Misdirection

by Ning Cai

  “Look, I’m sorry Max,” Uncle Glen sighs, a defeated expression on his tired face. “I’m so sorry, everyone. But one last chance is all I need. I swear. I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything?” I repeat, hearing the venom in my voice.

  “Okay,” CK says, throwing me a quick glance before solemnly looking his father in the eye, his lips pressed in a thin line. “The Singapore Spectre.”

  I see Ashraf flinch from the corner of my eye as Uncle Glen balks.

  “Chun Kiat, how do you know about that?” Ashraf demands. “It’s an internal CID codename and it’s supposed to be confidential.”

  CK pulls out a thick folder from their messy coffee table, partially hidden under a gross heap of junk food wrappers and empty plastic cups of long-eaten instant noodles with dodgy bits of floating gunk. Uncle Glen grimaces at the mess.

  “Pa left his work stuff all over the place, as usual. A breeze scattered the pages, and I read them when putting them back together: the entire CID case file, crime scene reports, everything. I know you guys are trying to catch this serial killer right now and I want to help. Unobtrusively. But just enough to know Pa’s keeping sober on the case, and not breaking his promises to me again. So, what do you say?”

  Uncle Glen and Ashraf fidget, both looking extremely uncomfortable.

  “Sorry not sorry,” Luce says, grinning. “But a millennial working the case will definitely add an interesting dimension and POV to ongoing investigations.”

  “We’ll just pose as your interns,” I add helpfully. “No one will know.”

  “We?” the guys say in unison.

  “Yes, we,” I say as I pluck the file from CK’s hands and flip through its contents, allowing the men time to engage in their animated discussion.

  Luce narrows her eyes at me and I know that look. It is not a good one. Taking my friend’s cue, we carefully toe away towards the morning light from the window. I continue turning the pages of the police file in my hands, busying myself with studying the report so I don’t have to look her in the eye.

  “Max, this is not supposed to be about you or your personal vendetta,” Luce hisses at me. “Don’t meddle in police business.”

  “I just want to help, to feel useful. That’s all. The Spectre’s victims, they have families. Those people need closure, Luce,” I murmur softly under my breath, avoiding her hot gaze. “Anyway, I’m eighteen. I’m not a minor any more. So please stop treating me like a little girl.”

  Luce, clearly annoyed, rolls her eyes dramatically at me.

  “Eighteen? C’mon now, Maxine Schooling, that’s a technicality and you know it. You still have the mind and maturity of a fifteen-year-old girl. Can you please listen to the voice of reason?”

  I heave a sigh and slowly make my way through the folder of documents, examining the gory aftermath of the Spectre’s violent handiwork frozen in sanguinary photographs of his various crime scenes, juxtaposed with the smiling faces of his slain victims in happier times. “You’re being logical and objective, I know, but I’m doing this anyway. You won’t understand it, but I just have to,” I say quietly, snapping the thick police file shut and hugging it to my chest. “I need to do this, Luce.”

  Before she can retort, our conversation is halted by an impatient CK.

  “So what’s it going to be?” he demands. Ashraf and Uncle Glen stop their muttering and turn to look at him. Tucking the file under my arm, I stand by his side. “Pa, you said anything.”

  “Yes, I did, Chun Kiat,” Uncle Glen nods. “That’s why you’re coming along with us.”

  CK and I exchange looks, stunned that they actually gave in to our ridiculous arm-twisting.

  “Right now,” Ashraf adds, a gruff edge in his booming voice. “C’mon, we’re already late. The Spectre struck again early this morning.”

  FIVE

  “HERE, PUT THESE on.” Uncle Glen turns to face us from the front passenger seat as we zip down the East Coast Parkway in Ashraf’s SUV. He passes us two official CID intern lanyards, along with matching navy blue caps and jackets. “And remember: no speaking to anyone. Clear?”

  “Crystal,” CK and I both answer sweetly from the back seat. With a grunt, Uncle Glen settles back in his own seat, promptly falling asleep after yawning loudly.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Ashraf grumbles from behind the wheel as CK and I quickly pull on the CID apparel, before delving right back into the case file I’ve been studying since we left Luce and Albatross at the Changs’ condo.

  The Singapore Spectre started his violent killing spree just over a week ago and has already taken three victims. No one knows the serial killer’s true identity because no one has ever seen him. He is careful and leaves no clues. Also, it seems like the Spectre considers himself an artist, always presenting his expressive work in a “creative” fashion, proudly leaving behind his macabre signature at every crime scene: the torn corner of a playing card.

  I flip the page and carefully inspect the pictures of the Spectre’s first victim: Jo-lin Kong Mei Lin, a beer promoter. The middle-aged woman’s hair was dyed a flaming shade of Sansa Stark red, and her eyebrows were actually tattooed on, though the colour has faded to a tragic emerald green. In her latest passport picture, she stares out with a shrewd glint in her eye, her high cheekbones prominent. The next picture of the woman, however, is not a pretty sight: lying on the pavement of a public bus stop, torso and limbs twisted askew, like she spent her final moments thrashing in agony. Eyes wide open but rolled back, bulging to the point of almost popping out of their sockets, while her crooked fingers clutch at her bloated throat. Thick, fluffy, white powder spilling out from her open mouth and nostrils. According to the official report, her body was discovered in the wee hours, close to the 24-hour coffeeshop where she worked in Geylang. Unmarried, she had no kin, but her employer stated that long-time customers loved her, and her colleagues testified that the jovial woman had no known enemies.

  “So is that poison or did she OD on drugs?” CK asks with a frown.

  “That’s sodium polyacrylate,” I mutter, reading from the coroner’s report. “It was also found in her lungs.”

  Pulling out his iPhone X, CK performs an amazingly quick Google search for sodium polyacrylate, which brings up a couple of YouTube videos that educate us on the unique properties of the chemical compound. The quick clip we watch demonstrates how the normally fine white powder rapidly absorbs a gallon of water, sucking up all the liquid and effectively turning into clumps of what look like fake Christmas snow. I read the caption below the video and then tap on the link to its Wikipedia page.

  “Sodium polyacrylate, also known as waterlock, can rapidly absorb liquids two hundred to three hundred times its mass. It is commonly found in everyday household products you can purchase from the supermarket, like hair gel, disposable diapers and artificial snow.”

  “What an awful way to die.” CK makes a face. “Why would anyone snort that stuff?”

  My eyes quickly skim the pages, speed-reading the lines. Something catches my eye and I point to the paragraph. “Here, look, past prison records indicate that Jo-lin Kong Mei Lin had a serious drug addiction thirty-five years ago. But she went through a detox and rehabilitation programme and was certified to have gotten clean.”

  “So the woman went back to being a druggie.”

  “It’s possible, but…” I drum my fingertips on the open file before us, staring out the car window at the rows of street lamps now inactive in the morning light. “But what if she mistook this stuff for something like cocaine or heroin, and snorted it to get high?”

  “Plausible.” CK nods.

  “So Jo-lin would have suffocated when the thickening agent expanded in her system, since the human body is made up of about sixty per cent water. In the chemical’s expanded form, the sodium polyacrylate would have quickly clogged up the victim’s windpipe and nasal passages, completely sealing her entire air supply and killing her within two and a half minutes. Or less
.”

  CK stares at me. “Who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”

  “Read it all on Wiki,” I reply with a shrug, focusing my attention back on the case file in my lap. “See, postmortem analysis shows that there are no marks indicating any signs of violence. But the killer left this behind as a sign of foul play.”

  I stab a finger at the picture of a torn piece of a playing card, with rulers marking out its triangular dimensions. The white paper triangle, a gift from the Spectre, has a single jagged edge with the Ace of Diamonds printed in red ink.

  CK cringes. “Ew! This was found rolled up and jammed in her nostril!”

  “Obviously waiting for the police to find,” I say.

  CK and I turn the page together and are greeted with the grinning face of Yazid Shah, the Spectre’s second victim. Handsome enough to have easily been the next Singapore Idol, he is playing a ukulele by what looks like Changi Beach Club. The young man’s body was found by joggers before daybreak at East Coast Park, in two separate pieces. Crime scene pictures show his upper torso propped upright on a stone bench by the beach, with his severed lower body lying across like a cheap Halloween prop. The reports state that a similar torn corner from a playing card was also found rolled up and wedged in the crevice of the dead man’s ear, this time the Ace of Clubs.

  “Large traces of chloroform found in the victim’s system, along with restraint marks on both wrists and ankles,” I read out loud. “Murder weapon likely to be a professional industrial power tool with a serrated blade, similar to the ones used in abattoirs. However, high levels of uric acid in his blood indicate the possibility that he was most likely awake when butchered.”

  “I think I might be sick.” CK exhales, shaking his head slowly.

  My eyes scan the page. “Yazid Shah was an aircraft mechanic and all his colleagues shared positive stuff about him, like how he single-handedly took care of his siblings and funded their school fees since their parents are serving time in prison.”

  CK stares sadly at the photograph of the slender young man, huddled in frozen laughter with his five younger brothers and sisters. “Why would anyone want to hack Big Brother of the Year to death with a chainsaw?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question isn’t it?” I sigh as he turns the page.

  “What the…” CK whispers. “I don’t remember seeing this when I flipped through the file before.”

  Putting my head close to his, I stare with CK at the macabre crime scene pictures of the Spectre’s third victim, Kiran Soin, a freelance stylist in his forties.

  “The charred body of the deceased was found in his new Punggol HDB flat. Bound and shackled to a chair, Kiran Soin’s body showed evidence of torture just prior to being burnt alive. SCDF personnel at the scene of the crime witnessed unusual violet flames burning; a strong chemical fire created by mixing potassium permanganate with glycerine. CID found evidence of blunt force trauma but no sign of forced entry.”

  We watch the same dramatic chemical reaction on a YouTube video CK pulls up on his phone, and its volatile intensity is nothing short of horrifying. I chew on my lower lip, imagining how excruciating the poor man’s last moments could have been. The madness is clearly escalating. How can a human being do this to another?

  “The Spectre’s calling card was sewn inside the nonflammable material used to gag the victim, but even that didn’t spare it. Look.” CK points at its sorry state. The small scorched triangle is marred with heat bubbles cracking on its yellowed surface, but a print in red ink can still be seen. The Ace of Hearts.

  My heart breaks as I look at the last page of the file, which has photographs of the smiling bachelor with close friends celebrating an outdoor event at Hong Lim Park, showing off his perfect gym physique in a fitted hot-pink singlet and matching hot pants. A similarly coloured feather boa wraps around his slim neck and I spy a bright pink gemstone pierced through his right earlobe. “Maybe with Kiran Soin, it’s a hate crime? After all, there are factions of religious fundamentalists out there who claim gay people burn in hell. So maybe the Spectre’s gone literal?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” CK rubs his eyes wearily. “There is also the possibility that the Spectre is a whack job who actually believes he’s cleansing the world of people who aren’t like him. Addicts. Folks of a different race. Those who challenge his religious faith.”

  I nod, closing the file and putting it away. Looking out of the window, I notice that we have left the expressway and are currently exiting onto Rochor Road. In the driver’s seat, Ashraf clears his throat and his piercing gaze stares at us from the rear view mirror.

  “Hey, I appreciate how earnest you guys are about this, but don’t speculate too much, okay? Just let us do our jobs. Also, try to cut your father some slack, Chun Kiat. I know it’s been six years, but Glen’s never quite gotten over your mum’s death.”

  Staring at something outside his window, CK nods and manages a half-shrug.

  Ashraf’s gaze softens. “He’s loved only one woman his whole life, ever since the day he first met your mother back in junior college. I know, because I was there.”

  We turn into Little India, where Tekka Centre is just starting to buzz with early morning wet market activity. Ashraf carefully navigates the SUV around the tight bend of the magnificent Sri Veeramakaliamman Temple, dedicated to the highly venerated Hindu goddess Kali. Entering Klang Lane, Ashraf parks next to the ambulance with the flashing lights on. Reaching over, he shakes his snoring partner awake before killing the engine and climbing out of the driver’s seat.

  Uncle Glen stirs, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You guys sure you don’t want to stay in the car? We can have breakfast together afterwards. There’s great roti prata just down the street. And your favourite appam too, Chun Kiat.”

  We answer his question by getting out of the SUV and slamming the doors shut. Ashraf bends down in exasperation, rapping the roof of the car as Uncle Glen unbuckles his seat belt. “C’mon bro, hurry up, there’s a crime to investigate!”

  Following closely behind the two police inspectors, CK and I walk briskly towards the small crowd gathering along the blue-and-white police tape. A noisy koel bird nesting in the large flowering bottle-brush tree nearby starts its loud morning song as we squeeze our way through the curious onlookers, consisting mostly of elderly folks on their way to the wet market for breakfast and the freshest catch of the day.

  We approach the young police officer on duty, tasked with keeping a clear boundary between the nosy civilians and the ominous blue body tent at the foot of the block. The young constable acknowledges Uncle Glen’s and Ashraf’s CID inspector badges with a nod, and lifts the crime scene tape high over our heads for all of us to duck under.

  “Remember, never interfere with the crime scene. That means don’t touch anything,” Uncle Glen says in a hushed voice, as we stride towards the opening of the tent.

  Ashraf turns back to glare at us. “And don’t talk to anyone.” He promptly bumps into someone.

  “Oops, hello!” says a petite Malay woman in a smart white jacket and emerald green tudong, steadying herself.

  “Alamak! S-so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Ashraf splutters. “Are you okay, Miss?”

  She throws the inspectors a friendly smile and glances over at us. Exchanging looks, CK and I quickly turn away, busying ourselves with acute observations of our ultrainteresting environment, like the scattering of small dried brown leaves on the dull, grey concrete floor.

  “It’s not Miss, it’s Doctor,” she says, extending a hand towards Ashraf. “Dr Aisha Shariffa, forensic pathologist. But please call me Dr Aisha.”

  “Inspector Glen Chang, CID. Have we met?” CK’s father asks, stepping forward to shake her hand, oblivious to his partner’s completely besotted expression. “You look very familiar.”

  “It’s actually my very first day on the job, I just transferred in.” Dr Aisha cranes her neck, still trying to steal a glimpse at us “interns”. “I’m takin
g over from Professor Tang Su Ming, who just retired. She was my mentor.”

  Ashraf stands there like a bump on a log, a huge grin plastered on his face as he gently shakes Dr Aisha’s dainty hand in his large paw-like fist.

  “Nice to meet you too,” she tells him, before extracting her hand and bending down to rummage through her open doctor’s bag. Then she rises, straightens her back and passes a box of disposable latex gloves around with a cool air of professionalism. “I need everyone to slip these on before we enter the tent to see the body.”

  Peeling off a pair of gloves from the open box, I notice Dr Aisha looking directly into my eyes, before lifting her gaze pointedly towards the scar on my left eyebrow. Once CK cautiously takes his gloves from her, she draws back the front flap of the police tent. “I’m warning you…interns…it’s not a pretty sight.”

  Nothing in the world could have prepared me for it.

  The first thing that hits you is the heady smell of blood. Like wet earth and old pennies. Then you notice the glaring fact that blood is everywhere. And everything appears like a mass of flesh until you realise that those twisted things used to be human legs, but are now broken in several awkward angles.

  “Not your typical jumper,” Uncle Glen murmurs. “Look at the ankle restraints. Feet bound to hemp rope with scorched, frayed ends. And what is the victim wearing?”

  “Yes, it’s definitely not a suicide.” Dr Aisha nods somberly. “Her upper body is in a straitjacket. That’s why the victim’s arms are tightly bound to her chest. Mental hospitals sometimes utilise straitjackets to restrict a patient’s movement, especially the ones with violent tendencies or who have a history of self-harm. And there’s something else.” Carefully bending over, she lifts some hair off the dead woman’s face. Or what is left of it. Half her face is indistinguishable, streaked in a large dark puddle of blood and hair. “There, do you see it?”

  There is something taped to the young woman’s forehead, a small paper triangle that looks all too familiar. The back of the card corner faces us; red winged cherubs mocking us for being one step behind.