The Butcher's Theatre

The Canadian, Carter, he would have pegged for one of the Scandinavian backpackers who traipsed through the city each summer-big-framed and heavy-featured, with curly blond hair, narrow gray eyes, and a full ginger beard. He was in his early thirties and wore old-fashioned round gold-framed glasses. His hair was shaggy and longish and, like the rest of him, seemed carelessly assembled. His white coat was wrinkled and he wore it over a blue work shirt and faded jeans. Slow-talking and deliberate, he appeared to be lost in his own world, though he did express normal curiosity about the crime.

Daniel answered his questions with vague generalities and asked, "You attended the seminar with Dr. Darousha?"

"Sure did."

"Did you see patients afterwards?"

"No," said Carter. "Wally went back by himself. I was off-shift, so I took a cab into East Jerusalem and had di

"Something amusing, Dr. Carter?"

Carter shook his head, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled.

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

"I suppose it does," said Daniel, writing. "What time did you arrive back at the hospital?"

"Must have been close to ten-thirty."

"What did you do when you arrived?"

"Went to my room, read medical journals until they put me to sleep, and popped off."

"What time was that?"

"I really couldn't tell you. This was fairly boring stuff so it could have been as early as eleven. When was this crime committed?"

"That hasn't been established yet. Did you hear or see anything at all that was out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

Daniel dismissed him and he shambled back to his table. A former hippie, Daniel guessed. The kind who might blunt life's edges with a hit of hashish now and then. A dreamer.

Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi, by contrast, was all points and angles, formal, dapper, and delicate-almost willowy-with skin as dark as Daniel's, short black hair, well-oiled, and a pencil-line mustache that had been trimmed to architectural precision. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his white coat and elegant clothes only served to enhance the image of a child playing dress-up.

"By any chance," Daniel asked him, "are you related to Mohammed Al Biyadi, the grocer?"

"He is my father," said Al Biyadi, suspiciously.

"Many years ago, when I was a uniformed officer, thieves broke into your father's warehouse and stole a new shipment of melons and squash. I was assigned to the case." One of the first triumphs, the criminals quickly apprehended, the merchandise returned. He'd swelled with pride for days.

As an attempt to gain rapport, it failed.

"I know nothing of melons," said the young physician coldly. "Ten years ago I lived in America."

"Where in America?"

"Detroit, Michigan."

"The automobile city."

Al Biyadi folded his arms across his chest. "What do you want of me?"

"Did you study medicine in Detroit, Michigan?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Wayne State University."

"When did you return to Israel?"

"I returned to Palestine two years ago."

"Have you worked at the Amelia Catherine all that time?"

"Yes."

"What is your specialty?"

"Family medicine."

"Did you attend the seminar at Hadassah?"

Al Biyadi's face contracted, almost shriveling with anger. "You know the answer to that, policeman. Why play games?"

Daniel looked at him calmly and said nothing.

"The same thing over and over," said Al Biyadi. "Something happens and you harass us."

"Have you been harassed by the police before, Dr. Al Biyadi?"

"You know what I mean," snapped the young Arab. He looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on the table. "I have things to do, patients to see."

"Speaking of seeing, did you see anything unusual last night?"

"No, nothing, and that's likely to be my answer to all of your questions."

"What about during the early morning hours?"

"No."

"No shouts or cries?"

"No."

"Do you own a car?" asked Daniel, knowing he was prolonging the interview in response to Al Biyadi's hostility. But it was more than a petty reaction: The young doctor's response was out of proportion. Was his anger politically rooted or something more-the edginess of the guilty? He wanted a bit more time to study Hassan Al Biyadi.

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"A Mercedes."

"What color?"

"Green."

"Diesel or petrol?"

"Diesel." From between clenched jaws.

"Where do you park it?"

"In the back. With everyone else's."

"Did you drive it last night?"

"I didn't go out last night."

"You were here all night."

"Correct."

"Doing what?"

"Studying, going about my business."

"Studying for what?"