The Butcher's Theatre by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

smiled.
    “That’ll be all,” said Daniel to the waiter, who departed, muttering, “Salads, salads.”
    Daniel began laying out the case before the food came and continued after its delivery, ignoring his salad and talking while the others ate. Handing a photo of the dead girl to Lee, he placed another in front of the empty chair, and passed on what he’d learned so far. The detectives took notes, holding pens in one hand, forks in the other. Chewing, swallowing, but mechanically. A silent audience.
    “Three possibilities come to mind immediately,” he said. “One, a psychopathic murder. Two, a crime of passion—in that I include blood revenge. Three, terrorism. Any other suggestions?”
    “Gang murder,” said Shmeltzer. “She was someone’s girl and got in the middle of something.”
    “The gangs use bullets and they don’t kill women,” said the Chinaman. He slid cubes of shishlik off a skewer, stared at them, ate one.
    “They never used to kill anyone,” said Shmeltzer. “There’s always a first time.”
    “They hide their corpses, Nahum,” said Lee. “The last thing they want is to make it public.” To Daoud: “You guys never found any of the ones The Number Two boys hit, did you?”
    Daoud shook his head.
    “Any gang wars brewing that you know of?” Daniel asked Lee.
    The Chinaman took a swallow of beer and shook his head. “The hashish gangs are stable—heavy supply down from Lebanon with enough to go around for everyone. Zik and the Chain Street Boys have a truce going on stolen goods. Zik’s
    also cornered the opium market but for now it’s too small for anyone to challenge him.”
    “What about the melon gangs?” asked Shmeltzer.
    “The crop will be small this summer so we can expect some conflict, but that’s a while off and we’ve never had a melon murder yet.”
    “All in due time,” said the older detective. “We’re growing civilized at an alarming rate.”
    “Look into the gangs, Chinaman,” said Daniel. “And investigate the possibility of a pimp-whore thing—that she was a street girl who betrayed her sarsur and he wanted to make an example of her. Show her picture to the lowlifes and see if anyone knew her.”
    “Will do,” said Lee.
    “Any other hypotheses?” asked Daniel. When no one answered he said, “Let’s go back to the first three, starting with terrorism. On the surface it doesn’t look political—there was no message attached to the body and no one’s claimed credit. But that may still be coming. We know they’ve been trying out street crime as a strategy—the one who stabbed Shlomo Mendelsohn shouted slogans, as did the punks who shot at the hikers near Solomon’s Pool. Both of those cases were semi-impulsive—opportunistic—and this one looks more premeditated, but so was the job Tutunji’s gang did on Talia Gidal, so let’s keep our minds open. Nahum, I want you to liaison with Shin Bet and find out if they’ve picked up word of a sex murder strategy from overseas or any of the territories. Elias, have you heard anything along those lines?”
    “There’s always talk,” said Daoud cautiously.
    Shmeltzer’s face tightened. “What kind of talk?” he asked.
    “Slogans. Nothing specific.”
    “That so?” said the older detective, wiping his glasses. “I saw something specific the other day. Graffiti near the Hill of Golgotha. ‘Lop off the head of the Zionist monster.’ Could be someone followed instructions.”
    Daoud said nothing.
    “When you get right down to it,” Shmeltzer continued, “there’s nothing new about Arabs mixing mutilation and politics.” He jabbed his fork into a piece of grilled kidney, put it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “In the Hebron
    massacre they sliced the breasts off all the women. Castrated the men and stuffed their balls in their mouths. The Saudis still dismember thieves. It’s part of the Arabic culture, right?”
    Daoud stared straight ahead, tugging at his mustache until the skin