The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"What do you want?"

"Been a long time, stud. Cash-in time. I want to go to med school."

Kikefuck was blown away.

"That's crazy! You haven't even finished two years of junior college!"

Shrug.

"Have you taken any science courses?"

"Some."

"Are your grades any better?"

"I'm doing fine."

"Sure you are-oh, great. Terrific. Straight D's and you want to be a doctor."

"I'm going to be a doctor."

Fucker slammed his hand on the desk. His eyes were popping out of his ugly purple face. Mad because an Aryan warrior was breaking into the kike medico conspiracy.

"Now you listen-"

"I want an M.D. You're going to fix it for me."

'Jesus Christ! How the hell do you expect me to pull something like that off!"

"Your problem." Stare-down, melting the fucker by being totally cool.

He walked away with a spring in his step, ready for a bright new future.

Saturday, seven forty-three P.M. Daniel had just finished praying ma'ariv and havdalah, bidding farewell to a Sabbath that, for all practical purposes, had never existed. Talking to God with all the devotion of a nonbeliever, his mind on the case, chewing on the new information as if it were fine filet steak.

He put away his siddur and had started to assemble his notes for the staff meeting when the operator phoned and said a Mr. Vangidder was on the line.

Unfamiliar name. Foreign. "Did he say what it was about?"

"No."

Probably some foreign reporter. Despite Headquarters' blackout on Butcher information, journalists were being their usual persistent selves. "Take his number and tell him I'll call him back."

He hung up, made it to the door when the phone rang again. He considered ignoring it, let it ring, finally answered.

"Pakad?" said the same operator. "It's about this Vangidder. He says he's a policeman calling from the Netherlands, says you'll definitely want to speak to him. It has to be now-he's leaving tonight for a one-week holiday."

Dutch police? Had the Interpol man finally done his Job?

"Put him on."

"Okay."

He waited anxiously through a series of electronic bleeps, hoping he hadn't lost the call. In light of what Shmeltzer and Daoud had found at the Amelia Catherine, information from Europe could narrow the investigation.

The bleeps were followed by a serenade of static, a low, mechanical rumble, then a high-pitched, cheerful voice, speaking in flawless English.

"Chief Inspector Sharavi? This is Joop Van Gelder of the Amsterdam police."

"Hello… is it Chief Inspector?"

"Commissaris," said Van Gelder. "It's similar to a chief inspector."

It was, Daniel knew, a rank above chief inspector. Joop Van Gelder was unassuming. Instinctively, from thousands of miles away, he liked the man.

"Hello, Commissaris. Thank you for calling and sorry for the delay in putting you through."

"My fault, really," said Van Gelder, still cheerful. "I ne-glected to identify myself as a police officer, was under the impression that your Interpol man had passed my name along."

Thank you, Friedman.

"No, I'm sorry, Commissaris, he didn't."

"No matter. We've got more important things to chat about, yes? This morning, your man passed along some homicide data that so clearly matched an unsolved murder in our city that I knew I had to get in touch with you. I'm off-duty, packing for a holiday to England. Mrs. Van Gelder won't tolerate any further postponements, but I did manage to find the file on the case and wished to pass the information along to you before I left."

Daniel thanked him, again, really meaning it. "When did your murder take place, Commissaris?"

"Fifteen months ago."

Fifteen months ago. Friedman had been right about the Interpol computer.

"Ugly affair," Van Gelder was saying. "Clearly a sex killing. We never cleared it up. Our consulting psychiatrist thought it had all the characteristics of the first in a series of psychopathic killings. We weren't certain-we don't often get that kind of thing."

"Neither do we." Or didn't.

"The Germans do," said Van Gelder. "And the Americans. One wonders why, yes? In any event, when no second murder occurred, we weighed two alternatives: that the psychiatrist had been mistaken - it does occur, yes?" He laughed. "Or that the murderer was someone passing through Amsterdam and had departed to do his killing elsewhere."

"Traveling psychopath," said Daniel, and told him about the FBI data.

"Horrifying," said Van Gelder. "I began an inquiry into the FBI files myself. However, the Americans were less than helpful. They put up bureaucratic barriers and when a second murder didn't occur, given our work load…" The Dutchman's voice trailed off, guiltily.

Knowing it would be rude to brush off the lack of thoroughness, Daniel said nothing.

"We can check suitcases for bombs," said Van Gelder, "but this kind of terrorist is harder to spot, yes?"

"Yes," said Daniel. "A person can buy knives anywhere. Even if he uses the same ones over and over, there are ways to transport them that can be legitimately explained."

"A doctor."

"It's one of our hypotheses."

"It was one of ours too, Chief Inspector. And for a while I thought it would help solve the case. Our records check revealed no matching homicides in the rest of the Interpol countries, but an almost identical crime did take place in September of 1972 in Sumbok-it's a tiny island in the southern region of the Indonesian complex that used to be a Dutch colony. We still consult to the local police in many of the colonies-they send their records to us biannually. One of my clerks was sifting through the biannual reports and came across the case-an unsolved mutilation homicide of a sixteen-year-old girl.

"At first we thought there might be a tribal link-our Amsterdam victim was an Indonesian-half-Indonesian, really. Prostitute by the name of Anjanette Gaikeena. It seemed possible that her murder might have been related to some primitive rite or revenge plot-an old family score to settle. But her family turned out to have no connection whatsoever to Sumbok. The mother is from Northern Borneo; the father is Dutch-met the mother while serving in the army and brought the family back to Amsterdam eighteen years ago.

"When I read about a sex murder there, I was puzzled, Chief Inspector. Sumbok really is an insignificant little bar of sand and jungle-a few rubber plantations, some cassava plots, no tourist trade at all. Then I remembered that a medical school once existed there: The Grand Medical Facility of St. Ignatius. No connection to the Catholic Church-the 'saint' was used for its official sound. It was a fourth-rate place at best. Unaccredited, the barest of facilities, but charging very high tuition-a money-making scheme, really, run by unscrupulous American businessmen. There was a dispute about taxes; the Indonesian government closed it down in 1979. But back in '72 it was functioning, with over four hundred students-mostly foreigners who'd been denied acceptance anywhere else. I managed to obtain a '72 faculty list and student roster, ran a check with our passport files during the time of the Gaikeena murder, but unfortunately found no match."

While Van Gelder talked, Daniel had pulled out the list of American homicides from the FBI data bank. Shehadeh: March '71. Breau: July '73. The Sumbok homicide fell neatly in between.

"Do you have that roster handy, Commissaris?"

"Right here."

"I'd like to read some names for you, see if any of them appear on it."

"Certainly."

None did.

"Too easy," said Van Gelder. "It never is, yes?"

"Yes. I'd like to see the roster anyway."

"I'll cable it to you, today."

"Thank you. Tell me more about your homicide, Commissaris."

Van Gelder described the Amsterdam killing: Anjanette Gaikeena's savaged body had been found in a fish-cleaning shed near one of the docks on the northeast side of town.

"It's a rough part of the city," said the commissaris. "Just above our famous red light district-have you been to Amsterdam, Chief Inspector?"

"Just once, last year, on stopover. What I saw was beautiful, but I had no real chance to tour. However, I did see the district." No chance to do anything but wait out a two-day sentence of house-imprisonment in an apartment suite, babysitting half a dozen Olympic rowers and football players. Listening to the athletes' nervously rowdy jokes with half an ear, one hand wedded to his Uzi. The athletes had grown irritable and difficult to manage, had finally been allowed a single excursion. Unanimous choice: the famous whores of Amsterdam.

"Everyone sees the district," said Van Gelder, somewhat sadly. "However, the part of the dock where Gaikeena was found isn't one of our tourist spots. At night it's deserted, except for prowlers, drunken sailors, and other undesirables. The shed was left unlocked-nothing to steal but herring bones and a warped old table. She was on the table, laid out on white sheets. The wounds match your first one precisely.

Our pathologist said she'd been anesthetized with heroin, at least three knives were used, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, but not necessarily a surgeon's scalpel. What impressed him was how clean she'd been washed-not a.trace of fiber evidence, no semen, nothing for serum typing. A local soap had been used on the body and the hair, the brand most commonly provided by many hotels, but millions of bars are sold each year here-that's not much of a lead. We tried to trace the purchaser of the sheets, with no success."

"Was she killed on the spot?"

"Unclear. However, she was definitely washed and drained there. The shed contained a large trough for gutting and washing fish, large enough to hold a woman of Gaikeena's size. It ran out to sea, but there was a bend in the pipe before it reached the sluice gate. Traces of human blood were found mixed in with the fish waste."

Thorough procedure, thought Daniel. But useless.

Van Gelder was thinking the same thing. "We reviewed our list of known sex offenders and knife-weilders, put every one of them through hours of interrogation, talked to the girl's habitual customers, interviewed every prostitute and procurer in the district to see if they remembered who she went off with that night. There was no shortage of leads, but all were false. Given what we know now about this traveler, it was a waste of time, yes?" The Dutchman's voice lost its cheer and took on a sudden intensity. "But now you may have him, my friend. We'll work together."

"Those names I read to you," said Daniel. "It would be nice if any of them turn up on your passport records."

"All of them are serious suspects?" asked the Dutchman.

"As serious as we've got." Daniel knew Van Gelder wanted more, a ranking of the names in terms of seriousness; he regretted not being able to provide it. "Anything you can find out about any of them would be tremendously helpful."

"Should a passport check prove positive, we'll be glad to pursue it with the hotels, the airlines, tour bus operators, canal boat drivers, local merchants. If any of those people were in Amsterdam during Gaikeena's murder, we'll provide you with the most precise records of their whereabouts and activities that we can muster. I'll be in England for a week on holiday. While I'm gone, the man to talk to is Pieter Bij Duurstede." Van Gelder spelled it, said, "He's a chief inspector, a very conscientious fellow. He'll contact you immediately if something turns up."

Van Gelder gave Daniel Bij Duurstede's direct-dial phone number, then said, "Meanwhile, I'll be watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace."

Daniel laughed. "Thank you, Commissaris. You've been tremendously helpful."