The Butcher's Theatre by Jonathan Kellerman

most of the floor space was a chipped white examining table next to a chipped white cabinet. A hanging white lamp swung from the ceiling, emitting cold bluish light.
    On the examining table lay a man—from the looks of his dusty clothing a farm laborer—stolid and unmoving, one arm by his side, the other resting limply in the grasp of a second man in a long white coat. The man holding the arm looked up at the intrusion.
    “Good morning, Dr. Darousha,” said Baldwin.
    Darousha gave a wait-one-minute gesture and returned his attention to the arm, which Daniel saw was as red and glossy as boiled sausage. The doctor was short, dark, fiftyish, froglike, with coarse, bushy hair and sad, drooping eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. His coat was starched and spotless, and he wore it buttoned, over a white shirt and dark tie and razor-pressed black slacks. A stethoscope hung scarflike around his neck. His feet were small and narrow in woven black loafers and, as he rocked from one to the other, seemed barely to touch the ground.
    “How many wasps bit you?” he asked in a deep, authoritative voice.
    “Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”
    Darousha scowled and laid the arm down gently. Inserting the prongs of the stethoscope in his ears, he placed the disc on the man’s still-clothed chest, listened, and put the instrument away. Lifting the arm again, he said, “This is nasty. Very nasty.” He stared down sternly at the farmer, who smiled weakly.
    “Very well. I’m going to give you an injection of something that will fight the infection, as well as some pills. Take them twice a day for ten days and then come and see me again. If this isn’t any better, I’ll have to cut it open to drain it, which will hurt badly. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, Doctor.”
    “Take every one of those pills, do you understand?”
    “Yes, Doctor.”
    “How often must you take them?”
    “Two times a day, Doctor.”
    “For how long?”
    “Ten days.”
    “Roll over, facing the door.”
    Darousha pulled a hypodermic syringe out of the cabinet, went through the routine of filling, checking, and expelling air bubbles, and tugged down the waistband of the man’s trousers, which were so loose they didn’t need to be unfastened. Aiming the needle like a dart, he jabbed it into the fanner’s buttocks. The man blinked at the pain, smiled at Daniel and Baldwin.
    “Go on now. The nurse in number two will give you the pills.”
    “Thank you, Doctor.”
    When the farmer had gone, Darousha stepped out into the hallway and lit up a Rothmans. Daniel’s presence didn’t seem to bother him, when Baldwin introduced him as a policeman, Darousha nodded, as if the visit had been expected.
    “I’ve got a few things to look into,” said Baldwin, taking a step. “Be back in a minute, okay?”
    There was furtive tension in the American’s eyes and Daniel wondered what he planned to do. Warn the others of impending interrogation? Sneak a drink? Flirt with Ma’ila?
    “Okay,” he said and watched Baldwin lope down the hallway, then turned back to Darousha, who was smoking the cigarette as if it were his last.
    “What can I do for you?” asked the doctor. Daniel had expected to converse in Arabic but the man’s Hebrew was perfect.
    “A serious crime has been committed in the vicinity of the hospital, Doctor. I’m questioning the staff of the hospital about unusual occurrences.”
    Darousha remained placid. “What kind of unusual occurrences?”
    “Sights, sounds, anything out of the ordinary.”
    “I saw and heard police cars. Otherwise, nothing.”
    “And you were here all night?”
    “Yes.”
    “What time did you go to bed?”
    “Shortly before midnight.”
    “When did you awaken?”
    “Seven.”
    “How often do you sleep here, Doctor?”
    “That depends upon my schedule. If it’s late when I complete my obligations and I feel too tired to drive, I stay over.”
    “By ‘obligations’ you mean patients?”
    “Or other matters. Yesterday, for