Copyright
Digital Edition published by Silverfish Books, Jan 2017
website: http://www.silverfishbooks.com
e-mail: [email protected]
(First published by Silverfish Books, 2010)
21 Immortals
© Rozlan Mohd Noor, 2010
© Digital Edition, Silverfish Books, Jan 2017
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not in way of trade
or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the
publisher’s consent in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is
published and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Rozlan Mohd Noor, 1953-
21 Immortals/Rozlan Mohd Noor
ISBN 978-983-3221-65-3
1. Malaysian fiction (English). 2. English fiction I. Title.
II. Judul: Twenty one immortals
823
Published by
Silverfish Books Sdn Bhd (483433-K)
20-2F, Bangsar Village 2, Bangsar Baru, 59100 Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Dedication
To my son,
“Never give up.”
‘Laws are like cobwebs, which catch small flies, but let wasps and hornets break through’ – Jonathan Swift (1667 - 1745) Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin.
1
Sunday
It is early Sunday morning and Inspector Mislan Latif, an investigator with Major Crimes had just completed a twenty-four-hour shift, during which he handled two homicides and one armed robbery. He ambles along the empty corridor to his office from the washroom after freshening up and taking a leak.
It was a relatively quiet Saturday shift with only three crimes reported, unusual for a weekend night in Kuala Lumpur. He is not complaining, though. It is one of the many lessons he has learned working on the city’s Major Crimes desk, “Never complain about a no-case-shift.” No sooner does he think that, the phone rings. He looks around; the incoming shift is late. “A month’s salary says, they are in the canteen or at some roadside stall enjoying a long Sunday breakfast, or even still in bed sleeping off a late Saturday night,” he swears. He picks up the receiver and answers, “Mislan here.”
It is the front desk. “Selamat pagi, tuan, we have just received a 302.”
It’s a murder report. “Look, my shift is over. See if you can find the incoming team in the canteen.”
“Sorry, tuan, the murder took place during your shift. The report was made at 0712 but the station only called it in now. Your assistant, Sergeant Johan, is already at the scene.”
“What’s the address?” he asks impatiently, annoyed at the delay in receiving the information. He is, so, looking forward to a well-earned relaxing Sunday after a long shift. He has promised his son, Daniel, a lunch outing and a movie; now he is not sure if he can keep it. It is going to be another bean in his ‘jar of broken promises’.
“One-oh-four-A, Ampang Hilir,” the front desk officer replies, taking no offense.
“That’s near where I live. Listen, if anything else comes up, please track down today’s shift and give it to them,” he says, replacing the receiver a little harder than he intends. He grabs the backpack that he carries for a briefcase, and catches the lift to the ground floor. He looks for the standby police car, but does not see one. He assumes it has, probably, been driven out by the incoming shift, or the driver, for breakfast. The police car is assigned to the investigating officer on duty, and because his shift is technically over, the car and driver are now at the disposal of the next team. Investigators and their assistants frequently used personal vehicles after shift hours, at their own expense, whereas the brass are driven in police cars at taxpayers’ cost twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He walks round to the back of the building to his car in irritation, gets in and turns the ignition key.
He takes Hang Tuah to Jalan Imbi, passing Berjaya Times Square on his right to drive via the new Kampung Pandan road. As he approaches the traffic lights at the T-junction to Ampang Hilir, he slows, unsure if he should go left or right. The light turns green and he decides to turn right. He drives slowly, looking for the presence of police. Then, a thought occurs to him; Ampang Hilir is one of the several residential areas in the city preferred by expatriates. “Damn it. Is the victim a mat salleh?” he says aloud to himself.
Traffic is light, as city denizens are still sleeping off their Saturday night hangovers, ecstasies, fantasies, and exhaustions. It takes him twenty minutes to reach his destination, a drive that usually takes twice as long, or more, on weekdays. Mislan sees a large crowd in front of the address; large by Sunday morning standards, anyway. The size of the crowd, and the presence of several television network vehicles, tells him this is no ordinary murder. He fears that the victim is indeed an expatriate, with all the associated hassle of Foreign Ministry involvement. However, he does not recall the desk officer telling him there was anything peculiar about the case. He makes a mental note, one he knows he will never follow up, to have a word with the supervising officer on the quality of reporting by desk officers. Driving slowly past the address he observes two Mobile Patrol Vehicles parked in an inverted ‘V’ in front of the gate, acting as a barricade, with two officers standing guard. He looks for a place to park, and gets one about a hundred metres away. He swears at the inconvenience of it; if he were in a police car, he would be able to drive right up to the door. He kills the engine, picks up his backpack and, as he steps out of the car, he speed dials his assistant on his cell phone.
Sergeant Johan answers at the first ring. “Tuan?”
“Jo, what’s going on? Why the big media crowd?”
“It’s better for you to see it, tuan. I don’t know how to describe it. I have never seen anything like this before,”
“Is the victim a mat salleh?”
“No, they are Chinese. Why?”
“Nothing; just give me two minutes,” he says, relieved.
The Mobile Patrol Vehicles’ officers at the gate give him away when they salute, and he acknowledges. The media ‘news vultures’ instantly come alive and swamp him. Cameras, video flashlights, and questions assault him.
“Are you the investigating officer for this case?”
“Can you tell us what has happened?”
“Is anyone dead?”
He pushes his way through the crowd, saying, “No comments,” repeatedly. The MPV officers step aside and he walks between them, squeezing past the vehicles without looking back. He never did like the media; always sensationalising everything. He has had his share of butt-chewing because of them. To him, they have only one objective: increased circulation. That is what mattered, not the sensitivity of the case, not whether they were complicating or obstructing investigations, or influencing trial proceedings, or destroying the reputations of victims and those related, despite whatever they claim.
At the front door, he is introduced to the MPV officer who had responded to the distress call. He recognises Lance Corporal Jaafar Abdul from a previous encounter.
His assistant investigating officer, Sergeant Johan Kamaruddin, is at the entrance to the dining room speaking on his mobile. When their eyes meet, his assistant beckons to him with his eyes. He notices another MPV officer standing next to his assistant, partly hidden by a wall. The officer snaps to attention and gives him a smart salute, stepping forward. With eyes glued to the dining table, Mislan acknowledges the salute with a wave. As his brain digests what he sees, he feels a strange morbid fascination that makes the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Ironically, something inside him also finds the
scene amusing and he nearly chuckles. What lies before him is not the usual rancid, messy, gruesome, bloody crime scene, but a creepy silent-death play that is macabre yet poetic. Eerie yet, in some twisted way, humorous. However, closer examination of the victims’ faces makes his amusement disappear. A chill runs down his spine and he shivers. All the victims seem to have a Mona Lisa smile: knowing, secretive, blissful, and oblivious to the excitement about them. The inspector feels as if he is at Madame Tussauds. Only, these are real people, very dead. He hears someone speaking to him. It is Johan. “Seen anything like this before, tuan?”
He shakes his head slowly. “They’re all dead?” He has seen his share of bodies, but this case is something else. He cannot get a grip on it.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Any live vics?”
“Nope.”
“Have you done the prelim?”
“Yes, briefly.” He flips open his notepad. “No sign of break-in. No alarm, no CCTV installed. Looks like nothing valuable was taken; the vics all wear expensive watches and jewellery.”
“Why are the paramedics here?” He points at a man wearing a jacket. “Hey, you,” he calls. “Yes, you. Can you and your team leave? There’s no one alive there.”
After the jacket-man and his partner leave, he instructs the MPV officer not to allow anyone in without his approval. The officer, obviously captivated by the scene, moves reluctantly to the doorway, but cannot resist looking back at the dining table occasionally.
Going into the dining hall for a closer look, he nods at Chew, the Forensic Department supervisor, “What do we have here?”
“I just got here. I’m as clueless as you are.”
“Have you gone through their personals?
“Yup, everything’s here, nothing missing.”
“You got the phone?”
“Phone, wallet. I’ve bagged them all. Why?”
“The phone; can I have it, just the father’s? Dusted it yet?”
“Nope, thought I’d do it at the lab.” He calls out to one of his technicians responsible for cataloguing and bagging evidence and tells him to get the phone dusted and signed off to the inspector.
“Is that yee sang?” He points to the food on the table.
“Yup, expensive yee sang with extra fresh salmon.”
“Chew, isn’t yee sang eaten only during Chinese New Year?”
“Traditionally, but I suppose there’s nothing wrong with eating it anytime you want. In my family, we don’t.”
“Isn’t it food for prosperity?”
“Prosperity, longevity, and many other good things, depending on what you believe or wish for. I don’t know, I’m not into it.”
“What do you mean, you’re not into it? It’s a Chinese thing, isn’t it?”
“It’s tradition, not religion. We’re not much into tradition in my family.”
“Don’t you make yee sang at home?”
“Nope. We eat it at a restaurant, or buy a takeaway. I don’t know if you can buy any at this time of the year. Maybe a restaurant will make it for you if you placed a special order.”
“Found any wrapping for the yee sang?”
Chew asks his team if they had done the kitchen. One of the technicians replies that he did not find anything. Garbage bags were empty, as if they had just been changed.
“Maybe they’re telling us something,” he says, making a note. “Are you calling the coroner?”
“I think not, but if you want me to, I will.”
“How long will it be, before you can give me something?”
“Don’t think I can give you anything soon, not until we get back to the lab and do some testing. All I can say is that this house is not the primary scene, and the people who did this are serious sickos.”
“Cause of death?”
“No visible injury or bleeding, so my best guess now is ‘no idea’,” Chew titters. “I think it’s poison, but we’ll know only after the coroner gets the bodies on his table. Can you step over here for a moment? Come smell the body,” he says, gesturing to the victim he is examining.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, go ahead. Take a whiff,” he insists.
He takes a quick sniff, then looks at the Forensics supervisor, baffled. “What?”
“Nice, eh?” he says, moving to the next victim, sniffing.
“You’re sick, Chew,” he says. “For heaven’s sake, they’re dead. You should start spending more time with the living.”
“They smell nice, don’t they? Someone has taken a lot of trouble to do this.”
“Mmm. You might have something there. Finish here, and let us start doing some real police work,” Mislan laughs, making his way out to the living room.
“Check out all the perfumes, colognes, powders, and creams in their rooms. Bet you’ll get the same scent,” Chew calls after him.
In the living room he lights a cigarette, mindful of Johan’s disapproving stare. It is against crime scene rules; precautions against contamination or introducing unrelated evidence.
“The maid called this in?”
“The neighbour at 106A, Encik Mohamad Salim. Maria, the vic’s maid went to his house as he was about to leave for work, and told him about it.”
“Where are they now?”
“I told them to wait at 106A.”
“Who’s watching them?”
“No one. Don’t worry, I’ve told them not to call or talk to anyone, especially the press,” sensing the lead investigator’s concern.
“Has the boss been informed?”
“Not yet, leaving that to you as the lead.”
“Let’s wait a little longer until we have something to tell. Meanwhile, why don’t you debrief the officers who initially responded to the call? Ask if they saw anything. I’ll take the maid. Tell Chew to let us know when he’s done.”
A forensic technician hands him an evidence bag with the victim’s phone. Signing for it, he asks if there were prints. The technician shakes his head, says it had been wiped clean. He figures the killer must have erased call logs and text messages as well. The killer was meticulous.
With one hand cupping the ashes and the other hiding a lighted cigarette in the cave of his palm – a trick he learned, smoking in the school toilet – he walks to the front door. When they see him emerging from the house, the news vultures start hurling questions at him. The two officers guarding the gate have their hands full stopping them from pushing their way in. He takes several deep breaths, lets loose a few low curses, and braces himself before stepping onto the driveway. Once outside the gate, he pushes his way through the mass of bodies, hands with microphones and tape recorders, almost knocking a camera operator into the roadside drain. He notices the crowd has grown bigger, as the neighbours are out now. At the rate the crowd is growing, he thinks he will need to call his boss soon before she hears about it from other sources. He glances at his watch. It is four minutes to nine. He figures he is good for another half an hour.
Walking up the driveway of 106A, he calls out “Assalamualaikum.” Peace be upon you.
Several voices from inside the house answer, “Waalaikumsalam." Peace be upon you, too. The front door opens and a well-dressed gentleman in his late forties emerges.
“Encik Mohamad Salim? I’m Inspector Mislan from Major Crimes,” he says, extending his hand. The man nods, shakes his hand, and invites him in. He removes his shoes, releasing a pungent odour from his overnight socks, before stepping into the house. He sees two women in the living room. He easily identifies Maria as the woman perched at the edge of a sofa. Mohamad Salim introduces the woman sitting in the middle as his wife. He nods to her in acknowledgement. He tells his host of his wish to speak with Maria, and asks if there is anywhere he can do it in private. The host leads him to a small room near the kitchen that looks like a study. He thanks his host, and motions for Maria to follow him.
She sits on the worn-out single settee in the room with her head bowed, stari
ng at the floor, her hands clasped tightly on her knees. He closes the door, swivels the leather chair and drops heavily into it, facing her. The ancient leather chair creaks like an overused bed in a cheap brothel. The noise startles Maria and he recognises the expression: fear; one he has seen hundreds of times in the eyes of witnesses to shocking crimes. He knows she will be traumatised for a long time, if not for life.
“Maria, I’m Inspector Mislan. I need to ask you some questions. Are you up to it?”
She nods without raising her head.
He can see her knuckles turning white as her grip tightens. “Please relax. I only want to ask you a few questions, then I’ll let you rest,” he says as gently as he can. “What’s your full name?” he asks, switching on the digital recorder he carries in his backpack.
“Malau Kayana. My Christian name is Maria.”
“Filipino?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you last night?”
“My friend’s house. Saturday’s my usual day off. I normally leave in the morning and come back in the evening. This week I asked ma’am if I can go off on Friday evening. Ma’am said okay, but I have to come back early Sunday morning because ma’am and family are going away.”
“Why did you need to go off on Friday evening?”
“It was my best friend’s birthday, and we were having a party at the Crossroads at the Concorde Hotel.”
The mentioned of Crossroads stirs memories of his exwife; it used to be a place they hung out at too. She loved the Filipino bands with their well-rehearsed routines and choreographed dances. It was a place where the old went to feel young, watch the young, and hoped to hook up with the young. It was also a popular hangout for Filipinas on weekends; a place for dancing, drinking, and chatting-up male white tourists.
“I’ll need your friend’s name, address, and contact number. What was your employer’s name?” he asks, bringing himself back to the interview.
“Mr Tham,” she replies, writing her friend’s name, house address, and contact number on a notepad the inspector hands her.
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