The Butcher's Theatre by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

example, I attended a day-long seminar at Hadassah. Emergency crises in children—anaphylaxis, choking. My afternoon patients were delayed until evening and I didn’t finish until after eleven.”
    “Did the other doctors—Carter and Al Biyadi—attend the seminar as well?”
    “Dr. Carter, yes. Dr. AI Biyadi, no.”
    “He remained here?”
    “I have no idea.” Darousha put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and added a millimeter of ash to the tip.
    “You live in Ramallah.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Zia Hajab is also from there.”
    A nod. The ash tumbled.
    “How well do you know him?”
    “Our families are entwined. His grandfather worked for my grandfather, his father for my father.”
    “What kind of work did they do?”
    “We owned orchards. They were field hands.”
    “Does that relationship persist?”
    Darousha shook his head. “I’m my father’s only son. After his death I decided to study medicine, and the orchards were leased to another family who had no need for Zia’s services. I was gone at the time, studying medicine in Amman. Otherwise I would have intervened. As it turned out, he found part-time work at a petrol station.”
    “Until another family transaction edged him out.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “Difficult for him and his family.”
    “For him, yes. There is no family. Both parents and a sister died of tuberculosis thirty years ago. His three brothers were inducted into the Arab Legion. All were killed in ‘67.”
    “Did he fight too?”
    “Yes. He was taken captive.”
    “What about wife and children?”
    “None.”
    Daniel found his interest in the watchman growing. For the picture Darousha was painting was one of chronic failure, habitual abuse by the fates. Why did Hajab have difficulty holding on to a job? And why, with bachelorhood virtually unknown among the Arabs, had he never purchased a woman, never spread his seed? It indicated social problems, the kind of downtrodden, isolated life that could lead to self-hatred. Or the resentment that sometimes blossomed into violence.
    He needed to know more about the workings of the man’s mind, but sensed that a direct question would put Darousha off. Taking an indirect path, he said, “Hajab told me he had headache problems. Did you treat him for his pain?”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “Please explain.”
    Darousha’s sad eyes drooped even further.
    “His pain was a pain of the soul that chose to settle in his head. I offered reassurance and chalky syrup. My most effective medical intervention was helping him get a job.”
    “It was a psychosomatic disorder, then.”
    Darousha stiffened. “These are confidential matters. I cannot discuss them further.”
    “Doctor,” said Daniel, “if there’s something in Hajab’s psychological makeup that would predispose him to antisocial behavior, it’s essential that you tell me.”
    “He’s a moody man,” said Darousha. “Suffers from depression. But there’s nothing criminal in him. Nothing that would interest you.”
    “How often does he get depressed?”
    “Infrequently, perhaps once or twice a month.”
    “For prolonged periods of time?”
    “Two or three days.”
    “And what are his symptoms?”
    Darousha threw up his hands, impatiently.
    “I shouldn’t be discussing this, but if it will simplify matters, I’ll tell you. He develops ambiguous pains—psychosomatic symptoms—the headaches, gets very weak and goes to sleep. There’s no aggressiveness, no antisocial behavior. Now, if you’ll excuse me, please, I really must be going.”
    The man’s face was closed tight as a vault. Sensing that any further prodding would be useless, Daniel took down his home address and phone number, thanked him for his time, and ended the interview.
    Alone in the hall, he thought for a while about Zia Hajab, was still thinking when Baldwin returned.
    “All the others except Peggy are in the dining room,” said the American. “They say they’ve seen or heard