21 Immortals

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  “Done.”

  “Thanks, man. See you later.”

  Johan, who is listening quietly from his desk, rolls his chair up next to his. “What went on back there?” he jerks his head towards the emergency door.

  “We had a private conversation.”

  “I caught a glimpse of him; he didn’t look too good. Looked as if he knocked against something,” Johan says knowingly. He had heard small talk about officers working out their differences amicably, but this is the first time he has encountered one.

  “Yah, said he wasn’t feeling too good, stomach cramp. Probably something he ate for breakfast.”

  “You’re not going to tell, right?”

  “Nope,” he laughs. “Jo, I need you to run a check on the vic’s credit cards, just Mr Tham first. Go back two months. All his credit cards. Get hold of the tech who bagged the vic’s personals.”

  “You’re on to something?”

  “A small chance, maybe it’s nothing. Let’s see how our vic spent his money. I’m going to see Di and Hubble.” Pointing to the diagnostic system, he says, “I’m hoping Hubble can work his magic and get something out of the ECUs. Keep the stakeout team in place. If Hubble delivers, I want to hit the workshop before it closes today.”

  “You want me to join you later?”

  “Can you come on a bike? That way, if we have to hit the workshop, you can go there first and brief the stakeout team.”

  “Sure, I’ll borrow one from a gelap.”

  Driving to the Forensic Laboratory in Cheras, he reflects on the staircase confrontation he had with the Head of Special Projects. ASP Ghani Ishak out-ranked him, and one day may become his boss. When that happens, he guesses it would be time to retire his badge. What drove him to do it? What made him lose it? He wondered what would have happened if ASP Ghani had fought back. Well, ASP Ghani did not, and he would never know. He is sure the entire office is talking about their private conversation by now, probably with wildly exaggerated versions. Supt Henry and, possibly, even the OCCI would have heard it. Whatever comes, he is ready.

  He arrives at five past twelve and heads straight for the office. Chew stops working on his computer, pushes his chair back, and walks out to meet him. Chew leads him to a table where several small boxes the size of cigarette packets, with wires sticking out, some copper tubes and one six-by-three cylinder are neatly laid out.

  “Is Di here yet?”

  “Nope. Here are the items you probably want to run some diagnostics on,” he says, pointing to the small boxes. “These are ECUs, all labelled so you know which is which, and here is the remote control valve with the receiver. I don’t know if you can run a diagnostic on it because it’s third party. We’ve examined it. It’s just a standard industrial remote controlled valve, locally made.”

  “Can you trace it?”

  “Sure, but don’t see how it’ll help you; it’s retailed. You can get them from any vehicle and machine-parts shop. My guess, it’s a vehicle part. You don’t need any registration to buy it.”

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s the canister that contained the hydrogen cyanide. We nearly missed it. We thought they had used the air-conditioner’s compressor for the gas, but it registered only a low-level trace. So we tore up the SUV and found the canister hidden in the dashboard. Clever. The valve was attached to its nozzle. The gas ran through this copper pipe into the air-conditioner vents. We did a swab of the canister and it showed a high concentration of the gas. Same with the copper pipes. We managed to lift a few sets of clear prints from it, but have found no match in the records.”

  “Damn,” Mislan swears. “Just hang on to it, maybe we’ll get a match from the workshop mechanics. What do you make of it? Why the elaborate design?”

  “It’s ingenious.”

  “What is?”

  “By controlling the gas independently, the killers could determine when to discharge the gas. You said the Cayenne was sent for servicing, right? It was delivered to the RT Fashion House before the vic drove it home. If the gas control had been in the air-conditioning, the person delivering the car would have been the first to die when it was switched on. So designing it separately was ingenious. They had full control; they could wait until all their victims were in place before releasing the gas.”

  “Good planning, good thinking.”

  33

  Sounds of giggling and heavy panting announce the arrival of Di and Hubble. The latter leans his large flabby body against the door frame as Di pushes him from the back, “Come on, just a little more.” The two flights of stairs must have taken a heavy toll on Hubble’s legs, heart, and lungs. He struggles through the few remaining feet and slumps on the first chair he reaches, stretches his legs, lolls his head all the way back, pants and sweats like a horse. Di disappears and comes back with a bottle of Coke. Hubble empties half of it in one gulp. Pulling a face towel from his pocket, he wipes the sweat dripping from his face and neck. Chew is dumbfounded by what he sees, “That’s Hubble?”

  “Yup, big as they come,” the inspector laughs softly. When he feels Hubble has recovered sufficiently from his ordeal of climbing two flights of stairs, he gestures for Chew to follow him.

  “Hubble, how are you? This is Chew, Di’s supervisor.”

  Chew smiles, hesitates before extending his hand. “Hi, nice to meet you,” Chew says. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t you have lifts here?” Hubble wipes more sweat from his face. “By the way, I think you should give Di a parking lot near the office. She had to park her car so far away. Crazy, man.” Hubble takes another long gulp of the Coke, emptying the bottle, and asks if he can have another. Di disappears and comes back with another.

  “You ready to go?” the inspector asks Hubble.

  “Sure,” Hubble says, pushing himself up laboriously. “Do you have anything to eat around here? I’m starving.”

  “Chew, can we eat here?”

  “Yah, in the pantry or the discussion room,” Chew replies.

  “Tell you what,” Mislan says, addressing Hubble, “you take a look at the items first. Tell me what you think, and I’ll arrange for lunch. Okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Hubble follows him to the table where the ECUs and other items are laid out.

  At the table, Chew hands Hubble a pair of latex gloves which the latter tries to put on, but all he can manage is to run his fingers halfway through the sheaths. Giving up, Hubble stops trying to put the gloves on and starts handling the ECUs. He closely examines all the items, like a jeweller examining gem stones, and for such a large person Hubble is surprisingly delicate.

  “Do you have the diagnostic system?”

  “Yes, the latest,” he says, reaching into his backpack. “It’s a Durametric Diagnostic System, and it runs on Windows.”

  Taking the casing from the inspector, Hubble says, “Great, let me check it out. See what this baby can do.”

  Chew tells the hacker to use one of the discussion rooms, and Di says she will get her notebook. The inspector asks if the Forensics supervisor can organise lunch from the canteen.

  After another bottle of Coke, Hubble heads off to the discussion room. The phone rings. It is Johan telling his boss that he has the credit card listings, and is on his way to Forensics. Mislan tells him to bring four large bottles of Coke for Hubble.

  “He’s huge, isn’t he?” Chew whispers. “Did you see him try to put the gloves on? I have to check with procurement to see if they have bigger ones, just in case we need his help in the future. Boy, I just can’t imagine being that big.”

  “Not easy,” the inspector smiles, “but you’ll get used to it if you were. For now, that large man is the best hope we have of cracking this case. If he doesn’t come through, I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Just keep at it, something will come up. If not today, one day,” Chew says encouragingly. “I did some research on hydrogen cyanide and found out you can buy it in a can. Zyklom B is the brand. I saw no me
ntion of the supplier, and I don’t think you can get it locally. The manufacturer is in Germany; it’s supplied for pest fumigation and military use.”

  “That’s useful info. One could’ve easily been brought in from overseas.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Di pokes her head out, signalling them to come to the discussion room, just as the technician arrives with the lunch packets. They sit around the discussion table as the technician distributes the Styrofoam boxes, the biggest pack being for Hubble, who immediately opens the cover and examines its contents. Satisfied, he leans back saying, “Okay, I’ve got a handle of this baby,” tapping the Durametric Diagnostic System. “What do you want me to check?”

  “Why don’t we eat as we talk?”

  Di and Hubble nod and start attacking their lunch, while Chew watches, amused. Soon, Johan comes in carrying a plastic bag containing four large bottles of Coke.

  “Here are the Cokes you asked for.”

  “Jo, have you had lunch?”

  “You can have mine, if you want,” Chew offers.

  “No, thanks; I had something to eat while waiting for the credit-card listings. You go ahead. What are you looking for from the listings, anyway?”

  “Let’s see. How many cards did the vic have?” Mislan inquires, leafing through the report.

  “Four.”

  “Here, you take these,” he says, passing several sheets to the other two. “Run through them and circle any charge exceeding 200 ringgit. Then run through it again and put an asterisk against it if it’s charged at a restaurant or hotel.”

  “What are you looking for?” asks Hubble. “I can visit their system and get what you want.”

  The inspector gives Hubble an admonishing stare.

  Di elbows Hubble, and says, “These guys are cops, okay.”

  “I was just trying to help,” Hubble squeaks, disappointed.

  “It’s okay, just forget it. So, the diagnostic system; what can it tell us?”

  “All you need to know of the car’s electronics. What do you want me to check?” Hubble is excited, now that the conversation is more in his territory.

  “You saw the ECUs on the table back there? I want to know if they have had their programs modified. I don’t know how to put it. Something that overrides the system, or allows it to be controlled remotely by another party. Anything that is not supposed to be there. You know what I mean?”

  “Sure, but there is one problem. I don’t know what is supposed to be in the ECUs.”

  “Check for sleepers and worms,” Di butts in.

  “That, I can do. Tell you what, I’ll run a diagnostic and see if any of these suckers have third party programs in them,” Hubble lights up.

  “Do that, but don’t go changing or adding anything.”

  “Okey doke, you got it boss,” Hubble answers.

  “Good; how long will you need?”

  “It’s straightforward; an hour, max.”

  “Great; let me know when you’re done. Di will help you.”

  “No problemo.”

  The other three leave for the second discussion room, to go through the list.

  “Now what?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Three charges of more than 200 ringgit, one at Boutique D’Gala, one at Mandarin Oriental, and one at Shangri-La.”

  “I’ve got two, one at Four Seasons Restaurant and the other at the Grand Millennium,” Chew says.

  “I’ve got two, one at Grand Millennium and one at China Treasures. That Grand Millennium charge, when was it and how much?”

  “Tenth of last month, 722.43 ringgit,” Chew answers.

  “Mine is for second of this month, 1,220.89 ringgit. Jo, reach out to the Chief Security Officer and learn about the hotel’s CCTV: locations, storage periods. We may need to get copies.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The mystery woman. It’s a small chance, but it’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “You’re saying the mystery woman is the vic’s girl?”

  “I don’t know if she is the vic’s girl, but her confidence when she returned the Cayenne was remarkable. I mean, the way she drove the Cayenne, her knowledge of the speed of the gate, keeping her back towards the camera all the time, and the casual manner in which she walked. Anyway, the amounts are too much for one person, even at a five-star hotel. Either the vic was entertaining a large group, or was paying for rooms. If we’re lucky, we will discover who the vic ran with.”

  “Okay, I’ll make some calls.”

  Thursday. Four days gone, another four days to convince the boss he is making progress. Four days to give her enough ammunition to keep the OCCI and Supt Henry at bay. Yet all he has, and is sure of, is the modus operandi. He desperately needs some leads or, at least, one sure lead. He is convinced some people are keeping close tabs on his progress through his lapdog Henry and the PR dolls. Perhaps even striking off dates on his calendar, eagerly waiting for Monday when he, his lapdogs and PR dolls, will burst in during ‘morning prayer’ claiming victory, at the same time ridiculing the Head of Major Crimes and ripping into Mislan in his victory speech in front of all the other investigators. He is surprised he has not heard whispers around the office of anyone taking bets or starting a pool against him keeping the case. He will have to ask Johan about it, maybe make some easy money by placing a bet against himself, he thinks, smiling.

  What is it about this case that keeps him awake at night, constantly nags him, fouls his moods, and shortens his fuse? It’s not like this is his first murder case. Yes, the others did keep him awake and nag him, but they were not like this. Was it the frustration, and the feeling of hopelessness? He handles crap daily, it came with the job. “Three quarters of a policeman’s salary is for taking all the crap, and the rest is for doing his job,” he always says.

  Perhaps, it was Lionel, his eyes. He was only three years older than Daniel, with so much living ahead. What went through Lionel’s mind just before his heart stopped and the lights went out? Was he afraid? Did he cry? Did he feel any pain? Lionel must have been the first to die because he was the smallest. He must have called out for his mother and she might have heard him. Only, she was dying, too. Lionel kept him awake at night with those questioning eyes, and innocent face.

  “What’re you thinking about?” Chew asks.

  “The case,” Mislan says, whispering.

  “What about the case?”

  “Everything. The killers planned, prepared, and executed it with surgical precision. Nothing was left to chance, nothing to lead us back to them. All of it, for what? Unless I can understand the purpose of their death, I cannot crack this nut.”

  “It’ll all come in time. Just keep chiselling at it and it will be revealed.”

  “My chisel is getting blunt and my mallet is broken. I’m scraping with my fingernails now. You know the forty-eight-hour theory about solving cases? I’m way past it. Criminologist say the chances of success drop with every hour. If what they say is true, my chance of cracking this case is below zero.”

  “What do they know? They just make up theories to sell books, appear on TV and make plenty of money. It’s what people like you do that matters.”

  “I suppose, you’re right. Let’s go see what the geeks have uncovered.”

  Everything depends on Hubble, a one-hundred-fifty-kilogramme hacker whose fingers can’t even fit into standard latex gloves. The two don’t even look up when he and Chew enter the room. Amazingly, Hubble’s huge fingers are lightning fast and graceful on the keyboard. Not once does he stop talking, either at something on the notebook computer, or to Di. They watch him with fascination as he works. “I see you … you can’t hide from me … here we go … closer … closer … got you!” He punches more commands saying, “Now tell me what your evil master ordered you to do.”

  “There, there, you see that,” exclaims Di.

  “Yeah, baby. Spill it.” Without taking his eyes off his notebook c
omputer, his hand reaches out for the Coke from which he takes a big swig. Hubble then says, “Got them all,” pointing to the screen of his notebook computer.

  “What did you get?” Mislan asks eagerly.

  “Ulat.” Hubble announces. Pointing to the ECUs, he continues “All of them have ulat, I mean sleeper programs which, when activated, will override the ECU’s original programs. See this one?” Hubble points to an ECU marked ‘Door’. “Its original function is to unlock doors when the engine is killed, or the release button is pressed. The sleeper overrides the original program and disables the locking devices.”

  “But, you can still unlock the doors manually, can’t you?”

  “Nope. The sleeper program disables the locking mechanism; even if you pull the knob it won’t budge. It will be stuck. This one,” pointing to the ECU marked ‘Ignition’, “is the same thing. The ulat kills the engine, you know, like an anti-theft system. It will immobilise the car. It was popular once, but dangerous.”

  “What do you mean by dangerous?”

  “I remember one car company trying to promote a device like this some years ago, but they did not have GPS tracking then to monitor the vehicle’s position. The operator could cut off the engine while the vehicle is still moving and cause serious accidents. You see, most cars now are electronically controlled. When you kill the engine everything stops; steering, brake, so the driver loses control of the car.”

  “Okay, what about that?”

  “The air-conditioner sleeper. The valve only has a release and shut command. Fairly straightforward,” Hubble explains.

  “How do you plant the sleepers? I mean, can you plant the programs wirelessly?”

  “You mean like through Wi-Fi or Bluetooth? Not in these babies. You need direct access. They are hardwired.”

  “So the person must have the ECUs?”

  “Yup, and the device to communicate with them. Like this baby here,” tapping the Durametic Diagnostic System.

  “Then how did they control it remotely?”

  “The immobiliser; remember, I told you,” he answers as if he was talking to someone who is slow. “You can then send a signal by satellite to kill the engine. They use the same method to activate the sleeper.”