apron flapping in the breeze.

Lieberman, the grocer. Probably a pickup Laura had forgotten.

He waved back, waited. The grocer arrived moments later, breathing hard, wiping his forehead.

“Good evening, Mr. Lieberman.”

“Pakad,” huffed the grocer, “this … is probably nothing, but … I wanted to tell you … anyway.”

“Easy, Mr. Lieberman.”