The Butcher's Theatre by Jonathan Kellerman Read Free Book Online Page A

illegally, to plough the fields surrounding the Amelia Catherine and grow truck crops.
    In 1967 the Arabs attacked again and, once again, lost honor and land. Jerusalem fell under exclusive Jewish rule for the first time in more than three thousand years and Scopus was unified. The Amelia Catherine entered its fifth metamorphosis, as a hospital, operated jointly by the U.N. and a Swiss-based group of Protestant missionaries.
    It was a hasty transformation, wholly lacking in sentiment: the compound enclosed by high chain-link fences, grand suites reduced to wards by particle-board partitions, the mansion’s large paneled library painted a pale clinical green and apportioned into a warren of offices. Soon the high stone walls resonated with the moans and muffled sobs of human infirmity.
    It was this diminished grandeur that Daniel saw as he followed Baldwin under a sweeping marble staircase and down a long, whitewashed corridor. The building seemed empty and, except for a sonata played haltingly on typewriter, silent.
    The administrator’s office was midway down the hall, a small, light room with a high domed ceiling. Tacked to the back of the door was a schedule of mobile clinics.
    The furnishings were cheap and efficient: an imitation Danish modern desk at the center, two matching straight-backed chairs, a striped cotton sofa along the left wall. Above the sofa hung a framed print of “The Last Supper” and two diplomas: a bachelor’s degree in business from an agricultural college in San Antonio, Texas, and a master’s in sociology from the American University in Beirut. Opposite the sofa was a wall of bracket shelves, half filled with textbooks and spiral-bound U.N. publications. A small electric fan blew air from one of the empty shelves. Next to it sat a cowboy hat with a leather band. Behind the desk, a pair of tall, arched windows exposed a panoramic view of the desert. Between the windows stood a glass display case filled with archaeological relics: coins, small clay urns, strips of parchment. Baldwin saw Daniel looking at them and smiled.
    “All legal and proper, Officer Sharavi. Official property of the U.N.”
    Daniel returned the smile and the American moved behind the desk and reclined in his chair. Taking a seat across from him, Daniel held his note pad in his lap and searched for signs of personal attachment—family snapshots, the little curios that people bring to the workplace to remind them of home. Except for the hat, nothing.
    “How many people are on your staff, Mr. Baldwin?”
    “Full time only, or part time as well?”
    “Everyone, please.”
    “In that case, I can’t answer you other than to say that it’s a long list.”
    “Does this list exist in written form?”
    Baldwin shook his head. “It’s not that simple, Officer. The Amelia Catherine concentrates on two spheres of activity: mobile outreach clinics to refugees and indigents, and weekly in-house clinics that we run right here—dermatology, eye care, neurology, women’s problems, maternal and child health. Many of the local doctors and nurses volunteer their services; some are paid on a part-time basis; still others are full-time employees. What you’d call a dynamic situation.”
    “I’m interested,” said Daniel, “in those who sleep in the building.”
    “That,” drawled Baldwin, “narrows things down considerably.” The American held up his hand, ticked off fingers as he spoke. “There are our nurses, Peggy Cassidy and Catherine Hauser—”
    “What are their nationalities?”
    “Peggy’s an American—California, if that means anything to you. Catherine’s Swiss.”
    “And both of them slept here last night?”
    “Whoa,” said Baldwin, holding out his hands, palms out. “You said ‘sleep,’ in general terms. As far as last night, specifically, I have no idea.”
    The man had a way of reacting to simple questions as if they were traps. The wariness, thought Daniel, of a criminal or a politician;
    “Go on,