“Nothing I haven’t told you already. Give me the primary scene, and I’ll show you what we can do.”
“Are you just starting on the clothing?”
“We’re doing a second run, to see if we missed anything,” Chew replies, defensively.
“And?”
Chew shakes his head, “So far, nothing. Remember when I asked you to smell the vics?”
“Yes.”
“After you left I took samples from their facial skin for trace. I also did my sniff analysis with the perfumes and cosmetics samples taken from the vic’s room; they don’t match. Unfortunately, my nose is not a certified scientific equipment,” Chew laughs. “But, if my hunch is right, the trace will give us the same result. Then you might have something to follow up.”
“Great. So what’re we waiting for?”
“It should be in by now. Why don’t you go wait in my office and let me finish here?” Chew motions towards his office. “And, don’t touch anything, you hear me!”
“Got it. Do you have coffee in there?”
As he imagined, the office is filled with reports, manuals, miniature models, and reference materials strewed indiscriminately. Almost every available square inch is taken up by one thing or other. How does Chew know where anything is? He sees a small coffee maker in one corner with several mugs. The lingering odour that follows him into the cubicle from the lab stops his yearning for a cup, though. Chew comes in just as they are about to move some material from the chairs.
“Where do we put these?”
Going around the desk to his chair, Chew answers, “Just put them anywhere.” He then pulls out his keyboard, saying, “Let’s see. Ahh, here it is.” He reads whatever is on the screen and says, “You’re in luck, Inspector. The samples I took from the daddy and the boy have no match to the mummy’s perfumes or cosmetics. An unknown.”
“And that translates as?”
“When I was sniffing the vics, I thought I smelled a faint scent of woman’s perfume on the daddy and the boy. Then I sniffed mummy. It struck me as strange, because the fragrance did not match hers. ”
“But what does that mean?”
“I’m not the investigator here, Inspector, but it tells me there was a transfer from an unknown onto daddy and boy. Is there any perfume not collected from the scene? If there isn’t, then that’s your lead. I know it’s not much, but it’s still a lead.”
“I saw your technicians collecting the perfumes, I’m sure they collected all except the maid’s.”
“They said they did do hers as well.”
“Can you identify the perfume? Any brand or manufacturer?”
“Trace can give you the component, but I don’t think they can tell you the brand name.”
“So we have the transfer of unknown cosmetic or perfume from an unknown person to the vics. That just sums up the day, unknowns.”
“It starts as an unknown before it becomes known. Always has, always does, and always will be. That’s what we do, that’s what you do, uncover the unknown.”
“Can’t you match it with existing products on the market?”
“Jo, we’re scientists, not magicians. Do you know how many products there are? The big-name products alone run into the thousands, then there are the small players and the homemade stuff. The best bet for a match is still through you, your suspects and leads.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to …”
“Forget it, I know.”
“Thanks.”
Leaving Chew’s office, he mulls over his findings. How should he interpret it? An unknown woman at the scene? Who? How was the cosmetic or perfume transferred to the victims? A kiss? Who wears perfume on the lips, or do they? Who would want to kiss a body? Maybe the cheek; yes, from cheek to cheek, but why? Chew’s information may be crucial in placing the suspect at the scene of the crime, but he has to find the suspect. Until then, the only use he has for the information is to brief the boss, and keep the OCCI at bay.
12
Inspector Song arranges a meeting with Four Finger Loo at eight that night, at the Lock Ann hotel in Jalan Petaling. He still has about three hours to kill. How he wishes the police offices here had showers, lockers, or changing rooms, like on television. Although he always keeps spare clothes in the trunk of his car, he does not feel like washing in the office toilet cubicle. He tells his AIO of the meeting and instructs him to be at the hotel an hour earlier to do some sleuthing.
At seven-thirty he turns off his computer, takes his backpack, catches the lift to the ground floor, and ambles to the car park, wondering if he should drive to the meeting. He speed dials Johan and asks, “Are you there?”
“Yup. No sign of Four Finger, yet.”
“He’ll be there, just relax and watch your back. I’m on my way.”
His assistant sounds edgy and Mislan does not blame him: a Malay man sitting alone in a Chinese coffee shop is not a normal scene, and in Petaling Street, it is worse. His AIO might as well be wearing a neon sign on his head saying, ‘I am a cop or immigration officer.’ By now gangbangers, illegal immigrants, petty criminals, and drug balaci are all probably watching him. They are guessing one of two things: an Operasi Sapu is coming down, or it’s the ‘dirty-cop/immigration-officer-waiting-for-his-kickback’. They prefer the latter, of course. He knows it is near impossible to get a place to park near Petaling Street. His best option is to drive and park at the Jalan Bandar Traffic Police Station about four hundred metres away and walk. He sees a department detective leaving on a motorcycle and flags him down. “Habis kerja?” he asks.
“Ya, tuan.”
“You got a spare helmet?”
“No, but there are always some in the guardhouse.”
“Can we go borrow one? I need you to send me to Petaling Street.”
The detective makes a U-turn to the guardhouse and comes back with an old helmet. Ten minutes later, they are at their destination. He taps the detective’s shoulder, to tell him to stop near the Kuan Yin Temple. He returns the helmet, thanks the detective and starts walking.
His first case as an investigating officer was in Petaling Street, also known as Chinatown. It was an armed robbery at a fast-food outlet. He had heard of triad activity in the area, and had been advised not to venture there alone under any circumstances. He remembers how he had stepped out of his Land Rover the first time, how shit scared he had been. His assistant then, Sergeant Peng, had to keep nudging him to keep him walking to the fast-food outlet, for his legs refused to move. He remembers having visions of drug-induced parang wielding gangsters charging out from every door and lane.
The area has not changed much. The roads are still narrow, lined on both sides with prewar shophouses. The area is congested with Chinese restaurants, retailers of Chinese medicinal herbs and prayer items, bed and breakfast outlets, pubs and grills, reflexology centres, betting outlets, and such. As he walks he watches European and American tourists haggling with street vendors over the price of fake handbags, watches, jeans, shirts, shoes, DVDs, CDs, whatever.
He remembers an in-house seminar several years ago, organised to introduce future crime busters to gang activity. One of the speakers was a chief inspector. “Have you heard of the Malay saying, Di mana ada air di situ ada ikan? Well, it is the same with gangs. Wherever there are night markets, there are gangs. The only question is, are they legal, or illegal.” One of the participants asked, “Are there legal gangsters?” and the chief inspector burst into laughter. After he stopped, he said, “The legal gangsters are people like you and me; dirty cops, dirty city hall enforcement officers.”
Petaling Street is now a tourist destination. The government has now declared it so by creating covered pedestrian malls and some cheesy cityscapes. From five in the evening till about two in the morning, the street is closed to vehicles and lined with stalls from end to end. The changes are cosmetic and the underlying heartbeat is just as dark as before. Although the authorities do not acknowledge it, Petaling Street is still a t
riad hotbed.
Walking down the street, he notices that, after all the years, his nervousness has not reduced much either. He still feels the rubber in his knees and the tremor in his chest. He senses eyes following him, watching his every move from shadowy corners, alleys and cracks in darkened windows. His hand creeps instinctively towards his sidearm under his shirt. The feel of the cold hard steel injects some valour into his stride as he continues into triad land.
The Lock Ann Hotel is a rundown three-storey corner shophouse with wooden windows, peeling paint, and a fading signboard; one of the many low-budget ones operating in the area. It is not a hotel he would want to spend a night in. Rooms are probably rented, long term, to Sri Lankans and Bangladeshi, and immigrants of other nationalities working the fake branded goods stalls, he thinks. A Chinese coffee shop on the ground floor has kiosks selling noodles, chicken rice, and bak kut teh.
He sees Johan sitting at a corner table, his back against a wall, looking edgy, like a child on a dentist’s chair. He picks a spot across the street in the shadow of a pavement pillar, and looks over the restaurant and the surroundings slowly, deliberately, more out of habit than with the hope of learning anything. The instant his AIO, the sergeant, had entered the restaurant, word would have flown out that a sah sun, three stripes, had entered the premises. By now his presence would also have been announced, tua a’kau, chief dog. Frantic calls had probably already gone out to their stooges in the enforcement agencies inquiring about the presence of officers in their territory. Looking at his watch, he decides it is time to join his sergeant. He takes a last drag from his cigarette, flicks it into the drain, misses it, and crosses the street.
Johan looks relieved to sees him. He sits next to his assistant facing the road, and orders an iced coffee. “You all right?” he asks, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“Biasa aje.” His assistant tries to sound nonchalant.
“It must be warm in here, you’re sweating,” he teases. “Has anyone approached you yet?”
His assistant does not get the taunt. “Just him,” he says, pointing to a waiter.
The waiter arrives with the drink and asks if they want anything to eat. Although famished, as he had not touched the nasi padang earlier, he is reluctant, as a Muslim, to eat in a non-halal restaurant. He shakes his head and the waiter leaves.
“My friend from D7 called. Rumours are flying about that Fatty Mah is back in town, came back about four months ago. Some say he’s trying to revive the 21 Immortals. It is just a rumour, nothing verified.”
“Do you think Four Finger Loo can verify that?”
“Worth asking.”
He kicks Johan’s shin lightly. He gestures, with his eyes, towards a young Chinese man standing near the bak kut teh stall. The man is speaking excitedly into his mobile phone and casting glances at them. Their shooting hands drop under the table, ready for any danger. The triad members are notorious for attacking targets with meat cleavers, choppers, and iron rods, in full view of the public.
The young man switches off his mobile, and walks tentatively towards them, saying, “Sorry ah, Inspector Mislan, kah?”
He nods.
“Uncle Loo asked me to come.”
He invites the man to sit, “What’s your name? Where is Four Finger Loo?”
“Tony. Who’s Four Finger Loo?” the man is genuinely baffled.
Mislan apologises. “Sorry. I mean Loo, where’s Uncle Loo?”
“He’s coming down. He stays up here,” Tony says, nervously pointing to the ceiling.
Mislan hails the waiter, and Tony orders his drink. He tells them that he is Loo’s nephew, he is in his early twenties, and is studying accountancy in one of the private colleges in KL. Then, Tony abruptly jumps off his chair, startling both of them, making them reach for their sidearms again. Tony briskly walks to an elderly man standing at the entrance and says, “Nay ho, Ah Sok.” The older man pats Tony’s shoulder, and they walk to their table.
The edginess subsides, and they relax their grips on the sidearms and start breathing normally. After the uncle and nephew sit down, the inspector makes the introductions. However, no hands are shaken. Distrust and caution loom. According to the case file, Four Finger Loo should be about fifty-eight, but the person seated in front of them does not look a day under seventy. He looks feeble, wrinkled and balding. His sad hollow eyes reflect defeat. He cannot imagine that this Four Finger Loo was once a fearsome Tiger General commanding hundreds, if not thousands, of warriors.
The old Tiger General orders tea, takes out his cigarette and lights one, without offering them any. “Ah Song said you wanted to talk with me?”
“Yes.” Nodding at Tony, Mislan asks, “Does he have to be here?”
“Yes, loh. You know we’re being watched,” Four Finger Loo says, slowly turning his head, indicating the outside. “I need him as my witness, if they decide to call on me. My nephew can be my witness. I’m no snitch. I only do this for Ah Song; he is an honourable tua a’kau.”
“We can do this elsewhere if you wish.”
“Why, meh? I prefer it here. What do you want to talk to me about?” Four Finger Loo wants to finish the meeting quickly.
“Can I tape this?” Mislan asks, and without waiting for a reply places the digital recorder on the table. “I want to know about Robert Tham.”
At the mentioned of the name, Four Finger Loo turns his head to the side and spits on the floor, his face going red with anger. “Yee’em chai,” he hisses under his breath. “I hope he rots in hell.”
“Tell me what happened in ninety-five?” Mislan says, ignoring the retort.
“Why ask me; you know what happened, what? We got rounded up, thrown in lock-ups. No charges, no trials; put into a truck like cows sent to Pulau Jerejak for a five-year holiday. I spent five fucking years in Pulau courtesy of your people and that traitor. Then they throw me in an eng chun in Kelantan for another five years. You asked me what happened in ninety-five, meh? All I know is that the yee’em chai lied to save his skin, betrayed us and got us sent away for a long time. Look, I don’t care what happens anymore; I have done my time and I’m no longer in the business. Why don’t you check your files?” Four Finger Loo shouts, his voice attracting curious stares from the workers, food handlers and customers.
Sensing the acrimony, the sergeant leaves the table and positions himself at the five-foot-way, where he can monitor both the situation at the table and the surroundings.
“Was it a hit?” Mislan changes the subject.
“What?” Four Finger asks. Suddenly he starts laughing, again a little too loudly, and this begins to annoy the inspector. “You don’t know us, do you? We don’t do families or children. They’re sacred. We’re from the old school; we live and die by our oaths, not like the punks you have now. They’re not triad, they’re just common thugs, punks,” he pauses, and follows it with another spit. After a few drags on his cigarette, he says, “If we did it, and I’m saying if, it’ll not be in his house. He was a diseased dog. Even the roadside drain would have been too good for his carcass. You think I did it, don’t you? I wish I had. I came back a nobody. The young punks, they don’t give a shit about me, or who I was. It’s not like it used to be; brotherhood, respect, honour. It’s pek hoon and robbery now. No respect for lives, or families.” Another glob of spit lands on the floor.
“What about Fatty Mah?”
“What about him?”
“I heard he’s back in town,” he watches Four Finger for giveaway expressions.
“I don’t know. If he has, he has not contacted me. You got your snitch, what?” Four Finger Loo snaps, then smiling for the first time, he says, “I forgot, your snitch is rotting in hell.” Genuine pleasure flashes in his eyes.
“Look, I don’t care what happened in ninety-five. I have a murder to solve. Right now, you and Fatty Mah have motives. Maybe you and Fatty didn’t do it. Maybe the two of you did, or contracted it out. Either way, I’m going to find out,” the i
nspector says firmly, having reached the limit of his patience, irritated with Four Finger’s attitude.
“You have a hearing problem, meh? I told you it’s not our style. We don’t do families and children,” Four Finger Loo replies, equally irritated.
“As you said, that was how it used to be, but not anymore. Maybe you used non-triad methods to throw us off the track. How’s that for a theory? To me, payback is a damn good motive to kill,” Mislan replies, watching the retired Tiger General’s face closely for giveaway signs. All he can detect is frustration, and the I-don’t-give-a-shit look.
“You’re the tua a’kau, you figure it out,” he replies defiantly.
“You can bet on that. By the way, don’t leave town,” he says, sounding silly even to himself. He turns off the digital recorder, stands and asks for the bill.
“I thought they only said that in movies,” Four Finger Loo says wryly. “Here is my home, I’m not going anywhere.”
The waiter tells him that the drinks are free. He pulls out his wallet and drops a five-ringgit note on the table, retrieves his backpack and walks away.
They head for Jalan Bandar Traffic Police Station, instead of walking all the way back to their office. They are not in the mood to walk more than necessary after the confrontation with the former Tiger General. Maybe they can get a ride from one of the patrol cars.
13
It is close to ten when they are dropped off at the office. The inspector tells his assistant to go home and get some rest. Walking to his car, he feels hungry. Daniel must be asleep, and he is not in the mood to eat alone. Without thinking, he takes out his mobile and calls Safia. After two rings, she answers lazily, “Hi.”
“Hi, am I disturbing you?”
“No, just watching TV. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m hungry, thought we could get something to eat.”
“Where are you? I have had dinner but I don’t mind having a drink,” she replies, sounding wide awake.
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