21 Immortals
Page 3
The technicians dust the room for prints and swab for blood in the bathrooms, coming out empty. They take samples of perfumes and cosmetics for analysis and to match traces taken from the victims. Lionel’s room and the two guest rooms are moderately, but tastefully, furnished. Everything is orderly, neat, and undisturbed, like the master bedroom.
Maria says that nothing is missing, as far as she can tell. No sign of break-in, struggle, or of intruders having been in the house. Maria does not know if there is a wall safe, so they look behind all the picture frames, bookshelves, and anywhere they feel one could be hidden. Satisfied that there isn’t one, and that he was going to get nothing else from the scene, Mislan tells Maria to inform him if she is going to stay elsewhere, asks her for her contact number, thanks her and leaves.
3
It is three-thirty in the afternoon when he finally comes home to Daniel’s scornful greeting; deservingly so, he thinks. Hugging Daniel, he asks, “Have you eaten, kiddo?”
Daniel nods. “Where have you been, daddy?”
“Daddy had a case to attend to. What did you eat?”
“Maggi,” his son says, his voice muffled.
“Maggi!” He retorts, shaking his head. “How many times has daddy told you not to eat too much Maggi? It’s not good for you.”
“It’s my first this week.”
“Yeah, right. You had it two nights ago. Daddy saw you. Daddy is going to call Mummy and tell her, then she will scold you. You want that?”
“No, daddy, no,” Daniel pleads. “I didn’t ask for it. It was akak,” he says, shifting the blame to the maid.
“Don’t blame akak,” Mislan admonishes him, and goes to his bedroom.
“Daddy, are we going out?” Daniel asks, following him. Before he can reply, Mislan’s mobile rings. He looks at the screen, and signals for Daniel to be quiet with a finger to his lips.
“Puan?”
“Tune in to five-o-one, Astro Awani.”
“Give me a sec,” he says, hastens to his bedroom, and hunts for the remote. He finds it between the cushion and the backrest of his wing chair. A woman newscaster standing in front of the victim’s house is reporting on Robert Tham, a successful businessman with several companies under his wing. The RT clothing line is the company’s main business, with retail outlets in all the larger shopping malls nationwide. After she finishes, the anchor returns with other local news.
“You there, Lan?” It is his boss again.
“Yes, but I missed the first part, though. Did they say anything about the case?”
“A bungled break-in that turned bloody. According to them, it is not confirmed, but members of the family are feared dead. I’m expecting the OCCI to call any minute. Do you have any updates for him?”
“Nothing much more than I had this morning; no sign of forced entry or a break-in, no struggle, and nothing noticeable was taken. You can rule out a burglary or robbery. The house was not fitted with an alarm or a CCTV. They moved in only six months ago. Forensics does not think the fingerprints they have lifted will be of any significance. They say the house is not the primary scene, and have found nothing of importance. I have sent the vics to HUKM instead of the GH to avoid the media. Besides, they do have better facilities. Dr Safia is the forensic pathologist in charge. I’ve asked her to put some gas on it, and not to say anything to the press.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll be talking to Dr Safia later, to see if she can give me something. Chew says the earliest he will have anything is Tuesday.”
“All right, get some rest. Call me if Dr Safia tells you anything that I can pass on to the OCCI,” she says, with a soft sigh.
“Will do.”
Then the phone goes dead. He drops his backpack on the floor, ejects the clip from his sidearm, checks the chamber to make sure it is empty and puts everything inside his bedside drawer.
“Who was that?”
“It was daddy’s boss, you busybody.”
“Now, can I watch my channel?”
“Yes. Daddy is going to take a shower now. We can go out in a little while, okay?” he says, feeling tired and guilty.
“Can we go bowling, please, with a cherry on top?” This is Daniel’s favourite plea of late, a line he has learned from television.
“It will be crowded, kiddo. We won’t get a lane.”
“Please, daddy, please, with a cherry on top,” he pleads, hands clasped prayer-like, smiling his cutest.
“We’ll see.” That satisfies his son.
It was on an ordinary Friday in June last year that his wife left them. She went to work in the morning, called up in the afternoon to say she was at a friend’s birthday party, then came home on Sunday to collect her clothes. He had not seen it coming, even in his dreams. He tried to discuss it, reason with her, and even pleaded for her to reconsider. He told her Daniel was too young and needed his mother, but she had decided. She said she had given it much thought, and that she needed to find herself. It all happened quickly. The next thing he knew, they were divorced and reality kicked in.
Daniel was five and a half, and could not understand why his mother did not come home as she used to. Mislan, too, was at a loss. After his mother left, Daniel slept with him when he was home. He drove his son to school whenever he could. He played kiddy softball, kiddy rugby and wrestled with him in bed. The last time they played on the bed, Daniel pinned his father down for a superfast count of three.
Before Daniel was born, he and his exwife, Lynn, decided they would only speak English to Daniel, to make it his first language. So Daniel does not speak much Malay at home except with the Indonesian maid.
It was a decision he and his exwife had made for Daniel’s future. They had decided that their son would learn enough Malay in school, as that was the medium of instruction. They wanted their son to be modern and liberal, and not to grow up a narrow-minded bigot. If ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ were part of the deal, so be it. Besides, English is the global language, and its mastery is essential for Daniel to compete and seize opportunities that come his way.
The politics of language always tire him. He blames politicians for creating the mess. Even in the police force, his coworkers who cannot speak English are sidelined, even if they are good at everything else. Overseas postings and career advancements are difficult for those who do not speak the language. Yet, it is not their fault. Mislan had worked hard to teach himself English by attending night classes. So, he and his exwife had been determined to give Daniel the gift of a language they had been denied. Daniel would not be less Malay even if English was his first language, they had decided.
Coming out from the shower, he is greeted by the ringing of his phone, and Daniel’s disquieting stares. It’s Johan. Everything is under control at HUKM, but the reporters are still about, looking for a story. He tells his assistant to ask Dr Safia to bag everything she finds on the victims, and pass them on to Chew, before knocking off for the day. Turning to Daniel he says, “It’s Daddy’s friend,” before being asked. “So what’s the plan for today?”
“Can we watch Transformers?”
“Don’t think we can, kiddo. Daddy has to meet a friend later.”
“Can I come?”
“It’s work, kiddo. I’m going to be late. You’ll get restless and keep asking me, ‘can we go home, can we go home’,” he says, mimicking him playfully.
“Dad-dy!”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Watch Transformers.”
“Told you, I have to work, kiddo.”
“DVD!”
“Oh, okay. Thought you meant the movie. Here, or in your room?” Daniel points to the TV. “Go get the DVD,” he says, relieved at not having to go out.
He loads the DVD in the player, and they lie in bed, Daniel’s head on his chest as they watch cars, trucks, planes, and all sort of vehicles and appliances transform into robots, act like humans, and speak English. Ten minutes into the movie, Mislan dozes off.
4
Due to a change in plans, their venue is shifted to Coffee Bean at Ampang Point. He is the first to arrive. He gets himself a double cappuccino and sits in the smoking area facing the road. Five minutes later, he sees Dr Safia drive by slowly, looking for a place to park. Then he sees her walking towards him, talking on the phone. For the first time, he sees her as a woman, not as a forensic pathologist. She is a woman of medium height, slim, with light-brown skin, shoulder length hair, and pleasant soft features. For a person who works daily with stiffs, she smiles plenty. He remembers that her hair used to be wavy with a streak of brown, but now it is straight and black. He feels he should say something complimentary about her hair, and score some points. She stops at the entrance, acknowledges him with a smile, and keeps talking on the phone. She seems agitated, speaking in a low harsh tone with animated hand movements.
She then turns off the phone, throws it into her handbag that, he thinks, is large enough to fit a fourteen-pound bowling ball. Perhaps, it is in fashion; large handbags.
She smiles and says, “Hi, been waiting long? Sorry.”
“Not really. Can I get you something?” he smiles back.
“It’s all right, I’ll get mine.” She gropes again inside her handbag, finds her wallet, drops the bag on the chair next to him and says, “Watch it for me, please.” Then she adds, “You want anything else?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” He watches her as she heads to the counter and gets in line. She looks good, even from the back; firm butt, straight back, and he wonders if she has anyone special in her life at the moment. She comes back with an ice mocha latte and an order plate. “I’ve not had dinner,” she says, sliding into her seat. In the process, her knee brushes against his thigh, giving him a rush in his groin. He looks at her face, but sees nothing to indicate it was intentional. He cautions himself against overreading signals. She leans over and pulls out a packet of cigarettes from the handbag.
“Busy day?”
“Something came up at the last minute. Some rescheduling. Had your dinner?”
“Late lunch. Who was that on the phone?” he asks nonchalantly.
“A friend,” she answers in a matter-of-fact way, hinting she has no desire to talk about it.
“Angry boyfriend?” he says, pushing it.
Sucking at the straw of her ice mocha latte she gives him an it’s-none-of-your-business look. He knows not to push it, and that it is time to change the subject. Just then a waiter comes with a plate of salad, which he puts in front of her and takes the order plate away.
He waits until she has taken a few bites before asking, “You want to go first?”
“Why don’t you speak while I eat?”
He tells her about the crime scene, the yee sang dinner, and the little else he knows. He finishes his story before she has gone through half her Caesar’s salad. She puts down her folk, sucks again on her straw and, with her brown eyes fixed on him, says, “Spooky.”
He nods, “Yah.”
“Are you holding back on me?” Dr Safia teases him.
“As I said, I’ve got nothing. Forensics can only tell me something on Tuesday. That’s if they can get anything worth telling. I’m lost. No fucking idea where to start. Sorry about my language.”
“No shit. Sorry. Heard you have a powerful mojo. What’s it telling you?” she says, smiling. The way she said it makes him smile and relax a little.
“My mojo? Where did you hear that?”
“You’re not the only police officer I know.” She says it in a come-on-be-jealous tone. “I’ve been out with one or two of them. Your name came up in one of the conversations.”
“If they’re saying bad things about me, they are all lies. The good parts are all true,” he laughs.
Dr Safia puts down her cutlery and pulls out a cigarette. He takes the cigarette from her hand, lights it and hands it back to her.
“So what have you got for me?”
Blowing out smoke, she says, “First things first; I’ve done what you ordered. Bagged everything loose on the bodies and given it to Sergeant Johan. I’ve sent the stomach contents for analysis. The results should come in tomorrow morning. That’ll give me a better time-of-death. For now, I’ll put it between forty-eight and seventy-two hours.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me until I give you the diamonds,” she says. “Chew’s guess is right, cause-of-death was poisoning. I didn’t find needle marks on the bodies, so it was not by injection. No sign of trauma around the mouth so we can rule out forced consumption. The colour of the blood, whatever little I managed to extract, was consistent with poisoning. By the way, blood has been drained from all the bodies and replaced with embalming fluid.” His eyebrows arch, and she knows he is impressed. “I managed to get sufficient blood from their hearts. That, and samples of hair and liver tissues have been sent to Toxicology. We should identify the poison soon. My guess is, it was ingested through inhalation.”
“What do you mean inhalation?”
“Breathing. Gassed.”
“You mean like a gas chamber?”
“I don’t know if it was a chamber, but they were gassed,” Dr Safia replies with narrowing eyes.
“How?”
“That’s your area, now,” she says, dragging on her cigarette slowly.
“About this embalming, doesn’t one require a funeral parlour, or something, to do it?”
“Legally, yes, but we’re not talking about something legal here, are we?”
“No, we’re not,” Mislan admits. “If not at a funeral parlour, where?”
“I don’t know. It’s my first case, too.”
“The embalming fluid … can you buy it anywhere; I mean retail?”
“I think not, but if you know your chemistry, you could probably make it. It’s nothing special. You can probably find cocktail mixes on the Net.”
“Is there any way to identify where it comes from? I mean, signature mixes or chemical compositions that’ll point you to a particular funeral parlour or mortician?”
“I’m not sure. I can check it for you if you want.”
“That’ll be good.”
“What do you think?” She is excited that she is contributing to the case.
“It’s a long shot, but if we can narrow down the embalming fluid, that’ll give us somewhere to start. How soon can you get me the information?”
“It’s too late for me to call anyone now. I’ll do it tomorrow morning and tell you. You think that’s the diamond?”
“It could be, Fie. Either way, you have done well,” he says, lighting another cigarette for her. This time, he lights one for himself, “Got anything more?”
“A lady shouldn’t have to carry so many diamonds on her. You know that.” He senses a come-on.
“Nice hair. It suits you,” he says cashing in, changing the subject. It catches her off guard and makes her turn red. She smiles, and savours the compliment. Their conversation then drifts to hobbies, movies, and songs. Personal questions are avoided, though. Time flies. It’s been a while since he’s been out with a woman or, for that matter, with anyone. After his wife left, he buried himself in work, and devoted whatever little time left to Daniel.
He is having such a wonderful time; he hates to leave, but he knows he will have to soon, so he can file his twenty-four-hour report on time.
5
He pulls into the Kuala Lumpur Police Headquarters in Hang Tuah at ten-forty-five, and parks his car close to the lobby. It is Sunday night, and the parking lot is empty but for a few vehicles belonging to the investigating team on shift, and the skeleton staff on duty. On normal working days, he would be fortunate to eve
n find a bay within the compound. Acknowledging the greetings of the guard, he takes the lift to his office on the seventh floor to find the front desk officer not at his post, but sitting with the shift investigator, having a leisurely chat.
Like all investigators in Major Crimes, Mislan does not have a private office. He shares a desk, telephone and computer with his assistant in the open office space. The brass say that the ‘open’ system cultivates team building, ‘sharing is caring’ and all that shit. Perhaps, that is the reason for the brass not working as a team, he sneers, with their private offices, computers, and direct phone lines – no sharing, no caring.
“Working late?” quips Chief Inspector Krishnan tapping his watch.
“Just need to file my twenty-four-hour report, then I’m out of here.”
“The Yee Sang Murders?”
“It’s got a name?”
“Have you not watched the news? The cute newslady called it that. She said something about a robbery while they were having yee sang for dinner and that the entire family got whacked. What’s the story?”
“Don’t know yet, too early to tell. Did you, by any chance, catch the newslady’s name?”
“Nope, too busy looking at her cleavage to notice her name. Catch it at midnight. I’m sure they’ll air it again, she’s too cute not to,” Krishnan says.
“All right, thanks.” He turns on the computer, lights a cigarette and waits for the system to boot up. The old desktop computer hums and whines like a wounded animal before coming to life. He logs in with his username and password, clicks open the twenty-four-hour report template and starts filling it. The twenty-four-hour report is a summary of cases to be forwarded to the Control Centre, which then compiles them and distributes the information to relevant officers and divisions for information or action. Cases of public interest and national security are sent to certain individuals and the Malaysia Control Centre.