Misdirection

by Ning Cai

  Someone joins us, an athletic-looking and tanned police sergeant with a DSLR camera. “Ashraf, Glen,” she says, nodding a greeting at both inspectors. “Dr Aisha.”

  If the sergeant is curious about us, she makes no mention. The CID badge around her neck shows her name as Amberlyn Ng. She holds up clear evidence bags containing a ring of house keys and a badly damaged mobile phone with a smashed screen, before showing us pictures on her camera’s LCD screen.

  “We dusted the victim’s property for prints but nothing other than hers came up. However we did find a used blowtorch, an empty bottle of chloroform and a length of burnt rope latched onto the metal railing of the public pavilion on the top floor of the multi-storey car park. I’ll get the lab to process everything for you guys ASAP.”

  “Thank you, Amberlyn,” Dr Aisha says with a friendly nod. The sergeant returns a shy smile before leaving.

  Turning our attention back to the body, Ashraf reaches down and carefully peels the clear packing tape off the victim’s forehead, to get to the Spectre’s calling card. Digging into the lump of her back jeans pocket, Uncle Glen locates the dead woman’s wallet. It has the iconic Wonder Woman symbol printed on it, and the brightly coloured pop art wallet looks like it’s made out of durable Tyvek; tearresistant, water-resistant, stain-resistant and super popular with people our age. I know because CK bought me a Batwoman one for Christmas one year.

  I look down at the young woman’s terribly mangled body. What a horrible way to die, falling from a great height when you are helplessly bound and hanging upside down from your ankles. It must have been mental torment watching the rope slowly burn. Staring at her face, her lips sealed by the same clear packing tape as on her forehead, I wonder why the Spectre specifically chose this poor unfortunate soul.

  And that is when I recognise the mole near the corner of her upper lip, the tragus piercing on her right ear, what should have been a tattoo of a nine-tailed fox just behind that ear and the dramatic pink highlights in her hair. My breath quickens and I turn to face CK, who is staring at the dead woman’s face with tears welling up in his eyes.

  Uncle Glen pulls out her NRIC card from her wallet. “The victim is—”

  “Raeya Kaur,” CK whispers hoarsely, looking paler than usual.

  Ashraf shoots Dr Aisha a nervous glance, as he glances at the ID card in his partner’s hand.

  “I know her,” CK says, his eyes starting to glaze over. “I gave her that wallet. For Christmas. Many years ago. And when you remove the straitjacket from her body, you’re going to find a tattoo on Rae’s right wrist. Veritas. Truth. That’s what she’s always believed in.”

  Uncle Glen and Ashraf exchange glances.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dr Aisha says and squeezes CK’s shoulder. “How did you know her?” She looks back at Rae’s broken shell of a body lying at our feet, a wistful expression on her face. “I don’t recognise your friend by face, but I do know her by name. I’ve been following Raeya Kaur’s work since she returned from Harvard. I was really impressed with her last exposé on that former politician’s affair with a minor. No local journalist dared to investigate and write about it, but she did so on her blog. It’s such a shame that she died so young.”

  “She’s…was…our senior from Blackmore High. Everybody loved her.” CK’s voice breaks and I watch his valiant struggle to fight the tears that threaten to spill.

  My best friend has loved one woman unrequitedly his whole life, ever since the day he first met Raeya Kaur in school. I know because I was there. I turn away, not wanting to see him cry.

  The sight of Rae’s blood and its dank, metallic scent start to get to me. Suddenly, my mind whirrs with all the information from the Spectre’s case file. All the crime scene pictures, along with the faces of the slain victims, present themselves as floating images in my mind. I carefully turn them over and examine the curious jigsaw pieces, trying to fit everything together.

  “Ace of Diamonds, Ace of Clubs, Ace of Hearts… How is a citizen journalist with a popular blog linked to a middle-aged ex-druggie working as a beer lady in Geylang, a young aircraft mechanic who deserves a Brother of the Year award, and a gay fashion stylist who wants equal rights? Why did the killer pick Rae as his Ace of Spades? Does this mean she’s the final victim? How is everything connected?”

  I close my eyes.

  “Maybe she got too close and found out something she shouldn’t have,” Dr Aisha says. “Just like you right now, Maxine Schooling.”

  Everyone tenses but the petite woman smiles and holds up both hands. “C’mon, your face has been in the newspapers for the last month. I don’t know what all of you are up to, but I’m sure there must be a good reason. Your secret is safe with me, but you’ll have to watch out for the other guys.”

  There is a collective sigh of relief, only to be shattered by Ashraf’s unexpected cry of dismay. His huge back heaves with emotion and I watch him rise to his great height. Looking at us with a grim expression, the police inspector turns over the blood-splattered piece of pasteboard in his hand, revealing the face of the card for the first time.

  It is the Queen of Hearts.

  SIX

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE she’s gone,” CK whispers, his eyes far away with loss and pain. His favourite appam from Little India, which Uncle Glen bought him for breakfast, remains untouched in front of him. “It can’t be. She was so brilliant.”

  “I’m so sorry, CK,” Luce says, seated in the lotus position on CK’s bed.

  I hand him a Coke from the small fridge in his room, but he doesn’t move from his chair. He has never refused his favourite drink before, but I crack open the can of soda for myself, washing down the roti prata I barely managed to finish, and the sound finally elicits a response from him. Blinking furiously, CK turns to look at me. That haunted, shell-shocked look is still on his heartbroken face.

  “We have to bring Rae’s killer to justice.”

  I hand him my open can of Coke and he accepts, sipping slowly and then guzzling down the cold beverage like the sugar addict he is. Thunder booms overhead and we turn to look out the window. Dark clouds have gathered outside, and a silver bolt of lightning streaks down in a magnificent flash, illuminating the grey skies. A loud crack of thunder crashes just above us, and the monsoon showers fall. Albatross whines nervously and starts his frantic rain dance: striking his long curved claws loudly against the hard floor tiles as he scampers all over with a wild look in his eyes.

  “Do you think the Spectre killed your family?” Luce asks quietly, watching me struggle to wrap Albatross in his anxiety vest; my poor fidgety dog has always suffered an inexplicable fear of rain. I consider her question thoughtfully.

  “The Spectre uses a different MO with his victims,” I mutter as I shake my head, highly doubtful that this demented serial killer, with all his twisted ideas for murder, wicked displays and cruel surprises, is responsible for what happened to my family.

  Albatross finally allows me to finish pulling on his anxiety vest, and settles down quietly without any further drama. I grunt, marking that achievement. “The Spectre clearly loves the attention he’s getting, and is always sure to let the police know that full credit for those murders goes to him, with all those torn card corners he thinks he’s so cleverly left behind as his signature. Since we’re still missing the Ace of Spades to complete the set, so to speak, the Spectre is hinting to us that there are probably more victims to come.”

  CK cradles his head in his hands. “But how do we catch a ghost no one’s ever seen?”

  I walk towards the large bay window, which faces out to the sea. Staring past the rain falling in thick sheets, I gaze into the horizon, watching the hypnotic lull of waves crashing against the ships, which bob in the water like one of Danny’s plastic toy boats.

  My little brother was born with Down’s syndrome, and that made him even more special, my parents always told me. Danny enjoyed splashing around in the tub at bath time. Mom and Dad painted clouds on the ceilin
g of the bathroom, just for him. Because that was his thing: he absolutely loved clouds, and would always point them out in the car after we picked him up from school. It used to irritate me then, but now I miss his silly little giggles. Danny was always laughing at something, even when I was being mean and awful to him. Like when I didn’t want to share the Valentine’s Day cookies my classmates baked me, or when I called him names after he touched my things. If I could only see Danny point out a cloud again and hear his silly chortle as he sits next to me in Dad’s vintage Morris Minor.

  “I’m gonna take a shower and then nap,” CK mumbles as he crushes his empty can. “We can’t do much now anyway, not until Pa shares what the Cybercrime Command unit comes up with after going through Rae’s computer at home and stuff.” He steps out of the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. The room is now silent except for the humming of the air-conditioner and the soft breathing from my pacified mutt. Closing my eyes, I relish the peace and quiet, having been on the receiving end of my best friend’s mourning since we got back. Abruptly, an intense white light flashes inside my closed eyelids.

  I open my eyes just in time to witness a magnificent, silver-white streak shooting from the heavy storm cloud in front of me, lighting up the ominous sky with its spectacular fall to earth. I glimpse my reflection on the glass, seeing Danny’s sad blue eyes overlaid on my own, just before the bolt of lightning dims and disappears.

  Then it hits me.

  “Window. Cloud. Facebook!” I yell over the resounding roar of thunder, plopping my bum on CK’s gaming chair and rolling swiftly over to his computer.

  Luce comes over as I give the trackball of CK’s computer mouse a quick spin to bring the monitors to life. Opening a new browser window, I sign him out of Gmail and open Facebook, typing in a search for Rae’s social media account; listed on her profile is her email address. In a new Gmail sign-in page, I key in this address and click on the “Forgot Password” button; I’m immediately taken to a verification page, requesting answers to security questions.

  The first: mother’s maiden name.

  “Is what you’re doing legal?” Luce asks, as she peeks over my shoulder.

  Ignoring Luce, I hastily scroll through the online gallery of photographs my friend has shared on Facebook, finally finding what I’m searching for. “Let’s see… Family gathering. Family photos. Mother’s forty-fifth birthday. There we go.” Clicking on Mrs Kaur’s face, I realise that she is not on Facebook. However, looking through the photo comments, I spot exactly what I need: a sweet little compliment from Rae’s uncle about his eldest sister looking so much younger than her actual age. He calls her by her maiden name.

  “Amrita Kaur!” I chew on my lower lip as I type it into the verification page and hit the enter key.

  A new question loads: religion.

  “Sikhism, duh,” I say and hit the enter key. The answer is rejected and I am given a prompt to try again. I narrow my eyes.

  “Back up a sec,” Luce says and gestures at the computer screen. “Look at her Facebook profile pic, Max. She’s wearing a cross on her neck.”

  Luce is right. Adorning Rae’s long, pale neck is an elaborately designed crucifix with the figure of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross. Toggling back to Gmail, I try again. “Catholic.”

  The answer is rejected again.

  I look at Rae’s photograph again, taking in her entire ensemble and I smirk. “Check out her black lipstick and nails, Luce. Rae was probably going for the goth-chick look.”

  Luce peers closer. “You’re right. It was for Halloween. Look at the date.”

  Drumming my fingers on the table, I try to think of other possibilities. Was she an atheist?

  “We only have one last try, right?” Luce says.

  I nod, biting my lip in frustration. Do I try to go forward or quit right now? If I screw up on the third try, I’m positive this would get logged as suspicious activity; and if they track the IP address, I might get my best friend in trouble. Frustrated at coming so close, I scrub my tired face with the palms of my hands. “Dammit!”

  “Let’s just stop for now,” Luce cautions.

  I nod dejectedly and move to close the browser tabs.

  “Good girl,” Luce smiles. “Safest to wait for updates and take it from there.”

  My index finger freezes over the mouse button. I frown. “Wait. Hang on.”

  Going back to Rae’s Facebook account, I click through the profile pictures she posted, noting that tattoo of hers in Latin. I stare at the ink on her wrist. “CK said something very important earlier about Rae, when we identified her body.”

  Going back to the Gmail security verification page, I type in the word TRUTH.

  Veritas. Truth. That’s what Rae’s always believed in.

  “Will it work?” Luce crosses her fingers. “Maybe we should have typed ‘Veritas’ instead. That’s what her tattoo says.”

  I cross my own fingers and hit the enter key. The new web page loads, and I only realise I have been holding my breath when we both jump up and holler at the sight of Gmail’s security prompt for a brand new password. “Yes!”

  “We did it!” Luce claps, dancing on the spot. “Yes!”

  “What the heck is going on?” CK demands, standing by the door with his hair still wet from the shower. He stares at his computer, then back at me and frowns. “Explain.”

  “This.” I tap on his monitor screens. “This is how we catch the ghost no one’s ever seen.”

  *

  CK is on the phone with his father, trying to explain our incredible breakthrough without making Uncle Glen freak out about the dozen or so rules we just broke. Successfully signing into Rae’s Google account allowed us full access to her email, calendar, the photos backed up from her phone, and every single draft and work document in her drive. And because Google owns YouTube, we found several interesting videos in her list of favourites linking to her latest research as well. I don’t know how cloud technology works exactly, but for what we need right now, it is all good.

  “PDPA? You mean the Personal Data Protection Act? Well I’m sorry, what’s done has been done. Look, Pa, listen to me. Rae knew Kiran Soin, the Spectre’s third victim! They never met but we just found a whole email exchange where Kiran said he was going to help Rae with a huge exposé! We read her most recent documents on Google Drive and it’s obvious that someone killed her because they really don’t want what she was digging into to get out. And after looking through her GooCal—Google Calendar, sorry—we discovered that Rae had plans to meet with two informants separately.

  “One is called ‘River’ and the other didn’t leave a name or number. Yes, Pa, ‘River’. Their email address looks fake though, like they created an account just to communicate with her about the subject. CrossfrontConfessions@gmail.com. No, Pa, tracing IP addresses doesn’t always work like that. Plus, they most likely used a public computer in a community centre or something. Really. Trust me. Yes, it does seem like the Spectre baited Rae.”

  Albatross, Luce and I watch CK pace the room and roll his eyes in severe exasperation at what Uncle Glen says over the phone.

  “Kiran seems like a nice guy. He volunteered as a counsellor for LGBTQ youths here and he was extremely vocal about standing up against homophobes and bullies, especially online. Rae was researching about Lenny Lye from Crossfront Family Church…yeah, that multi-millionaire mega church pastor with the sprawling Sixth Avenue mansion who owns a fleet of luxury cars. Yes, that old guy with way too much Botox.

  “So it’s basically a family business and Pastor Lenny’s been commanding his flock to ‘safeguard traditional family values and push back against the gay agenda’. Kiran was making plans to meet Rae for the first time to pass her information that he claimed to be ‘extremely newsworthy’. But he was killed before they met and his house was, as you know, destroyed. Whatever physical evidence he’d planned on handing her also would have been burnt in that fire.”

  CK suddenly stops pacing and nods,
intently listening to what must be a series of important instructions. “Mmhmm. Okay, yes, for sure. I’ll just text you her username and password so you guys can log in and check it out for yourselves. It’s all there. No, I can’t email everything to you. Come on, Pa. Okay. Gotcha. We’ll see you guys there.”

  Ending the long phone conversation, CK plucks out his Bluetooth earpiece and rubs his ear, an enigmatic expression on his face. Determination seems to shines brightly from his clear eyes. “All right, it’s time for us to go to church.”

  *

  Sunday morning service is already underway when we meet Uncle Glen and Ashraf in front of Crossfront Family Church. A picture of the smiling Lye family is wrapped around the pillars by the large glass front doors of the impressive building. Looking at it, CK visibly cringes. “There’s seriously way too much Photoshop going on there. And they look like paid actors advertising some kind of teeth-whitening toothpaste.”

  “Or Botox,” his father quips. “C’mon, let’s go in.”

  We try to slip in unnoticed, but a young, overlyenthusiastic teenager ushers us into the massive hall as energetic Christian rock music plays loudly, guiding us to a corner where we are squished against the back of a boisterous two-thousand-strong congregation of dancing, singing, tongues-speaking worshippers.

  “I wonder how much money these folks give their celebrity pastor every month.” Uncle Glen shakes his head, surveying the sea of churchgoers around us all wearing white as a symbol of their roles as imperative defenders of “traditional family values”. Our differently coloured clothing makes the four of us stick out like a sore thumb.

  “Ten per cent,” Ashraf informs him. “Minimum. And it’s all done automatically by GIRO. It just goes directly from people’s bank accounts into the big fat piggy bank of this mega church. I’ve heard of people willing their houses to the church too, their families not getting a cent. Everything goes to the Lyes.”