Kellerman, Jonathan - The Theatre

Inside the hospital, things were indeed crazy. The air-conditioning system had broken down, turning the building into a steam bath. Two volunteer doctors hadn't shown up, appointments were already running an hour behind schedule, and the patient load was heavy, injured and sick men spilling out of the waiting room and into the main hallway, where they stood, squatted, sat, and leaned against the plaster walls.

The stagnant air was fouled by unwashed bodies and infection. Nahum Shmeltzer staked out a place against the north wall and watched the comings and goings of doctors, nurses, and patients, with a jaundiced eye.

The little false mustache was ridiculous, perched above his lip like a piece of lint. He hadn't shaved or showered and felt as unclean as the rest of them. To top it off, the robes Latam had provided him wercabrasive as horsehair, heavy as lead. He was sweating like a sick man, starting to feel really feverish-how was that for method acting?

The only bright spot was the smile the costume had elicited from Eva. He'd picked her up at Hadassah, taken her home, tried to get her to eat, then held her for four hours before falling asleep, knowing she'd be up all right, waiting by the phone. The old man was close to death; she kept wanting to return to the hospital, afraid of missing the moment he slipped away.

Still, when Shmeltzer had gotten up at five and put on the Arab get-up, the corners of her mouth had turned up-only for a moment, but every little bit helped… Shit, he was uncomfortable.

Daoud didn't seem to mind any of it, he noticed. The Arab stood across the hall, blending in with the others, cool as rain. Making occasional eye contact with Shmeltzer, but mostly just fading into the background. Backing up against the door of the Records Room and waiting for Shmeltzer's signal before making unobtrusive movements with his hands.

Movements you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking for them. The hands busy at the lock but the face blank as a new note pad.

Maybe Arabs weren't bothered by this kind of thing, thought Shmeltzer. If they could be trusted, they'd make great undercover men.

Arabs. Here he was, surrounded by them. Except for prison camp duty in '48, he'd never been with so many of them at one time.

If they knew who he was, they'd probably tear him apart. The Beretta would pick off a few, but not enough. Not that they'd ever find out. He'd looked in the mirror after putting on the outfit, surprised himself with what a good Arab he made. Ahmed Ibn Shmeltzer

Someone lit a cigarette. A couple of others followed suit. A guy next to him nudged him and asked if he had a smoke. All that despite the fact that the American nurse, Cassidy, had come out twice and announced No Smoking in loud, lousy Arabic.

The Arabs ignored her; a woman talking, she might just as well have been a donkey braying.

"Smoke?" repeated the guy, nudging again.

"Don't have any," Shmeltzer said in Arabic.

The Cassidy girl was out in the hall again, calling out a name. A beggar on crutches grunted and bumped his way toward her.

Shmeltzer looked at the nurse as she escorted the cripple to an examining room. Plain as black bread, no breasts, no hips, the type of dry cunt always exploited by greasy sheikhs like Al Biyadi.

A few minutes later, the sheikh himself stepped out of another examining room, all pressed and immaculate in his long doctor's coat. He glanced at the mob of patients with disdain, shot his cuffs, and exposed a flash of gold watch.

A white swan among mud ducks, thought Shmeltzer, and he knows it. He followed Al Biyadi's path across the hall and into the Records Room. Daoud had moved away from the door, sat down, and was feigning sleep.

Al Biyadi used a key to open the door. Arrogant young snot -what the hell was he doing working here instead of renting a suite of offices in Ramallah or on a good street in East Jerusalem? Why lower himself to stitching up paupers when he could be raking in his big money attending to landowner's families or rich tourists at the Intercontinental Hotel?

The initial research had shown him to be a playboy with expensive tastes. Hardly the type to go in for do-gooding. Unless there was an ulterior motive.

Like access to victims.

Dani's theory was that the Butcher was a psycho with something extra-a racist out to cause trouble between Jews and Arabs. Shmeltzer wasn't sure he bought that, but if it was true, it only strengthened his own theory: Al Biyadi was a closet radical and best bet for the Butcher. He'd said as much at the emergency staff meeting last night. No one had agreed or disagreed.

But he fit, the snot, including the fact that he'd lived in America.

Ten years ago, Nahum, Dani had objected. Their typical debate.

How do you know?

Our passport records confirmed it during the initial research.

Ten years. Four years too late to match two of the murders from the FBI computer.

But Shmeltzer wasn't ready to let go of the bastard that easily. Before settling in Detroit, Michigan, for college, Al Biyadi had lived in Amman, attending a high-priced boarding school, the same one Hussein's kids went to. Rich kid like that, he could have easily gone back and forth between Jordan and America as a tourist, using a Jordanian passport. Any trips taking place before his return to Israel wouldn't show up in their files.

American Immigration would have records of them, though. Dani had agreed to get in touch with them, though if past history was any indicator, getting the information would take weeks, maybe months.

Meanwhile, as far as Nahum Shmeltzer was concerned, the book was still open on Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi. Wide open.

Anyway, there was no reason to be wedded to the American murders. Maybe the similarity was just a coincidence-a strong one, granted, what with the caves and the heroin. But maybe certain types of sex maniacs operated in patterns, some common psychological thread that made them carve up women in similar ways, dump them in caves. Dani's black friend had said the match was too close for coincidence. An American detective would know plenty about that, but even he was theorizing. There was no hard evidence

Al Biyadi came out of the Records Room bearing several charts, locked it, stepped over Daoud, and pursed his lips in distaste.

Prissy, thought Shmeltzer. Maybe a latent homosexual- the head-doctor had said serial killers often were.

Look at the woman he chose: The Cassidy girl had no meat on her-not much of a woman at all, especially for a hotshot rich kid like Al Biyadi.

A strange pairing. Maybe the two of them were in it together. Closet radicals intent on fomenting violent revolution-a killing team. He'd always liked the idea of more than one murderer. Multiple kill spots, a partner to help carry stuff to and from the cave, serve as lookout, do a nice thorough washing of the bodies-nursie serving doctor.

And a female partner, to make it easier to snag victims. A woman would trust another woman, especially a do-gooder in a white uniform. Believe her when when she said Relax. This little shot is to make you feel better.

Trust… Maybe Cassidy had done the first two American ones by herself-a female sex maniac. Why not? Then, four years later, Al Biyadi comes to America, meets her at Harper Hospital, the two of them find they have a common interest and start a killing club.

It sounded far-fetched, but you never knew. Anyway, enough speculating. It was giving him a headache. What was needed was good old-fashioned evidence.

The old Swiss nurse, Catherine Hauser, walked out into the center of the corridor and called out a name. Her voice was too soft amid the white noise of small talk, and no one heard her.

"Quiet," ordered Al Biyadi, just about to enter an examining room. "Quiet immediately."

The men in the hall obeyed.

Al Biyadi glowered at them, nodded like a little prince granting favors. "You may read that name again, Nurse Hauser."

The old one repeated it. A patient said, "Me" and got up to follow her. Al Biyadi pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

Shmeltzer leaned his elbows against the wall and waited. The man next to him had managed to get a cigarette from someone else and was blowing thick plumes of smoke that swirled in the hot air and took a long time to die. Across the hall Daoud was talking to a guy with a patch over his eye. Ahmed Ibn Dayan

The two other doctors-the older Arab, Darousha, and the Canadian, Carter, came out of a room with an Arab between them. The Arab had one foot in a cast and was stumbling along as they propped him up, his arms on their shoulders.

How sweet.

Do-gooders. As suspects, Shmeltzer thought they were weak. True, a Canadian was almost like an American. Carter would certainly have had easy access to a big open border. But if the American murders cleared anyone, it was him: The initial research placed him in South America during four of the killings, A hitch in the Peace Corps in Ecuador during the last year in medical school, a return trip years later, as a doctor. Real do-gooder, the soft, hippie type, but probably an anti-Semite down deep-anyone who worked for UNRWA had to be. But his references from the Peace Corps were all glowing: devoted physician, saved lives, prevented outbreaks of cholera, helped build villages, dam streams, blah blah blah. To believe it, Dr. Richard Carter pissed champagne.

Darousha also shaped up as one hell of a tzadik: reputation for kindness, no political interests, got along with Jewish doctors-took courses at Hadassah and received high marks. So clean he'd never even had a traffic ticket. Everyone said he really liked making people feel better, was especially good with children.

Only mark against him was the fact that he was queer- and a real Romeo. Shin Bet had just firmed up some rumors connecting him with a series of male lovers, including a married Jewish doctor three years ago. The latest boyfriend was the moronic watchman out in front. What a pair they'd make-two pudgy guys bouncing around in bed.

But being homosexual meant nothing in terms of this case, decided Shmeltzer. According to the head-docs, the magic word was latent. The theory was that the violence came about because the killer was repressing his homosexual impulses, trying to overcompensate by being supermasculine and taking control of women by destroying them.

If Darousha was already overtly queer, didn't it mean he'd stopped repressing? Had nothing to hide, nothing to be upset about? Unless he thought no one knew about him

All bullshit, anyway, the psychology stuff. Including the bullshit profiles Dani's black friend had quoted from the FBI: Men who cut up women are usually sadistic psychopaths. Which was like saying you could make something smaller by reducing it in size. Nice guy, the black-no doubt he had more experience than any of them, and Nahum Shmeitzer was the last person to refuse help from outsiders. But only if they had something solid. Like evidence.

Which was what they were after this morning, stuck here in the midst of all this stink and pestilence. He looked over at Daoud, hoped the chance came soon. Goddamned robes itched like crazy.

At one in the afternoon the doctors took a lunch break. Free coffee and pastries were offered to the patients, who went after the food like starving animals, rushing out to the front courtyard of the hospital where folding tables had been set up.

Moving damned fast, noticed Shmeltzer, for guys on crutches and canes. He signaled for Daoud to make his move.

Shielded by the commotion, the Arab detective sidled up to the Records Room door again, worked the pick out from inside his sleeve, and played with the lock.

Slow, thought Shmeltzer, keeping one eye on the hallway. One minute more, he'd have a try at it himself.

Finally the lock yielded. Daoud turned and looked at Shmeltzer, who looked up and down the corridor.

Coast was clear, but the hallway was emptying, their cover was dissipating.

Go, Shmeltzer signaled.

Daoud opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it after him.

The corridor grew silent. Shmeltzer waited for the Arab to do his work, standing watch five meters to the east of the door. Then footsteps sounded from the around the corner. A man appeared, a Westerner, walking quickly and purposefully.

Baldwin, the administrator-now there was an American. Real uncooperative bastard, according to Dani. And the shmuck had been out of America only for the last two murders in the FBI file, which were dismemberments anyway, no ID on the victims-far from clear that they belonged with the first ones.

A pencil-pushing bastard. Shmeltzer would have liked to see him as the killer. No doctor, but he'd hung around hospitals along enough to learn about drugs, surgical procedures.

Look at him, wearing a Great White Father safari suit and shiny black boots with hard leather heels that played a clackety drumbeat on the tile floor. Gestapo boots.

Shmuck was walking fast but his eyes were buried in a magazine-Time. A large ring of keys dangled from one hand as he approached.

Heading straight for the Records Room, realized Shmeltzer. Hell of a disaster if Daoud stepped out right now and came face to face with the bastard.

Shmeltzer backed up so that he stood in front of the door. Heard rustling inside and knocked a signal to the Arab, who locked the door and stopped moving.

Baldwin came closer, looked up from his magazine and saw him.

"Yes?" he said. "Can I help you?" Heavily accented Arabic.

Shmeltzer leaned against the door, clutched his chest, and moaned.

"What's the matter?" said Baldwin, looking down on him.

"Hurts," said Shmeltzer in a whisper, trying to look and sound feeble.

"What's that?"

"Hurts."

"What hurts?"

"Chest." A louder moan. Shmeltzer fluttered his eyelids, made as if his knees were giving way.

Baldwin grabbed his elbow, dropping his Time magazine in the process. Shmeltzer went semi-limp, let the bastard support his weight, smiling to himself and thinking: Probably the first real work he's done in years.