The Butcher's Theatre Read Online Free PDF

murder. Thirteen years in one neighborhood, then a sudden move. Perhaps there was
    some connection, something oblique that he had yet to grasp. He resolved to look into the old man’s background.
    “I fought for this city,” Schlesinger was saying, testily. “Broke my ass. You’d think I’d deserve better than being treated like a suspect.”
    Daniel wondered if his thoughts were that transparent, looked at Schlesinger and decided the old man was being touchy.
    “No one suspects you of anything, adoni,” he soothed. “I was merely succumbing to curiosity—an occupational hazard.”
    Schlesinger scowled and asked if he could go.
    “Certainly, and thank you for your time. I’ll have the officers take you back to your car.”
    “I can walk just fine.”
    “I’m sure you can, but regulations dictate otherwise.”
    He called the uniforms over while the old man muttered about bureaucrats and red tape, had one of them walk him to the blue-and-white, and drew the other aside.
    “Take a look at his car, Amnon. Nothing detailed, just a casual glance. Inform him that the carbine must be kept in the trunk and put it there yourself. When you do, check the trunk.”
    “Anything in particular to look for?”
    “Anything out of the ordinary. Be sure to keep it casual—don’t let on what you’re doing.”
    The officer looked at Schlesinger’s retreating form.
    “Is he a suspect?”
    “We’re being thorough. He lives on French Hill. Escort him to the towers, and radio for two more men. Have them bring a metal detector and the four of you climb down there and do a grid search of the slope on the desert side. Concentrate on the immediate vicinity beyond the ridge—a two-kilometer radius should be sufficient. Look for footprints, blood, human waste, food wrappers.”
    “Anything out of the ordinary.”
    “Exactly. And no loose lips. The brass wants this kept quiet.”
    The officer nodded and left, talked to Schlesinger, and ushered him to the car. The blue-and-white drove off, followed shortly by the technical van. The transport drivers disappeared into the gully with a stretcher and a folded black plastic body bag and reappeared shortly with the bag filled. They slid it into the Abu Kabir van, climbed in, slammed the doors, and sped away. Daniel walked over to Afif and together they removed the barriers and loaded them into the jeep.
    “Salman, what’s the chance of someone sneaking in from the desert in the early morning hours?”
    “Everything’s been quiet,” the Druze said stoically. “Well under control.”
    “What about from Isawiya?”
    “Silent. We’ve got infrared scopes at our stations in the Rift. On the tenders and some of the jeeps as well. All we’ve been picking up are snakes and rabbits. Small band
    of Bedouins up north of the Ramot, they won’t come down until summer.”
    “What about Ramallah?”
    “Local unrest, but nothing beyond talk.”
    “The Bethlehem sector?”
    “Patrol’s been beefed up since the girl’s funeral. No suspi-cius movement.”
    The girl. Najwa Sa’id Mussa. Fourteen years old and on her way to market when she’d been caught in the cross fire between a mob of stone-throwing Arabs and two nineteen-year-old soldiers who’d fired back in defense. A bullet to the head had turned her into a heroine, posters emblazoned with her picture slapped to the trunks of the fig trees that grew along the Hebron Road, the graffiti of vengeance marring walls and boulders. A near-riot of a funeral, and then things had gotten quiet again.
    Or had they?
    He thought about another dead girl and wondered.
    By seven forty-five, students had begun drifting toward campus and the hum of traffic filtered down the road. Daniel crossed over and walked down toward the Amelia Catherine Hospital. He’d passed the place numerous times but had never been inside. During the Gray Man investigation, Gavrieli had taken the task of handling the U.N. people on his own. A good boss. Too bad he’d been