“Forget it,” she says, looking away. “Oh, I don’t think there is a waiting period.”
“Immediately?”
“Soon as the body stops wiggling; it would be difficult to do it if the body is still wiggling, don’t you think?” she chuckles.
“Doctor! I’m serious.”
“Yes, Inspector. Sorry, Inspector.”
“Death was instant. How long does it take to do one corpse, four hours? Let’s say embalming took twelve hours, that is, if it was done one at a time. Dressing them another three hours, max. That will make it fifteen hours to get them ready.”
“How about the table setting?”
“It could have been done while they were being readied.”
“So you’re saying there were others?
“It was not a one-man job, that I’m sure. Fifteen hours. That would have left them with an eleven-hour window for transport and staging.”
“So, as you said earlier, you don’t think the embalming was done away from KL or Selangor?”
“The window is too tight, apart from the risk being too high.”
It is about six-thirty in the evening when he drops her at the morgue, and promises to call her later.
18
As Mislan opens the front door, Daniel comes running out of his room with a string of questions. Passing the third degree by Daniel the Inquisitor, it is the father’s turn to ask how his son’s day was. Daniel answers all questions with ‘good’.
“Do you have homework?”
“No,” Daniel answers casually.
“Can I see your communications book?”
“You don’t believe me,” Daniel says, running behind his father.
“That’s because you always trick me.” He is careful not to use the word ‘lie’. “Let me see it, please.”
Daniel leaves the room, repeating, “You don’t believe me,” and comes back with his communications book.
“See, I told you,”
“I believed you; I want to see if your teacher has written anything in it.” Returning the book, he says, “Why don’t you get ready for mengaji.”
“Okay.”
When he comes out of the shower, he sees Daniel all dressed up in his baju Melayu, watching a cartoon. He tells his son he might have to go out on work later in the night and receives a disapproving stare from his six-year-old. As Daniel prepares to leave for mengaji, he asks for a hug and tells his son to have fun.
He makes a mug of strong black coffee, and plants himself at the work desk. He turns on the television for the TV3 primetime news at eight, lights a cigarette and switches on the digital recorder. It starts with Maria’s interview. It is brief and contains nothing of significance except for the chronology. He stops the recording and asks himself: who knew Maria will be away on Friday instead of her usual Saturday? Was it a coincidence? Did she, by chance, mention it to anyone in an innocent conversation? It may not even be she who mentioned it, but one of the victims.
The news starts with the day’s headlines, one of which is the murder of Robert Tham and his family. Then it kicks off with news of the political turmoil in Perak, before it moves on to his case. After that is a brief recount of the victim’s profile, leading up to the press conference by the city’s crime chief.
He cannot believe what he hears. According to SAC Burhanuddin, the police strongly believe it is secret society related, and they are working on the theory that it is a payback for some co-operation rendered by one of the victims to the police several years ago. The police also believe the killing is intended to warn would-be police informers. The OCCI then delivers a killer blow: Loo Ah Kau @ Four Finger Loo, a former secret society member, has come forward to assist in their investigations.
As the news segment ends, his phone rings. Without looking at the display, he presses the answer button and says, “Mislan here.”
“Lan, what the fuck were you thinking? You are going to get him killed,” Inspector Song fumes.
“Woow, Song. I just heard it, too. Look ...”
“You reached out to me saying you needed to talk. I arranged the meeting for you to talk, not to use him as bait. You know the SS have nothing to do with your case. It’s not their style,” Inspector Song barks, cutting him off.
“Look, Song, I know. I told them, I don’t think it’s SS either.” He tells Song what transpired that morning, the PR dolls, and the OCCI's insistence on having the press conference. “I’m sorry, man. Nothing I could do.”
“If anything happens to him, it’s on you, Lan,” Song says, and the phone goes dead.
He wants to call puan for an explanation, feeling he deserves one. Who is he kidding? Since when did a boss owe a subordinate an explanation, especially in the police force? His conscience is clear; whatever happens to Four Finger Loo will not be his doing. It is a vicious world with publicity junkies, like the OCCI, playing right into the hands of the media and its infinite craving for sensation, real or made-up.
Mislan needs to be with someone. He calls Safia, asking if her offer of another pair of ears is still open. He throws a pair of fresh pants and shirt into his backpack, puts on a pair of shorts, a round-neck T-shirt and leaves. He knows Daniel will be upset with him for being away two nights in a row. He feels sorry for Daniel, but he needs adult company. On the way, he stops at the Ampang McDonald’s drive-in and buys two quarter-pounder cheeseburgers.
As he takes the lift to the ninth floor, he wonders if he should use the spare keys, or ring the bell. He chooses the latter and when the door opens, Safia teases him for not using the keys. They sit in the living room facing the balcony and stuff their bodies with the fatty fast food.
“What?”
“What’s with the long face? Somebody died?”
He ignores her.
“Something bothering you?”
“Only the usual crap,” he answers, unsure if he should be telling her his work frustrations.
“Told you, I’ have got good ears, if you want to talk,” she offers.
“Good, let’s test it,” he says, eager to avoid the subject and getting all worked up. He gathers the McDonald’s paper wrappings, cups and bags, and walks to the kitchen to dispose of them in the rubbish bin.
“You want coffee?” She follows him.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Leaning against the cabinet he marvels as Dr Safia, the forensic pathologist, methodically prepares two mugs of coffee. She arranges all the utensils, cutlery, and ingredients neatly, within easy reach, before she begins. Two teaspoons of instant coffee into one mug and one teaspoon into the other, a teaspoon of sugar in each, fills them with hot water, and stirs with deliberate circular motions. He thinks she even counts the number of stirs for each mug. She returns the ingredients to their original places, washes the spoon, wipes it dry and puts it back in the drawer. Mislan has never seen her perform an autopsy, but having just seen her make coffee, he is sure she is well organised. Does she even think about it?
“You like yours strong, right?” she hands him his mug.
He nods, “Thanks.”
They amble towards the living room. He gets the digital recorder, a notepad, and a pen from the backpack, as she turns the music down. Sitting on the sofa, he tells her there are three interviews recorded and suggests they listen to them sequentially, starting with Maria. He switches on the recorder, lights two cigarettes, hands her one, and leans back. She fiddles with the recorder to turn up the volume and leans against him, a position that now seems natural. He closes his eyes, calmed by the fresh fragrance of her hair and warm body. He feels her moving, the recorder is silent, then something jabs his stomach.
“Are you sleeping?”
“Almost.”
“Remember your thirty-six-hour theory? You have based it on Maria’s statement. Maria said she left Friday evening and came back Sunday morning, that’s how you got the thirty-six hours, right?”
He nods.
“You’re assuming they were killed on Friday evening, i
mmediately after Maria left. Are you thinking she was involved?”
“Her story checks out. She may be involved without knowing. I mean, she might have told someone she’d be away Friday evening, innocently, and that info was used.”
“What makes you think they were killed on Friday night and not Saturday?”
“The timing window. I don’t think they would have wanted to shorten it. With only one chance at execution, I figure they would have wanted the biggest window they could have. Time would have been crucial in their planning.”
“What about Saturday morning or afternoon, then?”
“I think not. When I did the house, everything was in order: the air-conditioners, lights, except the bedroom curtains. They were drawn. I read that as something the killers overlooked because it was night, and the curtains would not have mattered.”
“I’m impressed, Inspector Mislan.”
“Elementary, my Dr Fie.”
“Who’s next?”
“Irene, the RT manager.”
She switches on the recorder, placing it on her chest and reassumes her position. He observes the recorder moving up and down on her chest, like it was riding the humps of a camel, in sync with her steady breathing. She tilts her face up, kisses him on the chin and tells him, “I know what you’re staring at.” He blushes and looks away. Then his phone rings, startling them.
“Puan.”
“Lan, have you heard?” Supt Samsiah asks.
“Heard what?”
“Four Finger Loo, he was killed an hour ago.” Her voice is calm.
“What?” He is shocked.
“He was assaulted by a group of men with parangs as he was having his meal at a coffee shop in Petaling Street. Jalan Bandar received the call, when the MPVs arrived the assailants were gone, and Four Finger Loo was dead. D7 believes it was the SS, they’re handling the case. They’re conducting an op sapu in the area. Sorry Lan, thought you should know.”
Mislan wants to scream at her but does not, instead, he says, “Thanks.”
“Lan, you okay?”
“Fine, puan,” he says, turning off the phone.
He does not realise he is pacing the living room, monitored by a concerned Dr Safia. He staggers to the balcony, grips the railing tightly with both hands, tilts his head up and sucks in the fresh air fiercely. Anger burns through his being. For someone’s few minutes of personal glory on TV, an innocent man pays with his life. It had to be the most expensive few minutes of airtime. Was it worth it? “Fool, stupid fool,” he swears softly. His body stiffens as Safia hugs him from behind. Her calm and warmth are comforting. He turns around and hugs her back, resigned to the fact that there is nothing he could have done to prevent Four Finger Loo’s death. No way is he taking the blame. His anger subsides, and is replaced by emptiness.
“Hey, you want to take a break. Watch a DVD, or something?” Safia whispers in his ears.
“No. Let’s just stay here awhile.”
“Sure.”
19
Wednesday
Mislan delicately lifts Safia’s arm, moving it from his chest, careful not to wake her. Untangling himself, he gropes for his shorts in the dark and wanders to the living room. It is two-seventeen in the morning, according to the digital clock on the bookshelf. He takes a sip of his cold coffee, lights a cigarette and shivers as a sudden gust of wind from the open balcony hits his bare body. He braves the chill to stand on the balcony, looking out at the city lights. After a few minutes of shivering and rubbing of arms, he is awake. He thinks of what happened. They were in one another’s arms, she comforting him, telling him it was not his fault, and that he should not blame himself. He remembers kissing her, and how she responded. Then they moved from the balcony to the bedroom where they made love. No words were spoken, none were necessary. He desperately needed to feel alive again, to have a relationship, to share, to care, and be cared for. As for her, he does not know what her reasons were. Perhaps she feels a need to be there for him. He probes his conscience, trying to understand what happened. Was it a need, a want, or lust?
He flings his cigarette butt over the balcony and follows the path of its red glow to the ground. Returning to the living room, Mislan starts when he sees Safia stretched on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, smiling at him.
Recovering his composure, he says, “Did I wake you? Sorry.”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Just missed you in there.”
He sits next to her; he notices she is wearing his T-shirt under the blanket. She rests her head on his lap.
“You want to talk?”
He tells her about the press conference, his boss’s phone call, the senseless death of Four Finger Loo, and his resentment of the OCCI’s inanities and obsession with publicity. She listens without saying a word, but an occasional squeeze of his hand tells him she understands. He remembers her telling him she is a good listener, she has just proved it.
She raises her head and kisses him lightly on the lips, “You did all you could to stop them. No one can pin this on you.”
He nods and holds her head to his chest.
20
It is six-fifteen when Mislan leaves. Safia is still sound asleep on the sofa. On the way down he turns on the recorder and listens to the interviews from where they stopped. At the end of Irene’s interview, he rewinds the recorder and listens again. He switches off the recorder and speed dials his assistant.
“Jo, meet me at the office asap.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Johan asks, half awake.
“I think I know what the primary scene was.”
“What! You said ‘what’ the primary scene was. I don’t get you.”
“I’ll explain when we meet. Get me nasi lemak with sotong and telur goreng.”
He turns off the phone before his assistant can ask more questions. He presses Safia’s speed dial number and it is answered immediately. He tells her he had a wonderful time and apologises for sneaking off.
He reaches the house as the maid is getting Daniel ready for school. After answering Daniel’s questions: about his whereabouts last night, why he is just coming home, and if he is sending him to school, permission is granted for a hug and kiss. He hurriedly washes, changes, gives his son a bottle of Vitagen, and drives him to school.
“Daddy, are you going to be late again?” Daniel asks as they reach his school.
“I don’t know, kiddo. Why?”
“Nothing,” Daniel says.
“What’s wrong, kiddo?”
Instead, Daniel responds with, “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Bumble.”
“Bumble, who?”
“Bumblebee, that cries because he cannot follow Sam,” Daniel laughs.
He too laughs, guiltily.
After dropping Daniel at school, Mislan drives to his office. The car park is nearly full, the lobby crowded, and the lifts are packed with noisy staff reporting for work. He squeezes into one that is full, amid snarls and protests. Johan is already at the pantry making coffee when he drops his backpack on his desk.
“Pagi. Made you coffee,” he says
“Pagi. Thanks, I’m starving. Did you buy the nasi lemak?”
“Just as you ordered, with sotong and telur goreng.” He hands his boss the packet. “Where or what is the primary scene?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity.
Mislan unwraps his packet of nasi lemak, sips his coffee to wet his throat before spooning his first mouthful, and enjoys his breakfast of caffeine, carbohydrates, fat and nicotine.
“Remember my interview with Irene, the RT manager? After the interview, I forgot to turn the recorder off. When she walked me to the door, I asked her about the vehicles in the parking lot. She told me two of them belong to the vic. She was surprised the Cayenne was still in the lot because she thought the vic was using it for his holiday.”
“So you’re thinking the Cayenne is the primary scene?”
“Safia said they were
gassed. She saw no defensive wounds, or signs of struggle. She also said that the gas kills fast, is colourless, odourless and dilutes easily in open space.”
His assistant nods.
“Luxury cars are designed to be airtight so you don’t hear the noise made by the tyres or the wind. What if the gas was discharged when they were inside the car? They wouldn’t know what hit them, and seconds later they’d be dead. The question is, how was the gas discharged?”
“Makes sense.”
“I’m going to run it by puan to see if she buys it. If she does, I’ll get excused from ‘morning prayer’ and we’ll go to RT. Why don’t you get some blank copies of the search lists and put Chew on notice. If the Cayenne is still there, and I’m sure it will be, we’ll get Chew and his boys over. Did you get anything on the Net search?”
“I have found two suppliers, but there are no records of sales made to individuals. They supply the full range of mortician’s equipment, complete with installation, testing, and commissioning. They also provide maintenance and chemicals. They don’t make much money on equipment, but they do when they provide maintenance and chemicals. I could not find a mortician’s association. I made some calls. Morticians are usually registered as members of their clan associations, like the Hokkien or Hakka.”
The inspector shakes his head, and sighs. “Another dead lead. Let’s try to find a friendly mortician that we can talk to. Maybe they’re superstitious, or suey to be on the Net, or to advertise.”
He finishes the nasi lemak, gulps down the coffee and lights a cigarette, ignoring the government policy of no-smoking in the office. He is a police officer and needs to smoke to melt his brain cells so he can think.
Putting out his cigarette, Mislan goes to the office of the Head of Major Crimes. She beckons him in before he can knock.
“Sorry about Four Finger Loo,” she says in a manner indicating no discussion was welcomed on the subject. “I was about to call you. D7 has been calling me all morning, insisting they take over The Yee Sang Murders. What are your thoughts on it?”
“What’s the reason given?”
“They believe your case may be related to Four Finger Loo’s death,” she calmly explains, letting his rudeness slide.
21 Immortals Page 11