The Butcher's Theatre

Daniel's mind longed to be somewhere else, but he shook his head knowingly, forced himself to commiserate.

"Protekzia?'

"What else? Someone's nephew."

"Figures."

Steinfeld inspected the contents of his case, closed it, and wiped his hands on his pants. He glanced toward the camera, picked it up.

"How many extra rolls do you want?"

"Take two more, okay?"

"Okay."

Daniel wrote in his note pad, rose, brushed off his trousers, and looked again at the dead girl. The static beauty of the face, the defilement… Young one, what were your final thoughts, your agonies…?

"Any sand on the body?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Avital, "not even between the toes."

"What about the hair?"

"No," she said. "I combed through it. Before that, it looked perfect-shampooed and set." Pause. "Why would that be?"

"A hair fetishist," said Steinfeld. "A freak. When you deal with freaks, anything's possible. Isn't that right, Pakad?"

"Absolutely." Daniel said good-bye and climbed back up. Laufer was back in his Volvo, talking on the radio. His driver stood behind the barrier, chatting with Afif. The old Hagah man was still sandwiched between the two officers. Daniel caught his eye and he nodded formally, as if in salute. Daniel began walking toward him but was stopped by the deputy commander's voice.

"Sharavi."

He turned around. Laufer had gotten out of the car and was waving him over.

"So?" the deputy commander demanded when they were face to face.

"As you said, butchery."

"Does it look like the bastard's work?"

"Not on the surface."

"Be specific," ordered Laufer.

"This one's a child. The Gray Man's victims were older- mid- to late thirties."

The deputy commander dismissed the point with a wave.

"Perhaps he's changed his taste," he said. "Acquired a lust for young whores."

"We don't know this one's a whore," said Daniel, surprised at the edge in his voice.

Laufer grunted, looked away.

"The wounds differ as well," said Daniel. "The Gray Man made his incision laterally, on the left side of the throat. He severed the major blood vessels but didn't cut nearly as deeply as this one-which makes sense, because the Gadish woman, the one who'd survived long enough to talk, described his knife as a small one. This poor girl was just about decapitated, which suggests a larger, heavier weapon."

"Which would be the cause if he's gotten angrier and better-armed," said Laufer. "Progressively more violent. It's a pattern with sex fiends, isn't it?"

"Sometimes," said Daniel. "But the discrepancies go beyond intensity. The Gray Man concentrated on the upper trunk. Struck at the breasts, but never below the waist. And he killed his victims on the spot, after they began to fellate him. This one was murdered elsewhere. Someone washed her hair and combed it out. Scrubbed her clean."

Laufer perked up. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know."

The deputy commander grabbed another Oval, jammed it in his mouth, lit it, and puffed furiously.

"Another one," he said. "Another mad bastard prowling our streets."

"There are other possibilities," said Daniel. "What, another Tutunji?"

"It needs to be considered."

"Shit."

Faiz Tutunji. Daniel uttered the name to himself and conjured the face that went with it: long, sunken-cheeked, snaggle-toothed, the same lazy eyes in every arrest photo. A petty thief from Hebron, with a talent for getting caught. Definitely small-time until a trip to Amman had turned him into a revolutionary. He'd come back spouting slogans, assembled six cohorts, and kidnapped a female soldier off a side street not far from the Haifa harbor. Gang-raped her in the Carmel mountains, then strangled her and cut her up to make it look like a sex murder. A Northern District patrol had caught up with them just outside of Acre, trying to force another hayelet into their van at gunpoint. The ensuing shootout had eliminated six out of seven gang members, including Tutunji, and the survivor had produced written orders from Fatah Central Command. Blessings from Chairman Arafat for an honorable new strategy against the Zionist interloper.

"Liberation through mutilation," spat Laufer. "Just what we need." He grimaced in contemplation, then said, "Okay. I'll make the appropriate inquiries, find out if any new rumblings have been picked up. It if turns into a security case you'll liaison with Latam, Shin Bet, and Mossad." He began walking up the road, toward the still-quiet southern border of the old Hebrew University campus. Daniel stayed by his side.

"What else?" said the deputy commander. "You said possibilities."

"Blood revenge. Love gone wrong."

Laufer digested that.

"A little brutal for that, don't you think?"

"When passion plays a role, things can get out of hand," said Daniel, "but yes, I think it's only a remote possibility."

"Blood revenge," Laufer reflected. "She look like an Arab to you?"

"No way to tell."

Laufer looked displeased, as if Daniel possessed some special insight into what Arabs looked like and had chosen to withhold it.

"Our first priority," said Daniel, "should be to identify her, then work backward from here. The sooner we assemble the tleam, the better."

"Fine, fine. Ben-Ari's available, as is Zussman. Which do you want?"

"Neither. I'll take Nahum Shmeltzer."

"I thought he retired."

"Not yet-next spring."

"None too soon. He's a dray horse, burned out. Lacks creativity."