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

ordinary?”
    “Nothing. Sorry.”
    Daniel dismissed him and he shambled back to his table. A former hippie, Daniel guessed. The kind who might blunt life’s edges with a hit of hashish now and then. A dreamer.
    Dr. Hassan Al Biyadi, by contrast, was all points and angles, formal, dapper, and delicate—almost willowy—with skin as dark as Daniel’s, short black hair, well-oiled, and a pencil-line mustache that had been trimmed to architectural precision. He looked too young to be a doctor, and his white coat and elegant clothes only served to enhance the image of a child playing dress-up.
    “By any chance,” Daniel asked him, “are you related to Mohammed Al Biyadi, the grocer?”
    “He is my father,” said Al Biyadi, suspiciously.
    “Many years ago, when I was a uniformed officer, thieves broke into your father’s warehouse and stole a new shipment of melons and squash. I was assigned to the case.” One of the first triumphs, the criminals quickly apprehended, the merchandise returned. He’d swelled with pride for days.
    As an attempt to gain rapport, it failed.
    “I know nothing of melons,” said the young physician coldly. “Ten years ago I lived in America.”
    “Where in America?”
    “Detroit, Michigan.”
    “The automobile city.”
    Al Biyadi folded his arms across his chest. “What do you want of me?”
    “Did you study medicine in Detroit, Michigan?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where?”
    “Wayne State University.”
    “When did you return to Israel ?”
    “I returned to Palestine two years ago.”
    “Have you worked at the Amelia Catherine all that time?”
    “Yes.”
    “What is your specialty?”
    “Family medicine.”
    “Did you attend the seminar at Hadassah?”
    Al Biyadi’s face contracted, almost shriveling with anger. “You know the answer to that, policeman. Why play games?”
    Daniel looked at him calmly and said nothing.
    “The same thing over and over,” said Al Biyadi. “Something happens and you harass us.”
    “Have you been harassed by the police before, Dr. Al Biyadi?”
    “You know what I mean,” snapped the young Arab. He looked at his watch, drummed his fingers on the table. “I have things to do, patients to see.”
    “Speaking of seeing, did you see anything unusual last night?”
    “No, nothing, and that’s likely to be my answer to all of your questions.”
    “What about during the early morning hours?”
    “No.”
    “No shouts or cries?”
    “No.”
    “Do you own a car?” asked Daniel, knowing he was prolonging the interview in response to Al Biyadi’s hostility. But it was more than a petty reaction: The young doctor’s response was out of proportion. Was his anger politically rooted or something more—the edginess of the guilty? He wanted a bit more time to study Hassan Al Biyadi.
    “Yes.”
    “What kind?”
    “A Mercedes.”
    “What color?”
    “Green.”
    “Diesel or petrol?”
    “Diesel.” From between clenched jaws.
    “Where do you park it?”
    “In the back. With everyone else’s.”
    “Did you drive it last night?”
    “I didn’t go out last night.”
    “You were here all night.”
    “Correct.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Studying, going about my business.”
    “Studying for what?”
    Al Biyadi tossed him a patronizing look. “Unlike the less educated occupations, the field of medicine is complex, always changing. One needs constantly to study.”
    A woman in her late twenties came into the dining room. She saw Al Biyadi, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
    “Good morning, Hassan,” she said brightly, in heavily accented Arabic.
    Al Biyadi mumbled a reply.
    “Any more questions?” he asked Daniel.
    The woman looked puzzled. She was plain, with a flat, pleasant face, snub-featured and freckled, devoid of makeup. She wore a sleeveless white stretch top over blue jeans, and low-heeled sandals. Her hair was thin, straight, medium-brown. It hung to her shoulders and was pulled back behind her ears with white