Seduction, rather than rape. Sweet talk and persuasion- the charm Ben David had spoken of-gentle negotiation, then the bite of the needle, torpor, and sleep.
Which, despite what the psychologist had said, made this killer as much a coward as Gray Man. Maybe more so, because he was afraid to face his victims and reveal his intentions. Hiding his true nature until the women lost consciousness. Then beginning his attack in a state of rigid self-control: precise, orderly, surgical. Getting aroused by the blood, working himself up gradually, cutting deeper, hacking, finally losing himself completely. Daniel remembered the savage destruction of Fatma's genitals-that had to be the orgasmic part, the explosion. After that, the cool-off period, the return of calm. Trophy-taking, washing, shampooing. Working like an undertaker. Detached.
A coward. Definitely a coward.
Putting himself in the killer's shoes made him feel slimy. Psychological speculation, it told him nothing.
Who, if you were Fatma, would you trust to give you an injection?
A doctor.
Where would you go if you were Juliet and needed epilepsy medicine?
A doctor.
The country was full of doctors. 'We've got one of the world's highest physician-to-citizen ratios,' Shmeltzer had reminded him. 'Over ten thousands of them, every goddamned one of them an arrogant son of a bitch.'
All those doctors, despite the fact that most physicians were government employees and poorly paid-an experienced Egged bus driver could earn more money.
All those Jewish and Arab mothers pushing their sons.
The doctors they'd spoken to had denied knowing either girl What could he do, haul in every M.D. for interrogation?
On the basis of what, Sharavi? A hunch?
What was his intuition worth, anyway? He hadn't been himself lately-his instincts were hardly to be trusted.
He'd been waking at dawn, sneaking out the door each morning like a burglar. Feasting on failure all day, then coming home after dark, not wanting to talk about any of it, escaping to the studio with graphs and charts and crime statistics that had nothing to teach him. No daytime calls to Laura. Eating on the run, his grace after meals a hasty insult to God.
He hadn't spoken to his father since being called to view Fatma's body-nineteen days. Had been an absymal host to Gene and Luanne.
The case-the failure and frustration so soon after Gray Man-was changing him. He could feel his own humanity slipping away, hostile impulses simmering within him. Lashing out at Anwar had seemed so natural.
Not since the weeks following his injury-the surgeries on his hand, the empty hours spent in the rehab ward- had he felt this way.
He stopped himself, cursed the self-pity.
How self-indulgent to coddle himself because of a few weeks of job frustration. To waste time when two women had been butchered, God only knew how many more would succumb.
He wasn't the job; the job wasn't him. The rehab shrink, Lipschitz, had told him that, trying to break through the depression, the repetitive nightmares of comrades exploding into pink mist. The urge, weeks later, to hack off the pain-racked, useless hunk of meat dangling from his left wrist. To punish himself for surviving.
He'd avoided talking to Lipschitz, then spilled it all out one session, expecting sympathy and prepared to reject it. But Lipschitz had only nodded in that irritating way of his. Nodded and smiled.
You're a perfectionist, Captain Sharavi. Now you'll need to learn to live with imperfection. Why are you frowning? What's on your mind?
My hand.
What about it!
It's useless.
According to your therapists, more compliance with the exercise regimen would make it a good deal more useful.
I've exercised plenty and it's still useless.
Which means you're a failure.
Yes, aren't I?
Your hand's only part of you.
It's me.
You're equating your left hand with you as a person.
(Silence.)
Hmm.
Isn't that the way it is in the army? Our bodies are our tools. Without them we're useless.
I'm a doctor, not a general.
You're a major.
