21 Immortals

by Rozlan Mohd Noor

  After several rings, a voice answers, “Marzuki.”

  “Roy, Mislan. How are you?” During training every one had nicknames; Marzuki was Roy.

  “Fine, fine, long time no hear. What gives?”

  “How’s life treating you? Heard you did a tour in Kosovo. Why are you still working? You should have enough to retire comfortably,” he jokes.

  “It was just a brief tour. Blew all my allowances before I was shipped back,” Roy laughs. “I know you’re not calling me about my tour; that was four years ago.”

  “I need some off-the-record info on one of my suspects. I would follow procedure but don’t have the time. The suspect’s spooked and could skip anytime.”

  “Off-the-record, okay,” Roy says, stressing the status. “Shoot.”

  “Lai Choo Kang,” he says, giving all the personal details he has copied from the file. “Roy, I know you guys keep detailed records of confidential informants. I needed to know how the suspect is related to Mah Swee Yin.”

  “That’s classified, Lan. Told you; I blew all my Kosovo allowances and I still need my job,” Roy sounds serious.

  “I won’t be asking if it’s not important. I’m sure you heard of the triple murder of the RT family. I’m the lead on that. I believe the suspect can assist me but I need to be sure before I question him. I know he’s connected and the heat is going to be on once I move in on him. I only have one chance and I can’t afford to blow it.”

  “All right, but you have to promise me you’ll keep me out of it. Call me on my mobile in thirty, it’s the same number.”

  Lighting a cigarette, he deliberates whether to call Song. They are good friends. Song is a decent bloke, a good officer. He hopes that, by now, he realises that Four Finger Loo’s death had nothing to do with him. Song, of all people, should understand that what the brass do is not within the control of people like them; like the way they kicked him out of D7. With the clock ticking and time running out on his chance of cracking the case, he is desperate. He stubs out his cigarette, and decides he would rather lose Song as a friend than let a killer go free. He punches in the numbers and, after a few rings, Inspector Song answers. “Hey Song, Mislan here,” he says, trying to sound as informal as he can.

  “It’s you again. What now!” Song says.

  “Yes, it’s me. I just needed some info on one of your case files, Lai Choo Kang. You were the last person handling the file. It’s still active but no updates have been made for about a decade. Any reason for that?”

  “Simple, it’s not updated because he is not active. Why are you digging up my case files?”

  “Don’t go down that road, Song. I’m not digging your case files. My investigations lead me there, and if it’s your case, I have to ask what needs to be asked. What can you tell me about him that’s not in the file?”

  There is a moment of silence. He can hear the sound of traffic in the background and figures Song must have stepped out from wherever he was.

  “Listen,” Song’s voice is low and harsh, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know you hit his workshop. I have received several calls about it. Look, this guy’s connected, and maybe even insulated.”

  “Who called you? What do you mean insulated?”

  “People you don’t want to piss off, people who can make your life miserable. I touched him once; that was a mistake. I’m still paying for it.”

  “Who are these people? Our people?”

  Another moment of silence passes.

  “Let’s just say people with sharp claws, long memories and not very forgiving. Whatever you are thinking of doing, it’s not worth it, Lan.”

  “What is not worth it?”

  “Whatever you’re going to do. I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Song says, limp and defeated.

  “You can’t, or you won’t?” he snaps.

  “Think what you want. Have to go. Bye.” And the line goes dead.

  Mislan feels sorry for his friend. He knows Song is in a tight spot, and he put him there.

  45

  Inspector Reeziana goes straight to Mislan and drops the Sudden Death Report on his desk. Mislan flips through it looking for the police report. The hotel housekeeping staff found the mystery woman dead in bed when she came to clean the room. She reported it to security and they called the police. The mystery woman checked in on Sunday afternoon under the name of Jennifer Mah, paying cash for one night’s stay. No room service was ordered, nor was a call made from the room. When the police arrived, they found her in bed with a blanket up to her chest, face turned to one side as if she was sleeping peacefully. She wore an earphone connected to an MP3 player loaded with English and Chinese love songs. Her left hand was spread across the bed in a patch of coagulated blood. The police recovered a suicide note in Chinese on the bedside table, together with her cosmetics and other personal items. No luggage or toiletries were found. In the bathroom the police found a makeshift shrine with burnt out incense sticks, ashes of prayer money, a bowl of fruits, four photographs, one of her, a man, woman, and a child. The woman’s image was crossed out with black ink. They found blood in the sink, a bloody razor blade, an empty bottle of Melatrol 5-HTP and a half bottle of mineral water. Mislan looks at the enclosed pictures found in the bathroom. They are that of the late Robert Tham, Lionel and Mrs Tham. The SDR photographs of the bathroom show how the pictures were arranged with Lionel sandwiched between the deceased and the late Robert Tham while the late Mrs Tham’s picture was placed facedown.

  He looks at the autopsy report. The cause of death is listed as severe loss of blood. The report indicates two deep lacerations on the left wrist of the deceased, severing both the radial and ulnar arteries. A remark made on Melatrol 5-HTP listed it as a precursor called serotonin, responsible for controlling moods. It is known to induce a positive mood, taking away stressful thoughts before sleeping.

  He finds the translation to the suicide note. It reads, ‘My dearest darling, I know how much you love me and I you. It’s sad that we cannot be together and share this life no matter how much we want to. For the last twelve years I prayed and prayed that we could, but my prayers were not answered. I can no longer bear living without you, nor can I bear sharing you. We belong to one another and denying us our happiness is cruel.

  I’ve made all the arrangements for us to be together, to share a life where the evil woman cannot deny us anymore. The journey to our new beginning has been paved and blessed. I’ve prepared a dinner blessed with longevity, prosperity, and happiness for you and darling Lionel. She will sit in witness of how happy you and Lionel are, beginning the journey to an everlasting happiness.

  To my beloved family, please be happy for me, I am going to be spending an eternity with the man I love. Honourable Kai Yea, Godfather, thank you for your understanding and support.

  My darling, I shall be joining you soon after I make other arrangements to fulfil our destiny. The letter was signed, ‘Your only true love’.

  Flipping the file to the last page, he fails to locate a forensic report; nothing about the suicide note, the Melatrol 5-HTP bottle, razor, MP3 player, nothing. No dusting for prints, no handwriting comparison. Only one statement was recorded and it was from the housekeeping staff who found the body. No other staff were interviewed, nor was there any mention of CCTV images or phone calls, or how she arrived at the hotel. It was a sloppy investigation. The investigator probably found the suicide note and developed tunnel vision.

  He pushes the SDR away, leans back using his hands as a headrest. “Shit,” he says, a little too loudly.

  “You okay, Lan?”

  Mislan reaches for the SDR, finds the suicide note, and pushes it to her. “Read this.”

  Inspector Reeziana reads it, pushing it back to him and says, “That’s a confession, a dying declaration!”

  “Yes, it is,” he answers.

  “You have solved the case, so why the long face?” Reeziana is puzzled.

  “It’s a long story,” he says, dismiss
ing the conversation. He walks to the pantry, makes a mug of coffee, lights a cigarette and goes into the stairwell. He needs to be alone, he needs to think. He leans against the wall that he once pinned the Head of Special Projects against. Jennifer Mah’s dying declaration might have just ended it all for him, and for Lionel.

  How many have died and how many more will die, and for what? Love? How could there be love in killing? It just does not make sense. You cherish love, not take it away. What about Lionel? How do you justify killing him? Who kills in the name of love?

  46

  The door opens a crack. Inspector Reeziana pokes her head through it and gives him a phone call sign. He flicks the cigarette butt down the stairwell and follows her into the office. “Who’s it?”

  “Roy,” she answers, walking towards her desk.

  “Thanks.” He picks up the phone. “Mislan here.”

  “Lan, this is Roy. Call my mobile with yours,” and the line goes dead.

  He makes the call and is answered immediately.

  “It’s me. What have you got?”

  “Off the record!” Roy stresses.

  “You’ve my word.”

  “Your man, he is a Confidential Informer, but has been inactive for some years. A file-note says D7 recruited him and asked for his background. That was about seventeen years ago. I think he still is a D7 CI. We have no record of the other name you gave me. It means that the individual is not immediate family or someone of interest to your man.”

  “Who’s his handler?”

  “Listed here is, our one and only, Henry Lau,” Roy chuckles.

  One last question, “Where is he from?” He is mindful that Roy has not mentioned Lai or the mystery woman by name.

  “I knew you’ll ask that. He is from Ipoh.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s about all I can tell you. Sorry.”

  “Thanks, Roy. It’s helpful. We should catch up one day.”

  “Sure, call me.”

  As he is about to switch off his phone, he notices an ‘incoming message’ sign. He opens the message. It is a photograph of several men sitting around a table, but it is too small to make out their faces. He Bluetooths it to his computer and enlarges the image. He recognises the suspect who is with three others. One of the men looks familiar but he cannot place him, while the other two are complete unknowns to him. He speed dials Johan, “Know any of them?”

  “I inquired from the outlet manager. The Malay guy is Dato’ Sufi, a club member. Of the two Chinese, the chubby one is also a member, known as James, a lawyer. He does not know the other person, probably a guest.”

  “The other Chinese guy looks familiar, but I just can’t place him. Keep a close watch on him, we can’t let him fly.”

  “Sure, I’ll supervise the team.”

  “Jo, for your info, the mystery woman is dead, suicide.”

  “What?”

  “A hotel staff found her on Monday morning. I’ll update you once I have briefed puan and hear what she says. Stay with the suspect.”

  “Wow. Are you sure it was suicide? This is getting creepier by the minute. Are you coming here?”

  “Will let you know.”

  He prints the photograph, gathers the SDR documents, and walks to Supt Samsiah’s office. It is late in the evening and most civilian staff have left for the weekend. His boss is still in her office going through files when he knocks, enters and takes a seat.

  “What’s new?” she asks, closing the file she is working on.

  “The dead mystery woman, well … she left a dying declaration,” he says, placing the suicide note in front of her.

  She adjusts her glasses and starts reading. Lifting her head, she looks straight at him and asks, “And?”

  He shrugs.

  She smiles, “You know what this means, don’t you? And you came to see me because?”

  “Because it’s my duty to inform you, to keep you up-to-date,” he says perfunctorily.

  She bursts out laughing, making him to laugh too. “I see the case has made you discover your sense of humour; that’s good. Now, let’s have it.”

  “The suicide note,” he says, gesturing towards the SDR with his head, “it’s going to close the case, right?”

  “Looks like it. The note links her to the killings. It gives us motive. What’s on your mind? Do you doubt the suicide, or the note?”

  “The SDR investigation was slipshod, no forensic investigations or anything. A typical case of investigative tunnel vision.”

  “The autopsy?”

  “Severe loss of blood. Two cuts to the left wrist. No external bruises recorded.”

  “And, that says?”

  “Okay, that rules out someone holding her down, but the lack of forensic data does not rule out the presence of assistance, or the note being written by someone else,” he says.

  “So you’re saying, she had help, and the helper wrote the note?”

  “I’m saying it does not exclude the possibility.”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “Even if she confessed to the killings, she must have had help, accomplices. Look at her. There’s no way she could have carried the vics, dressed them up, and propped them unless she had help. She took her life because she wanted to be with the vic, her lover. For whatever reasons, she figured, or someone influenced her, that that was the only way they could be together. That, I can buy. Now try this; if she planned and executed it alone, why leave a suicide note to the one you have killed when you know he is already dead. Suicide notes are for the living. I believe the suicide note is to protect someone.”

  “That makes sense, your reasoning on the suicide aside. So you’re saying the accomplice is your suspect, Lai.”

  “Lai is linked to the hydrogen cyanide canister. I don’t know how, or if, he’s linked to the mystery woman. They are both from Ipoh. Off the record, he is a D7 CI, and guess who is his handler?”

  “Where did you get all this from?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

  “It’s off the record. Can’t reveal my source, but it’s reliable.”

  “Okay, I don’t want to know your source. Henry?”

  “Right, the first time.” He pushes the printout over the table towards her. “This just came in. It’s at KLGCC. The Malay guy is Dato’ Sufi, don’t know who he is. The chubby Chinese is James, a lawyer. The other one looks familiar, but I cannot place him.”

  “That’s SAC Chua, Chua Kah Teng, a Bukit Aman deputy, Narcotics. Dato’ Sufi is an ex-police officer, now a lawyer, Suffian & Partners. Maybe they are working on something. Maybe they are working on him surrendering, cooperating in the investigation.”

  “I think he knows we’re closing in. I know he is an accomplice; he and the mystery woman are linked somehow. If he is innocent, why all the big gunslingers?”

  “What you think doesn’t count for anything. You know what’s going to happen; he’ll come in with a powerful crony, give us a prepared statement, and that’ll be the end of the case.”

  “No way, I’m not letting that happen.”

  “Yes, way. They’ll not be coming to you, they’ll be going up there,” she says pointing up, indicating the OCCI. “You or I will not be part of it, and will only be duly informed. You know how these things work.”

  “I want in. I want to be there when he reads his statement.”

  She laughs, “There’s your sense of humour again. My advice is, use whatever time you have before they arrive to link him to the mystery woman. The suicide note implies love as the motive. Find the link between her and your suspect that proves abetment, otherwise he is going to play dumb. He’ll say he received the canister from the vic or the vic’s wife who instructed him to fix it in the vehicle. He passed it on to Ah Meng, and his worker fixed it. Where is the crime? Thanaraju could have been the accomplice. He’s dead now. How’s that for a theory; believable?”

  “I don’t buy that theory.”

  “You don’t buy it, I don�
�t buy it, and the public won’t buy it, but none of that matters. It’s a theory and they,” jerking her head up, “buy it. There’ll be something about it in the papers, some concerned and bleeding hearts will make noise, and after a while no one will care anymore. That’s how it is, and that’s how it will be. The music has stopped, we can continue dancing if we want to but there will be no one in the gallery. So stop beating yourself up with what you cannot control. You gave it all you had, did the best you could; now it’s time to let whatever happens, happen. Your time is up this Monday. Take the weekend off, spend time with your family. I’m sure they miss you.”

  47

  It is five minutes to six, and he is still at his desk, thinking of what the Head of Major Crimes said, toying with an unlit cigarette, when Johan calls, saying excitedly that Supt Henry just joined the group. He tells Johan to withdraw his team and keep his distance to make sure Henry does not see them. He drops the cigarette on the desk, leans back and closes his eyes. It is just as his boss had predicted. The wheels are in motion and soon Lai will be out of his reach. The case will be closed, stamped ‘solved’. Lionel’s death will not be avenged. He hopes the mystery woman is right and they will be reunited happily as a family in whatever afterlife there is. Now the yee sang makes sense: prosperity, longevity, abundance, and vigour. A last dinner set for her lover and Lionel, while for Mrs Tham, it is a journey she needs to go on alone.

  The ringing of his phone startles him. He grabs it and answers, “Mislan here.”

  “They’re leaving.”

  “Forget the rest, stick with the suspect.”

  “Okay.”

  He looks at the clock on the wall; it is ten minutes past seven. “Shit, I must have dozed off.” He goes to the washroom, takes a leak, and washes his face. On the way back he notices that his boss is still at her desk. Would he have joined the police if he were a woman? Criminals have so many aces in their deck; corrupt officials, politicians, human rights and civil rights activists, lawyers, statutes, weapons … What do victims have: someone like Superintendent of Police Samsiah Hassan.