Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

"Do you attach any significance to the use of drugs?"

The psychologist got up, walked to the credenza, and poured a second cup of coffee. "I don't know," he said, upon return. "Perhaps he'd experienced some sort of peak sexual experience related to drug use. A lot of what turns people on is the result of chance associations-the coupling of some random but significant event with sexual arousal."

It took a moment for Daniel to assimilate that. "An accident?"

"A Pavlovian accident-in this case, repetitive pairings of sex and violence. It may very well be the root of sexual deviance-generation- of English sadomasochists were created by the practice of caning public school students. Beat a horny adolescent frequently enough and you're going to establish a mental connection between pain and arousal. The same may be true of sexual psychopaths-most of them claim to have been abused as children, but then again, they'd say anything that was self-serving."

"Could the use of sedation indicate someone with medical experience?" asked Daniel. "Along with the fact that he took care to avoid physical evidence?"

"Do you have a physician suspect?"

"No."

"Did the pathologist feel the mutilation indicated exceptional surgical skill?"

"No."

"Then I wouldn't place much stock in that hypothesis. Why would a doctor use something crude like heroin, when he could get his hands on more precise anesthetics? What it does indicate is someone with drug experience, which, unfortunately, is no longer a small club in the country. Anything else?"

"When we talked about Gray Man, you said he would probably be withdrawn, an antisocial loner. Do you feel the same about this one?"

"At the core, all psychopaths are antisocial. They're incapable of achieving intimacy, view people as objects, have no sense of empathy or compassion. Gray Man was impulsive and meek, which led me to guess that he was socially inadequate. But this one isn't so clear-cut. He's cold, calculating, takes great care to wash the body, prepare it, clean it-he's a stage director. Arrogant and intelligent, and those types often come across as sociable, even charming. Some even have apparent romances with women, though when you examine the relationship closely it turns out to be warped or platonic. The more sophisticated sex killer doesn't doesn't necessarily shun the public eye. In fact, he may even jump right into it. He may be attracted to politics because it's also a power game: There was an Englishman-one of the homosexual killers-named Dennis Nilsen. Labor union activist, well liked by everyone, terrific social consciousness when he wasn't strangling boys. The American, Ted Bundy, was a law student, also politically active, good-looking, suave.

Another American, Gacy, entertained children with a clown act, raised funds for the Democratic party and had his picture taken with President Carter's wife. Semipublic figures, every one of them."

Ben David leaned forward.

"Internally, your man's a cesspool, Dani. Get to know him on an intimate level and the psychopathy starts popping out-lies, false claims, inconsistencies in personal history, poor impulse control, situational conscience. He believes in rules but doesn't believe they apply to him. But outwardly, he may very well look normal. Better than normal-a persuasive manipulator."

Daniel thought of Fatma's naivete, Juliet's possible brain damage. Easy pickings for someone like that.

"What about religious fanaticism?" he asked.

Ben David smiled. "The avenging murderer cleansing the world of whores? Movie nonsense. Some of these guys claim they've got some greater moral purpose, but it's more self-serving garbage and if no one buys it, they quickly drop it. Basically, they kill to achieve orgasm." He looked at the reports again.

"Both your victims were Arabs," he said. "One thing you should consider strongly is the political component."

"Neither Mossad nor Shin Bet has come up with any terrorist connections-"

"That's not what I meant," the psychologist cut in, impatiently. "Don't limit your thinking to some organized political cell. As I said, psychopaths are attracted to political issues because politics is power. I'm suggesting to you a solitary psychopathic killer whose violent fantasy life is interwoven with political elements."

Ben David shot out of his chair, went to the bookshelves, ran his fingers along the spines of the volumes, and pulled out several.

"Here," he said, placing the books in Daniel's lap.

The first three were American paperbacks. Cheap, cracked editions with brittle, yellowed paper. Daniel studied the cover illustrations: lurid, cartoonish paintings of impossibly voluptuous women, naked, bound and gagged, and tormented by hypermuscular, whip-wielding men in leather costumes so glossy they looked wet. Costumes emblazoned with swastikas and iron crosses and the SS death's-head logo. In one illustration, ribbons of blood ran down the woman's meaty thighs. In another a slavering, razor-toothed Doberman pinscher aimed its snout in the vicinity of the victim's crotch.

The women strained against their bonds and their eyes were wide with terror. Their tormentors grinned and fondled groins bulging grotesquely.

The titles: Eat This, Jewbitch. Nazi Lovemasters. Gestapo Rape.

Daniel opened one of them, read several lines of explicit, sadomasochistic pornography, and put the books down angrily.

"Disgusting."

"I got them when I was at Harvard," said Ben David, "in a used-book store near the campus. There's a small but steady market for this type of thing."

Daniel opened the fourth book. A hard-cover volume entitled This Must Not Happen Again: The Black Book of Fascist Horror. He turned pages, saw grainy photographs. Mountains of human skeletons. A row of empty-eyed corpses, partially corroded by lime, lying three-deep in a muddy ditch. Several arms and legs, waxily artificial. The leer of a German soldier as he shot a naked woman in the back.

"Read the chapter on 'Murder for Profit,'" said the psycho logist. "The surgical experiments."

Daniel found this section, skimmed it, then closed the book, his anger growing. "What's the point?"

"The point is that racist politics and psychopathy can be comfortable bedfellows. Mengele, all the other camp doctors, were psychopaths. Hannah Arendt claimed they were normal, banal men, but their psychological evaluations indicate otherwise. They were attracted to the Nazi philosophy because it fit with their psychopathic natures. Hitler reinforced and legitimized them with power and status and technology-serial killers in the employ of the State. The point is, Dani, that if Arab girls keep turning up slaughtered, you'd do well to consider that your psychopath has a thing against Arabs."

"A Jewish race murderer?" Daniel thought of the Ripper book. The shohet theory.

"It could be a self-hating Arab," said Ben David. "Serial killers often turn against their own kind. But don't exclude the possibility that a member of our tribe is running around butchering Arabs just because it's an unappetizing contingency. We're not all lambs. There's a reason for the sixth commandment."

Daniel was silent. Sen David misread the look on his face as resistance and threw up his hands.

"I don't like it either, my friend. You wanted my speculations, you got them."

"I was reading about psychopathic killers last night," Daniel reflected, "and found myself thinking about them in Nazi terms. A phrase came to mind: street-corner Mengeles."

"You see"-the psychologist smiled-"you don't need me. Your unconscious is guiding you in the right direction."

He handed the reports back to Daniel, who put them into his case and removed a folder. The summary on Schlesinger, it had finally arrived yesterday from Civil Guard Headquarters. He gave it to Ben David, saying, "What do you think of this one?"

More rapid scanning. "This tells me nothing," said the psychologist. "An old man with stomach pains-Kupat Holim claims it's in his head. The classic psychosomatic dodge."

"He was the Hagah man patrolling Scopus the night the first one turned up," said Daniel, "giving him excellent opportunity. An old palmahi, hates Arabs-which could give him a motive. He likes to drive around the city at night and he has psychological problems."

Ben David shook his head, held up the summary.

"There's nothing in here about psychological problems. He has stomach pains and persistent hunger pangs that the doctors can't identify. So they cover for their feelings of inadequacy by using psychology to blame the victim." He gave the folder to Daniel. "I'm not saying this Schlesinger isn't your man. If you have evidence, go for him. But there's nothing in here that's relevant." Ben David looked at his watoh. "Anything else?"

"Not for now," said Daniel. "Thanks."

The two of them stood and Ben David walked him back into the waiting room. A young couple sat at opposite ends of the sofa, arms folded, eyes cast downward. When the door opened, both of them looked up briefly, then returned to staring at the rug. Daniel saw their fear and shame, wondered why Ben David didn't have a separate exit for his patients.

"One moment," the psychologist told the couple. He accompanied Daniel out the front door and to the curb. The morning had filled with traffic and sunshine, the hum of human discourse filtering from Keren Hayesod to the quiet, tree-shaded street. Ben David took a deep breath and stretched.

"Psychopaths can be arrogant to the point of self-destruc-tiveness," he said. "He may get careless, make a mistake, and tell you who he is."

"Gray Man never did."

Ben David tugged at his beard. "Maybe your luck will change."

"And if it doesn't?"

Ben David placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes softened as-he searched for a response. For the first time, Daniel saw him in a different light-paternal, a therapist.

Then, all at once, he drew away and said,

"If it doesn't, more blood."

He interviewed sex offenders and false confessors all day- wretched men, for the most part, who seemed too downtrodden to plan anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. He'd talked to many of them before. Still, he considered each of them a pathological liar, put them through the entire grilling, reducing some to tears, others to a near-catatonic fatigue.

At seven he returned home to find Gene and Luanne there, the table set for guests. He didn't recall Laura mentioning a visit, but lately he'd been far from attentive, so she might very well have spelled it out for him without its sinking in.

The boys attacked him, along with Dayan, and he wrestled with them, absently, noticing that Shoshi hadn't come forward to greet him.

The reason was soon obvious. She and Gene were playing draw poker in a corner of the living room, using raisins for chips. From the size of the piles it was clear who was winning.

"Flush," she said, clapping her hands.

"Oh, well," said Gene, throwing his cards down.

"Hello, everyone," said Daniel.

"Hello, Abba." Preoccupied.

"'Lo, Danny. Your turn to deal, sugar."

The boys had run to the back of the apartment, taking the dog with them. Daniel stood alone for a moment, put his attache case down, and went into the kitchen.

He found Laura and Luanne at the table, both in light cotton dresses, examining a large white scrapbook-his and Laura's wedding album.

"You were both so young," said Luanne. "Oh, hello, Daniel."

"Hello, Luanne." A smile for Laura.

She smiled back but got up slowly, almost reluctantly, and he felt more like a stranger than ever.

"I just called your office," she said, pecking his cheek. "Dinner's getting cold."

"Sorry."

"No problem." She gave his hand a quick squeeze, released it, and went to examine the roast in the oven.

"You were some couple," said Luanne. "My, my, look at all those coins. That is simply gorgeous."

Daniel looked down at the picture that had captured her attention. The formal wedding portrait: he and Laura, holding hands, next to a ridiculously large wedding cake-his mother-in-law's idea.

He wore a white tuxedo with a silly-looking ruffled shirt, plum-colored cummerbund and bow tie-the rental store had insisted it was all the rage. Smiling but looking baffled, like a child dressed up for a dance party.

Laura looked majestic, nothing silly about her. Swallowed up by the Yemenite wedding gown and headdress that had been in the Zadok family for generations but belonged, really, to the Yemenite community of Jerusalem. A treasure, centuries old, lent to any bride who requested it. A tradition that stretched back to San'a, celebrating social equality: The daughters of rich men and beggars came to the huppah dressed in identical splendor, each bride a queen on her special day.

The gown and headdress and accompanying jewelry were as heavy as chain mail: tunic and pantaloons of crisp gold brocade; three rings on every finger, a trio of bracelets around each wrist; scores of necklaces-strings of silver and gold coins, filigree balls glowing like silver gumdrops, amber beads, pearls and gemstones. The headdress high and conical, layered with alternating rows of black and white pearls and topped by a garland of white and scarlet carnations, the pearl chin-piece hanging down to the clavicle like a glittering, shimmering beard; a fringe of tiny turquoise pendants concealing the top half of the brow, so that only the center of Laura's face was visible. The young, beautiful features and enormous pale eyes framed and emphasized.

The night before, she'd had her palms and soles smeared red in the henna ceremony, and now this. She'd barely been able to walk; the merest flick of a wrist elicited a flash of gemfire, the jangle of metal against metal. The old women tended to her, jabbering incomprehensibly, holding her upright. Others scraped out complex rhythms on finger cymbals, coaxed near-melodies from antique goatskin drums. Whooping and chanting and singing women's songs, the Arabic lyrics subtly erotic. Estelle had gotten right in with them, a small woman, like her daughter. Light-footed, laughing, whooping along.