"Lying shmuck," said Dry Voice.
"Listen," said Wilbur, "this good-cop-bad-cop stuff isn't going to work. I've watched the same movies you have."
"You like movies, don't you?" Sharavi reached in the briefcase, took out some papers, and handed them to Wilbur.
The notes and title page for his screenplay. Not the original, but photocopies.
"You have no right-"
"Very interesting reading," said Sharavi. "You seem to have many ideas about the Butcher."
"That's fiction-"
Sharavi smiled. "Many ideas," he repeated. "It was you who named him the Butcher, wasn't it? So in one sense you invented him."
"What else did you steal from my office?"
"Tell me everything you know about the murders of Fatma Rashmawi and Juliet Haddad."
"I already told you-everything I know is in my stories."
"Your stories are shit," said Dry Voice-Shmeltzer.
"This is outrageous," said Wilbur.
"Murder is always outrageous," said Sharavi.
"Breaking into my office, stealing my personal-"
"Just like Watergate," suggested Sharavi.
"Wilburgate," said Shmeltzer. "Shitheadgate." He said something in Hebrew. Handsome and Slant-Eye laughed.
Sharavi shook his head. The others quieted.
"A good imagination," he said, returning his attention to Wilbur. "You heard rumors that the police haven't heard, receive letters from someone you claim is the Butcher-"
"I claimed nothing of the sort, I simply-"
"You implied it strongly. Just as you implied that the Gvura people were responsible-"
"I analyze facts," said Wilbur. "Do my research and come up with feasible hypotheses-"
"Feasible hypotheses?"
"You got it, chief."
"You seem to know more about the Butcher than anyone. His motives, his 'sacrificial mutilations,' what goes on inside his head. He must appreciate your understanding, think of you as a friend, because he sends you a letter-a letter without postage. A letter without any fingerprints or serum traces except the ones that match those removed from your liquor bottle and typewriter. Your fingerprints. Your serum type."
"That envelope was stuck in my mail."
"Yes, that's what Mutti says. However, the mail lay in the box there for an hour before he collected it and brought it to you."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning perhaps you placed it there yourself."
"That's absurd."
"No," said Sharavi. "That's a feasible hypothesis. Mutti Abramowitz as a biblical scholar is absurd."
"Why would I do something like that?" asked Wilbur, knowing the question was stupid, the answer obvious. "I report the news," he said. Talking to the walls. "I don't create it."
Sharavi was silent, as if digesting that.
"This morning," he said, finally, "five men died, a woman will probably lose her baby, another man, a good portion of his intestines. Several others were injured. All because of "news' that you invented."
"Blame the messenger," said Wilmur. "I've heard it before."
"I'm sure you have. My research reveals you have a history of inventing the news. Mardi Gras ritual murders that turn out to be suicides, exposes that end up exposing nothing."
Wilbur fought to stay cool. "We have nothing to talk about."
"But that's old mischief," said Sharavi. "My primary concern is how far your current inventing went. Could you have been hungry enough for a juicy crime story to supply crime?"
Wilbur shot out of his chair. "What the hell are you saying!"
Sharavi closed his attache case, placed it on his lap, and smiled.
"Learning by doing, Mr. Wilbur. It ensures realism."
"This conversation is over." Wilbur's heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He forced a cool tone: "Nothing more without my lawyer."
Sharavi waited a long time before speaking. Let the silence sink in.
"Where were you three Thursdays ago, Mr. Wilbur?"
"I don't know-but I was in Greece when the first one was killed! Across the goddamned Mediterranean!"
"Sit down," said Shmeitzer.
"Bullshit," said Wilbur. "Pure and total bullshit harassment."
Sharavi waved Shmeitzer away and said, "Remain on your feet if you like." The gold eyes remained steady. "Tell me, Mr. Wilbur, what sharp-bladed instruments do you own besides the Sabatier cutlery in your kitchen and the Swiss Army knife in your desk?"
"Absurd," said Wilbur. His damned heart wouldn't quiet.
"Do you rent another flat besides the one on Rehov Alharizi?"
"I want a lawyer."
"You've quoted Samir El Said, extensively. What's the nature of your relationship with him?"
Wilbur didn't answer.
"Talk, shmuck," said Dry Voice.
"I have nothing to say. This whole thing is a crock."
"Are you engaged in a homosexual relationship with Professor El Said?"
That took Wilbur by surprise. He tried to maintain a poker face but, from Sharavi's smile, knew he'd been unsuccessful.
"I thought not," said the little bastard. "You are a little old for him."
"I'm not homosexual," said Wilbur, thinking: Why the hell am I defending myself?
"You like women?"
"Do you?"
"I don't like cutting them up."
"Oh, Christ."
"Shmuck's religious," said Dry Voice.
"I have nothing to say," said Wilbur.
"Look," said Sharavi, "we have plenty of time. When it gets dark, we'll use flashlights to chase away the rats."
"Suit yourself," said Wilbur.
But the stonewall didn't work.
Sharavi proceeded to question him for another hour and a half about the murders. Times, places, where he bought his linens, what kind of soap he used, how many kilometers a day he drove. Were his eyes healthy, what drugs he took, did he shower or take baths. What were his views on personal hygiene. Seeming irrelevancies. Picayune details that he'd never thought about. Asking the same questions over and over, but changing the phrasing ever so slightly. Then coming out of left field with something that sounded totally irrelevant and ended up being somehow tied in with something else.
Trying to confuse him.
Treating him like a goddamned murderer.
He was determined to resist, give the little bastard nothing. But eventually he found himself relenting-worn down by the smiles and the repetition, Sharavi's unflappable manner, the way he ignored Wilbur's outbursts, refused to take "umbrage at Wilbur's insults.
By the time the reporter realized he was losing, he'd already lost, answering questions with numbed docility. His feet tired from standing, but refusing to sit for fear of underscoring his submission.