21 Immortals

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  Picking at his food, his assistant asks, “What went on in there? I mean the ‘morning prayer’. I saw two skirts going in.”

  “They’re from PR. The OCCI is giving a press conference. It should be over by now.”

  “You mean on our case! That’s premature, isn’t it? What’s he telling them?”

  “I don’t know. I told the boss I didn’t feel good about it. We have nothing solid yet, and the PC will attract more media attention and make things difficult.”

  Mislan’s phone rings, it is Supt Samsiah. She tells him E3 can lend him a team, but only tomorrow morning. He thanks her, saying it is better than nothing, and will email her the details by tonight.

  “Puan, how did it go?”

  “You know how these things are. Just forget it, okay. How did the raid go?”

  “It went. Hasn’t ASP Ghani briefed you?”

  “He’s on his way back. I’ve arranged for a debriefing at two. The big boss will be attending, as usual,” she says matter-of-factly. “You coming?”

  “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. I have an appointment with Prof Teh later.”

  “Call me if there’s a new development; and, Lan, cool down, okay.”

  As he was putting the phone away, he notices the missed-call sign. The number looks familiar but he cannot place it. He decides to ignore it. If it is important, the caller will phone again, he decides. The restaurant does not have a television set so he cannot watch the news. Perhaps, it is better this way, he thinks. The news would only infuriate him more. His phone rings again. It is Chew.

  “Yes, Chew; was it you who called me earlier?”

  “Yup.”

  “Sorry, I was in a raid. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got good and bad news. Which do you want first?” Chew asks.

  “I’m having a shitty day. I could do with some good news.”

  “We lifted a partial print, sufficient to run a match. My tech got it from the back of the vic’s belt buckle. That’s the good news,” Chew says with obvious pride.

  “That’s great. What’s the bad news?”

  “We cannot find a match for it in our system, or Criminal Records. Sorry, Inspector.”

  “Damn! Another good lead that’s useless.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, if there is no one to match it to. No, if you find a match. So go get the killer, and we’ll match the print.”

  “Right. Hey, Chew, good job. Thanks.”

  “No problem, Inspector.”

  He has another two hours before picking up Safia. Two hours of not knowing what to do or where to go. He needs to unwind, clear his head, run over the information again and plan his next move. He pays for the nasi kandar and leaves.

  “Have you eaten here before? I think the nasi kandar here is better than in Penang.”

  “Several times during my MPV days, but I prefer the Penang nasi kandar, though. Where are we going?”

  “Kill some time. We’ve got about two hours before we pick Dr Safia up. I need to unwind; thought we’ll go for a reflexology massage,”

  “Sounds good to me; anywhere in particular?”

  “Here.”

  The New Shu Jin Reflexology is on the second floor of Sungei Wang Plaza.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Only once, it’s clean.”

  “You sure? I don’t want our pictures in the newspapers, arrested with under-aged girls by the Religious Department. It’s not beyond them to set us up, you know.”

  Mislan joins in the joke, “You mean the OCCI and D7? Your mind is more screwed than mine.” It has been in the news lately, about reflexology centres offering more than just foot massages. They reach the floor they want and look for New Shu Jin Reflexology. They see the signboard and stroll towards it.

  It is early and the place is deserted. It is usually busy after office hours up to closing time at midnight, Mislan explains. They pick a seat next to each other. Two women reflexologists, or whatever they called themselves, appear with a basin of warm water and towels. They lean back on the reclining chairs, similar to poolside recliners. The therapists remove their shoes and socks, roll up the legs of their trousers to the knees and wash their feet in the warm antiseptic water. Once cleaned, the feet are towel dried, before being massaged.

  As his reflexologist presses and pokes the soles of his feet, his tension eases. Perhaps, it is due to the pressing of the right nerves in his feet, or perhaps it is the combination of soft instrumental music, dim lights, and aroma. He does not know and does not care. He closes his eyes and thinks of the partial print that Chew has found. He cannot understand why the police do not have a computerised database of DNA, ballistic, fibres, knives, shoe prints, like one sees on CSI shows on TV. Fingerprint-matching is still done manually by D6. The process of digitising is in progress, but it is not online and available to the districts. Fingerprint information and other databases are not shared between government agencies like the Immigration, Police, and National Registration, limiting the chances of finding a match.

  His mind drifts to when he played the truth game with Safia. He tried to recall the questions and his answers, but he cannot. Then someone calls him, “Tuan … tuan.” Opening his eyes he sees Johan sitting where the reflexologist was. “It’s three, we should make a move.”

  “Sorry.” He sits up and asks for the bill as he puts on his socks and shoes.

  As they drive out from the car park, his mobile rings again. He plugs in the headphone and answers, “Mislan here.”

  “Are you avoiding me again?” Audi is clearly angry.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Reporters have sources too. It doesn’t matter how I got it. Is it true, what they said at the PC? We have an understanding, but I heard it with twenty other reporters.”

  “What did they say at the PC?”

  “The kongsi gelap! Damn it,” Audi says angrily.

  “If you don’t believe what they said, why didn’t you ask them? I was not the one saying it. You should be asking them, not me. I’m driving, talk to you later.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not true then, and don’t give me the excuse that you are driving. Who’s going to give you a summons? Is it true, or just PC bullshit?”

  “No comments, it’s an ongoing investigation.” He is disturbed by what Audi said about the PC.

  “Come on Inspector, don’t brush me off. Look, I’ll talk to my station manager to hang back with the PC bullshit, but you have to promise me. I get the exclusive on The Yee Sang Murders. How’s that?” Audi says.

  “Let’s talk later. I’m not promising you anything, but we can talk about it.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Mislan calls Safia when they arrive. He drives around the complex to the parking lot at the morgue where she is already waiting. Johan moves to the back and she slides into the front seat, freshening up the car with the sweet scent of her fragrance.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “How are you, doc?” Johan greets her.

  “Hi, sure you’re okay about coming along?” Mislan asks.

  “Yup. It’s a slow day; told my boss I’m going to UM to do some research on embalming.” She makes a call, and has an exchange of a few words. Professor Teh will be in his office at the Faculty of Science.

  With his mind in a mess, he just cannot figure out the best route to the University of Malaya. “Which is the quickest route, doc?”

  “Don’t you police guys know all the roads? Aren’t you trained to respond to calls fast?” Safia jests.

  “I knew all the roads when I was on duty in the MPV. Tuan Mislan was never in MPV.”

  “Oh, all right then. Hit Jalan Bangsar, we will go through Pantai,” Safia says.

  As they turn in at the university, he notices Safia’s silence. She looks out the window, lost in thought. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was just thinking about the old days,” she answers without taking her eyes away
from the window. “You know,” she says to no one in particular, “it’s the oldest university in the country and was once among the best in Asia. Now it struggles to make the top five hundred,” and her voice trails off.

  The two men do not know whether they are supposed to respond.

  Mislan has been to the university several times, but that was more than ten years ago when he played hockey. Sometimes he went to the bookshop. The university used to have the best library in the country. But not anymore.

  He tells Safia he is not familiar with the roads and needs her to direct him.

  “First of all, slow down, Lan,” Safia says.

  He slows to an agonising speed of twenty-five kilometres an hour, as he avoids running down some motorcyclists and pedestrians.

  “It’s not my speed, it’s those idiots,” he hisses.

  “I used to be one of those idiots,” Safia snaps.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  The sergeant taps Safia’s shoulder, and shakes his head when she looks at him to tell her not to make it a big thing. She nods. She understands.

  “Take a left up there,” Safia navigates. “See that building? That’s where Professor Teh’s office is.”

  The professor’s office is on the second floor of an old square building that is in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The building does not have a lift so they take the stairs, navigating through clusters of students who are either shortsighted or just oblivious of other people’s right to use the corridor. At the end of the corridor, she knocks lightly on Professor David Teh’s door, and pokes her head in. Mislan hears a hearty ‘come on in’ and she pushes the door open.

  The professor is in his mid-forties, well-built and does not, in the least, look like a nerd. He is good-looking, casually dressed in jeans, a light-blue polo shirt and track shoes; more like a TV talk-show host than an academic, Mislan thinks. Safia makes the introductions and Professor Teh insists they call him by his first name.

  “So Safia, how have you been keeping?” David says, non-professor like.

  “Couldn’t be better,” she answers. The inspector notices that her usual smile has disappeared.

  “I’ve read your report. Your mortician has used the method known as Waterless Embalming, an effective method, but expensive and not used commercially.”

  “Is it unique?”

  “No, not unique, but not used commercially.”

  “Is that because it’s expensive?”

  The professor nods. “You see, embalming is a process of replacing the blood with a variety of preservatives and disinfecting agents. In modern embalming, additives are used to prevent decomposition and restore natural appearance. Commonly, the mixture is five to twenty-nine per cent formaldehyde, nine to fifty-six per cent ethanol, plus other solvents. The chemicals and additives form the arterial solution.” The professor pauses, he looks amused by their perplexed faces. Folding his arms, he continues, “Arterial solution is a diluted mixture of chemicals made to order for each body, also known as ‘accessories chemicals’.”

  “Do you know which funeral house provides waterless embalming?”

  “I’m sure all funeral houses can perform it if the clients are willing to pay.”

  “So the technique is not unique and won’t lead us to anyone?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’d suggest you look at how the embalming was done. That’ll give you a better chance of finding who the embalmer is.”

  “I don’t understand,” Safia says.

  “You see, the chemicals tell you nothing of the embalmer. Chemical mixtures used are standard; there is nothing unique about them. However, the techniques used are unique. You see, in this country, embalmers learn from a mentor. It is a hand-me-down skill, so he or she uses similar techniques. Embalmers uses an embalming machine that acts as the artificial heart to pump out blood from the body. To use the machine the embalmer has to make two insertions, one to pump the embalming fluid in, and one to pump out the blood. Several known methods of doing it exist. Some prefer the radial from the hands, others the carotid from the neck, or jugular, or subclavian from the shoulder. If you check with funeral houses you can identify the technique used by them that might lead you to the embalmer. It’s a long shot, I know, but that’s the only possibility I can see,” David explains.

  “And the most common techniques used are?”

  “I would say the carotid artery and vein.”

  “How difficult is it to do embalming? I mean, can I do it at home, or would I need a special room?”

  “The machine is small, about the size of a microwave. I suppose if you want to, and don’t mind the mess, you can do it in your house. If it’s done in a house, the most sensible place would be the bathroom. Much easier to clean up than the dining hall or the kitchen,” the professor says.

  “Is the machine readily available on the market?”

  “Could be, but I think not. Who would have any need for it? It’s not a household item. I assume it’s available through medical or funeral suppliers. I’m sure there can’t be too many of them.”

  “How long does it take to embalm a corpse?”

  “About four hours, depending on the condition of the corpse. If death is by natural causes, it may take less time. A corpse of a violent death may take longer due to the repair work necessary. It also depends on the machine used, its speed; but modern machines are fast,” David’s eyes rest on Safia.

  “Thank you, Prof, it’s been educational.” Mislan tries to hide his disappointment.

  “Educational, but not helpful,” the professor remarks.

  “Not now, but that could change as we go further with our investigations,” the inspector replies, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

  “I understand, it has been my pleasure,” David replies graciously.

  They shake hands, and as they leave David asks Safia if she is still using her old number, to which she hesitates before answering, “Yes.”

  17

  Hitting Pantai Baru after leaving the campus, they are caught in the evening rush hour. Safia suggests they find a coffee shop nearby and wait it out. She directs him to a mamak restaurant she frequented as a student. They choose a table on the pavement farthest from a group of bantering students, laughing loudly. They order some drinks and pass on the food.

  “What are you thinking?” Safia looks at him.

  “Another dead end,” Mislan says, in frustration. “What was the technique used in this case, the insertion method, or whatever he calls it?”

  “Subclavian. It’s at the collar bone, that’s why Chew did not find it when he examined the bodies at the scene. It was concealed by their clothing.”

  “Jo, why don’t you work the Net tonight? See if morticians or funeral houses have associations, or something. Maybe we can visit them, learn who is offering ‘waterless embalming’ and the names of embalming machine suppliers. I want to know whether anyone bought one recently.”

  “Are you thinking it was not done at a funeral house?”

  “I don’t know. Just want to check everything. Try KL and Selangor. I don’t think it was done outside Klang Valley.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Timing. Maria left Friday night and found them Sunday morning. That gave the killers, plus or minus, thirty-six hours, not enough to have it done out of KL or Selangor. I don’t think they would have taken the risk of driving three stiffs on a long haul. They could have been stopped by a roadblock, a routine check by the Highway Patrol, or had an accident. It would have been too risky.”

  “You’re saying it was done in thirty-six hours, the killing, embalming, and the staging? Wow, that’s efficient,” Safia is amazed. “Could use them at the morgue.”

  Everyone seizes the opportunity for a good laugh.

  “The operation was well planned, based on good information and precisely executed.” He lights a cigarette and hands it to Safia.

  “It must have been someone close to them,” Johan s
ays.

  “Could be. The thing is, who was close to them? Irene, the manager at RT, says the vic was private. She says he didn’t speak about his family, or meet any of them at the office. I need to talk to her again.” Mislan lights another cigarette.

  Loud laughter from the students, whose group seems to have grown bigger, distracts them.

  “They’re having fun.”

  “They should.” Safia smiles.

  “Miss your uni days, eh?”

  “Sometimes. Only sometimes.”

  “We should make a move. Shall we?”

  In the car, Johan suggests that he be dropped off at the Bangsar LRT Station to take the train back to the office, and Mislan can send Safia back.

  After dropping his assistant off, he decides to take the Brickfields route to HUKM.

  “What’s with you and the professor?”

  “Ancient history.”

  “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Making you revisit ancient history on my account.”

  “No fuss. He’s the best. I need to learn, too. Let’s drop it, okay,”

  After the Brickfield’s Police Station, he turns right and heads for the KL-Seremban Expressway. It is a much longer route through Tasik Selatan and Tun Razak, but it would avoid the evening rush. He lights a cigarette, hands it to her and lights another for himself. Reaching down to the bottom of his gear shift, he picks up her bunch of keys and hands it to her.

  “Sorry, about taking your keys.”

  “Don’t you want to keep it?”

  “You sure?”

  She nods, pushing his hand down.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you coming over tonight?”

  “Love to, but I have to go home and spend time with Daniel. I also need to listen to the interviews, see if I missed anything.”

  “We can listen to it together. Four ears are better than two, right?”

  “Let’s play it by ear,” he is non-committal. “How long before you can embalm a corpse?”

  “Lan, don’t you ever think of anything else?”

  “Sorry,” he says and laughs at his insensitivity.