Matt found out about Haseeb’s case in one of the local papers. With a bit more research, he discovered where Haseeb was being kept for observation, in the wake of his suicide attempt. He paid him a visit twice, disguised both times.
Matt spent time chatting with some of the staff at the medical facility. Haseeb was under surveillance; while it was not strict, he was definitely being watched. Matt had to act fast. Haseeb, like others in his situation, would be released when the medical team declared him fit, and a representative of Haseeb’s company would take responsibility for him at that point.
Three days later, on a beautiful Thursday, Matt made a call to the hospital from a random phone booth in Dubai. “A representative of Haseeb’s company will be visiting today,” he lied. Later that day, dressed in a nice, dark blue suit, doused with powerful cologne, and carrying a black leather suitcase, Matt visited the facility again. He presented a fake business card, indicating that he was the company representative, then signed the papers necessary for the patient’s release. He then showed them a fake driver’s license, ID he’d had printed in China. The license was not a perfect replica, but it was enough to fool the hospital staff.
Haseeb was still agile, but he was very confused. He had never seen Matt before, but he was too frightened and disoriented to ask who he was. The hospital staff had told him a company representative would be picking him up, so he went willingly with Matt, no questions asked. He had no idea that would be his last ride.
In the car, neither Matt nor the terrified Haseeb spoke a word. That was understandable, because Haseeb only spoke Urdu and some broken English and Arabic. Matt really had nothing much to say to him anyway.
Matt wasn’t at all worried about the hospital or the police suspecting any foul play or searching for Haseeb if he went missing. Thousands like Haseeb had fled their jobs and were living illegally in the country. The UAE was doing its best to tackle the issue with ongoing searches and periodic pardons, but there were far too many cases for them to handle, just like any place on Earth. A few days later, they would suspect that Haseeb had simply escaped and become one of the thousands of illegals living in an undisclosed location. In their eyes, people like Haseeb were expendable, and they did not have the time or the resources to track every one of them down.
After ten minutes of silence, Matt pointed to a mug. “Tea,” he offered. “Chai.”
Poor Haseeb gratefully accepted the cup and quickly gulped it down. He enjoyed it, and after fifteen minutes, it lulled him to sleep for what would be at least a two-hour nap. Matt had become an expert in sedatives, and he knew that by the time Haseeb began to stir, he would be at his apartment building.
Rather than driving his own vehicle, which would have been too risky, Matt had rented a car for the day, a white 2012 Toyota Yaris. He pulled the rental car up to the apartment building and mentally prepared himself for the next hurdle, getting past the doorman without rousing too much suspicion.
The doormen who worked at his building and those in most of Dubai, were much friendlier than those in the States. Whenever they saw someone burdened down with shopping bags or something heavy, they ran to help. They were happy to carry bags and packages all the way up to the flat, where they would be rewarded with a five- or ten-dirham paper note for their efforts, the equivalent of a two- or three-dollar tip. A far as Matt was concerned, life was easy in Dubai.
Earlier that day, Matt had stashed several shopping bags in the trunk of his Ford, about seven of them, and he had deliberately parked the Ford as far as possible from the main entrance. He got out of the rented Yaris, taking note that Haseeb was slowly waking up. He quickly made his way to the Ford and grabbed the heaviest shopping bag out of the trunk, then hurried to the main entrance of the building.
As soon as Ghafoor, the doorman, saw him struggling with the bag, he ran to help Mr. Alex, as he called him.
“I can handle this one,” Matt said, “but I have many more still in my car.”
“Let me help you,” Ghafoor said, knowing that Mr. Alex often gave generous tips. The doorman then eagerly took Matt’s car keys and made his way to the Ford to fetch the remainder of the bags.
“It’s all the way down the sidewalk,” Matt said.
“No problem, Mr. Alex.”
As soon as Ghafoor faded from sight, Matt ran back to the Yaris and threw the heavy shopping bag in the trunk. He looked to the right and then the left, making sure the coast was clear. Once he was confident that no prying eyes were around, he opened the passenger door, splashed a little water on Haseeb’s face, and slapped him several times to help him come to reality. He lifted his victim out of the seat, then helped him walk toward the building entrance. Poor Haseeb was lost and had no clue what was going on. The drug was still wearing off, and the best he could do was mumble in a low voice, incoherent words that made no sense. A few minutes later, Haseeb found himself strapped to a chair in the middle of an unfamiliar room, and Ghafoor was going down in the elevator, ten dirhams richer.
It was just past one a.m., and Haseeb had tired of screaming his head off; his lungs were burning, and it was of no use to cry for help, since Matt had taped his mouth well and no one could hear his muffled wailing anyway. His tireless efforts ended when he finally fainted out of complete exhaustion.
Matt gathered all the tools he needed for the night and laid them out methodically on his kitchen table. He was dressed only in his boxers, for he knew it was going to be a bloody night, and he saw no reason to soil his good clothes. He had covered the whole kitchen floor with nylon paper, the type used to cover furniture; he had bought rolls and rolls of it. Upon that nylon carpet was a lone chair, and in that chair, his horrified victim was sitting and bound.
As Beethoven’s “Seventh Symphony” played in the background, Matt stared at Haseeb, a poor soul who had tried to leave the miserable world five days earlier but had failed. Now, Matt felt obliged to do the miserable wretch a favor. “Easy way or hard way?” he asked over and over again, talking to both Haseeb and himself.
Finally alert, with the loud music playing and Matt’s frightening image just inches in front of him, Haseeb could only answer by hysterically crying, and nonstop tears stained his trembling cheeks.
“Shut up,” Matt said, placing a finger on his taped lips. “It will be better for you if you stop your damn bawling.” He hated crying, for it reminded him of his mother’s sad life.
Haseeb was unable to control his sobs, and he continued whining and sniffling between the tape.
“Fine. Hard way,” Matt said, furious. He quickly moved in on his victim in an animalistic rage, punched him several times, then started choking the life out of him, only to release him when Haseeb was just a seconds from death.
The killer then went to his store room and retrieved a cricket bat, an easily accessible weapon in Dubai; many Asian expats enjoyed the game, so it was not hard to come by. With that bat, he beat Haseeb restlessly. In no time, Haseeb was a bloody mess, entirely unrecognizable. He no longer had a nose, and blood was gushing from his eye sockets.
When Matt tired of using the bat, he choked Haseeb again and again, just for the fun of it. Choking the very breath out of another human being made him feel powerful, gave him a rush. Matt then looked back at his beloved equipment, his cutting tools, and a sadistic grin crossed his face.
With Beethoven setting the mood, he began to cut Haseeb apart, taking pleasure in every slice. He started with the poor laborer’s right ear, then a finger. By the time he started sawing away at the left ear, Haseeb had fainted from the intolerable pain; that was the most merciful thing Haseeb could have asked for in the moment. Matt, finally satisfied with the torture, used his small, sharp Swiss army knife and calmly slit Haseeb’s throat.
It took him two hours to butcher Haseeb, cutting him into pieces small enough to stuff into his two ice chests that he would take on his weekly fishing trip. He was relieved that Haseeb was a small fellow, about five-two and just 120 pounds. He put all the pieces
in the ice chests except for one of Haseeb’s arms; he had other plans for the wrist Haseeb had sliced himself. It took him an hour to clean up the mess, and then he dozed off for two hours, as if nothing had happened at all.
* * *
Just before dawn, Matt carried one ice chest out and put it in the car. He returned to his flat and grabbed the other ice chest and his fishing equipment.
“Going fishing?” the doorman asked Matt on his way out.
“Yep,” Matt said.
“Can I help you with that, Mr. Alex? It looks heavy.”
Matt glanced down at the ice chest that contained remnants of the laborer, then smiled at the doorman. “No, I’m okay,” he said. “Thank you though…and have a good day.”
“Good luck,” the doorman said with a smile, then waved goodbye.
“Thanks. I might need it.”
Matt quickly made his way to his car, put the last ice chest and the fishing equipment in the trunk, then drove off to the marina.
It was a hectic trip. Every few minutes, Matt opened the chest, and dropped a chunk of Haseeb. The cleaning was the easiest. Three hours later, the boxes were filled with just over eight pounds of fish, and for lunch, Omar and Marcus enjoyed the best fresh seafood they’d had in a long time, and they had no idea that bloody bits of a laborer had been turned into fish food and dumped in the water.
* * *
That Saturday, Matt took out what was left of Haseeb, the arm with the scar on its wrist, and placed it on the table. He took out the pins he had brought with him from Chicago, sharp on one end with silver letters on the other. Matt found them intriguing. He had no idea what they were originally intended for, perhaps markers for a map or to place in food, but they were rare and unique, and he was happy to find a special use for them. He stuck the pins deep in the wrist, an R and a T.
At nightfall, after changing taxis twice and walking for ten minutes, he reached a mosque, just an hour and a half before prayer time. He took the remains out and threw them where they would be quickly found, then made his way back home on foot. He walked for nearly an hour, had shisha at a café, then went back home, satisfied that he had many alibis in place if he so happened to need them.
Matt then returned to work Sunday morning, dressed in his snappy black suit and looking fresh as ever, giving away no hint of the bitter business he had been up to during his days off.
* * *
For the next few days, there was no news about Haseeb or the arm he had disposed of near the mosque. Matt was not worried though; eventually, the story would come out. Dubai was known for its advanced, tight security, and there was no way something like that would slip through the cracks. Like most of the Arab Gulf states, it was dubbed an extremely safe place, with a low crime rate, so any crime would stand out.
What did worry Matt was that he was undeniably having strong feelings for Daisy. He loved everything about her, the way she moved and the way she talked. She was growing on him, and he knew he was growing on her as well. Whenever she walked close to him, her J’adore perfume wafted into his nostrils, and he was instantly captivated. It was as if the fragrance was created for her. He had smelled it before, while trying to choose a gift for his wife, but J’adore had never had such an impact on him then. Daisy and that aroma were a lethal combination, and he found her irresistible.
The next day, Matt asked her out on a date, and she accepted. He had heard that she loved Japanese food, and he knew just the place. It was a romantic setting, with stunning views of the twin towers. They enjoyed great, fresh sushi, sashimi, and two pots of sake, then topped the perfect Tuesday night off with a goodnight kiss.
* * *
Thursday morning, local newspapers reported that remains, an arm and hand, were found near a mosque. The police were baffled, but investigations were underway. As the hours passed, TV stations began to show footage of the wrist, with close-ups of the alphabetical pins. Many websites joined in on the media frenzy, and the news went viral on social media in a matter of minutes. It was then that Matt knew he had chosen the right place, for Dubai was a media circus. With his adrenaline at its peak, he was ready to claim his second victim.
On another Saturday, Matt began to make his plans. His second victim was an easy choice, and he had already made up his mind the minute he’d slit Haseeb’s throat: The man who led this poor bastard to the misery in the first place, he decided. The head of the construction company that had employed Haseeb was living a life of luxury while his labors went without pay to send back to their starving families. He was an expat from North Africa, but Matt did not know if he was from Algeria, Tunisia, or Morocco. Being from the West had its disadvantages, and one of them was that Matt was pathetically unknowledgeable about other countries and cultures. Even though he had invested time to try to learn more, when traveling around the world and discovering so many new things, he often felt as if he’d been raised on the moon.
Abdul Razzaq was in his late forties, divorced about twelve years ago. Their only daughter was in the custody of his ex-wife, and he had been in the UAE for more than twenty years. Upon arrival, he began working as a civil engineer for a well-known construction company. He was a fast learner, and his cunning and clever nature and hardworking drive helped him secure good relations with several clients over the years. When he felt the time was right, Abdul Razzaq started his own business. The successful venture had landed contracts to build hundreds of villas, a few buildings, and several schools.
In his own research, daily surveillance, and from calls he made to Razzaq’s office from several random phone booths throughout Dubai, Matt learned that Razzaq was not loved. It was a well-known fact that he liked to dodge payments and debts, and some even labeled him as a crook. Not only did he refuse to pay his laborers like Haseeb, but he also delayed payments to those he did business with, and he only accepted upfront payments for the projects his company did. In his personal life, he was known to be an alcoholic with a bad temper, and any respect he was given was simply because of his wealth.
Matt also found out that Razzaq worked only an hour in the mornings, then returned to work at five p.m. and worked for exactly three hours, until eight. His work schedule fit perfectly with Matt’s working hours. When he left the office around four, it was easy for Matt to stake out Razzaq’s office for a few hours.
Razzaq was a bit overweight. His skin was dark, and he had a large bald head. His beard was carefully trimmed, and he always wore glasses with rectangular black frames, so big that they covered much of his face. He seemed to prefer jackets that were two sizes too big.
Every day after work, Razzaq went to a cozy bar ten minutes from his workplace. He sat there alone and enjoyed his daily dose of whisky, Johnnie Walker Double Black, amounting to four or five glasses. When he began to feel the effects of his poison of choice, he hopped in his car and took off, presumably back to his residence. It really made no difference to Matt where he went after the bar, because he had no intention of killing the man in his own home. There was certainly no point to following him. Besides, Dubai was filled with surveillance cameras, and he was sure he would be caught if he stalked him.
Dubai had zero tolerance when it came to driving under the influence, so Matt was amazed that Razzaq was even able to drive his car half-drunk. Little did Razzaq know that his inebriation would work to his killer’s advantage. Alcohol weakened Razzaq’s senses and amplified his true abusive nature. He had a foul mouth and no respect for the waiters or bartenders. In the two nights while Matt surveyed him at the pub, disguised differently each time, the manager had to be called thrice, as Razzaq could not be controlled and insisted on cursing angrily at everyone around him, slurring in a drunken tirade and making no sense at all.
Later in the night, as the whiskey began to really take hold, Razzaq became a bit more social. He spoke to strangers and offered to buy them drinks. Some would engage in conversation with him for a few minutes, while others would just motion a thankful gesture and move on. That was ju
st the weak point Matt needed.
The plan was brilliant, another masterpiece Matt had cooked up in his brain. He decided on a Friday, which would give him plenty of time. It is time to put the drunken fool out of his misery…and everyone’s, Matt thought with a grin.
* * *
Thursday afternoon, after a two-hour meeting with his team, Matt left work early. He went back home and quickly dressed in one of his disguises. His destination was Fujairah, one of the seven states of the United Arab Emirates. The scenery there was quite different, as it was surrounded by mountains and met with a beautiful coast on the other side. The weather was also much more pleasant.
Matt opted to rely on public transportation, a bus, for the two-hour trip from Dubai. His plan was to attain a suitable decoy vehicle in Fujairah, a used car that would not attract any unnecessary attention to him. At the bus station, he used the GPS on his phone to quickly locate a used car lot, and it only took him a few minutes to get there by taxi.
Like any other buyer, he checked out several cars and asked lots of questions. He ultimately settled on a 2008 Nissan Sunny. The owner of the shop wanted 10,000 dirhams, nearly $3,000, but Matt had no intentions of actually paying for the car. He could be very manipulative, and he kept negotiating until the owner fell for his trap.
“Try the car for a day,” the salesman said, “and you can return tomorrow and let us know if you’d like to go ahead with the purchase.”
Matt cleverly acted grateful and accepted the old man’s offer.
“I would, however, like 3,000 dirhams as a deposit, as well as a copy of your ID,” the salesman said.
Matt offered him a copy of an Australian passport, a fake he had taken from the Internet and carefully placed his photo on.
“Very well,” the old fool said, happy to take his fake ID and his 3,000 dirhams. “I shall see you tomorrow with your decision about the car. I hope you enjoy it.”
Matt: A Matt Godfrey Short thriller Trilogy Page 7