Текст книги "The Butcher's Theatre"

Автор книги: Jonathan Kellerman

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Two days later, ten of the sixteen had been judged improbable. All agreed to be hooked up to the polygraph; all passed. Of the six possibles, three also passed, leaving three refusers-the Nahariya buddies and an Arab from Gaza. Daoud was assigned to watch the Arab.

Late in the afternoon, Shmeltzer came into Daniel's office with photocopies of the customs material from Ashdod. During the days preceding Fatma's murder, Brickner and Gribetz had picked up an unusually full load of cargo-part of an overflow shipment held up at the docks for three weeks due to a stevedore strike. The parcels were destined for the north-central region-Afula, Hadera, and villages in the Bet She'an valley, a good seventy kilometers above Jerusalem. Which was still driveable if they'd gotten off early.

Daniel, Shmeltzer, and the Chinaman got on the phone, calling each name on the bills of lading, received confirmation that the buddies had been busy for two days straight, so busy that they'd spent the night in Hadera, parking their truck in a date grove belonging to one of the package owners, still asleep when the guy went to check his trees. He remembered them well, he told Daniel, because they'd awoken filthy-mouthed, stood on the truck bed and urinated onto the ground, then demanded breakfast.

"Were there packages in the truck bed?"

"Oh, yeah. Dozens. They stood right on top of them– didn't give a damn."

Idiots, thought Daniel, they could have supplied themselves with alibis all along, had been too stupid or too contrary to do so. Maybe being thought of as potential murderers fed their egos.

Dangerous, they bore watching, but were no longer his present concern.

The Arab from Gaza, Aljuni, was their last chance-not that probable, really, except that he was a killer who liked Wades and hated women. He'd carved up one wife in a fit of rage over improperly cooked soup, maimed another, and, three months out of prison, was engaged to a third, sixteen years old. Why did women hook up with that type? Latent death wish? Was being alone worse than death?

Irrelevant questions. Daoud had nothing to report on Aljuni: The guy kept regular habits, never went out at night. No doubt he'd come to naught as a prospect. The winnowing of the sex files had been futile.

He looked at his watch. Eight P.M and he hadn't called home. He did so, got no answer, and puzzled, phoned the message operator and asked if Gveret Sharavi had tried to get in touch with him.

'Let me see-yes. Here's one from her that came in at four forty-three, Pakad. She wants to know if you'll be joining her, the children, and… it looks like the Boonkers-" 'Brokers.'

"Whatever. She wanted to know if you'll be joining them for dinner at seven-thirty."

"Did she say where?"

"No," said the operator reproachfully. "She probably expected you to call sooner."

He hung up, took a swallow of cold coffee from the cup on his desk, and put his head down. A knock on the door raised him up and he saw Shmeltzer enter, looking angry, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

"Look at this, Dani. I was driving home, noticed a guy plastering this to walls, thought you might want to see it."

The papers were handbills. At the center was a head-shot photo of a Hassid, fortyish, full-bearded, with extravagant side curls. The man looked fat, with flat features and narrow eyes behind black-framed eyeglasses. He wore a dark jacket and a white shirt buttoned to the neck. Atop his head was a large, square kipah. Hanging around his neck was a sign with the letters NYPD, followed by several numbers.

A mug shot.

BEWARE OF THIS MAN! was emblazoned under the photo, in Hebrew, English, and Yiddish. SENDER MALKOVSKY IS A CRIMINAL AND A CHILD RAPER!!!!!! HIDE YOUR YOUNG ONES!!!!!! Below the warnings were clippings from New York newspapers, reduced to the point where the print was barely legible. Daniel squinted, read with tired eyes.

Malkovsky was from trie Williamsburg section of Brooklyn, a father of six, a teacher of religious studies, and a tutor. A student had accused him of forced molestation and the charge had brought forth similar stories from dozens of other children. Malkovsky had been arrested by the New York Police, arraigned, released on bail, and failed to appear at his trial. One of the articles, from the New York Post, speculated that he'd run off to Israel, citing connections to "prominent Hassidic rabbis."

Daniel put the handbill down.

"He's living here, the bastard," said Shmeltzer. "In a fancy flat up in Qiryat Wolfson. The guy I found pasting these up is also a longbeard, named Rabinovitch-also from Brooklyn, knew Malkovsky's case well, thought Malkovsky was in jail.

He moves to Israel, buys a flat in the Wolfson complex, and one day he spots Malkovsky coming out of an apartment a hundred meters away. It drove him crazy-he has seven kids of his own. He marches straight to Malkovsky's rebbe and tells him about the shmuck's history, Rebbe nods and says Malkovsky had done repentance, deserves a second chance. Rabinovitch goes crazy and runs to the printer."

"A tutor," said Daniel. "Skips bail and moves into one of the fanciest developments in town. Where does he get that kind of money?"

"That's what Rabinovitch wanted to know. He figured Malkovsky's fellow Hassidim donated it on the rebbe's orders. That may be rivalry talking-Rabinovitch is from a different sect; you know how they like to go at each other-but it makes sense."

"Why didn't Rabinovitch notify us?"

"I asked him that. He looked at me as if I were crazy. Far as he's concerned the police are in on it-how else could Malkovsky get into the country, be running around free?"

"How else, indeed?"

"It stinks, Dani. I don't remember any Interpol notices or extradition orders, do you?"

"No." Daniel opened a desk drawer, took out the Interpol bulletins and FBI bulletins and flipped through them. "No Malkovsky."

"No immigration warnings, either," said Shmeltzer. "Nothing from the brass or Customs. This rebbe must have massive protekzia."

"Which rebbe is it?"

The Prostnitzer."

"He's new," said Daniel. "From Brooklyn. Has a small group that broke off from the Satmars-couple of planeloads of them came over last year."

"To Wolfson, eh? No Mea She'arim for these saints?"

"Most of them live out in the Ramot. The Wolfson thing's probably special for Malkovsky-to keep him under wraps. How long's he been in the country?"

"Three months-enough to do damage. He's a kiddy-diddler, but who knows what a pervert will do? Maybe he's shifted his preferences. In any event, someone's making us look like idiots, Dani."

Daniel slammed his fist down on the desk. Shmeltzer, surprised at the uncharacteristic display of emotion, took a step backward, then smiled inwardly. At least the guy was human.

Qiryat Wolfson was luxury American-style; a penthouse in the complex had recently sold for over a million dollars. Crisp limestone towers and low-profile town houses, a maze of landscaped walkways and subterranean parking garages, carpeted lobbies and high-speed elevators, all of it perched at the edge of a craggy bluff near the geographical center of the municipality, due west of the Old City. The view from up there was commanding-the Knesset, the Israel Museum, the generous belts of greenery that surrounded the government buildings. To the southwest, an even wider swatch of green-the Ein Qerem forest, where Juliet had been found.

In the darkness the complex jutted skyward like a clutch of stalagmites; from below came the roar of traffic on Rehov Herzl. Daniel drove the Escort into one of the underground lots and parked near the entrance. Some of the spaces were occupied by American cars: huge Buicks, Chevrolets, Chryslers, an old white Cadillac Coupe de Ville sagging on under-inflated tires. Dinosaurs, too wide for Jerusalem streets and alleys. Why had the owners bothered to bring them over?

It took him a while to find his way around, and it was just past nine by the time he reached Malkovsky's flat-a first-floor town-house unit on the west side of the complex, built around a small paved courtyard. The door was unmarked, armored with three locks. Daniel knocked, heard heavy footsteps, the sliding of bolts, and found himself face to face with the man in the handbill.

"Yes?" said Malkovsky. He was huge, bearishly obese, the beard fanning over his chest like some hirsute bib, reaching almost to his waist. A thick reddish-brown pelt that masked his cheekbones and tapered raggedly just beneath the lower rims of his eyeglasses. His complexion was florid, lumpy, dominated by a nose squashed pita-flat and dotted with open pores. His forehead was skimpy, the hair above it dense and curly. He wore the same square skullcap as in the picture, but had pushed it back to the crown.

Swallowed up by hair, thought Daniel. Like Esau. So big, he blocked most of the doorway. Daniel looked past him, peering through slivers of space: a living room still redolent of a boiled chicken supper, the floor littered with toys, newspapers, an empty baby bottle. He saw a blur of motion-children chasing each other, laughing and screaming in Yiddish. A baby wailed, unseen. A kerchiefed woman passed quickly through the sliver and disappeared. Moments later the crying stopped.

"Police," said Daniel, in English. He took out his identification and held it up to Malkovsky's glasses.

Malkovsky ignored it, unimpressed. A wave of annoyance rumpled the knobby blanket of his face. He cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height.

"A frummer?" he said, focusing on Daniel's kipah.

"May I come in?"

Malkovsky wiped his brow. He was sweating-from ex-ertion, not anxiety-eyeglasses fogged, perspiration stains browning the armpits of a tentlike V-neck undershirt. Over the undershirt he wore a black-striped woolen tallit katan, the ritual fringed garment prescribed for daily use, a rectangle of cloth with a hole cut out for the head, the fringes looped through perforations on each corner. His pants were black and baggy On his feet were black bubble-toed oxfords.

"What do you want?" he demanded, in Hebrew.

'To talk to you."

'Who is it, Sender?" a female voice called out. 'Gornisht." Malkovsky stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. When he moved he shook.

Like the cubes of jellied calfs leg in the display case at Pfefferberg's.

"Everything's been arranged," he said. "I don't need you."

"Everything?"

"Everything. Just perfect. Tell your boss I'm perfect."

When Daniel gave no evidence of moving, Malkovsky nibbled his mustache and asked, "Nu, what's the problem? More papers?"

"I have no papers for you."

"What is it, then?"

"I'm conducting a criminal investigation. Your criminal history came to my attention and I thought it best that we talk."

Malkovsky flushed, sucked in his breath, and his eyes kindled with anger. He started to say something, stopped himself, and wiped his brow again. Turning his hands into fists the size of Shabbat roast, he began bouncing them against the convex surface of his thighs.

"Go away, policeman," he said. "My papers are in order! Everything's been arranged!"

"To what arrangement are you referring, Mr… or is it Rabbi Malkovsky?"

Malkovsky folded his arms across his chest. The flush beneath the beard was tinged with purple and his breathing sounded labored.

"I don't have to talk to you."

"That's your privilege," said Daniel, "but I'll be back in an hour with papers of my own, along with a minyan of police officers to help me deliver them. Your neighbors are sure to be intrigued."

Malkovsky stared down at him, clenching and unclenching those massive fists.

"Why are you harassing me!" he demanded, but his resistance had started to fizzle, indignation giving way to naked fear.

"As I told you, Rabbi-"

"I'm not a rabbi!"

"-your history makes it necessary for me to speak with you concerning some crimes that have taken place since you've immigrated to Israel."

"This is stupid talk. There is no history. I don't know what you're talking about." Malkovsky opened his hands, turned them palms-down, and passed one over the other in a gesture of closure. "G'nuk. Enough."

"No, not g'nuk, not until we talk."

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm a permanent resident. My papers are in order."

"Speaking of papers," said Daniel. He removed a handbill from his pocket, unfolded it, and gave it to Malkovsky.

The immense man stared at it, lips formed into a silent O. With one hand he crumpled the paper; with the other he covered his face. "Lies."

The hand opened and the paper ball dropped to the floor.

"There are others, Mr. Malkovsky, hundreds of others, plastered to walls, kiosks, all over town. It's just a matter of time."

"Lies," said Malkovsky. "Sinful gossip." He turned, half-faced the wall, pulling at his beard, ripping loose long, wiry strands of hair.

Daniel took Malkovsky's arm, feeling his fingers sink into softness. A clay man, he thought. A golem.

"We need to talk," he said.

Malkovsky said nothing, continued to shred his beard. But his posture had slackened and he allowed Daniel to lead him outside, to a quiet corner of the courtyard shaded by pepper trees in terra-cotta planters. The outdoor lighting was dim, weak orange spotlights casting electric blemishes upon the pint's knurled countenance.

"Tell me everything," said Daniel.

Malkovsky stared at him.

Daniel repeated: "Tell me."

"I was a sick man," said Malkovsky, as if by rote. "I had a sickness. a burden the yetzer horah cast upon my shoulders."

Self-pitying hypocrite, thought Daniel. Speaking of the

Evil Impulse as if it were divorced from his free will. The sight of the man, with his beard and peyot and religious garments. dredgeo up feelings of revulsion that were almost overwhelming.

'You've transferred that burden to the shoulders of oth-ers," he said coldly. "Very small shoulders."

Malkovsky trembled, then removed his glasses, as if clarity of perception were painful. Unshielded, his eyes were small, down-slanted, restlessly evasive.

"I've worked hard to repent," he said. "True tshuva-last Yom Kippur, my rebbe praised my efforts. You're afrummer mensh, you understand about tshuva."

"A necessary part of tshuva is vidduy " said Daniel. "Full confession. All I've heard from you is self-pity."

Malkovsky was indignant. "I've done a proper vidduy. My rebbe says I'm making good progress. Now you forget about me-leave me alone!"

"Even if I would, others won't." Daniel pulled out another handbill, set it down on Malkovsky's broad lap.

Malkovsky pounded his chest and began uttering the Yom Kippur confession in a high, constricted whisper. Stood there torturing his beard, spitting out a litany of transgressions.

"We have trespassed, we have dealt treacherously, we have stolen, we have spoken slander, we have committed iniquity

When he reached the last offense, he put a finger in his mouth and bit down upon it, eyes closed* kipah askew. Breathing rapidly and noisily.

"Did you ever," asked Daniel, "do it with any of your own children, or did you limit yourself to the children of others?"

Malkovsky ignored the question, kept praying. Daniel waited, repeated his question. Let the big bastard know he wouldn't be getting off with lip service.

A while later, Malkovsky answered.

The library was the best room in the house.

The living room was boring-all those couches and paintings and furniture, and stuff under glass bells that you weren't allowed to touch. When he'd been real little the maids wouldn't let him go in there at all, and now that he was nine he didn't even want to.

The kitchen was okay if you wanted food or something, but otherwise it was boring. The extra bedrooms in the Children's Wing were always locked, and his bedroom smelled of pee and throw-up. The maids said it was his imagination, it smelled fine. They refused to scrub it anymore.

He'd been in Doctor's room a couple of times, going through the drawers, squeezing the soft, striped underwear and the blue pajamas with white trim around the edges and Doctor's initials on the front pocket. The rest of the stuff was socks, sweaters; suits and pants in the closet-all boring. The only interesting thing he'd ever come across was a thick black fountain pen with a gold tip, kind of stuck between two sweaters, hiding from him. He stole it, took it into his room, and tried to write with it, and when it didn't work he snashed it with a hammer until it turned into black dust. He tasted it. It was bad and he spit it out, wiping his tongue to get the grit off, trails of grayish drool trickling down his chin.

The ice palace was always locked. Of course. She only let him in there when she was really drunk and needed him to get her an aspirin from the bathroom. Or when Sarah came to visit, which was only two or three times a year but always got her upset.

On Sarah days, she was always calling for him in a high, wiggly voice that was kind of scary-"Darling! Come he-ere! Daarling"-telling him to get into bed, drawing him in under the slimy-satin covers and putting a soft, bare arm around his shoulder. He could feel her hand squeezing him, soft and weet and sticky, her mouth breathing all that gin-breath on him. hot and sweet, but a disgusting sweet, like she'd been throwing up candy.

On Sarah days, she'd get really disgusting, lean over him so that her titties were pushing into his chest, the tops all white and shaky. Sometimes she'd lean real low so that he could look down and see the nipples, like big pink gumdrops.

Slurping his cheek and saying, "Come on, baby, tell Mama. Is that nasty little bitch high-hatting you? Is she lording it over you, is she?" While she'd be slobbering all over him, the cat would stare at him, all jealous, sneak a scratch in, then pull back so you couldn't accuse it of anything.

He didn't understand what she was talking about-high-hatting, lording-so he just shrugged and looked away from her, which got her going again, waving her empty glass and talking all wiggly.

"Little snot, thinks she's so much better than you and me, thinks she's so goddamned smart-they always do. Too smart for their own damned good, the chosen people, yeah. Chosen to ruin the world, right? Answer me!"

Shrug.

"Cat got your tongue, eh? Or maybe she spooked you– the chosen people hex. Ha. Chosen for big noses, if you ask me. Don't you think her nose is big? She's horrid and ugly, don't you think? Don't you?"

He actually thought Sarah was okay. She was seven years older, which made her sixteen, almost a grown-up, and kind of pretty, with thick dark hair, soft brown eyes, and a wide, pretty mouth. Her nose looked okay to him, too, but he didn't say so, just shrugged.

"Horrid little bitch"

Even though she stayed in the room next to his, they didn't see each other much. Sarah was either swimming or reading or calling her mother at her hotel, or going out at night with Doctor. But when they passed each other in the hall she always smiled at him, said hi. One time she brought a tin of sugared fruits all the way from the city where she lived and shared it with him, didn't even mind when he ate all the cherries.

"Don't you think she's terrible-a horrid little hook-nosed nothing? Answer me, damn you!"

He felt his arm being pinched hard, twisted between cold, wet fingers. Bit his lip to keep from crying out.

"Isn't she!"

"Sure, Mom."

"She really is a little bitch, you know. If you were older you'd understand. Ten years it's been and she still won't give me the time of day, the conceited little kike-kikette! Isn't that a fun way to say it, darling?"

"Sure, Mom."

A hot, ginny sigh and a wet-hand hug, the fingers digging in as if for another pinch, then opening and rubbing him. Down his arm to his wrist, dropping onto his leg. Rubbing.

"We're all we've got, darling. I'm so glad we can confide in each other this way."

Sarah's mother always brought her. A taxi would drop them off in front of the house; Sarah would get out first, then her mother. Her mother would kiss her good-bye, walk her to the door, but never come inside. She was a short, dark woman named Lillian, kind of pretty-Sarah looked a lot like her. She wore fancy clothes-shiny dresses, shoes with really high heels, long coats with fur collars, sometimes a hat with a veil-and she smiled a lot. One time she caught him looking at her through the living room window, smiled and waved before she got in the taxi and rode off. He thought it was a pretty nice smile.

If Doctor was home, he'd go outside and talk to Lillian, shake her hand, and pick up Sarah's suitcases. They seemed to like each other, talking all friendly, as if they had lots to talk about, and he couldn't figure out why, if they got along so good, they'd gotten divorced. He wondered if his mother and

Doctor had ever been friendly like that. As long as he could remember, it had always been fighting, the night-wars.

Twice during each visit Doctor and Sarah went out to-gether. Once for dinner, once for ice cream. He knew about it because he heard them talking, planning what they were going to eat. Rack of lamb. Prime rib. Baked Alaska. Rice pudding.

His mother heard it, too, called him in and whispered in his

"They're a pair of little piggies, absolutely disgusting.

They go to nice places and eat like pigs and people stare at them. I refuse to go along anymore-it's disgusting. You should see his shirts when he's through. She eats chocolate ice cream and gets it all over herself. Her dresses look like used toilet paper!"

He thought of that, chocolate ice cream stains looking like shit stains, and wondered what people shit tasted like.

One time he'd taken a tiny piece of the cat's shit out of the letter box and put it on his tongue and then spit it out real fast because it was so terrible. Tasting it had made his stomach hurt and he wanted to throw up for three days. All over his mother's bed-that would be good, big globs of barf all over the white satin. On Doctor and Sarah and the maids too. Running all over the house-no, flying't Dive bombing everyone with shit bombs and throw-up bombs. Pow!

Power!

One time he saw Sarah in the cabana next to the pool. There was an open window and he looked through it. She was peeling off her bathing suit and looking at herself in the mirror before putting on her clothes.

She had small titties with chocolate centers.

Her body was tan except for a white tit belt and a white butt belt and her puss was covered with black hair.

She touched her puss and smiled at herself in the mirror. Then shook her head no and lifted her leg in order to put on her panties.

He saw a pink, squiggly line peeking out from under the middle of the hair, like one of the wounds in Doctor's books.

Her butt was like two eggs, small, the brown kind. He thought of cracking them open, yellow stuff coming out.

Her head hair was dark, but not as dark as her puss hair. She stood there in her panties and brushed it, making it shine. Raising her arms so that her titties went flat and disappeared and only the chocolate tips were sticking out. Humming to herself.

He wanted to take bites out of her, wondered what she tasted like.

Thinking about it made his pecker get all stiff and hurt so bad he was afraid it would crack and fall off and all the blood would come pouring out of the hole and he would die.

It took a long time for the pain to go away.

He hated Sarah a little after that, but he still thought she was okay. He wanted to sneak into her room, go through her drawers, but she always kept the door locked. After she went back home and before the maids had a chance to lock it, he went in and opened all the drawers. All that was left was a nylon stocking box and a perfumey smell.

It made him real angry.

He kind of missed her.

He thought of cutting her up and eating her, imagined that she tasted like sugared fruit.

The house was so big it always felt empty. Which was okay-the only ones around were the maids and they were stupid, talked with an accent and hummed weird songs. They hated him-he could tell from the way they looked at him and whispered to each other when he walked by. He wondered what their pusses looked like. Their titties. Thought they probably tasted sour, like vegetables. Wondering about it made him stare at them. When they noticed it they got angry, muttered under their breaths, and walked away from him. talking foreign.

The neat thing about the library was that the double doors were always closed; once the maids were through cleaning, you could go in, turn the key in the lock, and nobody would know you were in there.

He liked the big, soft leather chairs. And the books. Doctor's books, full of terrific, scary pictures. He had favorites, would always turn to them first. The nigger guy with elephantiasis (a big word; it took him a long time to figure it out), his balls were big-hugel-each one as a big as a watermelon. He couldn't believe it the first time he saw it. The picture showed the guy sitting on a chair with his hands in his lap, the balls hanging down to the floor! He looked pretty worried. Why didn't someone just come along and chop them off so he could walk again? Clean him up and stop his worries?

Other ones he liked were the retarded people with no foreheads, and tongues as big as salamis that just hung out of their mouths. A weird-looking naked retarded lady with a real flat face standing next to a ruler; she was only thirty-seven inches tall and had no hair on her puss, even though she was old. Naked midgets and giants, also next to rulers. People missing fingers and arms and legs. One guy without arms or legs-that looked really stupid and made him laugh. Lots of other naked people, with sores and spots and bent bones and weird bumps. Buttholes and lips with splits down the middle. And naked fat people. Really fat people, so fat that they looked like they were wearing squishy clothes all full of wrinkles and folds. One woman had a belly that hung down past her knees, covering her whole puss. Her elbows were covered by hang-downs of fat. Someone, a surgeon like Doctor, should come along and cut off all that fat, maybe use it for candles or something or to give to skinny people to keep them warm. The fat people could be peeled and cleaned up to make them look nice. The ones in the books probably didn't do it because it was too expensive. They'd have to walk around like that, all covered with fat-clothes, for the rest of their lives.

One time, after looking at the fat people, he left the library, went up to his room, and made squishy, fat people out of modeling clay. Then he took a pencil and a nail file and made holes and slit-cuts all over them, chopped off their heads and arms and legs and peeled them until they were nothing more than little chunks and pieces. Then he grabbed up the chunks and squeezed real hard, let the clay squish through his fingers. Flushed them down the toilet and imagined they were drowning. Screaming: Oh, no! Oh, God! Watching them go around and around and finally disappear made him feel like the boss, made his pecker hard and sore.

On the top shelf of the carved bookcase was this big green book, really heavy; he had to stand on a chair to get it, be really careful not to drop it on Doctor's leather-topped desk, break the skull that Doctor used for a paperweight. A monkey skull, too small to have come from a person, but he liked to pretend it was from a person. One of the midgets in the pictures. Maybe he'd tried to attack the boy's family and the boy had killed him and saved everyone, like a big hero, then peeled off the skin to get the skull.

The green book was old-the date on it was 1908-and it had a long title: The Atlas of Clinical Surgery by Professor Bockenheimer or some weird name like that, from a place called Berlin; he looked it up in his junior encyclopedia and found out it was in Germany.

Someone had written something inside the cover of the book, in this weird, thin handwriting that looked like dead bugs and spider legs, it took him a long time to figure it out.

To Charles, my learned colleague, with deepest gratitude for your kind hospitality and stimulating conversation.

Best wishes, Dieter Schwann

What was neat about the green book was that the pictures looked really real, as if you could put your hand out and touch them, just like looking through a 3-D stereoscope. The book said they were pictures of models. Models made by some guy named F. Kalbow from the-this was a really hard one-Pathoplastic Institute of Berlin.

One model was a guy's face with a hole in it called a sarcoma. The hole covered the guy's nose and mouth. All you could see was eyes and then the hole-inside it was all pink and yellow. Another one was a pecker all squashed up, with some grayish, wrinkly thing around it and a big sore on the tip. Kind of like an earthworm with a red head. One he really liked to look at was this big picture of a butthole with pink flowerlike things all over it. A butthole flower garden.

It was dirty stuff. He wanted to take a knife and cut it all away and peel it, make everything clean and nice.

To be the boss, and save everyone.

The other things he really liked were the knives and tools in the big black leather case that sat next to the monkey skull.

The inside of the case was red velvet. Gold letters were stamped into it: Jetter und Scheerer: Tuttlingen und Berlin. There it was again, that same place, Berlin. It was a doctor city, probably. Full of doctor stuff.

The knives and tools were held in place by leather straps.

There were a lot of them; when you picked up the case it kind of clinked. The blades were silvery metal, the handles some smooth, white, shiny stuff that looked like the inside of a seashell.

He'd like to unfasten the straps and take the knives out, one by one, then arrange them like ice-cream sticks, making letters and designs with them on the desk top. His initials, in knife-letters.

They were really sharp. He found out by accident when he touched the tip of one of them to his finger and all of a sudden his skin had opened, as if by magic. It was a deep cut and it scared him but he felt good, seeing the different layers of skin, what was inside of him. It didn't even hurt, at first; then it started to bleed-a lot-and he felt a sharp, pumping pain. He grabbed a tissue, wrapped it around his finger, and squeezed, watching the tissue turn from white to red, sitting there a long time until the blood finally stopped coming out. He unwrapped the finger, touched the tissue to his tongue, tasted salt and paper, crumpled it, and stuffed it into his pocket.