The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Have there been any dead girls with the real names Isa, Musa, Nuh and such?” I asked.

  “What’s this all about? Some kind of history of the prophets?” he asked.

  Actually, that was about right. What we had here was a series of deaths that all closely followed the history of the prophets. Girls with names the same as prophets were dropping dead. What’s more, there was an uncanny similarity between the way they died and the prophet after whom they were named.

  I needed to wait for the reports sent by Selçuk in order to get more detailed information about Gül and Ceren, otherwise. known as Yusuf and Ibrahim, but that didn’t stop me from investigating the death of Deniz, or Salih. I could begin looking into it, but it had been at least a few months, and the trail was certainly cold. What could I expect to find? The answer was nothing, or next to nothing.

  I didn’t really know Deniz. But she was a close friend of Cise, a club regular. They even lived together for a while. Then, furious at having her clothes peed on, Cise flung Deniz’s poodle at the wall, and the relationship ended. Perhaps a brief chat with Cise when I went to the club this evening would result in some information.

  I cleared my thoughts and went through a list of alternatives:

  A) I was paranoid, B) Jihad2000’s ridiculous ramblings were provoking me, C) A maniacal serial killer was on the loose, D) Everything could be put down to coincidence.

  Paranoia can be most beneficial: it encourages a cautious approach to life. I have yet to suffer any consequences for being paranoid. In fact, I loathe people without a dose of paranoia. How can people be so smug, so complacent? I think it’s just plain silly. There is nothing healthier than a suspicious approach to at least some aspects of life. And who can deny that once you get going there’s more than enough to worry about.

  I automatically eliminated the alternative D. Even if it was all a coincidence, I had become involved. Even if events could be put down to a series of twists of fate, that too would have to be proven.

  As far as Jihad2000, he may have been spouting nonsense. I still couldn’t overlook the fact that he knew so much, and that it went so well with his master plan of damnation. It wouldn’t be impossible to track him down and monitor his every move. It would be well worth it. If nothing else, I could tug his ear, frighten him, keep him from letting loose on our chat room.

  The possibility that we faced a crazed serial killer was certainly an intriguing thought. And as frightening as it was intriguing. There were any number of question marks, starting with who the killer was and what motivated him or her. If he was out there, he had to be stopped dead in his tracks.

  And then there was the possibility that Jihad2000 himself was the serial killer.

  I examined the address he had connected from. Unsurprisingly, it was a fictitious one. It wasn’t difficult for me to find his user name from his server. He had connected using the not very widespread server doruk.net, and his user name was recorded as kbarutcu@doruk.net.tr.

  Doruk mostly targeted the corporate internet services segment. For that reason, their security systems were highly developed. That didn’t mean I couldn’t penetrate them, however.

  I prepared myself a cup of fennel tea before getting to work. After a few sips, I decided the order in which I would tackle the tasks that lay before me. It proved much more challenging than I had expected. There were a number of needless security measures. But once I had cracked the username code the rest unravelled like a well-worn stocking.

  “kbarutcu” was none other than Kemal Barutçu. He lived in Beikta. I recorded his address and two registered phone numbers.

  There were no details on whether it was a home address or a business address. Each would present a host of different problems. The last thing I needed was a bunch of family members or colleagues flocking around me if he wasn’t alone.

  A visit wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but I had to determine if I was going to a private home or a business address. I decided to call first, since it was unclear what I would face. I didn’t want to call from my home phone, which would enable him to record my number. I ran my telephone decoder programme, and a number in Jersey was chosen at random. My number would appear to be this number. And the call would be recorded on the telephone bill of whoever this person in Jersey was.

  The phone didn’t ring for long. “Efendim?” answered a nasal voice on the other end. The voice was insecure, young and clearly male. I was pleased to have been right about his age.

  “Kemal Bey, please,” I said.

  “Speaking. How can I help you?”

  He sounded educated, but mumbled.

  “Excuse me, could you tell me if I have reached a private home or a business?”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  The voice instantly became peevish.

  “We are conducting a survey on internet services,” I informed him.

  “Yes?”

  “Home or business?” I repeated.

  “Home,” he replied.

  I’d obtained the information I was after. There was no need to drag it out. I thanked him and hung up.

  It was time to pay a call on Kemal Barutçu, he of the peevish voice and alias Jihad2000. If nothing else, I intended to give him a fright over his behaviour in the chat room. It would be just as well if I took the opportunity to inform him personally that using a nickname did not prevent me from learning his real identity and that he would be in big trouble if he persisted in annoying me.

  Ten

  I put on my most masculine outfit, and, quite the trendy young man, off I went to Akdoan Sokak, a street parallel to Barbaros Bulvari in Beiktas. To one side was a row of nondescript buildings on “The Street of the Beloved”. I didn’t think much of the name.

  The apartment building was grey, worn, and squeezed into the row. The street door was locked, and there was no front door bell or doorman. I pressed the bell for apartment #2. When nothing happened, I pressed it again. It opened.

  The hallway was dim and smelled of mildew. Apartment #2 was on the first floor. From within, echoed a woman’s voice.

  “Who is it?”

  The classic response “me” usually works well enough. I decided against it, not wanting to panic the woman inside. I wondered what to say. Somehow I had always imagined Kemal himself opening the door.

  As I sprinted up the stairs I shouted out, “I’m looking for Kemal Barutçu.”

  Before I’d even finished, I was in front of the door.

  A short woman wearing a headscarf stood in the doorway. It was probably his mother. Her dark blue eyes looked at me inquisitively, but without suspicion.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Kemal Barutçu,” I repeated. “Is he at home?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I mean, where else could he be?”

  “I’m a friend from the internet,” I added. It was a white lie, at worst.

  She opened the door wider to let me in.

  “Come in, my son,” she said. “Kemal is inside, in his room.”

  I hesitated over whether or not to remove my shoes. If I needed to flee for any reason it would be best to keep them on my feet. I wiped them thoroughly on the doormat.

  “Come in, come in,” she said.

  It was a comfortable flat. The furniture had clearly been purchased on an instalment plan from the local shop. There were no details of any note. Actually, there was: the relative lack of furniture. These sorts of homes are usually jam-packed with furnishings; this one was half-empty. What’s more, there weren’t any carpets or kilims covering the floor, which was linoleum with a parquet design.

  It looked nothing like the home of a religious fanatic. The walls weren’t covered with calligraphic sermons; the corners weren’t full of open Arabic books on lecterns and prayer rugs.

  The door we knocked on opened into a room overlooking the park. It was brightly lit. Kemal Barutçu sat at his computer, his back to us. In a wheelchair!

  When
his mother touched his shoulder, he turned. Looking me straight in the eye was Stephen Hawking’s Istanbul version. He smiled, revealing pink gums.

  “Merhaba,” he greeted me.

  His arms looked healthy. He extended one for a handshake.

  “I was expecting you,” he said. “But you’re a bit late . . . ”

  It was now my turn to look puzzled.

  “Mother, go make us some tea,” he asked. “With some cookies, if there are any.”

  His mother left without a word.

  “Close the door,” he said. “My mother eavesdrops.” I obeyed.

  I looked for a place to sit. Other than the wheelchair, the only place was the bed. He gestured for me to sit down on it. He turned his wheelchair so he was facing me. I saw intelligence in his alert expression.

  “You’re late in finding me,” he began. “You almost disappointed me. I knew you were monitoring me. That’s how I knew you’d come.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I’ve been monitoring you, too,” he said. He tried, and failed, to wink at me from behind his thick glasses. “I’m a real fan. You know what I mean.”

  So, he’d been tracking me, and I hadn’t even realised. As I always say, no matter what security precautions you take, anyone determined to trace you over the internet can. The living proof of this sat across from me.

  “I had no idea,” I admitted.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I’m amazed by your computer skills. I’ve been following you. You’ve developed your own signature. Allah permitting, I will too one day.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the equipment spread over his desk. It was extensive. He had the infrastructure to do just about anything he wished.

  “You know what,” he smiled. “You’re nothing like what I imagined.”

  I hadn’t exactly expected someone stuck in a wheelchair, either. Considering what he’d written, the force with which he’d condemned us all, it hadn’t even seemed a remote possibility.

  He cackled, which made him sound like a child.

  “So you found me!” he cried.

  Pitying him, I almost forgot my anger. On the other hand, the fact that he was a cripple didn’t necessarily make him an angel, nor did it prevent him from causing trouble. Our tea and apple cookies dusted with powdered sugar arrived.

  He had an unusual mind. He knew all about most of the work I’d done. While he admired my skills, even looking up to me as some kind of role model, he also considered me to be a rival. I worked mainly for international corporations, but he had chosen as his employers companies with a radical Islamist bent. He had enjoyed some success preparing security systems and web designs for them. That said, he hadn’t yet made a name for himself on the market, and consequently charges less than me.

  As a result of this combination of envy and admiration, he had researched me at length. While I have nothing much too hide, it still didn’t seem quite right for a housebound person in a wheelchair to have learned so much about me.

  He had been crippled from birth, the result of a marriage between relatives. His parents, criticised for what they’d done, had no more children. He had been so badly teased that despite winning a place he didn’t go to university. Computer work was ideal; he didn’t even have to get up.

  He wasn’t a graduate of a religious school, as I’d assumed. But his faith in Islam was unwavering. While he didn’t meet all the obligations of his beliefs, he observed as many as possible. He believed he had been born as divine punishment for his parents. We are all on this earth to be tested. He was his parent’s test. With Kemal’s birth they had closed themselves off, cutting nearly all social ties, but had succeeded admirably in raising him. While they weren’t as devout as their son, their relative lack of piety had done nothing to dampen his. They were determined to raise their one and only child as a true believer in Islam, and did all in their power to do so. First, they hired an elderly woman who had visited Mecca, then a hoca was employed to give him religious lessons. After a certain age, he was able to educate himself.

  His father was a bank inspector, and often out of town on business. When he was home, he was usually too tired to take much of an interest in his son.

  The cookies were delicious, filled with fruit. I would be in real trouble if I kept gobbling them down. In any case, I was binging these days. I gain weight every autumn. It’s my body’s way, every year, of preparing me for winter.

  From what Kemal told me, he didn’t reserve a particular enmity for transvestites. They were on a par with the other sinners and unbelievers: gays, lesbians, Jews, socialists, the immodestly dressed, drinkers of alcohol, and those who fail to teach their children to fast and pray. There were so many who failed the test, who strayed from the path of righteousness and were infidels. I belonged to a minor sub-category.

  The messages he sent on the internet had no particular relevance. He wrote the same things, no matter what chat room he was in. No one could stop him. It wasn’t their place to do so. He was simply inviting everyone to the path of righteousness. It was up to his readers to obey, or not.

  He was a total homosexual. While he didn’t confess as much, that was my objective evaluation. His general lack of confidence, coupled with occasional bursts of overconfidence, the mimics and gestures he used when explaining something, the sideways glance as he said it was “not their place” to stop him. Considering his condition, it was highly unlikely he had ever done anything, nor likely that he ever would. He chatted on quite merrily about sinners, infidels and whatnot, but when condemning homosexuality a certain gleam in his eye gave him away.

  Up to a point, his hostility was perfectly reasonable. I understood. While everyone else was living it up, he couldn’t do a thing. He never had and he would never be able to. I’m sure he had practically memorised all the internet porn sites. Seeing as he was online all day, he had certainly visited them. It was easy to imagine the sighs as he stared at his monitor, the loathing and rebellion when he then looked at himself in the mirror.

  “You’re a real beauty like these two,” he complimented me. “I was able to intercept two photos you sent to a friend over the net. You were wearing a leather mini-skirt.”

  That’s right. I had those taken at Ipek’s birthday party. Then I e-mailed them to my friends. So he’d even got his hands on them. I didn’t think much of myself in those snapshots. I looked like Vampirella, a heroine of my childhood comic books, or maybe a sexier version of Angelica Huston in The Addams Family.

  “You had long hair,” he said.

  “It was a wig.”

  “You were wearing high-heel boots,” he continued.

  “I don’t really go out like that,” I told him. “Just at night.”

  “That’s all right,” he said. “You’re beautiful like this too.”

  I had arrived in my most convincing “young man about town” costume, but there was no dampening his enthusiasm. Kemal was ready to be seduced. Just one experience could change his life, his outlook, everything. Now, I wasn’t about to make such a sacrifice for nothing. The last thing I needed was to do something that would later haunt my dreams.

  I told him what I was after. Unlike during chat, all traces of impulsive behaviour had evaporated. He simply listened, making tiny cries of protest. As I spoke, he stared at my mouth. I didn’t appreciate it, as I prefer eye contact, so long as it is not exaggerated.

  He suddenly snarled at me.

  “I don’t know anything. But good on whoever was responsible! They deserved it!”

  Now, that sort of talk really pisses me off. I lose my temper. Without meaning to, I struck him full across the face. It was reflexive. I was ashamed of myself.

  But then I noticed a spark of desire in his eyes. I changed my mind. I had a complete masochist on my hands. He continued raining insults, not raising his voice, so his mother wouldn’t hear.

  “I’m glad it happened. Faggots! Infidels!’’ he hissed.

  I
was undecided on whether or not to slap him again. I waited. He looked at me hungrily.

  I’ve encountered masochists before, but none of them were cripples. Sadomasochists are a widespread subset of the gay community. What they practise is known simply as S&M, which also stands for slave-master. S&M was not one of my interests. I did have some knowledge of it though, from films and websites.

  I grabbed a fistful of thick, wavy hair and jerked his head back. He held his breath. I spit in his face.

  “You piece of shit!” I too had taken to hissing. He looked at me with wide, astonished eyes. His tongue crept out and onto his lips, licking off my saliva. His eyes pleaded for me. His lower lip drooped and his mouth hung half open.

  I leaned over, my face inches from his, and stared him directly in the eye.

  “You,” I said, “are a complete maniac!”

  “I am!” he agreed.

  His voice trembled with excitement. Without hesitation I once more spit in his face. This time, it landed on his quivering lips.

  His hand had strayed to his crotch. He seemed to be in a state of stunned disbelief, acting only on his animal instincts.

  I reached out, grabbed his hand and raised it.

  “There’ll be none of that!” I commanded. The master lurking within me had come to life. I caught him sneaking his other hand towards his crotch. Invalids often have strong arms, but he was no match for me.

  “Again . . . Please . . . ” he begged.

  I dropped his arm and slapped him again, so hard saliva sprayed from his lips. The hand returned. He was about to come. I had no idea how to help him climax.

  I squeezed his nipples. It wasn’t easy to find them through his thick sweatshirt. In fact, I wasn’t sure I was even pinching my intended target. But he pushed his chest out.

  His eyelids fluttered wildly. As a final act of assistance, I smacked him once more. And, he came.

  His sweatpants were stained. He looked at me with a stunned expression.