Survival Of The Fittest

I expected some reaction but Carmeli gave none. Finally he raised the flat, black eyes til they met mine. Another lungful of smoke.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

Everything on delay. Everything an effort. I'd met too many families of dead children to be surprised.

“You will be analyzing the murderer, Doctor?”

I nodded.

“And anything else that bears analyzing,” said Milo.

Carmeli didn't react.

“We're sorry for your loss, sir.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet, sir, I just got the files. I thought I'd start by touching base and-”

“Touching base,” said Carmeli, softly. “We are playing baseball… Your predecessors touched base with me, as well. Unfortunately, they struck out.”

Milo didn't answer.

The cigarette was only half-smoked but Carmeli crushed it out. Both of his feet were flat on the ground. He drew them closer to the couch and his knees pointed sharply through his trousers. The shirt collar at least one full size too big, his Adam's apple unusually sharp-edged, like a blade threatening to rip through his neck. A thin man who'd lost lots of weight.

New cigarette. I noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, his fingers squeezing the paper cylinder so tightly it was almost an L. The other hand rested on the couch, curled into a fist.

“A no-hitter,” he said. “So… we are touching base. What would you like to know, Mr. Sturgis?”

“First of all, is there anything you want to tell me?”

Carmeli stared at him.

“Anything,” said Milo, “that's occurred to you since Detectives Gorobich and Ramos spoke to you.”

Continuing to stare, Carmeli straightened the bent cigarette, then lit up and shook his head. A very soft “No,” emerged from clenched lips. “Nothing.”

“Then I'll ask a few questions, sir. Please understand that some of them may be repet-”

Carmeli cut him off with a wave of the cigarette. Smoke ribboned. “Ask, ask, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Your work, sir. The Middle East situation. I'm sure you receive threats-”

Carmeli laughed without changing the shape of his mouth. “I'm not James Bond, Detective. My title is deputy consul for community liaison. Did your predecessors tell you what that means?”

“They said something about organizing events. The Israel Independence Day parade.”

“Parades, Israel-bond luncheons, meetings at synagogues, talking to Hadassah ladies- do you know what Hadassah is?”

Milo nodded.

“Dear ladies,” said Carmeli. “Lovely people who plant trees in Israel. When wealthy donors want to have lunch with the consul general, I arrange it. When the prime minister comes to town to meet with the wealthiest of donors, I organize his itinerary. Double-O-Eight. License to cater.”

The free hand shot through his thinning hair.

“So you're saying you never encounter-”

“I'm saying there's nothing controversial or dangerous about my work, Mr. Sturgis. I'm saying what happened to my daughter had nothing to do with my work or my wife's work or our family and I don't understand why the police simply can't accept that.”

His voice had risen but remained soft. He leaned his head to the right as if loosening a neck kink. The black eyes were unflinching. He smoked some more, hungrily.

“Then again,” he said, “I've dealt with your department in the course of my duties.”

“Oh?”

Instead of elaborating, Carmeli smoked aggressively.

“Sometimes,” said Milo, “we have to be annoying to do our job properly.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I'm afraid. Asking the same questions over and over.”

“Ask whatever you please but if you persist in emphasizing my work the answer will be the same: I'm a bureaucrat. No exploding pens.”

“Still, sir. Being Israeli, you have enemies-”

“Two hundred million of them. Though we're now on the road to peace, right?” Now, Carmeli smiled.

“Then how can you be sure this wasn't political? Despite your duties, you're a representative of the Israeli government.”

Carmeli didn't answer for several moments. Looking at his shoes, he rubbed the toe of the left one. “Political crimes are based upon hatred and the Arabs hate us. And there are thousands of Arabs in this city, some of them with strong political views. But the goal of even the most violent terrorist is to send a message in a way that will attract attention. Not one dead child, Mr. Sturgis. A busload of children. Copious amounts of blood, disarticulated limbs, TV cameras recording every agonized cry. Bombs that make noise, Mr. Sturgis. Literally and figuratively. Several years ago when the Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank discovered that throwing rocks at our soldiers made them international heroes they began phoning the wire services to give journalists advance notice of impending riots. Once the film crews showed up…” He clapped his hands and ash scattered, landing on the table, his trousers, the floor.

“Your predecessors, Detective, informed me that the… crime was unusual in its lack of violence. Do you agree with that?”

Milo nodded.

Carmeli said, “That alone convinces me there was nothing political about it.”

“That alone?” said Milo. “Is there something else that convinces you?”

“Interpreting my phrasing, Mr. Sturgis? I thought he was the psychologist- speaking of which, have you developed any theories, yet, Doctor?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Are we dealing with a madman?”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded.

“Outwardly,” I said, “the killer probably looks quite sane.”

“And internally?”

“He's a mess. But clinically he's not mad, Mr. Carmeli. More likely he's what we call a psychopath- someone with a serious character disorder. Self-centered, lacking normal emotional responses, no empathy, an incomplete conscience.”

“Incomplete? He has a conscience?”

“He knows right from wrong but chooses to ignore the rules when it suits him.”

He rubbed his shoe again and sat up. The black eyes narrowed. “You're describing evil- and you're telling me he could be any man on the street?”

I nodded.

“Why does he kill, Doctor? What's in it for him?”

“Relief of tension,” I said.

He flinched. Smoked. “Everyone experiences tension.”

“His tension may be especially strong and his wiring's off. But these are just guesses, Mr. Carmeli. No one really understands what leads-”

“What causes this supposed tension?”

A sexual warp, but I didn't say that. “Possibly a gap between who he thinks he is and the way he lives. He may pride himself on being brilliant, believe he's entitled to fame and fortune. But he's probably an underachiever.”

“You're saying he kills to feel competent?”

“It's possible, Mr. Carmeli. But-”

“Killing a child makes him feel competent?”

“Killing makes him feel powerful. As does eluding capture.”

“But why a child?”