The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Everyone chipped in with some scraps of information. The girls managed to fill in most details. Much of what emerged seemed highly meaningful, but so much else seemed totally random and unrelated.

  We identified the first case as Musa, in Antalya. He had died about ten months earlier. The body was found in a summer house up in the mountains in early winter, at a time when everyone had migrated to their winter homes. The summer places in Antalya aren’t exactly what you’d call houses. They’re more like wooden shacks perched on stilts. We had no information about the cause of death. She wasn’t old, but no one knew her exact age. None of the girls knew much at all about Musa. Anything they’d heard had been second-hand.

  The only connection we were able to make was the name Musa and the fact that she stuttered.

  Funda, whose real name was Yunus, was the next victim. Some of the girls knew her, if not well. She was beautiful, but incredibly ignorant, which meant she’d only ever been able to make a living out on the motorway. She was a loner, in every sense of the word.

  The only connection seemed to be her name. What’s more, there was no proof that she was dead. She’d just disappeared. She could have moved to another city, shacked up with someone, or there were any of a number of other possibilities to explain her absence. Loneliness could even have led her to give up her transvestite lifestyle, or to commit suicide.

  The only relevant bit of information was her name, Yunus. According to the Holy Book, a giant fish swallowed Yunus, but he survived in its belly for years.

  It seemed impossible to establish a connection between Musa’s death and the disappearance of Funda-Yunus. One was in Antalya, the other in Istanbul. The incidents were about six months apart.

  Then there was Deniz, or Salih, who’d fallen into an elevator shaft in Ataköy. It’d be easy enough to find something dubious, but Deniz was known to be absent-minded, even careless. It was Jihad2000 who’d raised my suspicions. How he’d learned about it was a mystery. But, considering just how much he did know, it was hardly surprising.

  She could have been pushed, or her body dumped in the shaft, but there was next to no evidence that we were dealing with a murder victim.

  The name Salih didn’t really come to mind when thinking of prophets. It seemed like we were forcing the connection. According to the Koran, Salih was put through the twin trials of earthquake and flood in order to test his faith. Salih and the true believers survived by taking refuge in their mountain caves, but the non-believers perished.

  Deniz-Salih hadn’t died at home. Her death was officially an accident. There had been no investigation into the cause of death.

  From this point onwards, deaths seem to occur more frequently.

  Two weeks earlier the Iranian transvestite Muhammet had disappeared in Van; her body was discovered in a cave in the mountains. The corpse had been mutilated by wild animals, and was barely recognisable. The question was: how did she die? For whatever reason, she’d been in the cave. She may have fallen asleep. She could have died of fear when wolves attacked, or they could have killed her. It’s also possible that the killer murdered her first, then left her body in the cave, where it was eaten by animals. The girls were most terrified by this possibility. For that very reason, it was their favourite version.

  The only thing we knew about Muhammet is that he was young, dark and applied heavy eyeliner. His name appeared to be the only bit of relevant information. brahim, who’d burned to death in Then there was Ceren, or I a fire, the cause of which was unknown.

  And Gül, or Yusuf, who’d been found drowned in an unused well in a neighbourhood he’d never before visited.

  Each of the murders could have been just an accident or due to natural causes. We had very little evidence to prove with any certainty that there was a serial killer on the loose.

  Yes, there seemed to be some common themes. Their names, their youth; the fact that they were all under twenty-five years of age seemed noteworthy.

  In contrast to Hasan’s efforts to add fuel to the fire, to whip the girls up into a frightened frenzy, I tried my best to soothe them. I was even fairly successful at doing so.

  As we sifted through the evidence, there was a pounding on the door. Cüneyt went to take a look. Ponpon had finished her performance. She was still wearing her stage costume, a totally out of fashion powder-blue evening gown. It was part of her latest act, a Muazzez Ersoy impersonation. Even the wig was the same. In other words, she was a taller, more muscular version of the lady herself.

  She looked completely distraught. Although Ponpon was not a frequent visitor, all the girls at the club knew her. When they asked what was wrong, she struck her most dramatic pose.

  “I’m petrified.”

  With a gesture that illustrated the extent of her fear, she stroked the base of her wig. Her eyes sought Hasan. When they found him, she pointed with her index finger.

  “It’s all because of him.”

  The girls laughed nervously. The fact that they were able to laugh at all showed that they were feeling better.

  “Even I had forgotten: my real name is Zekeriya. That blabbermouth over there . . . ”

  The finger shook at Hasan.

  “At first I didn’t believe him when he said that girls named after prophets were being bumped off. Then, when I thought about it, I decided he may be right. I fear for my very life, of course. I’m utterly terrified.”

  Pamir stepped in.

  “There’s no reason to be scared Ponpon. The victims have all been young. I mean, clearly you’re in no danger!”

  This could have been interpreted as an official invitation to battle. Thank God Ponpon was able to take a joke. She laughed dryly. I know that laugh; she uses it to buy time. She’d come up with something. I’ve never known Ponpon not to reply in kind.

  “Fine,” she said. “I suppose I’m safe enough.”

  She moved closer to Pamir.

  “But what are you going to do, Yahya Bey?” she asked.

  I’d forgotten Pamir was named Yahya. At the mention of her male name, Pamir froze.

  “What do you mean,” she stammered.

  “Just in case you don’t remember, let me remind you. The Prophet Yahya. That is, John the Baptist. You know, the one who had his head cut off.” Ponpon made a slicing motion across her throat. As she did so, she rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  Pamir was shaken enough.

  “What’s more, you’re about the right age,” added Ponpon. She then turned to the group of girls. “You do recall the story of Salome the dancer, and how she was rewarded with Yahya’s head on a platter. Surely you remember?”

  There was no need to make a long night even longer, to add any further to the tension. I sent everyone home. Those who wished could seek, and perhaps even find, their fortunes elsewhere tonight.

  Ponpon and I went home.

  Thirteen

  It was well after midnight, but still far too early for me to stay at home. Ponpon, on the other hand, had given two performances, staying up on stage for an hour at each. She was tired, and for her it was late.

  It was as though she was too worn out to feel afraid, and being with me had given her a sense of security and ease. She removed her makeup, singing along to the haunting Sezen Aksu song “Yanarim”, except she’d changed the chorus to “Yalarim”, and the words were now an explicit ode to sucking rather than a heart-rending description of deep anguish. We were both feeling a bit frazzled. I ended up laughing and singing along to this more inviting version of the dark ditty.

  When Ponpon finished she announced, “Sweetie, I’m off to bed,” and disappeared.

  I didn’t feel at all drowsy. Even if I had, there’d be no point in trying to get a good night’s sleep with so many thoughts spinning through my head. I ran through my to-do list: A) Get online; B) Go investigate the housing site in Atakoy where Deniz died; C) Call Cengiz and arrange to spend the night in his arms; D) Locate Jihad2000 and find out what else he knew about the death
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  Ponpon yelled from her bedroom:

  “Turn off the lights already; how am I supposed to sleep, ayol!”

  Instead of turning off the lights, I closed the door to the corridor. If the lights and noise were keeping Ponpon from sleeping, the problem had been neatly eliminated. I decided that going to Ataköy would be better than staying at home. If I really felt like it, I could always stop in on Cengiz on the way home.

  I put on a black sweater and black spandex trousers. It seemed appropriately mysterious for such late night business. In any case, it was definitely required wearing in every film I’d ever seen. I called the taxi rank and asked for Hüseyin. I figured he may as well earn some money. He was eager to get mixed up in things like this, and I knew he’d be thrilled.

  As I was tying my shoe laces, Hüseyin arrived at the door. He stood there with a bashful expression on his face, clearly hoping to be invited inside.

  “Merhaba,” he said.

  “We’re going to Ataköy,” I informed him mischievously.

  His face fell. It was a classic case of expectations being dashed by reality. I closed the door, and led the way down the staircase. I was, of course, fully aware that the spandex clung to my hips and thighs like a second skin. I permitted him to bathe me with his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” he wondered. “You home at this hour?”

  “I’ve closed the club for the night,” I replied.

  “Are you going to go visit someone?”

  His voice quavered with insecurity as he asked me this.

  “No,” I said. “I’ll explain everything on the road.”

  By the time we’d made our way along the coast road to the block of flats, I’d briefed him about Deniz’s death, revealing only what he needed to know. We finally found apartment block A-18 in the middle of several high-rises in B Block. Each building was separated into Block A and Block B, with two lifts in each block. It was late, and most lights had long since been turned off; even those people still sitting up had probably nodded off by now. I reviewed my main reason for coming here in the first place: to speak to Deniz’s neighbours! To extract information from the doorman . . .

  That would be impossible. No one was around. I began examining the dozens of doorbells lining both sides of the main entrance.

  “What are we looking for?” Hüseyin asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I really didn’t. Some intuition or instinct had drawn me here tonight. I didn’t know what it was, or what would happen.

  “You’re really something!” Hüseyin exclaimed.

  As I checked the doorbells to the right of the main door, he read out the names on the left hand side. It served no purpose but that of confusing me.

  Most of the names seemed familiar. They were all Turkish. No surprise there. We were suddenly lit up by headlights from a car pulling into the parking lot. Looking, no doubt, like a common criminal, I turned and watched the car as it was parked. The light reminded me of being under interrogation at police headquarters. I did everything but shield my face with raised arm, guiltily turning my head to the side.

  If asked who we were looking for, what would we say? If I mentioned one of the names on the doorbells, and that person turned out to be home, how would I explain? What’s more, the slinky catsuit I’d selected as tonight’s costume would hardly inspire a sense of trust. I had to do something. But what?

  I grabbed Hüseyin, pulled him down out of the headlights, locked him in a tight embrace and began kissing him. What the boy would think, and how I would keep him in line later, were matters to be dealt with another time. There was a chance that if we seemed to be a passionately entwined couple whoever came would be too embarrassed to do anything but make a beeline straight for the door.

  I kept one eye on the now darkened car, and an ear out for the sound of approaching footsteps or the clang of a closing door – my lips glued to Hüseyin’s all the while. He seemed puzzled at first, but without skipping a beat he played his role to perfection. I firmly removed the hand cupping my bottom and placed it on my waist.

  The car contained a couple with a baby. It took them some time to get out of their darkened vehicle. They were trying not to wake up the baby, and spoke in loud whispers. I heard every word. I may have surrendered my body, but my mind was far from the embrace of Hüseyin.

  The couple entered A Block without coming anywhere near us. I immediately gave Hüseyin a shove.

  “That’s enough!”

  “You did seem to be going all cold on me.”

  “I used you as camouflage,” I explained.

  “I thought so,” he said, shaking his head.

  I continued inspecting the bells. Surely my instincts had not drawn me here only to be caught by a couple with a baby or to throw myself into Hüseyin’s arms. Staying where he was, Hüseyin continued reading the names aloud, but this time in a low voice. It was as entertaining as leafing through the telephone book.

  “Kizilyildiz,” he said. “People sure have strange names. Instead of writing it out, they’ve drawn a picture of a red star.”

  “Perhaps they’re former communists,” I suggested.

  He continued muttering to himself as he read out the names. I went to his side to have a look. Yes, someone had sprayed a star design with red paint. It had faded.

  Hüseyin seized the opportunity to seize me.

  “I think someone’s coming,” he said.

  No one was arriving or leaving. I shook him off. If he persisted, he would find himself flung head over heels into the nearby bushes. He didn’t.

  It suddenly hit me: Adem Yildiz, adamstar, starman, *adam, the red star! . . . Maybe we were on to something after all. My eyes shone with excitement. I felt a jolt of adrenalin. The man had seemed like a real creep. He was clearly trouble. What’s more, he’d arrived at the club with Ahmet Kuyu, which spoke volumes. Ahmet Kuyu’s reputation as a sadist was known to all. As Hasam suggested, the relationship between the two men could involve much more than the Yildiz brand biscuits and börek sponsorship of Ahmet Kuyu’s new TV series. If Ahmet Kuyu was a sadist, Adem Yildiz could very well be a maniacal killer.

  There was no way to know what inspired him to kill. But he was plainly a sick individual.

  I sat on the stairs and collected my thoughts. Why would someone so wealthy and well-known resort to murder? If indeed he had, how could I find proof? Where was the evidence? Simply saying I was acting on a hunch just wouldn’t cut it. What had I found out so far? Nothing! I had stumbled on a doorbell with a red star. It may or may not have belonged to Adem Yildiz. It was easy enough to find out. But even if it was his apartment, what would that prove?

  The deaths, or murders if that’s what they were, had taken place far apart. If Adem Yildiz had been anywhere near any of the crime scenes, that would go a long way towards implicating him. But it still proved nothing conclusive.

  Anyway, men like him always employed others who were willing to take the rap. If things started getting sticky one of them would pop up and “confess” to all the murders.

  Even if I was on the right track, I had to come up with some concrete evidence. I couldn’t think of a way to implicate Adem Yildiz, or a way to make my accusations stick.

  Fourteen

  I was wound up. As I lay silently in the darkness, so as not to wake up Ponpon, I made plans. There were any number of things I had to find out.

  The coroner’s report sent by Seluk could shed some light on the deaths of Gül and Ceren. I could also get access to the police files on the deaths of Musa in Antalya and Muhammet in Van.

  Jihad2000 could surprise me by coming up with something.

  Cengiz had told me that his summer house was right next to that of the Yildiz family. That could provide some sort of lead. Even the most insignificant event or tiniest detail could prove vital.

  I had to learn where Adem Yildiz was at the time of the deaths. And did the flat in Ataköy with the red star on the doorbell belong to him?
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  Had Adem Yildiz gone home with any of the girls the night he came to the club? If he had, with whom? I could find this out from Hasan.

  I tossed and turned until dawn.

  When it was time for ordinary people to start work, I ignored Ponpon’s need for beauty sleep and began making phone calls. First I called Seluk. The police are supposed to start work first thing in the morning, after all. There was no need to raise Selcuk’s suspicions without proof of some kind. I didn’t mention Adem Yildiz, just brought up the deaths in Van and Antalya and the disappearance of Funda, the girl working the motorway. I told him I’d need some information.

  He paused for a moment.

  “Look,” he said. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t help wondering what the guys in the department will think if I start poking my nose into a bunch of transvestite incidents that have nothing to do with us.”

  “I understand,” I told him.

  He was right. If a police chief suddenly took it upon himself to look into a case that was none of his business it would mean he was invading someone else’s turf. And the transvestite angle would be enough to get tongues wagging.

  “This is really getting to me,” I said. “I can’t get it out of my head. There’s some connection between the names of the victims. I’ve got to find it, whatever it is.”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “But believe me, I can’t promise anything. Over time, we can investigate each case. But to suddenly open all the files . . . ”

  “I see . . . ”

  “Sorry,” he continued. “It’s bad enough already. There’s always trouble if someone’s toes get stepped on.”

  “What do you mean, ‘sorry’,” I said. “There’s nothing to apologise for. . . ”

  “The coroner’s report came in. I had a look. There didn’t seem to be anything important. Someone will bring it over to you in a bit.”

  “Thanks.”

  Something came to mind just as I was about to hang up.